"Feed me!" yelled Wieczenski. Kaczorowski grabbed the next 100-round case, tore the top off, and fed the next belt into the gun.
"Fire!" he yelled, and the M2 opened up again.
They went through about 500 rounds that way, mostly plinking at the vehicles and not so much at the RIFs, since the platoon had them mostly under control, until Adkins started waving at them to cease fire. "OORAH WHAT A RUSH," exclaimed Wieczenski, letting go of the grips and panting from the exertion of panning and holding the gun on target. Kaczorowski started laughing, but stopped when Staff Sergeant Fox wandered over, Harbinger still in her hand and M11 still strapped to her back. Her armor looked like she'd been body-surfing in a coal mine.
"What happened to you?"
Fox rolled her eyes. "A couple of the .45XCP's prematurely-detonated, like they always do, after they cleared the barrel," she said. "That's always fun. And why we always wear face shields when we use it." She flipped the aliglass shield down to show him the spalls from the exploding bullets, then flipped it up again. "And damn, they use the dirtiest explosive ever."
"Other than that, how was your day?"
She grinned. "Blew up a couple of those trucks trying to edge their way around the ones the Javelins got. Don't get me wrong, I like .45XCP, I just wish they'd work the bugs out of it."
Kaczorowski looked out the door to the nearest destroyed RIF vehicle, about a hundred yards away, and his eyes boggled. "You can shoot an M12 accurately at a hundred yards?"
Fox winked. "Holographic sights are a wonder, aren't they?" She wandered back over to Brown, while the first sergeant just stared after her.
"Holy shit," he said, eventually. "I think I'm in love."
"Careful, man," said his sidekick. "That's the boss's step-daughter you're lusting after."
"Yeah, yeah, but holy shit, Weezy. The M12 is a short-range weapon. Twenty-five yards at best." He shook his head in wonder. "She's probably the Hathcock of the M12."
"Okay, now I know you're out of your mind," laughed Wieczenski. "Begging your pardon, First Sergeant."
"You watch your ass," Kaczorowski scowled, then grinned.
"Just you be careful you don't watch too much of hers, Top. Are we going to start shooting again?"
"Dunno. Let me check with Adkins. Don't run off." He got up.
Wieczenski nodded, and grabbed a bottle of water he'd placed strategically nearby before sitting down to fire. "I'll be here, getting my second wind."
Just then, they heard an M11 on burst. "Shit."
Then they heard Adkins shouting at the rifleman who'd dared defy his "cease-fire" order. "Stand down, Marine, that's FTSA1's transport coming in. You'd better hope you missed, and, even if you did, that Major Fox doesn't decide to wrap that carbine around your neck, twice. You're on report, Buckley, I will see you at Mast."
Kaczorowski looked at Wieczenski. "Well, there's bread and water for a week," noted the latter.
The first sergeant nodded. "He's lucky we don't have a brig, out here. My guess is he'll be polishing the latrines here in the station about as long."
"Well, it's Buckley. That fuckup is the boil on this outfit's ass. How did he get through Basic, anyway?"
Kaczorowski shrugged. "Beats me. I just hope I don't have to deal with him at Mast."
"You know better than that, Top. You're the company first sergeant."
"Yeah." He sighed. "Well, we all pay for our sins at some point."
The platoon on the ground scattered as the transport came in for a landing, right in front of the ramp. After a moment, the hatch opened, and Major Fox and Captain Harbinger came striding out – Major Fox clearly in a towering rage, and Captain Harbinger sort of rolling his eyes while trying his damnedest not to laugh.
The Major walked up to Captain Adkins and said a few words too quietly for Kaczorowski to catch. Adkins nodded, looked over to his left, and beckoned, impassively.
Lance Corporal Buckley walked, hang-dog, into frame, and stopped just before he got to Adkins. Adkins said a few words; Buckley nodded, looking miserable.
Major Fox then proceeded to tear him a new asshole. You could tell, not because she was shouting, but because she wasn't shouting.
