First to Fight (17 page)

“What,” Moira asked as she massaged one of Shabeli’s nipples gently with a forefinger, “are you going to do?”

“Air out the meeting hall?” he replied. “I will kill many people,” he continued, his voice serious now. “We will work out the details in council, but I’ll start with an all-out campaign against the cities and the farmers who support them.”

“That is what the Confederation has been waiting for,” Moira said.

“So you’ve told me many times, my love. And as always, you are right. The Confederation will send in its Marines. They’ll have to: The people we don’t massacre outright will be starving, and I will control the mines. Molycarbondum is the key, my dearest Moira. I’ll draw the Marines into our deserts and mountains, pick them off one by one, pin them down, embarrass their leaders. It will cost me the lives of many men, but in time I’ll conclude a truce with the Confederation. Then you shall be Madam President, and when I am in complete control—”

Moira moved her hand lower and exclaimed in mock surprise, “Why, what in the world is this thing?”

Shabeli laughed. “It is the staff of life, my dear, something for you to write home about,” he said, referring to her former career as a journalist. “And,” he added, “the shaft of the Confederation Marine Corps.” They both laughed at the pun. On the vid the funny woman was stuffing handfuls of candies into her mouth.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

When Reveille sounded, most of the men of Company L were already up, putting the final touches on the gear they expected to take into the field in the next hour or two. Their preparedness was wasted.

Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass stepped into his platoon’s squad bay and announced in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear even through closed doors, “The training exercise has been canceled. Stand by for further orders. Until we receive new orders, we will conduct normal garrison duties. That is all.” Then he turned and left before anybody could ask what was going on.

So the men of the platoon asked each other what was happening.

“We’re mounting out, that’s what’s happening,” Claypoole told Dean and McNeal with an air of superiority.

“Where are we going?” Dean asked him.

“What are we going to do?” McNeal added.

“We’re going where the Marine Corps sends us and we’re going to do what the Marine Corps tells us to,” Claypoole replied haughtily. “Someone, somewhere, is going to pay a price for doing something they weren’t supposed to do.” He paused to glare at the two only slightly less experienced men, then continued, “When the Marines get called out, people die. You had best remember everything you’ve been taught, or you might be the ones.”

Hammer Schultz walked over to the three and clamped a possessive hand on McNeal’s shoulder. “New Guy,” he said, the first time in weeks anyone had called Claypoole by that name, “I’ve seen to it that Freddy here knows everything he needs to. You worry about yourself.” Holding McNeal’s shoulder firmly, he turned and marched back to the fire team’s room.

Claypoole swallowed. Even though Schultz never seemed to get out of line in garrison, the other men in the platoon used tales of his combat prowess to frighten those who hadn’t yet had to fight. Schultz was not someone Claypoole wanted to be on the wrong side of.

Goudanis snickered.

Corporals Leach and Kerr had also been watching. They looked at each other.

“We’re going to have to talk to Rabbit about that young man,” Kerr said.

Leach nodded agreement. “He needs to get a couple operations under his belt before talking that talk.”

Despite everyone’s curiosity about what was going on, the next couple of hours progressed routinely enough. Between Reveille, at 06 hours, and 07 hours, when the company lined up to march to the mess hall for morning chow, they cleaned the barracks again, even though none of them thought it necessary. At 08 hours they were again in formation behind the barracks for roll call. They had to wait a little longer than usual for Gunny Thatcher to come out of the barracks and take his position front and center. Bass came out with him and took the platoon sergeant’s position in front of his platoon. His passive face gave his men no clue about what was happening. The men of the company fairly buzzed, certain that they were about to be given orders to mount out on a campaign. Except for the men of third platoon. They exchanged quick glances, wondering why Bass was in this position instead of coming out with the company’s officers.

At Thatcher’s command to sound off, the platoon sergeants each called out, “All present and accounted for.” Gunny Thatcher about-faced just in time to salute Captain Conorado, who came out of the barracks a few paces behind him. There was a stranger among the company’s officers as they took their positions behind the company commander. The stranger was an ensign who didn’t look quite old enough to be an officer. The company’s officers were all dressed in garrison utilities; the stranger was wearing the officers’ dress uniform, scarlet, stock-neck tunic over gold trousers. One row of ribbons was arrayed above his shooting badges.

