Starfist FR - 03 - Recoil

by Dan Cragg

  “One of the company’s actions was a two-platoon raid. Captain Wainwright was in command.” He hesitated before continuing; the memory was painful. “He was severely wounded and won’t be fit to return to duty for several months so we need an officer to fill in for him in the Three Shop. Lieutenant General Indrus didn’t want to disrupt the company by having me shift one of the platoon commanders into operations, and he didn’t want to take the time necessary to get an officer transferred from one of the other Force Recon companies so he contacted Corps G1 and told them he wanted you back.” He shrugged. “What a lieutenant

  general wants, a lieutenant general usually gets, no matter what policy says. So you’re here.” He held up a hand to forestall whatever remark Daly was about to make.

  “No, you’re not going to be running my S3, and I’m not putting you in command of one of the platoons. Krispin”—he nodded toward the warrant officer—“is acting S3 until Pter returns. Even though, technically, you outrank him, you’ll be the assistant S3 and training officer—that latter under his direction.”

  Daly looked at Jaqua. “Sir, I’m sure Gunner Jaqua will teach me everything I need to know about the Three Shop.”

  Periz snorted. “What Krispin doesn’t know, no ensign who ever lived needs to know.”

  Jaqua grunted, and looked stern.

  “There’s no time like the present to get started,” Obannion said, standing. “Maurie, see to quarters for Jak and have someone put his bags in his room. Krispin, take your new assistant in hand and put him to work. Stu, stick around for a couple of minutes.”

  When the others had gone, Obannion gestured for Qindall to close the door and sit down.

  “I’m not totally happy with having Daly back,” he said when the XO was seated.

  “Jak’s a good Force Recon Marine,” Qindall said. “And he proved he can run a platoon on the Atlas mission.”

  “And too many of the Marines who were his peers, or superiors, when he was a squad leader are still with the company. That can make integrating him awkward.”

  “I know. That’s why you put him in the Three Shop.”

  “I wonder if it might not be better to get him offworld for a while.”

  “How so, Walt?”

  In way of reply, Obannion pushed a button on his console and turned the monitor to Qindall. “This came in right after I got the word that Daly was on his way.”

  Qindall read what was on the screen: a deployment order. When he finished he looked his commander in the eye and said, “I imagine you’re thinking of sending Jak. It’s kind of hard to justify sending an officer on a two-squad mission.”

  “The two squads will have to deal directly with the planetary administrator and the Planetary Board of Directors. Those local dignitaries might resent having mere sergeants running the show, might even think they’re being slighted. Our Marines will need their cooperation if they’re going to do their job. Right after I got this, I contacted Colonel Szilk. He agreed that the locals might have thin skins, and approved sending Jak out with the two squads.” Colonel Lar Szilk was the operations chief for Fourth Fleet Marines.

  “On the theory that an officer is more impressive to the yokels.” Qindall grimaced and shook his head. “If they only knew,” he murmured. Nobody became a squad leader in Force Recon without being intelligent, educated, highly experienced, and extraordinarily competent. Force Recon Marines believed that dealing with one of their sergeants in their field of expertise was the equivalent of dealing with at least a colonel, if not a brigadier in the regular forces. Most people who had dealings with Force Recon Marines thought they were arrogant—until the Force Recon Marines proved their worth by saving those with whom they dealt. Force Recon Marines believed they were the best of the best, and weren’t shy about letting others know. The Corps allowed Force Recon Marines to be arrogant—

  because they lived up to their arrogance. When Obannion nodded, Qindall asked, “So why the charade about assigning Jak to the Three Shop?”

  “To give him something to do and keep him out of the way for the few days before he and the squads deploy. The main mission he and Krispin will be planning is the one he’s going on.” He grinned. “So when I spring the assignment on him, he’ll already know everything we’ve got about it.”

  Qindall returned the grin.

  “I want a mix of Marines on this mission, some who served with or under Daly when he was a squad leader, and Marines who joined the company since he left for Arsenault.”

