Sergeant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 2) (12 page)

Ryck had reported their catch to the lieutenant and was ordered to sit tight. One of the prisoners asked to have his zips adjusted. Ryck ignored him.

It only took about 30 minutes for the all-clear to sound. The lieutenant told Ryck to move back, taking the prisoners out of the complex. A few of them had to be helped to their feet. Two had pissed in their pants, and the smell was getting ripe. That was another advantage to PICS that Ryck missed: filtered air.

He released the zips on two of the men in overalls,
then refastened them with their hands in front. They had to drag the body of the dead merc. The younger of the two, a heavyset man, looked like he wanted to throw up as they picked up the merc’s arms. The blood trail, which looked dark brown under the fluorescent lights, seemed to mesmerize him for a moment of time before the gag reflex took over him. Ryck heard Holleran bet Martin that the guy would lose it before they made it out. Ryck pushed to the front, and he never did find out who won the bet.

Two Marines in PICS stood
outside at either side of the exit, looking like ancient statues guarding a temple. Several of the prisoners tried to crowd the center, trying to keep as far away from the motionless Marines as possible. The two surviving mercs didn’t give the Marines a second glance.

For once, Navy
intel seemed to have been right. This had been an easy mission, all things considered. A Marine in Third Platoon had been slightly wounded, but that was the only WIA from Golf. Two Marines in Second Squad had been hit, as had Hartono, but their bones had hardened as they were designed to do, and none of the three had been hurt. Ryck looked over at Hartono who was showing the boot, PFC Ling, where he had been hit.

Ryck thought Ling didn’t show enough gumption as a member of the squad. He wasn’t sure how the PFC had even made it through boot camp.
To Ryck, this mission was barely worth mentioning, but to PFC Jeb Ling, this was a pivotal moment in his career. He had been blooded. Maybe that would stiffen up his backbone.

The mercs and workers had not fared as well as the Marines. Ryck didn’t know how many had fallen before Third Platoon, but a three had died facing
Second. There was the merc killed by the M449 with Ryck, and Third squad had killed two of the workers. A merc with them had been gut-shot. Doc Steuber was working on him, and he didn’t seem too concerned, so the merc was probably going to pull through.

“Good job, Sergeant Lysander. Your Marines did well. We’ll wait for recall instructions, but meanwhile, work on your after action report. I’d like it by 2200,” the lieutenant told him, cool as could be.

This was the lieutenant’s second combat action as an officer, discounting the rescue of the Legion officers on Soreau, and he acted like this was simply another training exercise. With two Silver Stars, he’d been in the shit before, and this was nothing to compare with that, but still, Ryck expected a little more emotion.

“Aye-aye, sir,” Ryck responded.
At first, he’d hated the after action reports he’d had to draft up after every training evolution. When he started treating them like homework for his academic classes, though, they became less of a burden, just one of those routine things he had to do.

“Hey, what unit are you guys?” one of the mercs asked from where he was sitting.

Ryck caught his eye, then looked away.

“Come one, what harm is there? Let’s see, one heavy squad, two
light. From where we are, you’re, what Third Marine Division? Ninth Marines maybe? So not a heavy company. I’m guessing Alpha, 1/9,” he went on.

“Shut the fuck up,” Holleran told him, stepping up
and bending over to address the merc.

“Calm down there, Joe. Just making conversation
,” the merc said, seemingly nonplussed by Holleran’s aggressive stance over him.

“Name’s not Joe, worm, and I said shut
up,” Holleran said, leaning over further to put his face right in the merc’s.

“Remember Paragraph 2002. You don’t want an international incident, do you?”

“Lips, stand down,” Ryck said, putting his hand on the lance corporal’s shoulder and turning him around. “Go wait by Doc and bring him here when he’s done. This guy’s been hit, too.”

“But what about what he said?” Lips protested.

“Go,” Ryck told him, giving him a light shove.

“Lips?
That’s precious,” the merc said as Lips strode off.

“What do you know about Paragraph 2002?” Ryck asked.

Paragraph 2002 was part of the Harbin Accords, the agreement in which the interplanetary rules of combat were delineated. That paragraph specifically prohibited any maltreatment of civilian prisoners.

“I used to be a Marine. LCpl Jerry Damien, at your service,” he said with a smile. “I’d offer you my hand, but I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”

Ryck just stared at him, mouth falling open.

“Yep, thought that might surprise you,” the merc said.

“You, what, you deserted to become a mercenary?” Ryck asked, still stunned.

“What?
No, of course not. I did my time. Didn’t get recommended for re-enlistment, though, so I got out. Thought about the Legion, but got picked up by Phoenix Security, instead. They sent me here.”

“But you’re a mercenary,” Ryck protested.

“And you are . . .?” the man asked, waiting for Ryck to reply.

