by Marko Kloos
Piss tubes, liquid food, solitary room, and no MilNet access, I think. This will be a long week.
The next two days are filled with meals, physical evaluations, and long stretches of boredom. As the medication levels in my system are reduced, I’m no longer in a constant state of pleasant sleepiness, and the lack of entertainment even has me turn on the screen in the corner and watch some Network news.
On the morning of my third day of rehab, I have a visitor. Just as I am finished with my breakfast—I’ve graduated to mushy corn cereal—the door opens, and a TA major in full Class A uniform walks in.
“As you were,” he says jovially, as if I was going to toss my blanket aside and jump out of bed on the spot at the sight of the golden leaves on his shoulder boards.
“Good morning, Major,” I say. At first, I guess he’s with the Medical Corps, but then I see the branch insignia on his uniform. They’re the crossed muskets of the Infantry. I scan the fruit salad of ribbons above his left breast pocket automatically, and see that he has very few combat-related awards. There’s the Combat Drop Badge, Master rank, but that’s something every TA trooper in a line battalion earns within two years of service. He has a marksmanship badge with a Rifle and Pistol tab, both the lowest rank. Most TA troopers in our company elect to not wear the marksmanship badge unless they have scored Expert, the highest rank, which most of us do. The ribbons and badges on a Class A uniform are a soldier’s business card, and this Major’s card says “pencil pusher”.
“Good morning, Private,” he replies. He looks around for a chair. Failing to spot one, he walks up to the side of my bed and adopts an awkward position that looks like he’s not sure whether to stay formal or relaxed.
“My name is Major Unwerth. I’m the battalion S2.”
“Yes, sir.” The S2 is the officer in charge of intelligence and security. I’ve not had dealings with any of the brass that inhabit the Pantheon, which is what the troopers informally call the battalion headquarters building.
“I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind, Private.”
“Of course not, sir.”
“Do you recall what happened last Saturday?”
“Of course I do. We were sent into a PRC up in Detroit, and they shot the hell out my squad. Sir,” I add.
The Major isn’t exactly out of shape, but he doesn’t have any hard edges, either. He looks soft, and I feel a sudden dislike for him. Maybe it’s the way he looks down on me, like I’m a different, inferior species, or maybe a defective piece of machinery.
“Well, that covers the basics of it,” the Major says. “Let me ask you something specific. Do you remember firing a thermobaric warhead from a MARS launcher in the course of that mission?”
“Yes, sir, I do.” I suddenly understand why the Major is here, and why my PDP doesn’t have access to the MilNet all of a sudden.
“And can you tell me who authorized or ordered you to fire that particular warhead?”
“I did not receive a direct order to fire that launcher,” I say. “We were told by the platoon leader on the way to the objective that lethal force was authorized in self-defense. They were shooting at my squad, we had several people down, and I defended myself, sir.”
“I guess you did, rather vigorously.” Major Unwerth purses his lips briefly.
“The problem is one of proportion, Private Grayson. You used a highly destructive hard shelter demolition warhead on a civilian target—government property, at that. There were significant civilian casualties in that building due to your self-defense measure.” He pronounces the last two words with just a hint of mocking emphasis in his voice. I conclude that I definitely don’t like him.
“We’re supposed to protect and defend the citizens of the NAC, Private. Blowing the hell out of a civilian high rise isn’t exactly the kind of thing that makes us look like we’re doing a good job at that.”
I feel the heat rising in my face.
“What the hell do you suggest I should have done, Major? You have the telemetry from our computers, don’t you? Should I maybe have asked them politely to stop shooting at us from that particular spot?”
“You could have responded in a more proportionate fashion, I think,” the Major says. “There were other weapons than thermobaric rockets available to you.”
“Well, I was sort of in a hurry, and I didn’t have time to read labels, sir.”
“That’s a pity,” Major Unwerth says. “I’m the one who has to mop up the mess with the media and the division brass, and believe me when I tell you that I’m not pleased about that.”
I couldn’t give less of a shit about what you’re pleased about, I think. I briefly consider saying that thought out loud, but then decide against it. He’s near the top of the battalion food chain, and I’m all the way at the bottom. Whatever they have in store for me, I don’t want to compound it with a disciplinary offense.
“I was doing my job, Major. My squad was getting chewed up, and I stopped the threat. That’s all I have to say about that.”
I feel anger flaring up inside me. This jackass with his crisply ironed Class A uniform and his desk jockey ribbons was probably in C2 back at Shughart when we were getting shot up by the locals in Detroit, and if he witnessed the battle at all, it was from the perspective of the drop ship cams and the ground telemetry from the squad leaders. He wasn’t around when we were chewed up by heavy weapons fire out of the blue, and he wasn’t at the receiving end of the thousands of rounds the locals sent our way that night. He didn’t have to drag someone half a mile through a contested urban battlefield lousy with pissed-off hostiles. For just a moment, I have the urge to grab him by the lapels of his immaculate uniform, and drive my forehead right into the middle of his face.
The Major apparently senses my sudden shift in emotions, because he backs off from my bed just a little.