  “That means second platoon.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll review the platoon roster.”

  “Do it.”

  “Aye aye.” Qindall rose and left his commander’s office. Office of the Company Commander, Fourth Force Reconnaissance Company, Camp Howard, MCB Camp Basilone, Halfway Commander Walt Obannion gave WO Krispin Jaqua time to overburden Ensign Daly with his new duties before summoning his staff to the initial planning session for the mission to Haulover. Sergeant Major Maurice Periz stood easily inside the door to Obannion’s office. Periz didn’t say anything; he knew that Obannion would say what he had to say when his staff arrived, and anything else he, Periz, needed to know, he’d get from the commander after the staff meeting. Captain Stu Qindall, the executive officer, was in his office, on the comm alerting the platoon commanders that something was coming down, while Ensign Arvey Barnum, the S1 personnel officer, remained at his desk in the outer office waiting for the other staff officers to arrive. Lieutenant Jimy Phipps, S2 intelligence, and Captain Alphonse Gonzalez, S4 logistics and support, entered the outer office together just moments after Obannion put out the call for them. Jaqua was next to last to enter the outer office; he was trailed by his new assistant. Qindall and Barnum joined him in entering Obannion’s office. Barnum, the last man in, closed the door behind him.

  “Are you settled in your quarters yet, Jak?” Obannion asked Daly.

  “No, sir.” Daly suppressed an ironic laugh. “Gunner Jaqua’s had me so busy I haven’t even had time for a head call.”

  “Now you know why the company staff always seems harried.” Obannion quickly turned to the reason he called for his staff. “We have a deployment. Two squads, one officer. Isolated homesteads on a new world called Haulover have been attacked by parties unknown, for reasons unknown. There has been total destruction of all buildings, and the people resident in the homesteads have simply vanished. The Haulover planetary administrator states he has no idea who is behind the hostile activities.

  “All that and further details are in the briefing packets the sergeant major will give you on your way out.

  “The first thing we need to decide is which squads are going. Suggestions?”

  Qindall recognized his cue. “Sir, how about third and fourth squads from second platoon?” he asked. Obannion seemed to consider the suggestion. Fourth squad’s Sergeant D’Wayne Williams was new, and Sergeant Him Kindy had been promoted to succeed Daly when Daly had left for Arsenault. Lance Corporal Santiago Rudd had been in the platoon when Daly was still there, and Corporal Mikel Nomonon had been one of Daly’s men. The others didn’t know him. Obannion gave a sharp nod and said, “Inform Kady and Alf,” Lieutenant Kady Rollings and Gunnery Sergeant Alf Lytle, the platoon commander and platoon sergeant of second platoon. “Arvey, see to it that the records of everyone in those two squads are up-todate. Jimy, find whatever you can about Haulover’s history and interactions with its neighbors, and past pirate activities in its sector. Then add the information to the briefing packets and give it to Krispin for his planning. Alphonse, triple-check everybody’s weapons and equipment, make sure they’ll stand up to a possibly prolonged deployment without support—including the, ah, ‘special’ equipment. Krispin, stay in close touch with Jimy and integrate whatever he finds into your op plan. You’re also responsible for establishing the routines for the special equipment.

  “Are there any questions?”

  Daly hesitated; he didn’t want to sou
nd stupid, but he knew that asking dumb questions was part of the learning process.

  “Sir,” he said.

  “Jak.”

  “Sir, this is a two-squad mission. Why does it require an officer?”

  Obannion studied his newest officer for a brief moment, then said, “Politics. We’re dealing with a newly colonized world here. They don’t have a lot of self-confidence yet, and their egos are liable to get bruised if they think the Confederation believes they don’t rate anyone higher than a sergeant. An officer will be along to hold the hands of the planetary administrator and the board of directors.

  “Now, if that’s all, you’ve got work to do.”