“I’m not a grubbing mercenary, that’s for sure!” Ryck answered.

“Really? So what mission of ‘defense’ are you on right now? Who are you saving? At least I know what my job was. I was hired to protect a legitimate business enterprise. You, on the other hand, were sent to close it down. Sounds like a corporate mercenary to me,” he said.

Ryck had noted this very point to himself earlier, so the
merc’s statement hit him hard. He could not admit that, though.

“Sorry, you’re all fucked up. I’m a Federation Marine,” he stated with conviction. “
and this ‘business,’ as you call it, is not legitimate. It’s a smuggling operation.”

“Smuggling?
Because it doesn’t pay Federation protection money--excuse me--tariffs? Who do you think runs this operation?”

Ryck shrugged.

“Greater France, that’s who. They’re not part of your vaunted Federation.”

“But the Mutual Defense Treaty.
They have to kick in for that, right?” Ryck asked.

“Do you know your history, Sergeant?
The American Revolution? ‘No taxation without representation?’” the merc asked, continuing before Ryck could reply. “Well, Greater France doesn’t feel that they have to kowtow to the great Federation. I know you’ve been following the news. You’ve seen the goings on back on Earth. Things are coming to a head, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see war break out.”

War, with France?
No, it’ll never happen
, Ryck thought.
What am I doing arguing with him?

“
Enjoy your time in prison, asshole,” he said.

“Prison?
Won’t happen.”

“Yeah, right.
You attacked a Federation military force. You’re going to a POW camp somewhere in the far reaches of space. Enjoy the rest of your life,” Ryck told him.

“Attacked? No, as bonded security gu
ards, we reacted to what we thought was a criminal action taken against our clients. When we realized that you were Marines, we laid down our weapons. No, I’ll be back out on the street within a week,” he said confidently.

Ryck went over the events in his mind. With a sinking feeling, he realized that this merc was probably right. The lawyers would get them all freed.

“On the other hand,” he said, looking around to see if anyone else was listening in, “I don’t really want to spend a week as a guest of the Federation, so if you could see to let me walk, I could get a cool 10k to you, more if you walked with me. When you and the Legion go head-to-head, no one’s going to win, so you might as well look out for yourself, and we pay much, much better.”

Ryck just stared at him for a moment
, not believing what he’d heard, before answering, “Are you freaking high? You think you can offer me anything at all? Look at you. You’ve been shot in the arm. Your buddy over there, he’s dead!”

“He was an asshole anyway. Good riddance. But this is about you. What’s it going to be?”

“Fuck you,” Ryck said as he turned away and walked off.

“What was did that guy want?” Popo asked as Ryck joined him.

“He wanted someone to put a round through his grubbing brain, and I came close to granting him that,” Ryck said. “Forget it.”

But
Ryck couldn’t forget what the guy had said. He was afraid it might be true.

Alexander

Chapter
7

With one simple click, Ryck closed his exam—his last exam. What had started as a means to combat boredom while going through his first regen had somehow grown into a full student status. With this exam, Ryck had completed the requirements for a degree—if he passed, that is. The school was pretty quick on letting students know their grades, so Ryck should know within a couple of days.

He got up from the testing station and walked up to the proctor. This was
McBored, the proctor who always seemed to wish he was somewhere else. The identities of the two proctors for Camp Kolesnikov were guarded, as per SOP. Ryck thought that was pretty funny, as if this was some top secret spy mission. Someone had to know who they were just to give them base access, after all. Instead, they were anonymous figures who were supposedly above corruption and who monitored both military and civilian testing on the base. McBored and Goat, two nameless cogs in the Federation bureaucracy.

Ryck smiled as he handed
McBored his ID and put his thumb on the reader. Unlike Goat, who at least made a show of checking the pic to the face, McBored simply waited for the green light over the thumb reader before leaning in for his own retinal scan. Once that was done, the outgoing was unlocked, and Ryck’s exam was off to the University of Phoenix for grading.

Getting a degree would mean nothing to Ryck as a Marine, but in the civil service, any certified education meant an increase in salary, and after several grand corruption schemes were uncovered, the exam processes had been changed. The military had been caught up in those changes. It didn’t really matter to Ryck one way or the other, but he usually had to withhold a laugh at the super-spy-like procedures. It was just an exam, not the plans for a new bubble space projector.

He left the testing center feeling pretty good. A degree! He’d never really considered any schooling after high school. Glancing at his watch, he picked up the pace back to his IBC. As an NCO, he rated an Individual Berthing Compartment rather than the Dual Berthing Compartment of a non-rate. He had to get ready for the Camerone Day reception and had less than an hour before the bus left.

