Now, as for ground operations… they were a nightmare. Twenty thousand years ago, everyone fought mob against mob, and four thousand years ago the situation was exactly the same. Personal bravery stood at the forefront, while coordinated unit action… was an afterthought. Yes, there were elite formations—even in the Republic—but such tactics and strategy were never widespread.
About a thousand years ago, something emerged that resembled a hybrid between the phalanx of Ancient Greek hoplites and the manipular legions of Rome. That system endured from the time of Ruusan to the present day. The same "army" of the Gungans in Episode I demonstrates it quite clearly. The Separatist Droid Army, employing analogues of the tactics of Peter the Great, Frederick the Great, and Napoleon, leapt far ahead and made its opponents tremble. The clones, meanwhile… their dispersed formations and maneuver warfare of the early twentieth century—perhaps up to the first months of the First World War—shook many of the old postulates.
But… as always, there is a "but." In fact, two of them.
The first—and most important—factor is the Force. More precisely, Force users. During the Sith Wars, the gifted led armies from the front, and their entire style of combat excluded any real coordination. Ordinary soldiers were considered little more than expendable meat. About fifteen hundred years ago, on the planet Mizra, a clash between the Sith and the Jedi resulted in the deaths of roughly five hundred thousand Republic soldiers and about a thousand Jedi. The Sith got off with three hundred thousand of their own troops, five hundred Force-sensitives, and a hundred thousand Sith war beasts.
Five hundred years later, on Ruusan, a similar slaughter was repeated. Yes… I watched the recordings. It was sheer hell. And chaos. Units maneuvered as they pleased—retreating, advancing. Artillery smashed friend and foe alike. The skies burned. Starships exploded—colliding senselessly and snuffing out thousands of lives in an instant, their debris raining down upon those fighting on the surface. Landing ships and supply vessels from both sides often never reached their targets; hundreds of Jedi, Sith, and common soldiers sometimes didn't even manage to land, dying instead in low orbit or in the planet's atmosphere. And those gifted few who did reach the battlefield—lost in that churning mass, searching for one another—cut their way through ordinary soldiers along the way, seeking each other out and engaging in duels.
The Mandalorians… they, too, relied on personal mastery and individual equipment. If a capable Mand'alor appeared, they were ready to follow him—and then the entire Galaxy had a very interesting time. But that happened extremely rarely, only a couple of times in all history. Today's Mandalorians are, for the most part, lone operators, with the occasional small squad. In fact, that's how the clones were trained: Mandalorian methods at the lowest level—nine-clone squads—while the Kaminoans drafted the operational plans and directives for larger formations.
The second factor… hell, I don't even know how to describe it. There is simply no such thing here as distinct branches of the military. There is a fleet, and there is an army—that's it. There's no division of aviation into strike, assault, tactical, and strategic; no distinction between planetary and space-based air forces. There are no separate branches like cavalry, artillery, or armored corps. The core strategy is simple: throw in a mass of infantry and add anything that can shoot. If there are tanks—great. And by "tanks," they mean anything that can move, has armor, and carries a weapon. It's a miracle they haven't started calling bipedal walkers tanks as well.
Recently, the Republic Army made a small step forward by separating the fleet and the air arm—but the latter still remains under space command. And the army—which has an unspoken rivalry with the fleet (the fleet openly despises ground forces)—can rely only on itself.
Yes, there are a few small mercenary units and planetary defense forces on par with the clones—or even superior in training. The Antarian Rangers, for example, or the "Natori Association." But on the scale of the Galaxy, they're not even a drop in the ocean… more like a grain of sand in a desert! I won't deny that small reforms have begun, but… they are painfully slow. And the experience driving those reforms has been purchased with an enormous amount of spilled blood. Far too much, I'd say.
In truth, I've managed to sift through only a modest portion of the information available to me. But even that is enough to throw away the crutches and move forward on my own. If in space battles, I can rely only on the Force—which is how I've won until now… well, almost always. But when it comes to war on a planet's surface, I can give anyone a run for their money. After all, knowledge of naval warfare isn't nearly as widespread as knowledge of ordinary, ground combat.
