"When it comes to military science fiction, William Dietz can run with the best," says Steve Perry. And he proves it once again in his newest novel about the foreign legion of the far future--and the battles no one else can fight but General Bill Booly. Now, in the wake of a great universal war, he's found himself struggling to balance his military, political, and humane obligations. But neither Booly nor his men realize on the remote world of LaNor, another revolution is brewing. There, a career Legionnarie with a reputation for bucking authority and an inexperienced, overly-ambitious diplomat will become key to defending the deadly LaNorian web of terrorism that threatens not only the Legionnaires, but the entire Confederacy
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October 06, 2003
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Excerpt from For More Than Glory by William C. Dietz
War remains an art and, like all arts whatever its variation, will have its ending principles. Many men, skilled either with sword or pen and sometimes with both, have tried to expound those principles. I heard them once from a soldier of experience for whom I had a deep and well-founded respect. Many years ago, as a cadet hoping some day to be an officer, I was poring over "The Principles of War," listed in the old Field Services Regulations, when the Sergeant-Major came upon me. He surveyed me with kindly amusement. "Don't bother your head about all them things, me lad," he said. "There's only one principle of war that's this. Hit the other fellow as quick as you can and as hard as you can, where it hurts him most, when he ain't looking."
Sir William Slim Defeat Into Victory
ABOARD SYNDICATE BASE 012, ON A MOON NICKNAMED "FLOATER," IN ORBIT AROUND RIM WORLD CR-7893
The soft but insistent beep of the alarm served to summon Captain Frank Moy from the deep, alcohol-induced slumber to which he had gradually become addicted. His eyes felt as if they were glued shut and a sustained effort was required to force them open. Finally, welcomed into the darkness of his cabin by the smoke alarm's Cyclops-like red eye, the ex-naval officer ordered the beeping sound to "Stop, dammit," and, thankfully, it did.
Then, rolling out of the rack the same way he had for more than twenty years, Moy managed to stand. The only light came from the smoke alarm and the LEDs embedded in the console next to his bunk. Seven of them were green but one glowed red. That was bad, very bad, but so was the pressure on Moy's bladder. He took a step toward the head and swore when pain stabbed his brain. The light over the stainless-steel sink came on as Moy lined up on the toilet and gave his body permission to let go.
Finally, once the pressure was relieved, the ex-naval officer turned to the mirror. What he saw made Moy wince. Much of the once thick black hair had disappeared and what remained was heavily shot with gray. The blue eyes were faded now, as if the light behind them had dimmed and might soon go out. A field of black stubble covered cheeks so gaunt it appeared as if the skin rested on bone. A far cry from the bright-eyed young stud who had graduated from the academy more than two decades before.
Moy shook his head in disgust, considered the possibility of shaving, and remembered the red LED. Something, a sizable chunk of spaceborne rock was the most likely culprit, had entered the volume of space that defined the moon's defensive zone and triggered a number of alarms. Odds were that the clowns in the control center had dealt with the matter hours before and chosen to let him sleep. Still, once the situation was cleared, the LED should have turned green.
Moy used half a glass of water to wash the foul taste out of his mouth and the other half to help him swallow a couple of tablets. Then, gritting his teeth against the pain, he made his way into the middle of the cabin. "Open com. Moy to control center . . . who's the OD "