Starfist - 12 - Firestorm

by Dan Cragg

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ALSO BY DAVID SHERMAN AND DAN CRAGG

  COPYRIGHT

  For Tom Carhart

  Soldier, scholar, friend

  PROLOGUE

  Commandant of the Marine Corps Anders Aguinaldo listened intently as Lieutenant General Burbage Weinstock, his chief of staff, delivered the morning briefing on the status of Marine FISTs on deployment.

  “Are any army units also headed to Ravenette?” Aguinaldo asked when Weinstock said 29th FIST was en route to Ravenette and 17th FIST was about to embark for deployment on the same campaign.

  “They’ll be joining the Army’s 54th Infantry and 87th Heavy Infantry Divisions to form the 10th Corps.”

  “Who’s commanding 10th Corps?”

  Weinstock thumbed his notepad, then shook his head. “Admiral Porter hasn’t decided yet.”

  Aguinaldo’s eyes lit up for a moment, then he asked, “Any unofficial word from Sturgeon at 34th FIST?”

  Weinstock bit down a grimace. “Only more of the same. General Billie refuses to listen to any advice from a Marine.” He shook his head. “It seems Billie is even ignoring his own deputy commander, Lieutenant General Cazombi. Cazombi would have made a good Marine.”

  Aguinaldo nodded, he too had a high opinion of Cazombi. “What is Godalgonz doing these days?”

  “Mostly hanging around, trying to keep out of the way while keeping up with what everybody else is doing.” Weinstock shrugged. “What else can a lieutenant general without a job do?”

  “Try to keep out of the way while he’s trying to keep up.” Aguinaldo stood. “Do you have anything else for me?”

  “No, sir, that does it for current deployments.”

  “Very good. I’m going to see the chairman, I might have a job for Godalgonz. Have someone inform the chairman that I’m on my way.”

  A landcar was waiting for the commandant when he exited HQMC.

  At the Heptigon, Commandant Aguinaldo was ushered directly into the office of Admiral Joseph K. C. B. Porter, Chairman of the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Admiral Porter was standing at the side of his desk, looking as if he were waiting patiently for Aguinaldo’s arrival. His evident patience, though, was merely a mask for the nervousness he felt. It wasn’t every day that the Commandant of the Marine Corps paid a visit to the Chairman of the Combined Chiefs. When he did, the visit usually meant a headache for the chairman.

  “Andy, welcome!” Porter said, stepping forward and extending his hands to grip Aguinaldo’s right hand in a hearty shake. He needed to use both hands to disguise their tremble.

  “Thank you, Admiral. Good to see you.” Aguinaldo didn’t grip Porter’s right hand firmly enough to steady it, allowing him to feel the tremble. He hid a smile; he was going to get what he wanted.

  “Have a seat, Andy,” Porter said, steering the Marine to an intimate seating group—two comfortable chairs at a round-topped table in front of a large window. “Cognac? Colombian coffee? Cigar? I have some Davidoffs.”

  “The coffee sounds good. Black. And thank you; I’ll indulge myself as long as you have Davidoffs.”

  By the time the two men were seated, a steward was rolling a service trolley into the office. The steward deftly unloaded the cart onto the table: a fine silver coffee set and a pair of fine china coffee mugs—one with the emblem of the Confederation Navy emblazoned on its side, the other with the Eagle, Globe, and Starstream of the Confederation Marine Corps. He placed a humidor near Porter’s right hand and a silver ashtray midway between the two men.

  “Thank you, I’ll pour,” Porter told the steward as soon as everything was laid out. He waited for the porter to withdraw before pouring the coffee and opening the humidor.

  The two men took a moment to savor a sip of the coffee and go through the ritual of clipping and lighting their cigars. Then Porter decided to bite the bullet and get it over with.

  “What problem are you bringing me today, Andy?”

  Aguinaldo shook his head. “No problem, Admiral,” he said. “I’m bringing you a solution to a problem.”

  Porter leaned back and gave Aguinaldo a look of mild disbelief. “A solution to a problem?”

  “You’re sending two army divisions and two of my FISTs to Ravenette,” Aguinaldo said. “They’ve been provisionally designated the 10th Corps. I don’t believe the army has a spare lieutenant general to send as the corps’ commander. Am I right?”

  “Well, I do have someone in mind for the job.”

  Aguinaldo nodded. “I’m sure you do, Admiral. And I’m equally sure that the three-star you have in mind is already filling a vital function on the staff of the Combined Chiefs.”

  Porter blinked. “Who’s been talking?”

  Aguinaldo shook his head. “Nobody’s said anything—at least not to me or any of my top people. All I’ve heard is that you’re about to make an announcement. There are no names attached to what I heard. But when I look at who’s locally available, every one of them is serving in a vital function.”

  Porter looked at him quizzically for a moment, then leaned forward and tapped the ash off his cigar into the sterling ashtray. “I know what you’re going to say, Andy,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. “But it won’t wash, the army won’t stand for it.”

  “Sure the army will. The 10th Corps is provisional, so give it an acting commander.” A smile fleetingly cracked Aguinaldo’s face.

