Sergeant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 2) (5 page)

“You ready to blow?” he asked as he walked up.

“Oh, cement it, sergeant! I’ve been ready!”

“Let me get Sergeant Samuelson, and we’ll
diddiho.”

Sams wasn’t ready, though. He was in
deep conversation with and cleavage-peering at an attractive member of the governor’s entourage. She seemed to be welcoming his attention.

Typical Sams
, he thought as he went back to pick up Lips.

He stuffed a couple more pieces of
saucisson
, the label called it, but seemed like normal salami to him, in his mouth and grabbed a half-full bottle of wine that someone had left on a table as he took Lips and got out of there.

“You
coming? It’s your brills-bro, after all,” Sams said after sticking his head in the small squad leaders’ office.

Ryck looked up from his screen to where Sams and Popo waited, both in their PT gear with their MCMA belts on.

“MacPruit’s not my anything-bro, dipwad,” Ryck responded sourly.

“Come on,
Rycky-my-boy, you and him, you’re tight, recruit buddies, and all,” Sams went on as Popo laughed.

For the hundredth time, Ryck wished he hadn’t told the other two squad leaders about the
beasting the recruit platoon leaders had given MacPruit when the recruit had refused to acknowledge his recruit squad leader’s authority. It had been Ryck’s rabbit punch to the back of the neck that had knocked MacPruit to his knees, but not before he had taken down two of them. Seth MacPruit had been an MMA planetary champion before enlisting, and he was one tough customer. Against eight other recruits, though, he had taken a pretty serious beasting. It had brought him around, at least. He hadn’t questioned recruit authority, and by the end of training, he had even started assisting other recruits in need.

Given his background, it wasn’t surprising that he’d eventually been grabbed from a line company to coordinate the regiment’s Marine Corps Martial Arts program. Ryck just wished that MacPruit hadn’t gotten orders to Ninth Marines. It wasn’t bad when MacPruit been in First Battalion as a regular grunt. Ryck only occasionally saw him around camp. But when he made sergeant and became the MCMA instructor, Ryck was going to
have to enjoy his company once a quarter.

“OK, I’m coming. Just let me log off,” Ryck said.

“You should thank your buddy, there. What Marines wants to have his nose stuck in his PA studying when he could be out kicking ass and taking names?” Popo asked, punctuating his question with a series of lame air punches and a side-kick. “Pow, pow! Take that, motherfuckers!”

“If that’s the best you can do, Popo, then maybe you’d better be doing some studying, too, ‘cause you aren’t going to be advancing based on that weak shit,” Ryck said.

He saved his notes and bookmarked the site he was reading, then powered down his screen. He’d been working on his degree in his free time, much to the delight of the other NCOs who accused him of wanting to become an officer, something he vociferously denied. He was just interested in history, something that had bloomed in him during Dr. Berber’s classes back at recruit training. As long as he was studying, he figured he might as well earn a degree while he was at it.

If he could ever keep on track, that
was. He had a paper on the background leading up to the War of the Lost Surrender due by 2200 that evening, and he hadn’t even started writing it yet. He had started the research, but he’d gotten lost on a tangent reading about one of the true Marine heroes, First Lieutenant Ian Cannon, Jr., who was awarded the Federation Nova for taking command of the
FS Ponce
when the entire navy command had been wiped out, and instead of retreating, took the heavily damaged ship into the fray, destroying two enemy corvettes.

“Uh, forgetting something?” Sams asked, pointing down
to his own waist at his blue belt.

Ryck had already changed into his
skin trou and t-shirt PT gear before sitting down to study, but he hadn’t put on the yellow belt that signified his MCMA level. He went back to his locker and grubbed around until he found it. He put it on.

“Satisfied?” he
asked Sams

“Now we’re talking
! Let’s diddiho. They’re already out there, and Hecs and the lieutenant’ll be out there soon,” Sams said.