The Legion only had a small detachment of about 30 legionnaires on Alexander,
including the embassy staff. They handled liaison with both the Navy and Marines. But no matter the size, every Legion post celebrated April 30. Larger units had parades, but all units read the story of the battle where
faire camerone
became embossed in the Legion psyche. After the ceremonies, “receptions,” or authorized excuses to get drunk, were usually the order of the day, and it was to the reception that Ryck was invited. All the members of the two platoons who had been on Soreau were honored guests, along with the military and civilian bigwigs. Last year’s reception, which had been the first to which the Golf Marines had been invited, had started slow, but by the early hours of the morning, had turned into something the Marines only blurredly remembered, but remembered as a smashing good time.

He checked his watch. It wasn’t
Camerone Day back in Paris yet, but by the time they got to the Westin in St. Petersburg, it would be.

He got into his room
and gave his underarm a sniff. Unfortunately, pit juice wasn’t going to cut it. He jumped into the shower, ignoring the autocycle in order to manually zip through it. He used his old t-shirt to dry off as he took his blues out of the closet. Luckily, he’d prepared them the night before. He gave them a once over, but they looked fine. He dressed and was about to leave when his PA chimed. He looked at the desk screen to see if he could ignore it. He couldn’t.

He hit
the accept, and Hannah’s face appeared. She had a big smile which morphed into a look of grudging admiration.

“Wow, you be looking smart, there, Ryck. Very impressive! Makes a poor girl’s heart flutter!” she said with a laugh.

“Right. I know you can hardly contain yourself,” Ryck said, pleased to see her, but knowing he had to cut the cam short.

“What girl can resist a handsome wolf in uniform?” she asked.

“Well, as much as I’m happy you cammed, I need to leave. I’ve got a reception I have to get to,” Ryck told her.

She looked puzzled as she asked, “Reception? What time
be it there? I installed the app like you told me, and it says it be 3:15 your time.”

With all the p
lanets in the Federation, each rotating at different speeds, each with different landmasses, keeping track of local time could be confusing. All Federation planets and countries, as well as many independents, kept Greenwich Mean Time as the official time and date. But night and day, not to mention planetary years, varied, and Hannah, for all her scholastic achievements, continually got confused on what local time it was for Ryck. The app Ryck had her download was so she wouldn’t keep waking him up in the middle of the night.

“No, you’re right, it’s after three here, but I have to take a bus into St. Peter
sburg, and we’re leaving in 15 minutes.”

“Oh, too bad.
I tried to get a hold of you a few hours ago to wish you luck on your test, but it’s been hard getting a line out. How did you do? Did you take it?”

Hannah
was working on her masters and had been a big supporter of Ryck’s attempt to earn his own degree.

“Yeah, I took it.
All good, I think. I’ll find out in a day or two,” he told her.

“OK, that’s copacetic. Well, that be all I wanted to know. You have fun at the reception. Don’t let those local girls snare you, though,” she said.

“Nah, all they want are officers, not a lowly sergeant like me,” he said. “I don’t make enough to keep them in the lifestyle they want.”

“A handsome wolf like you?
You’ll have your pick.”

“Hah. I think you need to get your eyes adjusted again, young lady. They seem to be failing you,” he said. “Uh, I . . . I really have to go. Thanks for
camming. Tell your family hello, OK?”

“Oh, sure.
Don’t let me be keeping you,” she said.

“OK, well, goodbye!”

Ryck turned off the cam and looked at his watch. He needed to move it. He grabbed his cover and rushed out of his IBC, then hurried to the battalion CP. He didn’t want to run and start sweating under his blues, so he kept it to a speed walk.

SSgt Hecs was standing at the door to the bus, his PA out.

“Glad you decided to join us, sergeant. We keeping you from anything important?” he asked, checking Ryck off the list on his screen.

“Sorry, Staff Sergeant,” Ryck told him, climbing up into the bus and sitting down in the seat Sams had saved.

SSgt Hecs followed him and told the gunny everyone was aboard. Gunny Smith told the driver to take off. The big bus rose on it air cushion, then eased out of the camp before opening up on the highway.

Ryck dozed off during the three—
and-a-half hour ride to the capital city. He woke up when Sams punched his arm as they pulled into the Westin.

“Some company you’ve been,” Sams said sourly.

“Sorry, I was up late studying for my exam,” he said.

“I still don’t know why you’ve been putting in the time for that,” Sams said. “Popo and Brett swear you’re
gonna be putting in to be an O.”

“An officer?
No I work for a living,” Ryck said with the time-honored reply. “I just like history, and Hannah thinks it’s a good idea?”

“
Crispus! It always ‘Hannah this’ and ‘Hannah’ that lately. You getting serious?”

“Oh, good God no.
She doesn’t like the military. She’s just a friend,” Ryck protested.

“Yeah, that’s what everyone says before they’re hitched.”