  “And you have just the man for the job.”

  “Indeed I do.” This time Aguinaldo’s smile was less fleeting. “You have a need for a lieutenant general, I’ve got one without a billet to slot him into. Make him Acting CG, 10th Provisional Corps. The army will complain, but they won’t go after your head as long as they believe the appointment is temporary, just to oversee the transit.”

  Porter leaned back and eyed Aguinaldo. The Marine had a valid argument; while the army would strenuously object to a Marine commanding a corps that was mostly army, they wouldn’t fight a transitional appointment too strongly. Besides, he felt he owed Aguinaldo. “You know, Andy, I do believe you’re right. I’ll have the orders drawn up immediately, appointing Kyr Godalgonz as Acting Commanding General, 10th Provisional Corps. Jason can stand the corps down when it reaches Ravenette and reassign its elements.” He cocked his head. “Hmm. He’ll have three FISTs and a Marine lieutenant general. He can designate them as a Marine amphibious expeditionary force.” He smiled at the com
mandant. “Well, Andy, it seems that you did come to see me with a solution to a problem.” His smile widened to a grin. “And solved a problem of your own as well, I suspect.”

  “As the admiral says.”

  “Take that with you,” Porter said when Aguinaldo reached to put his cigar in the ashtray. “Take a couple more.” He picked up the humidor and opened it before extending it to the Marine.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” the commandant said, taking three Davidoffs.

  The two men rose and shook hands.

  Aguinaldo held his own grin until he was back inside his landcar for the return to HQMC. He certainly had solved a problem of his own.

  Newly promoted Lieutenant General Kyr Godalgonz had followed two highly successful tours as a FIST commander with a promotion to major general and tours on the staffs of 1st and 5th Fleet Marines, then one at Headquarters, Marine Corps. For which exemplary service he was rewarded with promotion to the three-silver-nova rank. However, HQMC didn’t have a three-nova billet immediately available. Now the problem of what to do with an excess lieutenant general was solved.

  As was another problem.

  General Jason Billie—commander of the Confederation forces on and around Ravenette—had a chestful of medals, but the majority of them were “attaboys,” medals given not for heroism under fire, but for job performance in support positions. To Marines, any outstanding job performance that didn’t involve serious risk to life or limb was simply doing one’s job—the Marines didn’t award attaboys. Furthermore, Billie hadn’t earned any of his campaign medals by getting anywhere near the pointy end of a campaign. Ravenette was his first combat command. As sometimes happens when career staff officers attain high rank and receive their first combat command, Billie refused to listen to advice from his more experienced subordinate unit commanders. Even though Billie felt comfortable ignoring his own division commanders and a Marine brigadier, Aguinaldo didn’t think he’d have the guts to shrug off a Marine lieutenant general. Particularly not one who had nearly as many medals as Billie did—every one of which was a decoration for heroism under fire, or a campaign medal earned at the tip of the spear.

  He got out his comm and called Lieutenant General Burbage Weinstock. “Please inform Lieutenant General Godalgonz that the commandant requests the pleasure of his company at his earliest convenience. You be there too.”

  Even to a lieutenant general, “the commandant requests the pleasure of your company at your earliest convenience” means “drop whatever you’re doing and see me now.” So Lieutenant General Kyr Godalgonz was waiting with Lieutenant General Burbage Weinstock when Commandant Aguinaldo returned to his office.

  Lieutenant General Kyr Godalgonz was tall and lean and graying at the temples; he looked exactly like what a trid director would want for the role of a heroic Marine lieutenant general in a war epic.

  Commandant Aguinaldo got to the point before he reached his desk. “Kyr, how soon can you be ready to ship out?”

  “Sir?” Godalgonz asked, taken by surprise. The question was too broad for a simple answer, so he gave the extremes. “If I’m shipping out for a permanent change of station, a week will be more than enough. My wife’s been through almost as many as I have; she can handle most of it. If it’s for a deployment, two hours.”

  “It’s for a deployment. Admiral Porter is having orders cut now assigning you as Acting Commanding General, 10th Provisional Corps, which is en route to Ravenette.”

  For an instant, it was as though Godalgonz had been struck by a bolt of lightning—assignment to a corps command wasn’t something he’d ever considered, not even remotely. But he recovered fast. “I can have my wife grab my mount-out bags and meet me.”

  Aguinaldo chuckled. “No need to do that,” he said. “The orders haven’t arrived here yet. Take your wife out to dinner tonight, then have some private time with her. You’ll probably leave tomorrow. Now sit, please, both of you.” He led them to a small cluster of chairs away from the windows.

  “All right, Kyr. You’ll have the Army’s 54th Infantry and 87th Heavy Infantry Divisions, along with 17th and 29th FISTs. They’re all en route now, except for 17th FIST, which you will rendezvouz with at its first jump. General Jason Billie is in command of the Confederation forces on Ravenette. I know you weren’t here very long before he shipped out, but did you ever meet him?”

  “No, sir, I never had the pleasure.”

  Aguinaldo and Weinstock exchanged a look.

