by W. C. Bauers
First Sergeant Fuji came to an all-stop, turned around, and cocked her head upward. At 163 centimeters, the first sergeant was on the shorter side of average for a female Marine. Fuji’s oval eyes twinkled as they met her superior officer’s gaze.
“A certain lieutenant on your mind, sir?”
The colonel crossed his arms and sighed. “Well?”
“Her jacket is … interesting.”
“And?”
* * *
First Sergeant Fuji waited for a young rating to pass, and then she stalled for time. It wasn’t uncommon for the battalion commander to ask his “first shirt” what she thought about a Marine under his command, particularly when said Marine was just reporting in for duty. In another Marine Corps, Fuji would have held the rank of sergeant major. But the RAW-MC preferred small unit sizes, and smaller units had pushed the chain of command downward. That meant first sergeants in a very real sense ruled the roost at the battalion echelon.
Fuji clearly sensed there was more behind the colonel’s question than a cursory inspection might reveal, and that made her weary. In fact, she feared the colonel harbored significant doubts about his new company commander. Perhaps Lieutenant Paen’s upcoming one-on-one with the colonel was actually a come-to-Jesus meeting. If so, she pitied the lieutenant for it. Regardless, this wasn’t Fuji’s maiden jump across the ’verse. Commenting on a superior, however young and inexperienced she might be, well, that wasn’t done lightly, not even by a first sergeant. Particularly not to a disgruntled light colonel with friends on the RAW-MC’s selection board for the rank of captain.
Fuji folded her hands behind her back and decided to humor the colonel. “Would you care to clarify what you’re after, sir?”
“What happened to your ability to read my mind?” Fuji shrugged. “Okay, fine, what’s your frank assessment of her?”
Fuji stalled again. “Have you spoken with Gunnery Sergeant Khaine?”
* * *
Halvorsen grunted, not at all pleased. He knew exactly where Fuji was going with her question, and he didn’t like it at all. Not one bit.
Nhorman Khaine served in the billet of the battalion gunnery sergeant, or the “battalion gunny.” Khaine directly reported to First Sergeant Fuji. Fuji was in many ways Halvorsen’s right hand. Likewise, Khaine was hers.
The battalion gunny was an enigma in other military traditions. In fact, the RAW-MC was the only Marine Corps in the ’verse with that billet, the only Corps to field companies of forty mechanized Marines, the only Corps with gunnery sergeants serving as senior enlisted noncoms at the company echelon.
Battalion gunnies like Khaine functioned as a intermediaries between a battalion’s gunnery sergeants and the battalion first sergeant. If there was a problem with morale in one of Halvorsen’s companies, or a serious disciplinary issue to be addressed, or any number of other issues that might arise in the day-to-day operations of a battalion of Marines, Khaine would likely hear about it long before he did. And Khaine could always play the part of the “good gunny,” allowing Fuji to be the heavy when the situation warranted it.
Halvorsen smiled grudgingly. “I’m still thinking, Samantha.”
“Understood, sir.” Fuji did her best not to smile back at her commanding officer.
Halvorsen knew that Gunnery Sergeant Khaine knew more about Lieutenant Paen than probably anyone else in the battalion. Khaine had actually served with her when she was a mere corporal in his platoon. That was Samantha’s real point, after all.
Still, Samantha has a valid point. Khaine saw her in combat, he admitted. That counts for something. It still doesn’t mean she’s fit to lead a company of my Marines.
“No. I haven’t spoken with the gunny,” he said with a hard edge to his voice. “And I don’t intend to. Any more questions?”
“No, sir.” Fuji stood to her full height. She wiped every trace of emotion from her face and met the colonel’s eyes without hesitation. She stared just long enough to make her point too.
“All right, Samantha. I’m putting you in an awkward position and I can see you don’t like it.”
“Sir, with respect, I’d rather not comment on Lieutenant Paen until I’ve had a chance to meet with her first and form my own impression.”
“I respect that, and normally I’d agree with you. In this case, I’m worried about a potential weak link in my chain of command. There’s little time before we deploy. I need to be well out ahead of any … personnel difficulties that may arise. It’s fine and well to make your own first impressions. I’m sure you realize we don’t always get that luxury.”