As the officers got off, Gunny Smith stood up and said, “This is our second time here as guests. We want no liberty incidents. Enjoy yourselves, but remember, this is not just a drinking binge. You are representing the Federation Marine Corps. General Praeter is there, the governor is there, Admiral Yost is there, the French ambassador is there. I don’t have to tell you what’s going to happen to the negat who spills some of that fancy French wine over one of those esteemed gentlemen.”

“Won’t be me, Gunny. I’ll be drinking beer!” SSgt Gordon, the First platoon sergeant said amidst the laughter.

“I’ll be watching you most of all, Gordon!” the Gunny replied as the laughter intensified.

“OK, OK! We’re all in a good mood. Last year was brills, so have fun.
One more thing. The CO, that’s the battalion CO, says no politics. No matter what, no matter who asks you, especially some civvie who’s probably a reporter looking for a tag line, you say nothing about what’s happening back on Earth. This is a social gathering, so keep it social. Any questions? OK, no? Then let’s go have some fun!”

The Marines trooped off the bus and wound their way into the huge lobby of the Westin. Ryck had been there a year ago, but it was still pretty impressive. About 50 meters across, it reached up to the hotel’s roof, some 20 stories above them. Hanging from the roof was a sculpture that had to be 40 meters tall, given that it covered eight stories of rooms. Ryck wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be, but he liked it.

A Legion lieutenant was standing to the right of the lobby, and when the Marines came in, he started ushering them to the ballroom. It would have been hard to miss even without their guide. A French flag was beside the doorway, and a huge bunting of the same blue, white and red was hung over the door. Not many people were there yet: Marines being Marines, they had gotten there early. Major Gruenstein, though, was there, and he hurried over.

“Welcome, sir,” he said to
LtCol Adeyemi, the battalion CO, as he shook his hand. “As always, the Marines of Golf, 2/9 are eternally welcome. I hope you enjoy our hospitality.”

He looked behind him, then turned back around and continued, “I see the receiving line hasn’t started yet, but if you and Captain Davis would follow me, I’d like to introduce you to Colonel Giraud, our new head of mission. I don’t believe you have met him yet, no?”

Sams nudged Ryck as the CO and company commander were led off, gesturing at the two bars in the back of the ballroom. Unfortunately, Gunny Smith put a kibosh on any immediate libation.

“No drinking until after we make pleasant with the brass. Just hold steady for now,” he told the gathered Marines.

“Well, might as well check out the chow,” Sams said. “The gunny said nuttin’ about that.”

Ryck and Rey followed Sams to the buffet line. There was a huge ice sculpture of a hand in the middle of
the line, between a huge ice bowl of peeled shrimp and an equally huge bowl of small cracked crab claws. Ryck knew that had to represent Capt Danjou’s wooden hand. The real wooden hand, recovered from the battlefield at Camerone and then bought by the Legion a few years later, was probably the Legion’s most sacred relic.

The spread was pretty impressive. It was mostly finger food, some on crackers, some in little glasses. Sams grabbed a puff ball of some sort and popped it into his mouth.

“Hey, you heard the gunny!” Ryck said.

“Yeah, no drinking he said. Last time I checked this was eating, not drinking you Alice,” Sams replied, speaking around the puff ball still in his mouth.
“Hey, not bad!”

“What is it?” Ryck asked, inching closer to snatch one for
himself.

“Hell if I know. Where’s Henri?” Sams asked, referring to Cpl Henri, a Marine in
Second Platoon. “Rey, go get him, OK?”

Sams grabbed another and popped it into his mouth. Ryck glanced about, only to see Gunny at the other buffet table, filching something for himself. That was good enough for
Ryck, so he took one of the same fried balls and bit in. It was pretty good; a little fishy, but light.

Cpl Rey returned with Henri in tow.

“What are these?” Sams asked the corporal.

“Hors d’oe
uvres. Appetizers,” Henri answered.

“No shit, Sherlock. I mean what kind?”

Henri looked over the spread, then said “I don’t know. Just hors d’oevers,” before taking a small glass with what looked to be a bite-sized piece of chicken and avocado inside. “Tastes good, though.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know. You’re French, right?” Sams asked.

“French-Ergat, yeah, but I don’t know shit about cooking. I’m a fucking Marine, not a chef. We’re BBQ people, anyway, big hunks of meat.”

Ergat
was one of the French worlds, out there in Second Sector. France populated all or the bulk of nine different planets. Three, like Ergat, were technically part of the Federation.”

“You might try LCpl
Paddyfoote. He’s from Clercy,” Henri said, scanning the waiting Marines. “There he is,” he said before waving the Marine over.”

“What’s cracking,
mon corporel
? You feeling your blood here?” asked gesturing at the French-themed decorations.

Paddyfoote
was one of the darkest Marines Ryck had seen, his skin almost black. Ryck didn’t know much about him other than he was one of the strongest Marines in the company. He knew Henri was ethnically French, but he hadn’t realized Paddyfoote was, too.