  Ensign Barnum opened the door and stepped aside to let the others precede him.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion, Fort Keystone, Arsenault The day for the Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion began at five-thirty hours, even though reveille didn’t sound until six hours. That was followed by calisthenics, which consisted of a warm-up followed by an eight kilometer run. No exceptions. The run was led by Colonel Raggel and Sergeant Major Steiner. Sergeant Queege was not excused. At first she, and more than half of the others in the battalion, did not make it all the way. By the end of the second week, though, she was completing the run, toward the end of the column to be sure, but she was making the entire eight kilometers. She’d also lost six kilos. By the beginning of the third week Colonel Raggel had extended the run to twelve kilometers. And so it went.

  If the training schedule did not call for an all-night or earlymorning exercise, chow—field rations, not prepared meals; they were only provided one day a week—followed the morning run. Then first call, when the respective company commanders took charge of their units for the day’s scheduled activities, which might include classroom instruction, practical exercises—

  to include firearms training on the ranges—or a variety of other courses from driving instruction to handcuffing, the laws of land warfare, battalion general orders, and so on. The MPs should have known all subjects by heart, but few did because

  before coming to Arsenault the battalion had not been commanded properly and what training the men had received had grown very cold.

  In two other areas that had become “traditional” with the Seventh Independent MPs, Colonel Raggel broke with that tradition. He personally developed the battalion training schedule, which, under its previous commander, had been a joke. Normally, maintaining a training program is the job of the battalion S3, the operations officer. But under Raggel’s command the S3 merely assisted in the program’s development and oversaw its execution; the battalion commander actually wrote the schedule himself. Raggel also rewrote the battalion’s general orders book, which before he came to the Seventh MPs had been an even bigger joke than the virtually nonexistent training schedule. The general orders was a set of instructions governing every activity performed by military police officers in their law-and-order operations. The book contained precise instructions governing everything an MP could or could not do when dealing with civilians under the laws of Lannoy, and each man in the battalion was required to memorize them. Raggel rewrote them to make them consistent with Confederation laws, which were stricter than those enacted on Lannoy. The Seventh Independent Military Police under Colonel Raggel’s command were losing their reputation as renegades. But the bible for the Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion from Lannoy became Confederation Army Field Manual 3-19.1, “Military Police Operations.” Raggel used it to define the battalion’s mission in area security, internment and resettlement of local nationals, law-and-order operations, police intelligence operations, and MP support to echelons up to army level. It also told him his responsibilities in the areas of offensive and defensive combat and force protection operations. He paid particular attention to battlefield workload analysis. For instance, he determined that the battalion, if assigned main supply-route security, could protect 360 kilometers of road during a twenty-four-hour period without degrading its other assigned missions. Likewise, the battalion could control an estimated 150,000 refugees a day along a specified control route, and so on.

  Since no one had ever captured a Skink, instructions governing the treatment and handling of prisoners of war were left as written as for the treatment of humans with the provision that if more became known about the Skinks, the instructions would be modified accordingly. The battalion was organized under “Lannoy Army Heavy Division Military Police Battalion Table of Organization and Equipment No. 8-0-161-169, as changed through 24 December 2453,” which authorized four companies, each company consisting of two platoons divided into two squads of three teams each, for a total of 33 men; the battalion at full TO&E strength numbered 528 men plus authorized equipment and arms to include vehicles, radios, night-vision equipment, and personal weapons as well as crew-served weapons. After Colonel Raggel finished cleaning out the so-called deadwood personnel, the battalion mustered somewhat fewer men than authorized under its TO&E, but General Aguinaldo had promised to fill those vacancies with good men drawn from other units. Until that time, Raggel worked with the men he had. A normal training day for the Seventh MPs ended around twenty-three hours. Raggel, his battalion command sergeant major, and his battalion clerk kept the same hours as the rest of the personnel. During the day, CSM Steiner and Sergeant Queege often kept their commander company as he roamed the battalion area and the training facilities monitoring activities. They did their office work between retreat and reveille. This made for some very long nights. When Colonel Raggel was absent, which was often because he was required frequently to attend meetings involving General Aguinaldo’s staff and the commanders of the task force components, Steiner and Queege virtually ran the battalion because an executive officer had not yet been nominated. But the two NCOs did such a good job that Raggel was not sure he even needed an exec.