The three of them left the squadbay and made their way to the large, sawdust-filled pit where MCMA was conducted. MacPruit was already waiting, looking assured in his skin trousers
, red shirt, and boots. Around his waist was a black belt, of course. He nodded at Ryck, but didn’t approach the other three sergeants.

“See you two on the bounce,” Popo said as they split up to join their squads
ringing the outside of the pit.

Keijo
and Prifit had been wrestling around, with Khouri egging them on when Ryck came up. He didn’t have to say anything, though. They both stopped and started a more appropriate warm-up. Within a few minutes, the platoon commander and sergeant came out, signaling the start of the instruction.

“Marines of First Platoon, you ready to kick some ass?” MacPruit called out as he stepped into the training pit.

He was greeted by a chorus of “oo-rahs.”

“As all of you know, you
NEED your MCMA belt to get promoted. Iffen you don’t have it, you ain’t gettin’ that next rank. Sose you all better pay attention. All you white belts, you ain’t safe, neither. Iffen I think you don’ rate that measly white belt, I can take it back right now,” MacPruit yelled out as he strode back and forth in the middle of the ring.

Ryck wondered if he could take a yellow belt away, too. Not
demote it to a white, but take it completely away. He decided he better keep that thought to himself. No use giving anyone any ideas.

“But you are not here jus’ to qualify, jus’ to get promoted. You are Marines, an
’ you want to close with and destroy the enemy. This is what you’re made for! Am I right?”

There was another chorus of “
oo-rahs,” but not quite as enthusiastic. Ryck thought MacPruit might have gone a little heavy with the demotion threat. Three of his Marines--Stillwell, Peretti, and Rey--were white belts, and they had to be a little nervous. The previous regimental MCMA instructor had never mentioned demoting Marines, so for most of them, this was a new concept.

“Some of you ask why MCMA? Am I right?” MacPruit went on.

Damn skippy!
Ryck agreed. Golf Company was a heavy company. They fought in PICS. All this hand-to-hand stuff was so much horseshit. Ryck knew it was to foster the warrior spirit, but in reality, just like pugil stick training, it offered nothing for a Marine in combat.

“Well, you aren’t always
gonna be in your PICS, you know. You could go in light, or you can lose your PICS. Your own Sergeant Lysander over there, he lost his PICS when you guys were fightin’ on Luminosity, right? Without his PICS, he even got a Silver Star, right? So you never know, you never know.”

Ryck was surprised that MacPruit singled him out. He wondered what game the sergeant was playing. Yes, Ryck’s PICS had been disabled, and yes, Ryck had continued the fight, but not as some kung fu master. He’d just figured out how to engage his weapons without the PICS’ interface.

“So let’s get goin’. First, let’s do some warm-ups. I wanna see where you all are. Give yourself a little room,” MacPruit told them before leading them in some basic forms.

He wandered through
class as he barked out commands, stopping to critique a few Marines. Ryck wanted to puke when MacPruit complemented the lieutenant on his form. As MacPruit moved on, the look on the lieutenant’s face led Ryck to believe that the platoon commander had not been taken in by the brown-nosing.

“OK, Marines, OK,” MacPruit shouted out. “Good job. But that’s the boring part, am I right? You want combat, am I right? We’ll get to that now, but first, I’m
gonna demo it. I need a partner for that. Who’s it gonna be?”

Ryck felt his heart sink. He thought he knew where this was leading. He was right.

“How about Sergeant Lysander? Me and him go back a long way, an’ let me tell you, he’s one tough hombre. An’ he’s already got combat experience without a PICS, without his skins and bones. Am I right?”

There was clapping from some of the Marines, and a “Kick some ass, Sergeant Lysander!” was shouted up from someone in Sam
s’ squad.

Neither the reference to recruit training nor the combat was lost on Ryck. MacPruit, despite the ensuing years, had not forgotten that
beasting in the showers that night. It also sounded like he resented Ryck’s combat record. All MacPruit had done during his first tour with 1/9 was one show-the-flag-in-force to intimidate a case of social unrest. The unit had earned a Combat Mission medal, but Ryck doubted that MacPruit had even fired his weapon in anger.

