Ride The Rising Tide (The Maxwell Saga)

by Peter Grant

  They learned cadence calls, both for marching and for running. Many were hoary with age, time–honored institutions in their own right. A few seemed incomprehensible until the recruits learned the ancient traditions that had inspired them. Others were invented on the spur of the moment, occasionally to the displeasure of certain instructors who heard themselves rhythmically — and detrimentally — discussed. This led to further trips to collect leaves from distant bushes, among other punishments. By now, however, the grinning offenders were fit enough to regard these excursions as a welcome relief from the drudgery of square–bashing.

  Steve returned, puffing, from such an excursion one day, having remembered his earlier vow and decided that the time was ripe. He trotted up to PO Kilrain, came to attention and handed him a leaf. As expected, he heard in reply, “Wrong leaf! Go back and bring me the one next to it!”

  Steve reached into his pocket and solemnly handed over four more leaves. “Sir, this recruit anticipated your command. Here are the leaves on either side of, and above and below, the wrong one. This recruit respectfully submits that the right leaf must be among them, Sir!”

  The platoon looked on with wide–eyed delight, trying desperately to contain their mirth, as Kilrain struggled for words. “You — you — !”

  Petty Officer Robinson rescued him. “Recruit, what Petty Officer Kilrain meant to say is that you took the leaf from the wrong bush. Go and get one from the correct bush!”

  Steve knew he couldn’t push his luck too far. “Sir, aye aye, Sir!” He ran off towards the hillside once more, holding back his ear–to–ear grin until he faced away from the instructors.

  Behind him he heard PO Kilrain as he regained his voice. “What are you lot laughing about? You think that’s funny? In that case, all of you can bring me a leaf! And don’t you dare bring back the entire bloody bush! MOVE!”

  His voice carried well, causing several nearby recruit platoons to burst out laughing, which led to their instructors also becoming less than happy. That day saw enough leaves retrieved to denude an entire botanical garden — which meant the recruits had to sweep the parade–ground after drill. They lost count of the number of pushups performed and other punishments inflicted… but nothing could completely stifle their amusement. Even the instructors found it hard to punish them straight–faced.

  Their transformation from civilians was almost complete.

  ~ ~ ~

  The day came to shoot for score with carbine and pistol. For once, the instructors didn’t give them a hard time that morning. Their own grades would depend in part on the performance of their recruits.

  The final course of fire with the carbine, from the prone position at five hundred meters, was the most difficult. The wind had turned fickle, blowing first from the right of the firing line, then from the left. The indicator flags swung from one side to the other, and sometimes hung motionless. Occasionally the nearer flags would point in one direction while those further downrange would indicate another, making it fiendishly difficult to predict the influence of the wind on the light, ultra–high–speed projectiles. Steve concentrated on his sight picture, keeping the indicator flags in his field of view, trying to squeeze off his shots while they were all pointing in roughly the same direction, so he could allow for the wind’s effect on his projectile. He tried not to let himself be distracted by the periodic hypersonic crack! of the weapons on either side of him. Slowly he worked his way through the course of fire, scoring bullseye after bullseye, most of his hits in the X–ring.

  He was shocked to hear an announcement over the loudspeakers. “One minute remaining! One minute left in this course of fire!” Chagrined, he realized that by waiting for the wind between each shot, he’d wasted much of the ten minutes allocated to this round. He still had to fire three shots. Come on, dammit, CONCENTRATE!, he mentally commanded himself, and bent to his task.

  Two more shots went downrange, the first an X–ring, the second, to his annoyance, only a bullseye. The shooters on either side of him fell silent as they completed their course of fire. He heard someone come up behind him, the crunch of their boots audible on the gravel surface. PO Kilrain squatted next to him.

  “Come on, recruit! Ten seconds! Make this last shot count!”

  Steve stifled the urge to say something rude. The last thing he needed right now was an interruption like this, breaking his concentration! He settled more firmly into his prone position, and began to mentally count off the seconds.