When she finished, the only reason Buckley hadn't wilted to the ground was because he'd locked his knees and was standing rigidly to attention. He saluted crisply, boomed, "Yes, ma'am!", and dropped the salute, still standing to attention.
Major Fox said something else; it must have been, "Dismissed," because he saluted again, dropped it, about-faced and all but ran away back to his squad.
Fox said something that sounded biting, but still in a low tone, to Adkins, who winced and replied. She nodded, turned, and walked up the ramp, Harbinger following her, still with a grin on his face.
"How's it going, Top?" she asked, smiling, in a completely normal voice.
Kaczorowski saluted – it seemed like the thing to do – and replied, "Everything is ship-shape, ma'am. Enemy repelled, our Ma Deuce got a workout, not sure how it couldn't be anything but another beautiful day in the Space Force Marines, ma'am."
"Is my mother treating you well?"
"Yes, ma'am, no complaints."
"Good. Did you get a chance to meet my sister and Sergeant Brown?"
"Surely did, ma'am. Your sister appears to be quite an artist with the M12."
Delaney smiled. "She cheats," she confided, but didn't elaborate.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, whatever you do, don't fall in love with her. Too many have already tried and failed. I don't know what all the ChiComs taught her before they dumped her into that stasis box for eighty years, but turns out she's got a mean set of mixed martial arts skills; she probably could have gone pro. Just a friendly warning, Top." Delaney winked.
Kaczorowski saluted again – it seemed like the thing to do, again – and barked, "Aye, aye, ma'am!"
"Unless maybe she thinks he's cute," said Lyn, who'd sneaked up behind her sister and now gave her a big hug from behind.
"Oof," huffed Delaney, as Lyn's "hug" forced the air out of her lungs. But she broke the hold and spun around to give Lyn a proper hug back. "Hi, sweetie," she gasped. "These guys treating you right?"
"Oh yeah, sis," nodded Lyn. "They even gave me and Brown a bunch of ammo to use up. XCP, even." She loosened her grip and stepped back, grinning; Delaney looked at her, rolled her eyes, and facepalmed.
"Shit." Delaney looked down at her own armor, now liberally splotched with soot. "Bitch. You couldn't have brushed off and hosed down before you did that, could you? And I'll bet it's all over my back, too."
"Can confirm, ma'am," butted in Wieczenski.
"That's what you get for leaving me behind," Lyn replied, sweetly.
Delaney sighed. "Wasn't up to me," she pointed out. "You can take that up with Mom."
"Oh. Sorry."
"It's okay. I know you were pissed about it. I'll take the rap – this time." Delaney looked at Kaczorowski, then back at Lyn. "So you think he's cute, huh?"
"Well." Lyn squinted at the first sergeant, as if taking his measure. "I've seen worse."
"Just remember," warned Delaney, "he was on Mom's first mission – before she was a Marine."
"So you're saying, he's ancient? Honey, so am I." Lyn grinned. "Technically, I'm a few years older than Mom."
"Ladies," Kaczorowski interrupted, in a neutral tone, "this is not a meat market, I am not a cheap cut of meat to be discussed, and we still have RIFs inbound. Maybe we should do something about the latter? And, Staff Sergeant," he added, with a smile, "if you're that interested, perhaps we could schedule dinner and a movie at some point after this incursion is settled. Otherwise, it's time to get back to what we do best – breaking things and killing people."
Lyn went beet red. Delaney nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Harbinger gave him a friendly shoulder-punch. "Way to put things back on track, Top."
Kaczorowski shrugged. "It's my job, Captain. Keeping the NCOs and the juni
or officers pointed in the right direction can be tough, you know."
Lyn looked at him, beaten but unbowed, and still with that nearly-insubordinate grin on her face. "And it sounds like you're just the man to do it, Top."
He wasn't entirely sure where to go with that, so he just shrugged again, and smiled.
Chapter 11
Upon This Rock Build We Peace
As it turned out, after the utter defeat of their only fully-motorized regiment, all it took was dropping a few demonstration Rods in front of the remaining five infantry battalions (carefully, so as not to hurt anyone or cause major problems back at the research station) to get them to stop. And then the dropships went out again with their big speaker systems to relay messages from Ariela, Mullah al-Mubarak, and Governor al-Hashimi, asking (not ordering) the irregular groups to turn around, go back to their bases, and then disband.
