Hella unscrewed the cap on a silver flask filled with cognac, drank, and welcomed the burn of liquor down his throat. He hadn’t had a drink for weeks.
If I’d just left it like that, things might have been fine.
But not only did he withhold praise, he unleashed criticism both tacit and open. When Kyle broke a school record in track, Hella didn’t congratulate him. “Run even faster next time.” And when he lost a race, then it went: “A Marine officer never finishes second.”
Kyle countered that comment, uttered dozens of times, by joining the Navy. As he’d calculated, it burned his father’s ass to no end, at least for a while.
Hella never forgave Kyle for changing his name however. That was stupid of me. Kyle had done it to be his own man rather than a minor legacy standing in his father’s cold shadow.
It was the best thing for him to do. He’d come to the conclusion years before, yet never admitted it to Kyle. He captained a cruiser at thirty. Again he hadn’t revealed his pride to his son. Kyle had declined to speak to him before the deployment, when he took command of the Astoria. I could have sought him out. I could have told him.
But he hadn’t.
He drank, stared out the window, and communed with his regrets.
Deep in thought, Hella didn’t hear the soft pat of boot soles on the polished floor until the interloper was well into the room. His camo jumpsuit marked him as a Marine. He found a window of his own, slipped a backpack off his shoulder, and produced a bottle of liquor. The cap came off. He raised the bottle to the window, muttered something, and drank.
Light hit the young sergeant’s face from a particular angle, and Hella recognized him as one of the men he’d promoted today. No question whom he’s toasting. I wonder how many brothers he lost?
His name came to Hella after a moment: Rizer. Rocco had written the Navy Star warrant, but like all the warrants issued today, Hella read it before signing. After the disaster at Excelsior, just about any Marine would have fled Verdant on the first dropship he ran across. Many had done just that, and Hella couldn’t blame them, considering the hopeless situation. Instead Rizer found Dupaul and volunteered for another mission.
That is who we are. That is a Marine.
Hella watched him make two more toasts, no words this time. He might have continued toasting lost friends, though he appeared to just drink and stare, much like the general.
Bottles only hold so many shots.
Hella stood, flicked open a lighter, and finally lit his cigar. It amazed him how different a cigar tasted after defeat. No wonder the uninitiated call them dog turds.
Rizer watched Hella stride forth, locked his body to rigid attention when the dim light flashed on four stars. “Good evening, sir!”
“At ease, Sergeant Rizer.” He puffed out some cigar smoke and pointed to Rizer’s bottle. “What’s your poison this evening?”
“Synthos, sir.”
Hella chuckled. “Not screwing around, I see.”
“Well, sir… I don’t normally…”
“Nor do I.” He raised his flask and drank. “But even the disciplined have their down days.”
“I… suppose that’s true, sir.”
He reminded Hella of Kyle. Somewhat. Not the Kyle who had died yesterday, but the ensign straight from the Academy—upright and respectful, still nervous around the upper echelons of command in a way veteran officers and staff were not.
“We all had a down day yesterday,” Hella said, “despite our best efforts. Yours were commendable, yet I see you’re not wearing your Navy Star.”
“Sir, if I may speak frankly?”
“I should hope so.”
“I don’t believe I deserve it, sir.”
Hella nodded. “I understand that but you’re wrong, sergeant. You could have gotten on a dropship and gotten out of there, civilians be damned. You didn’t. You asked for more, wanted to do more, even if it meant going back into the combat zone. That is why you were awarded the Navy Star. I know that piece of metal won’t bring back your friends, but you should wear it anyway, whenever regulations allow. It means something, son.”
“I’ll do that, sir. For them, not for myself.”
“As you should.” He took another pull on his cigar and stared out the window a moment, shook his head. Kyle would have told him the same thing. They’re more similar than they look. Why does this man live, while my son is dead? “Deaths are to be expected in combat, even in a fair fight with a solid battle plan. But yesterday… It was damn near pure chance, a lottery to see who survived. You won; be grateful. My son lost.”
Rizer gulped. “My condolences, sir; I didn’t know your son was a Marine.”
“He wasn’t. He died anyway.” Hella gazed out the window, continuing: “I know how it happened, but I don’t understand why.” He turned back to Rizer. “You must be thinking the same thing: how you lived, when so many others died, and for what reason.”
“I am, sir.”
“And what is your answer?”
Rizer let out a sharp breath. “I don’t have one, sir.”
Hella could tell he’d disturbed the young man. He’s seen death, but he’s just getting used to it. Though accustomed to death, Hella still couldn’t rationalize Kyle’s. Looking to this young sergeant for answers would get him nowhere. Let him deal with his own demons. He doesn’t need acquaintance with yours. “It’s getting a bit late, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. By your leave, request permission to check on my platoon.”
“Granted. Keep ’em squared away, sergeant. Your men are going to need you for what’s coming. Dismissed.”
Rizer came to attention. “Good evening, sir.”
“Carry on.”
Rizer left Hella alone at the window. Put it behind you. He couldn’t ruminate on the defeat; such thoughts only invited future losses. “We will have none of those.” They hadn’t pinned the failure of Verdant on him, at least not yet. He had spoken to the commandant several times since yesterday.
Storek was furious, of course, and not with Hella. He’d already harangued the council for their short-sighted ineptitude, but the wheels of political change were turning as the senate and council found themselves on a war footing. If we can get Markham on our side, then we might win Zheen. Something would give, and it wouldn’t be Hella.
He thought of Lonacker, Deely, Barrington. We tried it your way. And I’m not about to repeat the failure. Yet despite the heavy losses, he doubted they would agree with his point of view, let alone adopt it. They didn’t understand what it really took to win. Make them. No one could resist the force of his will. Just have to apply it at the proper points. He scowled. And with overwhelming pressure.
He had lost the battle but not the coming war. And war was something he knew. It was in his blood. There was still a chance to win the next battle, to redeem himself and his beloved Corps, to avenge the loss of his son.
Kyle’s face pushed the thoughts from his mind but only momentarily. His visage steeled Hella’s resolve. Your death will mean something to the galaxy, son. Soon enough they’ll all pay, the enemies without and within.
Hella might have turned to plotting his vengeance, but right now he wanted to talk to his son. He stared into the void of space, spoke to Kyle, and knew his son was listening.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ryan Aslesen is a bestselling author and security consultant based out of Las Vegas, NV. He is a former Marine officer, a veteran of the War on Terror, and a graduate of Presentation College and American Military University. His military and work experience have made him one of the premier writers of military science fiction. His bestselling Crucible Series is highly regarded for its authenticity, explosive action, and sci-fi twists. When not writing or lost in his imagination, you will find him spending quality time with his family. He is currently working on his next novel. He can be reached at [email protected]
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