“Well, there’ll be time for a thorough review later,” he says. “We’ll debrief with your squad leader and the rest of your team when you get back to Shughart.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say. “Then we can figure out which genius made us walk back to the civic square with half the squad dead or wounded. That was really fun, getting shot to bits.”
Major Unwerth’s eyes narrow. My response seems to have triggered some authority reflex in him, because he straightens up and puts his hands behind his back once more, elbows out, like he’s standing at parade rest.
“When I last checked the personnel files, Mister Grayson, you were a private in the first squad of Bravo Company’s first platoon. I don’t recall you being present at any of the staff officer meetings, so I’m going to assume that’s still the case.”
I don’t answer, and just glare at him.
“You’re in the Territorial Army, and you’re bound and required to follow orders from your superior officers, no matter how much you personally disagree with them. If that’s too much of a challenge for you, let me know, and I’ll inform the personnel office that you’ve changed your mind about serving your term of enlistment.”
I know that he’s full of it—the TA doesn’t release anyone from their service contract after the completion of Basic, unless they get shot up enough to make the medical treatment too expensive. For major fuck-ups, they just give court-martials, and lock people up instead. I don’t have the desire to discuss the Uniform Code of Military Justice with this pencil-pushing asshole, however, so I say nothing. Major Unwerth takes my silence as a sign of acquiescence.
“Now, when you are released from this facility, you will be transferred back to Shughart, where you will report to the Company Sergeant the instant you’re back on base. If you get in after hours, you’ll report to the CQ. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir, it is,” I reply.
“Good.” He looks around with obvious distaste on his face. I don’t know whether he doesn’t like the comparative luxury of my single-occupancy room, or whether he feels that he has debased himself for arguing with an enlisted
grunt who doesn’t even have a rank device on his collar yet.
“That will be all for now, then,” he says, and turns to leave the room. “I will be back later to take a full statement from you. As you were, Private.”
Some motivational visit, I think as the door closes behind him.
I get a trip out of the room later that day, which lifts my mood. Corporal Miller has procured a powered wheelchair for me, and after a short introduction into the fine points of power chair operations and hospital traffic rules, she accompanies me on my first trip out of the room.
“Where do you want to go?” she asks as we wheel along the corridor. The hospital is as sparsely appointed as my room—stainless steel furniture, white walls without decorations, and carpeting in cheerless slate gray.
“I don’t know. Is there anything worth seeing in this place? Some place that has a bit of color to it?”
“There’s a rec room on the top floor, and a cafeteria at the ground level. You can try your hand at some solids if you want. The doctor says your intestinal fusing should be up to it by now.”
“That sounds awesome,” I say. “Do they have anything worth eating?”
“Oh, yeah. There’s your regular Army variety of breakfast pastries, and three varieties of coffee,” she says with a little smile. “We spare no costs to provide our guests with culinary variety.”
“Let’s go, then. I’m dying to chew something for a change.”
The cafeteria is a bit more cheerful than the rest of the facility. There are some baskets with synthetic flowers set up on the sills of the projection windows. The scene outside of the windows is a serene lakeshore, which probably doesn’t even remotely reflect the true scenery outside. There’s a meal counter on one side of the cafeteria. The room looks like a smaller, cozier version of the chow hall back at Shughart. There are small tables all over the room, each just big enough for two people. A few patients are milling about, all in the same green two-piece hospital outfit I’m wearing.
As I roll over to the meal counter, Corporal Miller keeping pace by my side, I hear a familiar voice from one of the tables.
“Grayson, always heading straight for the chow.”
I turn to see Sergeant Fallon at a nearby table. She’s sitting in a powered chair of her own, and there’s a cup of coffee and an empty plate in front of her.
“Hey, Sarge!”
I alter course and veer over to her table. She gives me a tired-looking smile as I pull up.
“I thought you were done for, Grayson. When they put you on the stretcher, you didn’t look too good.”
“I felt like I was going to check out,” I confirm. “The doc says I took two flechettes through my armor. One nicked the left lung, and the other went through my lower intestines.”
“Ouch,” she says. “That ought to be good for a Purple Heart.”
“I doubt that very much,” I say. “I just got chewed out by the battalion S2 for putting a MARS round into that high rise. I doubt they’ll give me any medals any time soon.”
“Major Unwerth? He’s a worthless fat-ass. I punched him in his stupid face once, back when I was platoon sergeant, and he was still a captain. I still can’t believe they promoted that useless pile of blubber.”
She looks up at Corporal Miller, who has followed me to the table.
“You can leave him with me for a little while, Corporal. Go and take a break or something, why don’t you?”
“Sounds good to me,” Corporal Miller agrees amiably. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes or so. Don’t try to do any push-ups while I’m gone, okay?”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “If you go over to the counter, would you mind grabbing something for me?”
“Any preferences?”
“Whatever looks good,” I say.
“No problem.”
Corporal Miller walks off, and Sergeant Fallon watches her with tired eyes. The sergeant looks diminished somehow, as if she left part of her substance on the street back in Detroit. I look down at her leg, the one that I know was mangled by machine gun rounds back in the PRC, and I recoil a little when I see that it’s no longer there. Sergeant Fallon’s right leg ends just below her knee, and the surplus material of her hospital trouser leg is neatly folded up and pinned to the thigh.
