by Dan Cragg
“Shit happens,” he repeated, looking into the distance.
Abruptly, Dean stood erect and began speaking with a firm voice. “But you can’t dwell on it, McGinty! That’s why we’re standing an inspection. To keep us so busy we don’t have the time or energy to dwell on our losses. Now start cleaning your damn weapons!” He turned away sharply and marched the few paces to where Lance Corporal Godenov was cleaning his fieldstripped blaster.
McGinty looked after Dean for a moment, watched him checking what Godenov was doing, then sat to fieldstrip his own blaster. On some level, he understood that the time for grieving was later.
Corporal Doyle had been in enough action that he’d seen other Marines severely wounded, even killed. He’d suffered through the loss of men he’d lived with and worked with. But he hadn’t lost any friends. Corporal Doyle didn’t have any friends. At least not in Company L. If he allowed himself to think about it, he hadn’t made any friends at all during his time in the Marines. If he let himself think about it, he’d have to admit that he’d spent most of his years in the Corps as a jerk nobody liked. Well, he did admit that to himself—but that didn’t mean he had to think about it unnecessarily.
Even though Corporal Doyle hadn’t lost any friends in combat, that day was the first time he’d lost a man for whom he was responsible, and it hurt. Seeing other Marines get killed always hurt, but losing a man he was responsible for hurt so much he wanted to cry. Especially when he began to wonder what mistake he made that cost Smedley his life. What did he do wrong? What could he have done differently?
He imagined that what he was feeling must be what it felt like to lose a friend. Sure it was, it had to be; Summers and Smedley, the men in his fire team, the men for whom he was responsible, were as close as he’d gotten to having actual friends in the Corps. He looked at Summers to see how he was doing, thinking that maybe he should go and talk to him—maybe they could comfort each other, help each other get through the loss of Smedley. But no, Summers was diligently cleaning his gear. The last time Doyle had looked, Summers was cleaning his blaster. He must have finished by now. He should go and check it out, make sure it was properly cleaned. But, dammit, he really didn’t feel up to inspecting his remaining man. Maybe what he should do was seek out Sergeant Kerr. Sergeant Kerr had been in the Marines for a long time and seen a lot of action. He’d lost friends; he knew how to cope with the loss. Yeah, he should go and see his squad leader.
But Corporal Doyle didn’t have to go in search of his squad leader. Before he even rose to his feet, Kerr was at the entrance to the bunker, looking in. As soon as Kerr saw Doyle look at him, he crooked a finger and stepped back into the access tunnel. Doyle got to his feet, gathered his weapons and gear, and followed.
When Doyle joined him, Kerr began talking without preamble, in a low but firm voice. “Doyle, I know how you feel. Smedley was my man too. I also lost Wolfman. I know he was still alive when the Essay lifted off to take him to orbit, so he was probably still alive when the surgeons opened his stasis bag to work on him. But he was very badly wounded, and I don’t know if he’ll ever return. We’ve lost a lot of men in this war—and I mean just in third platoon. Four men dead; think of how Ensign Bass must feel, four of his men killed. Plus three more in a hospital in orbit. Plus all the other wounded.” He shook his head and his mouth twitched in the beginning of a grimace. “Hell, I became squad leader because Linsman got killed.” He gave Doyle a hard look. “I’ve known—I knew—Linsman for a long time, we were buddies. He died, and I was promoted into his slot. How do you think that made me feel? A buddy died and I got a promotion out of it.
“Being a Marine is a hard job. You’ve been in the Corps long enough to know that in your bones. Being an infantryman in a FIST is one of the hardest jobs anybody can have. Being a leader is even harder. Leaders lose men in combat. Sometimes it’s because the leader made a mistake; either he did something wrong, or he didn’t do something he should have. Most of the time, it simply happens and there’s nothing a leader could have done to prevent it.
“I’ve been watching you carefully ever since Bass made you a fire team leader. You’ve done a damn good job. You gave your men more training, better training, than almost any other junior fire team leader could have. It’s not your fault that Smedley got killed.”
Doyle blinked. How did Sergeant Kerr know what he was thinking?