Fuji stiffened. “Of course, sir.”
“In that case, I’d value your assessment of her … now.”
The first sergeant looked away, momentarily lost in thought. “At first glance … she’s impressive. Dedicated and daring come to mind too.” Fuji pitched her next words carefully. “The Silver Star isn’t handed out casually, sir.”
“Humph. Those aren’t the words that come to my mind.”
Fuji pursed her lips. “I suppose other words come to mind, depending on your point of view. Her actions on Montana were quite … brazen.”
“That’s one way to put it. Reckless also comes to mind.” His eyes narrowed. “I see. So your assessment is…”
“Undecided, sir.”
“Smart answer, Samantha. I told you there’s a reason why I keep you around.”
“And I believe I said something about looking out for your best interests, sir. If I may speak boldly, sir, you really need to speak with Gunnery Sergeant Khaine about her, and Captain Spears for that matter. The captain field-promoted Promise to second lieutenant after he was wounded on Montana. The gunny saw her in action. Both men had high praise for their lieutenant.”
“Their lieutenant?” Halvorsen crossed his arms. “Aren’t you just the event horizon calling the gravitational hole black?”
“That’s not fair, sir.” Fuji scowled respectfully. “The gunny was Promise’s platoon sergeant before she made sergeant herself, and he fully endorsed her promotion. He used to be her superior and now he may have to follow her orders. His perspective is uniquely valuable. So, I sought it out. Lieutenant Paen went from corporal to first jane in two standard years. That’s not a record—particularly with the Corps expanding so rapidly—but it’s still fast. All I asked him was how he thought she was holding up under the acceleration.”
“And?”
“He said two things. First, she’s the real deal. Secondly, I should ask her myself, with respect of course.”
Halvorsen grimaced. “Point taken, First Sergeant. I’ll do that.” He looked down the passageway, and squared his shoulders. “I suppose I better go and meet her?”
“Indeed, sir, you should.” The first sergeant kept her feet planted.
The colonel had moved several paces down the passageway before he realized that Fuji hadn’t budged. Then he turned around and threw her a questioning look.
“Something else on your mind, Samantha?”
“Because you asked, sir, yes.”
Halvorsen noted the concern in her eyes.
“There may be more to Lieutenant Paen than either of us realize. I queued up her last fitness report. Frankly, sir, what I heard on the vid impressed me. But, and there is one, she’s locked down tight—too tightly I think—like someone who’s afraid of losing control. She may need to learn to bend or at some point she might just break. At the moment, sir, that’s my best assessment of Lieutenant Paen.”
Halvorsen nodded and turned thoughtful. “Anything else, First Sergeant?”
“Because you asked again, sir, yes. Have you seen Victor Company’s range scores?”
“Yes, I have. And?”
“They’re pathetic. At least two toons of privates and PFCs are scoring subpar.” Fuji’s eyes filled with disgust. “We’re pushing our boots too fast, shortening training times, cutting through fat into bone. The lieutenant’s unit isn’t ready to deploy. She needs more
time.”
“You just had to go and remind me of that. I know, Samantha. I’ve already filed an official complaint. Lieutenant Paen is going to have to make do, just like the rest of us. Ours is not to reason why.”
“Ours is but do or die. I know, sir.” Fuji looked the colonel squarely in the eye. “That’s what I’m really afraid of.”
Six
APRIL 19TH, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 1022 HOURS
REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD
RNS NITRO, PARKING ORBIT WHISKEY-ECHO 6
Promise swam the tube between the shuttle and RNS Nitro. Nitro’s bays were full-up with LACs and support shuttles, which explained why Promise was boarding through Nitro’s fore collar instead of stepping off a gangway in one of the battlecruiser’s expansive boatbays. Swimming the tube was a mildly disorienting experience that reminded Promise more of falling down a shaft than floating through zero g between two vessels under artificial gravity. A host of emotions flooded her mind as she put out a hand along the inside of the tube and pushed off to make a course correction.