“Company L, all present and accounted for, sir!” Gunny Thatcher boomed when the Skipper raised his hand to return his salute.

“Have the company stand at ease, Gunny,” Conorado said at the conclusion of the formality.

Thatcher about-faced, scanned the company, and called out, “Company! At ease!” The men relaxed their positions from rigid attention to something slightly more relaxed than parade rest.

The captain stepped forward, two paces to the right and one to the front of Gunny Thatcher. He stood easy, with his hands clasped behind his back. “I have one piece of new company business this morning, then Gunny Thatcher will turn you over to your platoon sergeants for the day’s training.”

A quick, almost inaudible buzz swept through the company, since it didn’t sound as if the Skipper was going to tell them why the field exercise was canceled.

Conorado paused to look over the company; the way his eyes moved, it seemed that he looked directly at everyone. “As you have probably already noticed, we have a new officer in the company.” He glanced over his shoulder, and the stranger stepped forward to take a position one pace to the right and front of Gunny Thatcher, next to the company commander. “This is Ensign Baccacio,” Conorado said when the young officer took his place. “Ensign Baccacio reported in a few minutes ago. Over the next few days, as he gets settled in here, he will take command of third platoon.” The men of third platoon exchanged quick glances and looked at Bass. Bass didn’t move a muscle at the surprise announcement. “I have to apologize to Staff Sergeant Bass and the men of third platoon for letting them know in the company formation, but as I said, Ensign Baccacio reported in literally a few minutes ago and there was no opportunity to tell them in advance.

“This is Ensign Baccacio’s first duty assignment as an officer, though he has notable experience as an enlisted man behind him. He was meritoriously promoted to lance corporal after only a year and a half of duty—that was on a bandit-chasing campaign on New Serengeti, where he earned a Bronze Star with starburst for valor under fire. A year ago, on a peacekeeping mission on Saint Brendan’s, he was awarded a second Bronze Star, without starburst this time.” A muscle visibly knotted in Baccacio’s jaw when Captain Conorado mentioned the lack of a second starburst, which meant it was awarded for bravery other than in combat. “And he was selected for officer training. He also holds a Meritorious Unit Citation, as well as the Marine Expeditionary Medal with comet device for a second campaign.” Everyone in the company noticed that the new officer didn’t have a Good Conduct Medal. That must mean he had been selected for officer training well before he’d been in the Corps long enough to earn one, which was very unusual.

“I know that you will all make Ensign Baccacio feel welcome, and will help him quickly integrate into the company. Especially third platoon,” Conorado added pointedly.

“That is all.” He took a step back and turned to face Gunny Thatcher to hand the company back to him, but was interrupted by Top Myer, who ran out of the barracks to thrust a sheet of paper into his hand. The captain scanned the paper once quickly, then read it through more slowly. Finished reading, he faced the company again.

“Belay that last,” he said. “You’ve probably been wondering why our planned field exercise was canceled.” He paused briefly while a few men laughed nervously, but gave no other indication he was aware of an interruption. “Well, here’s the reason,” he said when quiet was restored.

“Thirty-fourth FIST has received orders for an operation. When you are dismissed from this formation, you will return to your squad bays and saddle up. The entire FIST will be heading off-planet on a humanitarian mission. Company L will be the vanguard. We will board a fast frigate for transport later today. The remainder of the FIST will follow along in the next few days. You will pack expeditionary.” He paused briefly. “These orders don’t say what our destination is, only the general type of mission. We’ll get the rest of the information in transit. Right now, all I can tell you is be prepared for anything.” Conorado faced Thatcher. “Company Gunnery Sergeant, the company is yours,” he said, and returned Thatcher’s salute. He hurried back into the barracks with the company officers in tow. An anxious-looking Top Myer held the door for them.

“Company, ah-ten-HUT!” Thatcher called out. He looked at each of the platoon sergeants. “You heard the man, saddle them up. Dismissed.”

The gunny watched impassively as the Marines broke ranks and raced to the barracks to ready their gear and pack their personal belongings for storage, then signaled Bass to join him for a moment. He pulled his personal communicator from a pocket and punched in a code. He was just lifting it to his ear when Bass reached him.

“Hell of a time for a new officer to come aboard,” Thatcher said to Bass, then turned his attention to the person who answered his call.