  8… 7… the wind’s dying… 5… 4… NOW!

  He gently pressed the firing button for the last time. The carbine bucked gently against his shoulder, its inertial compensator absorbing most of the recoil generated by the sudden acceleration of the bead to several times the speed of sound through the electromagnetic coils of the firing rail. He didn’t feel it, raising his head, peering intently at the read–out next to his position. A moment’s pause, then… X–ring!

  “Yes! You did it, recruit!” Kilrain slapped him heavily on the back, then took his hand and hauled him effortlessly to his feet. “That’s your Expert badge for carbine, right there! Think you can do it again tomorrow with a pistol?”

  “Sir, this recruit will do his best, Sir!”

  Grinning to himself as he gathered his gear, Steve figured he’d better not inform the instructors that his skill with a pistol was primarily the fruit of recent personal coaching by the chief weapons instructor of the Vesta branch of one of the most feared criminal organizations in the settled galaxy. They might not appreciate it.

  ~ ~ ~

  Exercise Grindstone was designed to put into practice everything they’d learned over the previous ten weeks, bringing together all the loose ends in a platoon–oriented exercise under high–stress conditions. Each recruit was issued five energy bars and a water purification kit, then searched to make sure they hadn’t hidden any more food in their pockets or packs. They’d have to make do on reduced rations and minimal sleep for the next sixty hours. That was all part of the pressure.

  Steve was one of six recruits tapped to lead the platoon during the exercise, each taking charge for a ten–hour period, then reverting to the ranks. The six leaders were given a more detailed briefing of what was required, issued old–fashioned maps and compasses — no electronic aids to navigation were allowed — then allowed to discuss the exercise among themselves and divide the platoon into teams, each with a different task or responsibility. They also had to choose which of them would lead during various stages of the exercise.

  Steve pointed out, “We’ve got to get across this swamp, make our way through ‘enemy’ lookouts and patrols without being detected, and reach this headquarters complex. Trouble is, by the time we get out of the swamp, we’re going to be covered with mud. Anyone seeing us will know right away we’ve just come from there, because we’ll look so different from the patrols searching for us. They’ll be clean and neat. Why don’t we get everyone to pack clean battledress in a sealed plastic bag, plus toiletries and a towel? The rules say we can’t carry extra food, but they don’t mention those things at all. We’ll look for clean water on the edge of the swamp to wash off the mud and change into fresh battledress after we’ve crossed. We can stick together or split into smaller groups, whatever seems best. Either way, we'll look like one or more ‘enemy’ patrols searching for recruits. We should be able to march openly into our target area without appearing too suspicious. How about it?”

  “It’s sneaky, underhanded and devious. I like it!” Mendez opined. The others agreed, laughing. “You’d better be in command for that last part of the exercise. Only problem is, the ‘enemy’ who’ll be looking for us is a Marine battalion. They’ll be wearing Marine camouflage battledress, but we’ll be issued only plain utility coveralls for the exercise. How can we make ourselves look more like them?”

  Steve shrugged. “The exercise ends at dawn, so our last ten hours of movement will be at night. We’ll just have to hope the darkness serves to hide our coveralls,
and keep our distance from anyone who might be able to tell the difference.”

  “Works for me,” the other acknowledged.

  In reality — to nobody’s surprise — things didn’t go as smoothly as they’d hoped. The swamp proved to be unusually wide, deep and muddy, thanks to recent rains upstream. Crossing it with all their gear proved to be an exhausting, time–consuming process, interrupted at frequent intervals by the most complicated tactical problems the imaginations of their instructors were able to devise. By the time they reached the far side it was early evening. They were filthy and worn out. They’d eaten all their food and run out of water purification filters. Tempers were flaring as Steve took over the platoon for the last ten hours of the exercise.