  “Jason Billie is a kwangduk’s ass,” Weinstock said when Aguinaldo nodded for him to speak. “I know, that’s a strong term to use to describe a brother officer, but Billie isn’t exactly a brother to us. I mean aside from being Army, and not Marine. To begin with, he’s a career staff officer.” Weinstock smiled at the expression that washed over Godalgonz’s face at that bit of news; the Marines had career staff officers, but it was impossible for a Marine to reach flag rank without extensive combat-command experience.

  “Ravenette’s his first combat command?”

  “Exactly. All of his subordinate commanders, including his deputy commander, have experience. But the only one Billie seems willing to listen to is his chief of staff—another career staffer.”

  Aguinaldo picked it up. “That’s why I went to the chairman and got you assigned to this corps command. Billie won’t be able to shrug you off as easily as he does army two-stars and Marine brigadiers.”

  “But it’s acting CG of a provisional corps,” Godalgonz said. “What’s to stop him from standing the corps down and eliminating the corps commander billet?”

  Aguinaldo gave Godalgonz a wolfish smile. “A Marine lieutenant general.”

  For his part, Lieutenant General Godalgonz was delighted with the assignment. Seven years earlier, when he had been promoted to major general, he assumed he’d never again be in command of Marines in the field, the reason many Marine brigadiers declined promotion to two-nova rank; major generals got field command only on the rare occasions when two or more FISTs were on deployment together. Despite Aguinaldo’s briefing about General Billie, Godalgonz looked forward to meeting the army commander—and to being a corps commander under him. And if he could get 34th FIST moved to his corps, he’d have Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon as one of his subordinate commanders. Sturgeon was the only active Marine to have commanded a corps in combat.

  Delighted? Lieutenant General Godalgonz was thrilled.

  Newly promoted Lieutenant General Kyr Godalgonz, Confederation Marine Corps, arrived on Ravenette with the 10th Provisional Corps much earlier than General Jason Billie, Supreme Commander, Confederation Armed Forces, Ravenette, had anticipated. General Billie was not pleased. As much as he appreciated getting two additional divisions, two more Marine FISTs would only get in the way. And he suspected that a Marine lieutenant general would be a far greater pain in his nether end than that damn Cazombi, his deputy commander.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Marines strive to have everything shipshape, the Marines of 34th FIST no less than other Marines. Shipshape can mean spit-and-polish, everything as clean and neat and shiny as humanly possible—and then some. These are Marines we’re talking about, after all. In a deeper sense, shipshape means having one’s body and mind in peak condition, and all of one’s gear, equipment, and—most important—weapons in the best possible condition. Getting himself and all his equipment—most important, his weapons—shipshape in all regards is one of the most important things a Marine can do to increase his odds of winning and surviving his next firefight.

  Thirty-fourth Fleet Initial Strike Team had been on Ravenette for close to half a year, standard, running hither and yon to plug holes in the porous Confederation Army defensive line, living in vermin-infested bunkers that had been thoroughly trashed by the soldiers who’d inhabited them before the army had moved to less severely infested bunkers. They’d just fought off a division-size assault, a battle they’d won only because the Confederation Army’s 27th Division—in contravention of orders
from General Jason Billie—had turned its artillery onto the flank of the secessionist soldiers just as they were about to overrun the Marines’ positions.

  No, 34th FIST wasn’t shipshape, it was…

  “Shit-shape!” Sergeant Tim Kerr shouted as he barged into the bunker occupied by second squad’s second fire team. “This whole damn squad is in shit-shape!”

  Corporal Rachman “Rock” Claypoole, second fire team leader, spun about to yell back at Kerr, but froze with his face twisted in anger and his mouth open. He froze because he remembered that Kerr was no longer Corporal Kerr—another fire team leader just like him, although a good deal more senior and experienced—but Sergeant Kerr, his squad leader. Even though the squad leader was a good deal lower in rank than Ensign Charlie Bass, the platoon commander, when a squad leader was in the kind of mood Kerr looked to be in, he wasn’t much junior to God.

  Claypoole shut his mouth with an audible clack of teeth and untwisted his face, stifling his anger. He stood a little more erect and looked about the bunker. The room had been crudely gouged out of the coral-like wall of the escarpment that rose above the beach on the north side of the Bataan Peninsula, and its walls roughly smoothed; at least the worst of the protrusions had been knocked off. That was all the finishing the engineers had had time to do when they were preparing the defensive positions for the war now being fought here on Ravenette. Any protrusions they’d left had been replaced by gouges and pits, the result of fire from the attacking Coalition division that had nearly overrun the Marines.

  One good thing about the gouges and pits was that they’d replaced much of the crud the Marines hadn’t been able to scour off the walls when they took over the bunkers from the army. A bad thing was the resulting stony debris scattered about. Not to mention the expended munitions that littered the floor.

  When Kerr barged in and roared his displeasure, Lance Corporal Jack “Wolfman” MacIlargie jumped as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, then just gawped at his squad leader, uncertain of what was coming next—he’d never seen Corporal Kerr so angry. He guessed that an extra ration of anger was issued to new sergeants.