There wasn’t much Ryck could do, so he plastered a smile on his face and moved to the center of a pit. He stood in front of MacPruit, trying to look at ease. The other sergeant reached into the cargo pocket of his skins trou and pulled out a training knife. He tossed it to Ryck, who managed to catch it.

“OK, sergeant, show me what you’ve got. Come at me,” MacPruit told him.

This is stupid,
Ryck thought.
When am I ever going to come at someone with a freaking knife?

He couldn’t hesitate, though. He raised the knife over his head and started forward with a yell.

MacPruit pulled an eGun out of his pocket and shot Ryck in the chest. Ryck looked down, staring at the slowly fading “hole” in his chest.

No shit, Sherlock. You’ve got a grubbing gun while you give me a freaking knife,
he thought.

“That’s not how you do it,”
MacPruit said to the platoon. “You don’ need a knife. You don’ need a rifle. You don’ need a PICS. You, the Marine, are the weapon, whether you are naked or in a battle cruiser. But you need to know how to fight.”

“Here, sergeant, give me the knife,” he said, turning his attention back to Ryck. Ryck tossed it to him and caught the
eGun tossed back. It was only a training aid, but it felt good in his hand. He checked the setting. I was set as a generic handgun. This was a standard training eGun, so it could be set to simulate all Marines ballistic small arms as well as several of the pulse weapons. It worked by calculating the range to a target, then sending a small electrostatic charge that simulated the effects of a specific weapon. The charge ionized at the target, leaving a glowing “impact” to show where a real round or charge would have hit. They were limited in range. The further out, the less accurate the simulation, but close in, they were a pretty fun training tool.

“OK, Sergeant Lysander. This time, I’m
comin’ at you.”

Ryck held his
eGun out. He was going to nail MacPruit and shut him up.

MacPruit turned to sweep his gaze around the pit at the Marines in the platoon before continuing, “
Before I show you this, though . . .”

MacPruit suddenly spun, dropping down almost to the sawdust before springing up at Ryck. Ryck fired the
eGun, but he was aiming at where the other sergeant’s chest had been a moment before. The charge went right over MacPruit’s head as the instructor crashed into Ryck, taking him down. Almost immediately, Ryck was stretched out, held captive by MacPruit, his right arm stretched out over his head and slightly behind him.

“ . . . I should remind you never to give your enemy a warning. Hit him, and hit him hard.”

MacPruit leaned back, stretching Ryck out further. Ryck tried to resist the pressure, to muscle through it, but the pain on his arm was too great. As much as he hated to do it, he tapped out with his left hand.

“Another thing.
Iffen you ever get into combat with someone, neutralize him. See, this is hurtin’ Sergeant Lysander’s arm. See him trying to tap out, his hand flappin’ like a beached salmon? But iffen I let him go now, he can still turn on me and do me damage. So I got to make sure he can’t do nothing anymore.”

He pulled back even further, and the pain made Ryck scream out. Something in his elbow popped, and MacPruit finally let up.

“See? Come in low, and never give an inch,” he said as he got to his feet. “Let’s pair up. I’ve got knives here in this box. Sorry, no eGuns, but we don’ need them for this.”

Ryck was still down in the sawdust, his arm on fire. He struggled to sit up.

“You ready to try it again?” MacPruit asked innocently. “I can be your partner.”

“You mother grubber,” Ryck hissed. “You broke my fucking arm!”

“Break it? Nah, I would’ve felt that. Maybe just sprained. Nothing a day or two in regen won’t fix up, right? No harm, no foul,” MacPruit said quietly.

“Doc, can you come over here?” he called out to the corpsman. “Looks like Sergeant Lysander hurt himself.”

The corpsman did a quick check of Ryck’s arm. MacPruit had been right. It was a sprain, and it would take two days of regen to heal it.

“Payback’s a bitch,” MacPruit said to Ryck as he was led off to sickbay. “Am I right?”