Perhaps the most important statement made in those messages, and what likely clinched the deal for most of the RIFs, was when the mullah announced plans to build a new central mosque complex in the hills back of Jadida, which, thanks to the efforts of the Lion of God and the Americans, would contain its own certified, 100% identical duplicate of the Kaaba and the Black Stone it held. Because of this and other gracious concessions by the colonial government and the Americans, and after the acceptance of the local Islamic Council of this new alternative, Muslims on al-Saḥra' would finally be able to complete the Hajj pilgrimage.
"And a delegation of Muslim clerics from Earth is being summoned to talk to the Islamic Council regarding some accommodation for an ecumenical accord," noted Ariela, during a meeting between herself, the mullah, and the governor, a few weeks later. They were back in her office at the Residence, an over-the-top name, so far as Ariela was concerned, for what amounted to a four-bedroom, three-bathroom McMansion with a couple of extra, "official" rooms tacked on out back.
The Constellation had returned to al-Saḥra' by then, and Ariela had pleaded with LaForrest to send Master Chief Charles down with some of his fabulous finger foods and snacks. LaForrest had agreed, with a laugh, and the master chief had shown up in a pinnace with several boxes of goodies – all kosher and, therefore, halal, which was something Ariela hadn't even thought of before calling upstairs.
"This was difficult to arrange," noted the mullah, munching on one of the sweet pastries Ariela had a particular love for, "though I will admit it was difficult because both sides had their backs up."
Bahadur sipped his coffee, and laughed. "Well, mullah, for you to make such an admission means we have come a very long way."
"Indeed," acknowledged the mullah. "There is no sense in fighting these trifles any longer; even the hardcores must accept fate, even if it means the inexorable rising of the waters. For if these things do happen, it is surely by the Will of Allah, which none can dispute." He folded his hands and closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, looking directly at Ariela.
"The high desert will not disappear completely from al-Saḥra'," observed Ariela. "If nothing else, weather and wind patterns alone will see to that. The inner plateau on this continent, running all the way down into the southern polar regions, will always be hot, dry, and dusty, and geological studies suggest it was so even before the lunar collision, or whatever it was drained the seas beneath the surface. Thus, even after the rise of the waters, you will have always a place to try the faithful." She put her hands on the table. "And so, upon this rock, build we peace. But let me tell you something about the hardcores, mullah, if you will take such advice from an infidel."
The mullah laughed, uncomfortably. "I do not view you quite that way, anymore, Colonel."
"I know, and yet – this goes to the mindset of the hardcore, and how you deal with it."
"I am listening."
"There is one simple lesson learned by the United States and other powers before it, when dealing with colonial peoples. And that lesson is this: Counterinsurgency does not work. Ever. Why did we end up having to move the radical insurgents, among others, completely off planet?" She shook her head. "Because we knew if we did not, we would be forced to commit genocide. Counterinsurgency does not work. We learned that the hard way, in Korea, Vietnam, and finally in Iraq and Afghanistan. You cannot mount a working hearts-and-minds operation when you cannot control even the armies and the police forces you yourself have trained. The politicians you install, even if you do so in lawful elections, will never have the heart to work without you looming behind them; and the armies and police you train will sell out to the insurgents quickly, in order to protect their families from retaliation, and when you finally decide you have wasted sufficient lives and treasure on the country and go to pull out, everything will collapse in what appears to be mere moments; the elected officials will flee, the army and police will show their true colors, and you will be run out of the country with your tail between your legs, rather than parading out in orderly fashion with flags flying high and bands playing jaunty tunes."
The mullah nodded. "You are telling me we will have to eradicate the hardcores, root and branch, or they will never give us peace."
"I am," agreed Ariela. "To the very seed of their seed, to the third and fourth generation, in the Biblical sense; you must destroy them utterly, so no son or daughter is left in future to swear revenge, preach jihad, and raise a hand against you. This is not something the Marines – either set of Marines – can do for you, nor is it something the Americans in general would accept as needful and proper. It is something your people must decide to do for themselves, if any of these efforts at rapprochement are ever going to work."