Her newly reconstituted command was barely stitched together, the seams so weak even minor stress might tear Victor Company apart. She had more than her share of janes and jacks fresh out of boot camp and the School of Infantry. And they’d been rushed through. She planned to have words with the colonel about that. No reasonable commanding officer could expect a company full of untried, unblooded soldiers to operate smoothly in toons of five mechanized Marines, or together as a company. Not like a veteran unit could. Unit cohesion was hard-won and earned toon by toon, shoulder-to-shoulder, and hardened by training that either held true or tore apart in the close fight. But I’ve got a real problem. V Company is full of green-as-get-you-killed privates and PFCs, some with poor marksmanship scores. I can’t call them all riflemen, not yet. And it’s not just poor scores, others nearly failed the long-range portion of their final evolution. A few are borderline proficient in mechsuit combat techniques, but they were allowed to graduate anyway instead of being bumped back an evolution for extra training. The Corps may be strapped for boots, but skimping on training like this is going to get a lot of my command killed.
As Promise neared the end of the tube, she reached up and grabbed the bar marked OVERHEAD, swallowed hard, and swung herself into RNS Nitro’s standard gravity. Her timing wasn’t quite right, and she nearly toppled forward before getting her feet planted beneath her. The junior officer of the deck was waiting with a datapad.
Her heels came together with an audible clap that echoed across the boatbay. She honored the colors, and then pivoted toward the officer of the deck and snapped a crisp salute.
“Permission to come aboard, ma’am?”
Suspended high above by invisible cables was the flag of the Republic of Aligned Worlds. It depicted the known ’verse spinning on its axis, in the protective embrace of a female seraph, wings unfurled. The feathers were vaguely reminiscent of the billowing sails that had once harnessed the wind to deliver men-of-war to battle. Around the flag’s four edges were the names and planets of the charter member worlds of the RAW. Next to and below it hung the Navy’s own standard.
“Permission granted,” Second Lieutenant Elizabeth Jiles said, returning Promise’s salute. Jiles wore navy-green utilities with black piping along the sleeves and trousers, and two gold bars on each collar point. Jiles’s rank was equal to that of a Marine Corps first lieutenant, or an O-2, just like Promise. There was a slight twinkle in Jiles’s eye. “Lieutenant Paen, welcome aboard the Nitro.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Promise removed her beret and tucked it under her arm. “You run a tight boatbay. That was an extremely fast lock-and-tube.”
Jiles’s gray eyes brightened visibly. “Thank you, ma’am. We do our best. If you’ll follow me.” They crossed the flight deck of Boatbay 2 and passed between the lengths of two docked vessels, the nose of a Navy launch on the right and the cockpit of an assault-class light attack craft on the left. Both were battened down and had the look of polished alabaster. Each vessel bore markings stenciled in black and gold on the nose. The assault-class LAC was nearly three times as large as the much smaller transport shuttle and powered by dual fusion plants, a primary and a backup. As they neared the launch’s engines, Jiles came to a stop and turned to face her. A gunnery sergeant in RAW-MC navy-blue regular dress, with three gold hash marks above the cuff of each sleeve, stepped out of the shadows and into full view.
Promise’s heart nearly stopped when she caught sight of him.
“I believe you know the gunny,” Jiles said. “We’ve been playing cards together for a while. The other day we got to talking about the strain being felt across both our branches. How the Lusies keep pushing our boundaries, like they did on Montana.” Jiles gave Promise a telling look. “So, ma’am, I tell the gunny that we need more Marines like that Lieutenant Paen from Montana, the only Marine Corps officer to ever command a Navy warship. Then the gunny says he happens to know her.” Jiles cocked an eyebrow. “Turns out he wasn’t kidding. When I told him you were on today’s arrivals he asked if he could meet you in the boatbay.” Jiles saluted once more, and held it for a good second longer than protocol dictated. “It’s a real honor, ma’am. I’ll be back in five minutes. If you’ll excuse me.”