“But Smedley wasn’t your only Marine,” Kerr continued, not noticing Doyle’s reaction. “He’s beyond your help now, but Summers still needs you. Right now, Corporal, Summers needs you more than ever, he needs you to be strong, to lead him, to show him what to do. Now get in there and take care of your fire team, Corporal Doyle. Show us why Ensign Bass made you a fire team leader, show us why he believes in you.
“And, Corporal Doyle, I believe in you, too.” Kerr clapped Doyle on the shoulder and gave him a little push in the direction of his bunker.
It wasn’t until Doyle was inspecting Summers’s blaster and encouraging him to clean his gear with a little more energy, that it occurred to him to wonder if Kerr had been giving himself that pep talk as well.
The squad leaders and the more experienced fire team leaders suspected that Ensign Bass’s inspection would be perfunctory, that the whole reason for the inspection was to distract everybody while giving them time to heal from the combat and their losses. So they weren’t surprised when Bass did little more than walk through the platoon’s lines, barely glancing at weapons, gear, and uniforms.
When the inspection was over and Bass had resumed his position front and center of the platoon, with Staff Sergeant Hyakowa standing a pace to his left, Bass got to the day’s final agenda item.
“We have our replacements from Whiskey Company,” he said.
“Whiskey Company.” Normally a provisional company, pieced together from cooks, bakers, clerks, progammers, mechanics, anybody else not normally in a trigger-puller unit, for the purpose of providing additional combat power, usually in a defensive posture. In this case, an overstrong company specially assembled and assigned to 34th FIST to provide replacements for casualties sustained during combat; 34th FIST was getting more than its fair share of combat assignments, and more than its fair share of casualties.
Nobody in the ranks of third platoon bothered to look to the side where the five replacements stood, anxiously awaiting their assignments in their new platoon. The Marines of third platoon would meet them soon enough. And if Smedley and Delagarza were any indication, it was possible that they wouldn’t last long enough for anybody to get to know them.
“I’m going to do the easy one first,” Bass said, with a smile starting to form at the corners of his mouth. “Or maybe this first assignment won’t be so easy—some of the fire team leaders might fight over him.” He was grinning by the time he looked to his left. “PFC Quick, front and center!”
“Quick?”
“He’s back?”
“Quick, already?”
Excited whispers sped through the ranks. PFC Quick had been evacuated to orbit after Company L had repulsed a major Coalition assault against the main line of resistance. Everybody looked as Quick marched from the side to the front of the formation to stand in front of Bass. Some of them noticed he moved a bit gingerly.
Quick saluted smartly, and just as smartly reported. “Sir, PFC Quick reporting as ordered!”
Bass quickly returned the salute, then grabbed Quick’s hand to shake it briskly. “Welcome back, Quick. I’m glad to see you back with us. You had me worried for a while there.”
“Gu—, ah, sir, I’m glad to be back. Sure as hell beats the alternative.”
Bass’s grin faded, but came right back. “You got that right.” He looked at the squad leaders, then at first squad’s third fire team. “Corporal Dean. PFC Quick was your man before he got injured. Do you want him back?”
Dean opened his mouth to shout out that he did, but he paused to think first. Quick was a known quantity, and had been one of Dean�
��s men on Kingdom and Maugham’s Station. But it wouldn’t be fair to PFC McGinty to shuffle him into a new fire team right now.
“Sir,” Dean said, “I’d really like to have PFC Quick back. But PFC McGinty’s working out pretty well and…” He was about to be out of line and he knew it. What he was about to say was something he should take up privately with Sergeant Ratliff rather than bring up in a platoon formation. But if they didn’t like it, what could they do, send him to war? “Besides, sir, I think Quick is due for promotion to lance corporal, and I’ve already got a lance corporal in my fire team.” There, he’d said it.
And took Bass by surprise. Bass looked over to the new men. He had three lance corporal slots to fill, and that was the rank three of the new men already held. Unless…He looked into the second rank, behind Dean, at Corporal Doyle.
“Doyle, how would you like to have Quick to replace Smedley? He’s a good Marine, and if he makes lance corporal, you could use one anyway.”