  He gathered everyone around. “Listen up, people!” he said, quietly but urgently. “We’re almost there. I know we’re all feeling ratty as hell, but this is where we show what we’ve got. Before Exercise Grindstone we were already ahead of every other platoon on points. If we do well now we’ll be Honor Platoon of this Boot Camp cycle for sure!” He could sense the weary, worn–out recruits responding to his words, gathering their energies for one last effort.

  “We’re running late,” he continued. “It’ll take at least eight or nine hours to hike to our target, even if things go well. Any delay will leave us short. We’ve got to move faster. Any ideas?”

  Kumar raised his hand, and Steve nodded to him. “If we have to get there fast, we need wheels. The Marines must have transporters at their patrol camps. We might be able to get our hands on one and drive to our objective.”

  “Great idea!” Steve praised. “Who knows how to drive those things?”

  “I can drive smaller civilian transporters,” Kumar offered, “but not the big, heavy cargo types. I don’t have a Fleet license, of course.”

  “We’ll just have to see what we can find.” Steve looked around the platoon. “Who’s got hunting experience, particularly moving quietly through broken country to find game?” Three recruits, including Mendez, raised their hands. “Right, you three are our scouts. Gather round.”

  He unfolded his map. “Clean up and head out. Leave your kit here so you can move faster. We’ll bring it with us. There’ll probably be a Marine patrol base at or near this intersection.” He indicated a crossroads near a hill, five kilometers away. “It’s the logical place for one, commanding all the local roads. If it’s there, two of you keep watch over it and look for transporters while the other one meets us as we approach, to guide us in. If it’s not there, one of you remain behind to tell us while the other two scout ahead in the direction of our objective.” He pointed to it on the map. “Move parallel to the road, but stay off it. Keep your eyes peeled for a patrol base or any other potential source of transport. If you find something, one of you watch it while the other comes back to find us and lead us to it. All got that?”

  Three heads nodded.

  “Right, on your way.”

  There was, indeed, a Marine patrol base at the crossroads. Steve had the platoon remain under cover in a copse about half a kilometer away while he and two of the other leaders went forward to join the scouts. The base was barely visible in the moonlight.

  “There’s two transporters back there under those trees,” one of the scouts pointed out, “but we can’t get to them without making a noise that’ll alert the Marines in those tents next to them. Tire tracks indicate at least two more transporters went that way.” He pointed down the road.

  “Wonder where they were going?” Steve mused. “How many Marines down there?”

  “I dunno,” the scout confessed. “I — ”

  He was interrupted by the swelling whine of a heavy–duty power–pack gearing down under regenerative braking. A massive ten–ton transporter came into view, halting at the Marine encampment. The driver got out, spoke briefly with an NCO, offloaded a pallet of rations from the load–bed using the transporter’s crane, then climbed back into the cab. Watching through binoculars, Steve noticed at once that the transporter was painted in the standard color scheme of the Service Corps, and the driver was wearing its uniform. The transporter set off across the intersection and up the long, winding hill towards them, moving slowly.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Steve whispered to the others.

  “Hell, yeah! We can take him as soon as he crosses that rise!” Mendez indicated the road that passed near their observation position. “The Marines can’t see him from there.”

  “Yep — and he’s got a cover for his load bed, rolled up behind the cab. We can all fit in the back of a vehicle that big, and the cover will hide us from view. Alonzo, head back to the platoon and bring them up. Tell ’em to stay low and move quickly and quietly. The rest of us will stop the transporter.”

  They set up an impromptu roadblock just over the hill from the Marine encampment, and waved the transporter to a halt. Steve walked up to the cab and opened the door, grateful to be dealing with a Service Corps driver. He’d have anticipated active resistance from a Marine.

  “We’re recruits, and for exercise purposes, you’re our prisoner,” Steve informed the driver. “Get out of the cab, and don’t do anything silly like sounding your horn or reaching for the radio.”

  “You can’t do this!” the driver protested as he climbed down. “I’m just a driver! I’ve got to drop ration pallets at two more patrol bases down the road, or the Marines there won’t eat tonight!”

