Chains of Command (18 page)

“Atten-hut,” Gunny Philbrick rasps when Sergeant Fallon and I step into the room, and thirty-odd troopers snap to attention. Gunny Philbrick comes to attention in front of me and salutes.

“I report the platoon ready and in formation, and all personnel present and accounted for,” Gunny Philbrick recites.

“Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant.” I return the salute, and Gunny Philbrick joins the formation with the rest of the squad leaders.

I step in front of the assembled platoon, and thirty-eight pairs of eyes rest on me.

“Good morning, platoon,” I say.

“Good morning, sir,” they not-quite-shout back at me.

I look at the faces in front of me. Other than Philbrick, Nez, and Humphrey, I don’t know a single one of them. Most look terribly young, privates and PFCs not too long out of SOI.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, and lift one of the lapels of my camouflage smock. “Wrong camo pattern. Holy shit, a Fleet puke.”

Some of the junior enlisted in the back of the ranks laugh.

“I’m Second Lieutenant Grayson. And yes, I am Fleet. I am not, however, a console jockey. I’m a combat controller by trade, and I’ve done over two hundred combat drops. So if you have doubts about your new Fleet lieutenant, rest assured that he knows what he’s talking about when it comes to the stuff we’re here to do.”

I know I’m probably just imagining the barely concealed relief on the faces of the other squad leaders. The speech I’m giving is a little bit chest-thumping, but it’s the sort of thing I’d want to know if it were me standing in formation as a junior NCO. Inexperienced officers can get you killed anywhere, but the infantry platoon is an especially unforgiving learning environment.

“I will share the specifics of our mission with you as soon as I have authorization,” I continue. “All I can tell you right now is that we are going out of system, and that this is important, with a capital
I
. Until I get to brief you in detail, square your gear away and take care of any business you may have on the network. It may be a good while before you get to catch up on mail again.”

Sergeant Fallon is standing behind and to the right of me. She’s at perfect parade rest, like a drill instructor at boot camp.

“I will now turn you over to your new platoon sergeant. You have the luck to serve under Master Sergeant Fallon for this mission. And I mean that without irony. Those of you up on your NAC military history may remember the name, and yes—she is
that
Sergeant Fallon. When she tells you to jump, I highly suggest you are in the air before you even ask for an altitude parameter.”

I can tell from the faces of the junior personnel that most of the troopers in the formation aren’t up on their NAC military history, but I know that some of them have been in the service long enough to know the names of the small handful of living Medal of Honor recipients. In any case, those who don’t know her will without a doubt be thoroughly educated by those who do, and some of the half-whispered anecdotes may even have some basis in reality.

“Too much?” I ask in a very low voice when I turn toward her to give her the floor.

“Too much,” she replies in the same low voice. “But good enough.”

“Good morning, platoon,” she addresses the formation.

“Good morning, Master Sergeant!” they shout back.

“The lieutenant is too kind,” she continues. “I’m really rather easy to get along with. You won’t find me policing the head for soap scum or your uniforms for loose threads. I have a super-low tolerance for pedantic bullshit.”

Some of the troops allow themselves a chuckle at this.

“But there are things I won’t let slide even a millimeter. Stuff that matters. You will at all times give everything you have to make the mission succeed. You will not shirk your duty or shift the blame for poor performance to someone else. You will not let others pull your weight. You will not leave a comrade behind on the field in training or in battle, whatever the cost. And you absolutely will not doubt that I will kick you out of the nearest airlock personally if you disobey or disrespect your squad leaders, your senior NCOs, or your platoon leader.

“When we are out there, we are all we have. Backup will be too far away to save us if things go to shit. It’s just going to be us and whatever we bring to the party. Let’s make it so that things don’t go to shit. Use your time wisely. Train with your squad mates, get to know them, and run a few miles together if you have downtime instead of sitting on your cots and griping about Fleet chow or that bitch of a master sergeant. We’re just one platoon, part of one short company. We can’t have anyone slacking off or screwing up. So don’t slack off or screw up. Understood?”

“Yes, Master Sergeant,” the reply comes from the platoon.

“Squad leaders, take over your squads. Gear and kit check at 1130.” Sergeant Fallon nods at the squad leaders standing in front of their charges and steps back to make space for them in the assembly area. The squad leaders step out and take over their respective squads.

“What do you think?” I ask Sergeant Fallon in a low voice.

“Bunch of kids,” she says. “Nobody under the rank of corporal older than twenty, and none of the corporals look like they’ve been in much more than twelve months. I’d feel better with the old crew from Shughart here, I’ll tell you that.”

“At least we have seasoned NCOs,” I say. “Philbrick’s been around the block. And he has two good fire team leaders.”

“Yeah, they’ll do,” Sergeant Fallon says. “They’ll be scared out of their wits, but they’ll get over it. You did, back in the 365th.”

“Just did what I had to,” I say. “Didn’t want to let the rest of the squad down.”

“The universal motivator,” she says. “That has always been what makes a squad function under fire. Not honor or medals or promotions. As long as they make us pick up rifles and go to war together, it’ll always be about the grunt next to you.”

I check my chrono.

“Time to go see the boss,” I say.

“Ready when you are.”

“Gunnery Sergeant Philbrick,” I say in a loud voice, and Gunny Philbrick turns toward me.

“Sir.”