“M-Me, sir?” Doyle answered, not quite squeaking. Bass simply looked at him. When the platoon commander didn’t say anything, Doyle sent Quick a questioning look—did he want to join Doyle’s fire team? Quick gave a slight shrug. “Sure, Quick’s a good Marine.”
“Is that all right with you, Sergeant Kerr?” Bass asked the second squad leader.
“I think it’ll work out, sir,” Kerr replied.
“All right, then, that’s the easy one. PFC Quick, you’re in third fire team, second squad. Get in formation.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Quick said. He about-faced and marched to his position in the formation. The Marines who got a good look at his face as he moved through the first rank saw doubt on his face.
The rest of the assignments turned out to be easier: Lance Corporal Beycee Harvey went to first squad’s second fire team to replace Lance Corporal Longfellow, and Lance Corporal Francisco Ymenez joined second squad’s second fire team to replace Lance Corporal MacIlargie. The other two new men had gun MOSs, military occupational specialties, and went to the gun squad to replace Lance Corporal Tischler and PFC Delagarza; they were Lance Corporal Jayar Vargas and PFC Rolf Dias.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“So the chickens flew the coop, eh?” General Billie chortled. He twirled the lighted Clinton between his fingers happily and beamed at the officers gathered in his command center for their post-operation debriefing.
Lieutenant General Alistair Cazombi sat stiffly in his chair, face expressionless but mind whirling. He could not believe that his commander was actually overjoyed the attack on Gilbert’s Corners had failed. He twisted his head slightly to observe Brigadier Ted Sturgeon, whose FIST had taken heavy casualties in the fighting at Gilbert’s. Sturgeon sat there stunned, his hands clenched so tightly his fingers had turned white. He had come to the briefing straight from the field, his uniform, face, and hands still smeared with the sweat and dust of combat. He had not slept in many hours and his face was creased with the worry lines of a commander fresh from a military debacle. Cazombi sensed what was coming and caught Sturgeon’s eye, shaking his head slightly, hoping the Marine understood the gesture as a warning to stay calm and not shove that foul Clinton right up General Jason Billie’s ass.
“We lost General Godalgonz, sir,” Cazombi said tonelessly.
Billie paused the cigar momentarily in its circuit through his fingers. “Oh. Yes. Damned shame, damned shame.”
Billie’s face remained neutral but he could not entirely suppress something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh covered up as a snort. Does that sonofabitch think it’s funny how Godalgonz died? Cazombi wondered. In the short time he’d known Godalgonz, Cazombi had come to like and respect the gruff Marine. Billie’s callous indifference to the man’s death incensed the army three-star. He shifted slightly in his seat—for anyone who knew “Cazombi the Zombie” well, a sure sign to get out of the way.
“Sir,” Cazombi said, carefully, using a measured, neutral tone, “Godalgonz was a good officer and along with him we lost some good men. We should’ve known in advance that the Coalition had already moved its government to the Cumber Mountains and called off the whole operation.”
Ted Sturgeon had also noticed Billie’s reaction to mention of Godalgonz’s death. He wanted to grab the four-star by the neck and squeeze until…
“Ahem.” Billie turned to Brigadier General Wilson Wyllyums, his G2, intelligence chief. “What do you know about that?”
Wyllyums shifted uneasily in his seat. “Well, sir, I did pass on an interrogation report generated by the fleet N2 with a Heb Cawman, I believe, who was captured by the Marines on their raid. He didn’t say the government had been moved nor did he tell his interrogator where it might move to, but she—”
“She?” Billie snorted.
“Yes, she, the interrogator, inferred from what this Cawman said that there was a plan to evacuate the entire government to the Cumber Mountains, to some caves up there.”
“Sorca?” Billie turned to Major General Sorca, his chief of staff.
“Um, yessir, I recall such a report, one of many of that type we get regularly from the fleet N2. I believe I passed it on to you with the comment that General Wyllyums did not consider the information reliable. Did you, Wyllyums?”
“I gave it a three for reliability, sir, same as Fleet, information to be considered, but not confirmed.”