  “They may not, but we will,” Steve promised him, grinning. “We ran out of food a while back.” Already two recruits were climbing into the load–bed. One broke open a pallet of ration packs, while the other filled his bottle from a tank of potable water.

  He turned back to the driver. “Are you interested in making some money? None of us knows how to drive something this big — although we’ll surely try if we have to. If you take us to the Marine headquarters compound and drive us through the gate, you can point out in your defense that we took you prisoner and made you do it. There’s nothing in the exercise rules to prevent that, and we’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Oh, yeah? How worthwhile?”

  Steve noted with an inner surge of excitement that the driver hadn’t rejected the deal out of hand. “We’ll take up a collection and send you five hundred credits. That’ll be enough for a hell of a party. How about it?”

  “How do I know you’re good for it?”

  “Do you recognize me? My name’s Steve Maxwell. I was on the news vids last year when the merchant freighter Sebastian Cabot came in after being recaptured from pirates. They gave me a medal for it a couple of months ago.”

  The driver peered closely at him. “Yeah, I remember seeing your face. They said you were planning to enlist. I guess you did.”

  “That’s right. I’m giving you my word, personally, that the money will be there. If the others are short of cash, I’ll make up the difference out of my insurance payout from Cabot. You must know they search us before we head out on these exercises. They won’t let us carry money, in case we use it to hire a cab or something, so I can’t pay you now. I’ll send it next week.”

  A pause, then, “Aw, hell! The Marines are gonna be pissed at me anyway for letting myself get caught, so what have I got to lose? It’s not as if I’m one of them.”

  Steve grinned. “You can always use the excuse that you weren’t given an escort, so you were helpless when we ambushed you.”

  The driver brightened at once. “Yeah! That’ll make it their fault!”

  Steve exchanged contact information with him, then waved for the approaching recruits to gather around. They caught ration packs thrown from the load–bed and tore them open as they listened.

  “Keep the noise down! There are Marines just over that hill! Everyone get in the back of the transporter and keep quiet. We’re sure to pass Marine patrols from time to time, and we don’t want to make any noise that may alert them. Same goes for when we turn into the headquarters complex. Alonzo, take
three others and spread the load bed cover over its frames to hide everyone. Tie it down securely. I’ll stay up front with the driver. Let’s move!”

  Thus it was that an infuriated Lieutenant–Colonel Aviga found himself rudely interrupted in his recruit–capturing mission by being invited to inspect a group of intruders standing in a neat formation before his Battalion HQ ops tent. He looked over the grinning recruits, some with crumbs from ‘captured’ ration packs still dotting their battledress, and exploded, “Just how the hell do you expect to get away with this? You were supposed to hike here!”

  “With respect, Sir, these recruits were ordered to get here while avoiding detection or interception,” one of the umpires genially pointed out. He was a Marine Master Sergeant, and was clearly enjoying the moment immensely. “The exercise instructions didn’t specify how they were to do that, or what route they were to follow. Those elements were left to their initiative — which they’ve clearly used.” He turned to the recruits. “Congratulations to you all. You’ve reached your objective with a full six hours to spare.”

  “But — but — what about that transporter?” The battalion commander gestured to it, parked behind the formation, the driver leaning out of his window, grinning at the fuss. “Surely it’s illegal for them to steal it?”

  The umpire looked at Steve. “What do you have to say to that, recruit?”

  “Sir, this recruit respectfully wishes to point out that this Marine battalion was designated as, quote, ‘the enemy’, unquote, for the purposes of this exercise. The transporter was witnessed delivering supplies to one of this battalion’s patrol bases, and was therefore considered to be enemy property, along with its cargo. We were explicitly ordered to conduct this exercise under, quote, ‘operational conditions’, unquote. This recruit therefore presumes that capturing and making use of enemy property is as permissible during this exercise as it would be under operational conditions in the field, Sir.” Behind him, Steve could hear his fellow recruits trying, with only limited success, to stifle their amusement.