Jiles walked behind Gunnery Sergeant Nhorman Khaine and disappeared from view, leaving an expressionless Khaine in her wake. He too saluted, though he exaggerated the upswing and clicked his heels together a bit harder than protocol dictated. Promise responded in stunned silence. The gunny stuck out his hand and grasped hers enthusiastically. Only then did he smile. “Lieutenant Paen, it’s so good to see you.”
Seven
APRIL 19TH, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 1025 HOURS
REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD
RNS NITRO, PARKING ORBIT WHISKEY-ECHO 6
She didn’t see the hug coming or she would have dodged it.
Promise went rigid in Khaine’s arms as the space between them emptied out. They’d had a few close calls together when Khaine had been her platoon sergeant, back when she was a lowly stripe. She almost pushed out of Khaine’s embrace, too. And then she didn’t. Her arms relaxed and her hands found his shoulder blades. She leaned in ever so slightly, her head just under his chin. “You would have been proud of your toon. They fought…” Promise’s voice grew thick as the memory of Lance Corporal Talon Covington surfaced. Tal smiling, holding his railgun over one shoulder with ease. Covington had been their toon’s heavy-weapons expert, and he’d thrown himself on a grenade to save Promise’s life.
Khaine patted Promise’s back as she shook in his arms. When they pulled apart, reality was a blur of emotion.
* * *
“I hope you don’t mind the breach in protocol, ma’am.” Khaine cleared his throat a couple of times and sniffed a liter of recycled air. “The last time I saw you, you were my subordinate. Now just look at you. It only took you what, two years to go from corporal to first jane? Congratulations. I couldn’t be more pleased. Took you long enough. How was Officer Candidate School?”
“For the most part, OCS was straightforward and uneventful.” It took Promise a moment to look him in the eye. “I enjoyed the history and command theory. Major Jeff Garaund’s course on pre-Diaspora wet navies was my favorite.” Promise grew thoughtful. “Did you know preindustrial sea powers used to press their sailors into service, often after they were captured from enemy vessels? No Hartford Accords or Terran Conventions or even a basic outline of what we consider commonsense, humane rules of warfare. Talk about barbaric.”
I know that smile. He’s humoring me. Fine, not everyone’s a history buff.
“The PT, on the other hand, left a lot to be desired.” The gunny’s expression changed immediately, the sort of look that said he knew what coming and was looking forward to the tale. “When I was your corporal, I ran a lot of klicks, uphill and downhill in utilities and boots with a pack strapp
ed on my back, hugging my rifle, every day no matter the weather, and if I wasn’t running with my company I was at the range or humping my gear back from it.” Promise smiled. “At OCS, we almost ran buck naked—just PT uniforms—covering ground in shallow-treaded ‘civvies’ better suited for a morning stroll. I went into OCS conditioned. A lot of ninety-day wonders thought fifty push-ups were unreasonable. Seriously! They had a mental block they couldn’t see past. I’m embarrassed to say my time for the five-klick actually increased because I spent most of my waking hours in class, drafting reports, drawing up operational plans, and when I wasn’t in class my nose was in a book. I loved every minute of it—don’t get me wrong. Unfortunately, my muscles paid the price. Seems to me the bars have it a bit too easy.”
“That’s because us noncoms work for a living.”
Promise wagged a finger at him. “A fact I doubt you will ever let me forget, Gunny.”
“Not a chance.”
* * *
Khaine hadn’t expected such emotion to come out of him, and he certainly hadn’t planned to hug the lieutenant. What was that about? A substantial breach in protocol is what it was. Thank God we were sandwiched between two craft, in a relatively quiet part of the boatbay. The gunny thought back to the day Private Paen had reported to him for duty. The smartly pressed uniform that could have stood on its own, and a face like a still lake. Except for the eyes. He’d been pleased for Promise when she’d made private first class, and lance corporal, and then full-screw. Their relationship changed the night he overheard her cries, and found her in her rack in the throes of a nightmare. He almost woke her but stopped himself at the last moment. That battle had been hers to fight. When she finally woke, he’d handed her a drink with a sedative in it, and asked her if she needed to talk. The murder of her father was still fresh. Grit-on-discipline could push pain aside for only so long. She told him she couldn’t keep going like this. He assured her that she could.