“Well, I don’t remember the report at all,” Billie lied, “but if I had seen it I’d not have acted on it. I wouldn’t have called off the attack just because of some secondhand supposition about the enemy’s intentions. Ridiculous. A commander acts according to his own appraisal of all the factors involved in warfare. Intelligence, which is often unreliable—no offense, Wyllyums—is only one element of all that must be considered when making tactical decisions.”
Brigadier Ted Sturgeon seethed with anger. So these goddamned army pukes did know about the move in advance! He made a supreme effort to control himself. He knew he should let Cazombi handle the meeting but every fiber of his being wanted to scream imprecations at these chairborne staff officers—particularly Jason Billie, who was using them to cover his own agenda.
“Well, I don’t consider the raid a failure,” General Sorca said.
“You should have been there, Balca, then maybe you’d have a different opinion,” Cazombi said. Sorca’s face turned red. Up to that point the other commanders who’d been on the attack had remained silent but several of them chuckled at Cazombi’s riposte.
“Well, they must’ve heard you coming,” Sorca replied sarcastically.
“You goddamned sonofabitch!” Sturgeon shouted, unable to control himself any longer.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!”—Billie held up his hands in a placating gesture—“I agree with Balca. The raid demonstrated our ability to strike at the enemy when and where we wish, and it may well have been the impetus to remove the Coalition government to the mountains, so we struck the fear of God into them. You might call it a ‘dress rehearsal’ for a much bigger operation I have in mind for the very near future.” Billie beamed. The raid had been a failure in one sense, that not many civilians had been killed. He’d hoped it would’ve turned into a slaughter, a massacre that would have permanently embarrassed the Marines and Cazombi for having favored the operation. Nevertheless, it had failed to disrupt the Coalition’s government—the enemy probably did have advance warning that the task force was coming. After all, the late Lieutenant General Godalgonz, Confederation Marine Corps, was one of those “hi diddle diddle, straight up the middle” kind of warriors. But best of all, Godalgonz was out of the way. Now only two thorns remained in General Jason Billie’s hide: Cazombi and Sturgeon. He would soon start in motion the surgery to remove them permanently.
“What do you have in mind, sir?” Cazombi asked evenly, at the same time giving Sturgeon a hard glance.
“Lieutenant?” Billie addressed a staff officer who had been standing by. A huge trid of the coastline by Phelps appeared on the scree
n. “Alistair, I want you to get together with Wyllyums here and Thayer, come up with a plan to land a task force on the coast and roll up the 4th Division here at Phelps in a move to break down Lyons’s back door. If you are successful, that will signal us to mount the breakout.” Brigadier General Thayer, Billie’s plans and operations officer, glanced apprehensively at Brigadier General Wyllyums, who shook his head ever so slightly.
The announcement was greeted with total silence as each officer in the briefing studied the vid. The cliffs in the vid were over one hundred meters high in most places; the beach beneath them at high tide would be totally awash, and at low tide there would not be more than fifty meters of sand and rocks to land troops on. Each officer was aware of the report Marine Force Reconnaissance had submitted on their recent raid on the MP battalion stationed there.
“General?”—Billie gestured toward Major General Cohan Briss, whose division had been engaged during the raid on Gilbert’s Corners—“what is your assessment of the 9th Division’s ability to reinforce the 4th if the 4th is attacked at Phelps?”
“Well, sir, Ted’s 34th FIST was more closely engaged than my men were, but I’d say the 9th Division, while it was not knocked out, was badly hurt. They might reinforce the troops at Phelps, but if we send in a big enough task force and hit them hard, the operation should succeed. The only thing that worries me is how you’re going to get all those troops and their gear over those goddamned cliffs. And I’d be concerned that the enemy might have anticipated this attack.”
“Wyllyums?”
“Um, well, navy’s string-of-pearls recon has been severely hampered by Lyons’s antisatellite batteries, but aerial reconnaissance has not yet revealed any significant transfer of forces to either Phelps or Gilbert’s Corners to reinforce the troops already there. So that leads me to believe Lyons hasn’t done anything to protect his rear from a seaward landing—yet.”