“You have the deck,” I say.

“Aye, sir. I have the deck.” He returns his attention to the squad in front of him.

“Let’s go see the man,” I say to Sergeant Fallon.

Sergeant Fallon and I walk into
Portsmouth
’s ops center at precisely 0859 hours. The ops center is a large room with an impressively big holotable and situational display in the middle. It’s not precisely a CIC, as
Portsmouth
isn’t a fighting ship, but even a fleet supply unit needs to have situational awareness. Most of the consoles in the room are unmanned right now. Major Masoud is standing by the holotable and flicking through lists and readouts on the holographic screen in front of him. There’s a Fleet officer in camouflage standing next to him, and as we get closer to the holotable, I see that he’s wearing the rank sleeves of a captain. The gold insignia above his left breast pocket is an eagle clutching a trident in front of a planetary hemisphere. Major Masoud wears the same thing on his smock—the badge of a qualified Space-Air-Land special warfare operator, the Fleet’s very small and highly selective SEAL community.

I salute the major, and he returns the courtesy briskly.

“Lieutenant Grayson reporting as ordered, sir. This is my platoon sergeant, Master Sergeant Fallon.”

“Yes,” Major Masoud says. “I know about you, of course.”

I am briefly curious how this almost unprecedented situation—two Medal of Honor recipients in the same room and command chain—will play out as far as military courtesies are concerned. Technically, neither needs to salute the other regardless of their rank difference, and yet both are obliged to render a salute to a recipient of the NAC’s highest award for valor. Major Masoud chops through this particular Gordian knot by extending a hand to Sergeant Fallon.

“Welcome aboard, Master Sergeant. I’m happy to have someone with your reputation on the team.”

Sergeant Fallon shakes the major’s hand.

“Thank you, sir. Glad to contribute.”

The SEAL captain salutes Sergeant Fallon.

“Captain Hart. Pleasure to meet you, Master Sergeant.”

“And you, sir,” Sergeant Fallon says as she returns the salute.

With so much military acumen in the room, I feel thoroughly superfluous, like I’m a kid pretending to be a soldier surrounded by real soldiers who are indulging my play.

Behind us, more troopers enter the room. They’re all in SI camo, two officers and two senior NCOs. They join our little group clustered around the holotable, and the brief but time-consuming ritual of formal greetings and reciting of courtesy formulas begins anew.

We exchange courtesies and size each other up as we do. Every one of the officers and senior NCOs in the company is an experienced and drop-qualified combat soldier. I may be the most junior officer in rank seniority, having worn stars for just a little over a week, but the second lieutenant in charge of Second Platoon looks like I have a few years on him chronologically.

“Now that we’re all here, let’s get to it,” Major Masoud says. “We are on the clock, and time’s running short. We clear moorings at 1400 and proceed to the assembly point, where we will meet up with our escort and wait for some assets that are still in transit right now. Then we will proceed to the transition point at maximum burn and make our way to the target system. You won’t have much time to get to know each other, I’m afraid.”

“Sir—we are going to battle in a supply ship?” I ask.

“That’s affirmative,” Major Masoud says. “I couldn’t get much hardware out of Command for this one, but they did give us
Portsmouth
. We’ll also bring along a combat escort.”

“If this ends up being a fight, this ship won’t last long. Not against what they can put on the board.”

Major Masoud smiles at me, and it’s the same humorless smile I’ve seen on his face a few times before.

“She’s not a heavy cruiser, but she has a few tricks up her sleeve, Lieutenant Grayson. And where we are going, we’ll be happy for all the extra supplies an AOE can haul along.”

“And where is that, sir?” Lieutenant Wolfe, Second Platoon’s commanding officer, asks.

“Later,” Major Masoud answers. “Operational briefing will commence once we are on our way to the transition point. Report readiness to the ops center by 1300 and tell your platoons to take care of any comms business while we’re still docked. Once that collar comes loose and we’re underway, we are off the network and running under blackout protocol. Any questions?”

“Who’s going to ride shotgun?” I ask.

“Operational briefing,” Major Masoud says.

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?” he asks, in a tone that leaves no doubt that he’s not terribly interested in answering anything else in detail. When none of us speak up, he nods.

“Readiness report by 1300,” he repeats. “Until then, prepare for departure and see to your platoons. Dismissed.”

“Major Khaled Masoud,” Sergeant Fallon says when we walk back along the topside spinal passageway toward the modular cargo section of the ship.

“You know the man?” I ask.

“Not personally. Not until today, anyway. But I’ve heard stories.”

“He has probably heard stories about you as well.”

“Not those kinds of stories.” She looks around to check this section of the passageway, which is empty except for us right now.

“How much do you trust your platoon, Andrew?”

“I trust you,” I reply. “I don’t know the other squad leaders yet, but I know I can count on Philbrick and his two. Why?”

“If shit goes down, keep them close at hand,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Because I trust Major Masoud about as far as I can throw a drop ship.”

“Why? You don’t know the guy. You’ve been TA and HD all your life. Don’t tell me you served with him before.”

“No, I haven’t,” she acknowledges. “But I’ve heard things.”

“You’ve heard things,” I repeat.

“Read up on his Medal of Honor citation if you haven’t already. You know those mission reports where things go to shit, and there’s only a handful of survivors making it back to the drop ship?”