Bass took advantage of Thatcher’s distraction to tell Hyakowa to oversee matters until he was finished with the captain, and so he didn’t hear any of the gunny’s conversation.

Thatcher had a far-off look in his eyes when he signed off and secured his comm unit. “This ensign walked into the company office right when we were getting ready to come out for roll call. You were there, you saw the way he walked right past me and the Top to report to the Skipper,” he said. “Just talked to a buddy of mine in F-1.” His eyes drew in their focus and he looked directly at Bass. “Baccacio reported in to FIST at eleven hours yesterday morning. At 14 hours they gave him directions to the company and offered him a driver to bring him here. It seems that instead of coming here, he went into Bronnoysund and stayed there overnight. Strange way to report in to your first command. Damn strange.” He gave his head a shake. “Something tells me this is a young man we should keep an eye on.”

Bass looked somberly reflective while Thatcher spoke, then grinned and said lightly, “I knew he was impressed with his own importance when I saw the uniform he chose for morning roll call.” He clapped the other NCO on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry. I’ve straightened out young officers before, and I know you and the Top will give me any help I need with this one. Now, I shouldn’t keep the Skipper waiting.”

They marched into the barracks and went their separate ways—Thatcher to see how Sergeant Souavi was coming along with readying the supply room for shipping out and to find out how much help he needed.

In the office, First Sergeant Myer was busy packing his gear and overseeing Doyle and Palmer in readying the company’s records and the headquarters equipment for transshipment. Through the open inner door Bass saw Captain Conorado seated at his desk, seemingly involved in mild conversation with Ensign Baccacio, who was standing at parade rest a pace in front of the desk. Without looking directly at Bass, Conorado signaled him to come in.

“Good morning, Skipper,” Bass said as he entered the inner sanctum.

“Morning, Charlie. I’d like you to meet Ensign Baccacio. Ensign, this is Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass, the man you’ll be receiving command from.” Bass wondered if the slight ambiguity of the captain’s phrasing was deliberate. It was. “Staff Sergeant Bass has been running the best platoon in the company. Third’s the most squared away, and the most proficient in field tactics. That’s despite the fact that it’s been more understrength than any of the other platoons for most of the time he’s been running it, and half of his NCOs are either acting in a grade above their ranks or are lance corporals acting as corporals. What I’m saying is, you’re following a tough act. But it’s not going to be as tough as it might, because Charlie will be there to teach you.

“Now, as of this morning you are nominally in command of third platoon. The key word there is ‘nominally.’ Staff Sergeant Bass will remain in de facto command until you get up to speed, and that won’t be before we’re halfway to where we’re going, wherever that might be.”

“Sir, if I may?” Baccacio said.

Conorado raised his eyebrows at the young officer’s formal manner. Infantry officers were normally much more casual except on ceremonial occasions. He gestured a you-may.

“If Staff Sergeant Bass is such a good platoon commander, why isn’t he an officer?”

Taken aback by the arrogance of the question, Conorado took a slow, deep breath before answering. “There are many reasons a man might not have a commission,” he finally said. “There are more qualified enlisted Marines than there are officer slots. Some NCOs feel they are of more value as senior enlisted men than they would be as officers. Some
like
being enlisted rather than commissioned. There can be any number of reasons.” He raised one shoulder in a slight shrug. “That’s not a question that’s always fruitful to ask.”

“I understand, sir.”

Bass studied Baccacio’s face during the captain’s explanation. He didn’t think the ensign really did understand. Yes, he was going to have quite a job on his hands. He thought, not for the first time, that it was a shame the Corps didn’t require men to be platoon sergeants before being selected for officer training.

“That’s all for now, Baccacio,” Conorado said abruptly. The significance of his not using the ensign’s rank in addressing him in front of his platoon sergeant wasn’t lost on Bass, or Baccacio either. “I trust you didn’t completely unpack last night. Go to wherever your gear is and change into garrison utilities, gather everything up, and return here ready to ship out. You have one hour standard. Do it.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Baccacio snapped to attention, executed an about-face, and marched from the company commander’s office. He didn’t bother looking at any of the enlisted men as he marched through the company office.

Bass watched him wordlessly.

“Sorry about that, Charlie,” Conorado said when Baccacio was out of sight. “The man’s got the rank, I’ve got to give him the command.”