Starfist - 14 - Double Jeopardy

by Dan Cragg

  “Get a move on, Summers,” Doyle said. “You’re never going to get your crossed blasters this way.”

  Summers mumbled something about being overdue for a promotion anyway but sped up his packing.

  “No, you’re not,” Doyle muttered back.

  “Shoup,” Doyle ordered, “go outside, directly below our window. I’ll drop our bags down to you. Keep them together, about five meters out from the wall. Stay with them until I tell you otherwise.”

  “Catch our bags that you’re going to drop down to me. Right.” Shoup left the room and headed for the stairs, shaking his head. A minute or so later he was where Doyle had sent him and looked up.

  “Catch,” Doyle called down to him, and dropped his own sea-bag.

  Shoup had to take a step to his side to catch the bag, but he was a little too close to the wall and nearly fell over backward when the seabag hit his arms. Still, he managed to maintain his feet.

  “Do you see how to do it now?” Doyle asked.

  “Got it, Corporal Doyle.” Shoup positioned himself to catch the next one, a civilian suitcase. Instead of trying to catch it in his extended arms as he had the seabag, he clapped his hands against its sides and redirected it to his side and rear. It landed next to the seabag. Shoup grinned up at Doyle. “Got it!” he called.

  Doyle dropped the next two bags. By then, Summers had his packed.

  “Go down to the supply shack,” Doyle told Summers. “Tell Sergeant Souavi I need a fifteen-meter length of rope. Tell him I need it, not you need it. Sergeant Souavi trusts me.”

  Summers thought for a second, not knowing why Doyle wanted a length of rope. “What if he doesn’t have a fifteen-meter length?”

  “Then get the shortest length he has that’s more than fifteen meters.”

  “Fifteen meters or the shortest length longer than fifteen meters. Tell him you want it, because he trusts you,” Summers muttered as he headed for the supply shack. What does fifteen meters of rope have to do with a field day? he wondered.

  Other fire team leaders saw what second squad’s third fire team was doing and began tossing items out the window to waiting men. Some made a game of it, the tosser seeing if he could make the catcher miss or, better yet, catch a bag off balance so that he’d fall over. The fire teams that didn’t have windows facing the side where the bags were getting lined up crossed over to the rooms that did.

  By the time Summers got back with a sixty-meter length of rope, Doyle had already dropped the stripped mattresses and bundled linens and pillows down to Shoup and was lining the furniture up next to the window. Some of the other fire team leaders were organizing a fire brigade chain to pass smaller pieces of furniture down the stairs to the side yard.

  “Come on, Doyle,” Corporal Chan said as he passed third fire team’s room. “Get with the program and join the fire brigade.”

  Doyle ignored the squad’s senior fire team leader and took the rope from Summers.

  “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Do you know how to tie a timber hitch?”

  “A what?”

  Doyle looked disbelievingly at Summers. “You don’t even know what a timber hitch is?”

  Summers shook his head, wondering what had gone wrong with his fire team leader.

  “It’s a kind of knot that sailors on old oceangoing ships used to hoist barrels and stuff.”

  “I’m not any kind of sailor. Forget about old oceangoing ships.”

  “Wood ships, with canvas sails,” Doyle said, managing to maintain a straight face.

  Summers looked at him aghast. “Wooden ships with canvas sails? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “It’s how we’re going to lower our furniture. Watch.” Slowly at first, but more quickly as his hands remembered how to tie the knot he hadn’t used since his boyhood in the Young Pioneers, he tied the knot around his desk. “Hold this tight,” he said, and climbed into the open window so that he straddled the sill. “Keep the rope tight.” He bent over and lifted the tiny desk over the sill and let it hang. “Okay, let go of the rope and hold on to me!” As soon as Summers had a grip on him, he leaned out so that the desk was away from the wall and began lowering it. “It’s a good thing all of our books are electronic,” he said. “If our desks were full of hard-copy books, they’d be too heavy to lower this way.” When the desk reached the ground he gave the rope some slack and the knot fell apart. Doyle used a different knot to lower the chairs.

  In minutes, all three desks were down and Shoup had them arranged with their other things. A small crowd gathered to watch.

  “You know, sometimes Doyle really surprises me,” Corporal Dean said to Corporal Claypoole.

  Claypoole shrugged. “Before Sergeant Linsman was killed, he was in Sergeant Kerr’s fire team—uh, Sergeant Kerr was a corporal then.…”

  Dean knuckled him in the shoulder. “I know that, dumb guy.”

  Claypoole gave Dean a nasty look. “Sergeant Kerr said Doyle had the makings of a good Marine,” he said in a questioning tone, as though he didn’t really believe it.

  Corporal Dornhofer, who was standing nearby watching, chimed in: “And remember how he figured out how to make the Tweed Hull Breacher work without exploding.”