“Yeah, it’s gone,” she says when she notices my reaction. “The round turned the bones in my lower leg into shrapnel. There wasn’t enough left to piece together. They already fitted me for a replacement. I hear titanium alloy is much better than bone and tissue, anyway.”
“I thought you got an automatic discharge for an injury like that,” I say.
“Not if you have that big-ass medal on the blue neck ribbon,” she replies. “Then you can get away with shit. I even get to kill two officers per year, no questions asked.”
I laugh and shake my head.
“In that case, I have one to get rid of, if you haven’t hit your quota yet.”
“Next time that asshole stops by, you ask him for a Legal Corps officer in the room, and you don’t say a damn thing until they get you one, you hear?”
I should have thought of that myself, I think.
“I will. He wouldn’t even tell me what happened to the rest of the squad, and I can’t get on MilNet to send messages.”
“No shit?” Sergeant Fallon leans forward. “They locked out your PDP?”
I nod, and she shakes her head in disgust.
“Don’t say a thing without a legal beagle nearby, Grayson. They’re setting you up to take the heat for something. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong back in that shithole, so don’t let ‘em.”
“I’d say that’s out of my power, Sarge.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that. Where’d they quarter you in here, anyway?”
“Unit 3006,” I say. The low-level sense of panic I had been feeling since Major Unwerth’s visit is growing suddenly.
“Stratton and Paterson are dead,” Sergeant Fallon says, her voice suddenly flat. “Hansen is in rehab with a new shoulder joint. Everyone else is back at Battalion already, but as far as I know, they’re keeping our squad confined to quarters for now, like we’re some sort of freaking penal unit.”
“My fault, I guess,” I say. “Shouldn’t have used that rocket. Shit, I didn’t even realize I had a thermobaric loaded. I just aimed the thing and let fly.”
“And you know what, Grayson? I would have done the same fucking thing, and so would anyone else in our squad. Don’t even think twice about it. They got some bad press from the Networks, and now the public liaison at Battalion is all in a panic. It’ll blow over.”
“I don’t know, Sarge. The major seemed pretty set on pinning that tail on me.”
“We’ll see about that,” she repeats. “I may just have a word or two with him. We go way back, Major Unwerth and me.”
“If they toss me in the brig, just let the rest of the squad know I’m not a fuck-up, will you?”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “They try to fuck you over, the whole battalion’s going to know about it, trust me on that one. We don’t throw our own to the wolves to appease some candy-ass civilian brass.”
Her words make me feel a little more at ease, but I still feel as if there’s a sword hanging over my head. Sergeant Fallon has a lot of pull in the battalion—there aren’t many living Medal of Honor winners in the service, and she’s a prestige item, like a trophy in the battalion showcase—but she’s still just a Staff Sergeant.
“Is it true that you got to pick your assignment when they gave you that medal?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Sergeant Fallon says. “That’s part of the package. You get a yearly bonus for the rest of your life. They give you a nice blue flag in a nice wooden case, and even the brass have to salute you. And if you want reassignment, they have to grant it. You can’t ask to be a starship captain, of course, but if I had wanted to be a tank driver or drop ship pilot, they would have sent me off to armor or aviation school.”
“And why
didn’t you?”
“Didn’t want to leave my guys,” she shrugs. “Different service would just mean different kinds of crap. I like sticking with the crap I know. I guess I didn’t want to feel like a recruit all over again. Shit, can you imagine a Staff Sergeant going to Fleet School? Sit in a classroom with all those green kids just out of Basic?”
I try to imagine battle-hardened Sergeant Fallon sitting in a lecture on interstellar travel or shipboard safety, with all the other students staring at her Medal of Honor ribbon, and I shake my head with a smile.
“Why didn’t you pick retirement? Take your bonus and go home?”
Sergeant Fallon looks at me as if I had just suggested she should strip naked and dance on the table.
“Retire to where? You think anyone musters out after sixty months? Do you know the retention rate in the military?”
I shake my head.
“Ninety-one percent, Grayson. Ninety-one out of a hundred service members who make it to Month Sixty end up re-enlisting. You think you were going to take the money and run after five years?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“The money they pay out? That’ll pay for shit outside in the real world. You get out as an E-3, maybe E-4, that’s half a million dollars for five years. That kind of money means you don’t qualify for public housing, and it’s not enough for anything bigger than a broom closet in the suburbs. It sure as shit isn’t anywhere near enough for a slot on a colony ship. And even if you could go back to the PRC, what the hell kind of reception do you think you’ll get as former TA?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “My father was TA, but he got kicked out early. I don’t know any other veterans.”
“There’s a reason for that, Grayson. Shit, we just killed a few hundred welfare rats last Saturday night. How do you think they feel about the military right now? The TA gets sent out every time the welfare cities get out of control. What do you think will happen to you if you show up back home with your shit in a duffel bag, and a government bank card with a million Commonwealth Dollars on it?”