Although there was room for improvement in the fleet as well. I knew which projects had succeeded—and which had failed spectacularly. And the classification of warships definitely needed attention: the local system was crippled on all four tentacles…
Which meant it was time not only to think, but to act. While I still had time, I should write down my thoughts on the matter. If an opportunity arose, I would know exactly what I needed—and what to do. Activating the recorder on my datapad, I stretched out on the bunk, folded my hands behind my head, and began dictating the first words…
***
Rinaun strode into the office with determination. He had arrived on Lantilles seven hours earlier with his squadron and had remained on his feet ever since, attending three briefings and two reports. Still, he had managed to rest during the flight from Dennogra and felt full of energy, so the routine procedures had not weighed him down. One final matter remained for the day: the commander of the Twelfth Sector Army had summoned him for a personal conversation. Kernatuan could only guess at the topic—and so he dismissed his unease. It was too wasteful to spend nerves on such trifles.
The moff stood by the tactical table, bent over a hologram of the sector and squinting at it like a bird of prey.
"Ah, there you are, Rinaun," said Ilius Terbon, biting his lower lip and chewing on it as he stared at the sphere of Balamak, illuminated along one side.
Rinaun assessed the display: apparently, another offensive deeper into Separatist territory was being planned. His squadron's raid had been the same sort of blow—intended to disrupt the enemy's transport routes in enemy territory.
"Sir, you sent for me?"
"Yes. I have news for you," Ilius muttered.
"What kind of news, sir?"
"You're aware of the rumors that we're being sent a large number of new officers?"
Terbon straightened, his spine cracking audibly. He pulled a squat, round-bellied bottle from a cabinet and set it down on the table with a loud thud. Strangely enough, amid the eight planets of the Balamak system drifting above the table, the bottle looked perfectly at home.
Rinaun noted that the moff had never offered him a drink before. That suggested their relationship had shifted to a different level.
As if reading his thoughts, Terbon tugged at the corner of his mouth—a smile, of sorts.
"After Trogan, I decided that having a drink with you, Kernataun, wouldn't be beneath me."
"I appreciate that, sir."
The liquor was vicious—his insides burned as if doused in flame. Still, he'd tasted worse…
The moff immediately poured a second round.
"I keep forgetting that you're really just a boy… How old are you? Thirty-two? Thirty-three?.. Were you ever even that boy?"
"I don't remember."
Terbonn snorted softly.
"Well then. We're receiving one hundred and eighty-seven new officers into the Sector Army. They'll arrive this week. One of them will take your place."
"Sir. Does that mean I'm being promoted?"
"Exactly. The problem is, we don't have a position for a rear admiral."
"But—"
"Among those officers, there are already three rear admirals and one vice admiral. We simply don't have enough posts. And those who are arriving have excellent connections in high places. Recommendations from senior command. As for the Jedi… over there on Coruscant, they simply approved all the appointments."
"That doesn't sit well with you?"
"You're thinking correctly." Without blinking, the admiral tipped his glass back and drained it in one hard swallow. "What infuriates me is that I'm obliged to carry out any order from the Jedi without question."
His voice sounded as though someone else were speaking through him. Perhaps it was simply his age showing. Rinaun met his gaze calmly and took an unhurried sip.
"What about me?"
Terbon unfastened the top clasp of his collar.
"You're being transferred to the Fleet Reserve, on Coruscant. You'll wait there until a vacancy opens up somewhere. I wasn't able to keep you here."
"Sir, but… my squadron—"
"Don't worry, Commander. It will be taken over by Montiley Quintest."
Rinaun frowned.
"And that is…?"
"Yes. The nephew of Hellman Quintest, head of the Alsakan Academy. The boy's capable, so you needn't worry about your people. As soon as he arrives, you'll hand over the squadron to him. Then take the first available transport to Coruscant."
Rinaun looked at the last of the liquor in his glass and drained it in a single swallow, as though sealing the end of the conversation.
Notes:P@treon: SadRaven
🥳Joining P@treon keeps me motivated and eager to work diligently, so please consider joining.🥰