"I see." The mullah nodded again, slowly, digesting what she'd said. "As for me, I am a man of peace; I never advocated violent jihad, and you – and your SFMID – know that."
Ariela smiled.
"Yet I am not unable to conceive of a small group of regular militia, sanctioned by the Islamic Council, perhaps trained by the Marines, which would be used to seek out and destroy threats to the ummah," he continued. "With the approval of the Governor, of course."
Bahadur, all humor gone, looked the mullah in the eye. "I am not opposed," said he, "and my only regret is that it has taken this long, and a huge – if futile – military operation on the part of the hardcores, to bring us to this agreement. My office will help provide what is needed, and act as liaison between the Marines – Space Force and USMC, both – to ensure everyone is on the same page of this operation."
"Then it is agreed," declared Ariela. "I speak for both SFM and USMC on al-Saḥra', and pending what I believe will be a rubber-stamp from the Pentagon, this operation is approved."
"I have only one question," said the mullah, raising a finger.
"Yes?"
"I must ask the Master Chief where he finds these wonderful treats." The mullah smiled broadly at Ariela, who laughed.
"That is between the two of you," she said, amused. "He has his secret sources of supply, of course, but I'm sure he would not be unwilling to share such information with you. What say you, Master Chief?"
Charles, who was putting out another small tray of cookies and pastries, replied, "Of course, Colonel. I would be happy to put the mullah in contact with an appropriate middleman. Now," he said, turning to grab the pot, "who would like more coffee?"
◆
"You need security, ma'am," said Sergeant-Major Fred Fox, formally, that evening.
"Nonsense," snapped Ariela. "I can protect myself. It's a short day trip out into the wilderness. We're just going to look at the site for the mosque. The mullah asked, and I can hardly say no."
Fox hesitated, then, in a more normal tone of voice, said, "Ari – at least take one of the FTSA groups with you. Not One. You and Delaney and Harb are a handful as it is. Take Two. Pete is just a butterbar, but his gunny says he's the best butterbar he's worked with for awhile. Harbinger agrees. Kid might have staying power. And you need not to give the appearance of wanting to work only with your daughter's first team."
"Why not Three?" asked Ariela, brow furrowing.
"They did a good job on that urban recon assignment you threw the group," acknowledged Fox, "but they're still a little green. In the after-action, I felt like there were some things they didn't really want to talk about, because – and this is only a feeling, mind you – I had the impression they went outside the ROE a few times. Mostly by accident. I'm pretty sure, for instance, they shot a few bystanders who the more experienced teams wouldn't have. But all of those cases seem to have been split-second decisions that could have gone either way."
"So I'm actually crazy not to take them and give them more experience."
Fox shook his head. "Not this trip. Not with the governor and the mullah, and half the Islamic Council along. You need steady hands. That would be Pete and his crew."
"You've worked with them more than I have," sighed Ariela. "Pete's a mustang, right?"
"Yep. He was a staff sergeant promotable, and there was no slot for a gunny at the time, and he's a smart kid, so I brought him in for some one-on-one counseling—"
Ariela snorted. "You brought him in for some of Uncle Chris's beer. I know you."
"Same difference," shrugged Fox, with a grin. "Anyway, I talked him into going mustang and off to OCS he went. We're so short on officers, and so heavy on enlisted, the whole idea of a mustang officer just isn't the stigma it used to be. And nearly every one I know of in SFM has been a good choice."
"Okay." Ariela made her decision. "Call Delaney, ask for FTSA2 for an executive security assignment. You know the parameters. We leave for the site tomorrow at 0900 sharp."
"Yes, ma'am. And then maybe you can I can have some dinner, watch a holo, and go to bed early?" Fox smiled insouciantly.
"That sounds good," allowed Ariela, "but maybe we could just, I dunno, skip the holo?"
"I like the way you think, my love."
The Lion in Paradise Page 14