  The effect of all the training was that gradually the men and one woman of the Seventh Independent MPs began to see themselves in a different light. They were becoming physically fit, which gave them pride of appearance; they were mastering the long-lost or never acquired skills of soldiers; and they had a leader who shared their ordeals and really seemed to care about their welfare.

  Office of the Commander, Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion Puella’s feet hit the floor at four hours that particular morning. She’d only gotten to bed at midnight, but the sleep she’d had was good, deep, refreshing and she was ready to begin her day, even though reveille wasn’t for another two hours. Since she was an NCO and the only woman in the battalion, she had been given a small room in the battalion headquarters shack. But that meant she was responsible for getting things ready for Colonel Raggel when he came into the headquarters, always around five hours. That meant coffee. In the time she’d been under Raggel’s command, Puella had come to realize what a wonderful drink coffee was. It had been two months since she’d had a taste of alcohol; she’d lost twelve kilos, and was finishing the twelve-kilometer run each morning without even being winded. She was remembering what it was like to wake up in the morning without the stomach-churning nausea and head-throbbing ache of too much booze the night before. The pasty whiteness of her complexion had disappeared along with the extra fat in her jowls, and when she looked in the mirror in the mornings her eyes were clear. Her hips, stomach, and buttocks had shrunk and the muscles there had hardened, and, miracle of miracles, her breasts had regained their firmness. Even her hair had taken on a healthy sheen. The only thing about her appearance that still made her feel a bit conspicuous, now that she was looking at life sober, was that she had no left ear. That had been shot off during the shoot-out in the bank at Phelps on Ravenette. But for some reason even she couldn’t fathom, she kept putting off getting a simple graft to replace the missing ear.

  Beer was available to the men of the Seventh MPs but only at Mainside, about eight kilometers from their training area. Colonel Raggel had a
hard rule that none could be brought back to the battalion unless it came back in someone’s stomach, and that man had better be able to handle it. The last time Puella had been at Mainside some men from the Fourth Company, her old company, had begged her to join them in the beer garden, to relive “old times.” But she just shook her head, smiled, and walked on. She knew very well what would happen if she took that first beer. As she walked away she heard someone mutter mournfully behind her, “Ole Queege ain’t our squeegee no more,” and, someone else added bitterly, “She’s sucking up to the CO. That’s how she got them stripes.”

  She went to Mainside only to buy items she needed to maintain her uniform and personal appearance, which, since she had stopped boozing, seemed to be improving every day. And she had discovered she really liked sobriety. The civilian employees and permanent party military personnel who occupied Mainside enjoyed all the luxury of climatecontrolled facilities, but the Seventh Independent MPs did not, neither in their barracks nor at battalion HQ. The rainy season was ending but the nights could be uncomfortably damp. Puella slept in her underwear with her windows open, a ceiling fan circulating, and the insect-repellant fields turned on. Before she put her feet on the floor in the morning, she was careful to check that nothing had gotten through during the night. Each morning she emerged from her room in her skivvies, got the coffee ready, and straightened up the CO’s and the sergeant major’s offices before testing the coffee and performing her ablutions.

  “Hi, Queege old Squeege,” someone said from behind Puella as she bent over the coffeemaker that morning. She whirled, startled. “Oh, Nix, what the hell you doin’ up this early?” She smiled, her face turning red with embarrassment to

  have been caught in her undies. It was Sergeant Nix Maricle from the Fourth Company. She and Nix had “lifted” a few together and one particularly drunken night they’d gone all the way. Puella’s memory of the occasion was vague now except she thought she had enjoyed it. But that was then, this was now.