  Dean and Claypoole looked at Dornhofer, then at each other. They shook their heads. “But it’s Doyle,” they said.

  “All right people,” Staff Sergeant Hyakowa called out. “Shit-can the grabassing and get back to work.”

  Everybody got.

  Whether by fire brigade chain or by rope, it wasn’t long before all the rooms—even the squad leaders’ room—were emptied. Staff Sergeant Hyakowa assigned the gun squad’s Lance Corporal Dickson, who still was suffering from being wounded by Skink acid on Haulover, to guard the platoon’s belongings. He sent one man from each fire team, under the supervision of Corporal Dean, who was also not back up to full strength after being wounded on Haulover, to clean the company rec room.

  Eventually all the interior cleaning was finished and everything from outside cleaned and restored to its proper place in the barracks rooms. The platoon sergeants held inspections, followed by the platoon commanders. Captain Conorado and First Sergeant Myer inspected last.

  Everybody passed. After all, the objective of the field day wasn’t to pass an IG, it was to keep the Marines too busy to dwell on their indefinite extensions, and lack of transfers and promotions.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The classroom was crowded with all 123 members of Company L, Thirty-fourth Fleet Initial Strike Team. No exceptions; everyone was there from Captain Conorado on down to the newest replacement who hadn’t joined the company until it returned to Camp: Major Pete Ellis, who had arrived following Thirty-fourth FIST’s return from combat against a Skink army on Haulover. The company’s four corpsmen were in attendance. Even First Sergeant Myer and the company clerks, who just about never attended company formations, were jammed into the classroom.

  The Marines and sailors were dressed in garrison utilities, though a few may have been wishing they were in their dress reds so they could show off the hero medals they’d been awarded for their actions on Haulover. So it was a small sea of dull green that Captain Cervera, the S3 Operations Officer of Thirty-fourth FIST’s infantry battalion, looked over when he mounted the small stage to stand at the podium after Conorado introduced him. Other staff officers from FIST and battalion headquarters were meeting with other platoons and combat support elements of the FIST at the same time.

  “Good morning, Marines!” Cervera said in a booming voice that identified him as having been a gunnery sergeant, or at least a senior staff sergeant, when he got his commission.

  “Good morning, sir!” the Marines thundered back loudly enough to make Sergeant Souavi, Company L’s supply sergeant, glad the windows were open. If the sonic shock had broken any closed windows, it would have been Souavi’s responsibility to repair or replace them. But Souavi didn’t let any expression show in his face.
Like the other Marines in the company, he looked stony-faced back at the battalion S3.

  “As you were!” Cervera boomed while the echoes of the Marines’ reply were still reverberating throughout the room. An expectant silence instantly fell over the room, save for incidental sounds that drifted in from outside.

  “Thirty-fourth FIST,” the S3 continued with somewhat less volume, “has just returned from another successful campaign against the foe we call Skinks. Nobody knows better than Company L—and particularly the third platoon.” His gaze picked out the Marines he recognized as being in third platoon. “You’ve faced the Skinks more often than anybody else—and you’ve always been victorious against them. Believe me, when I say ‘you,’ I mean the Marines in this room. You are the Confederation’s best, most experienced Skink fighters.

  “Thus far, every time we’ve fought the Skinks, it’s because they attacked humanity and we had to mount a counterattack. Every time we’ve met the Skinks, they’ve had new weapons and tactics, weapons and tactics that caught us by surprise every time. And every time, we’ve quickly come up with tactics to counter what the Skinks were doing. I think we can be certain that in the future, when we meet the Skinks again—and we will—that they’ll again have new weapons and tactics that we’ll have to find a way to counter. And we will counter and overcome those new weapons and tactics.

  “So far, we don’t know who the Skinks are, where they come from, or why they attack human worlds without ever attempting to communicate with us. But every available intelligence and scientific resource, not only military but civilian, is analyzing everything we have on the Skinks. I assure you that the next time we meet the Skinks, we will know more about them.

  “The Commandant wants you to know that at some date in the future, humanity is going to pick the time and place of a fight with the Skinks. By order of the President and resolution of the Congress of the Confederation of Human Worlds, the Confederation Navy has embarked on an intensive search for the home world of the Skinks. And when that home world is found, the Confederation military will launch a massive assault on it, to put an end to Skink depredations of human worlds.”

  Cervera paused to look the Marines in the eye; they looked back, hard faced. “Rest assured,” he continued, “when that invasion comes, Thirty-fourth and Twenty-sixth FISTs will be the spear point. Between now and then we will be training on how to fight the Skinks on their own territory.” One hundred and twenty-three hard, stony faces looked him right back in the eye.

  Captain Cervera continued from there, telling the Marines everything known about the Skinks and actions against them, nearly all of which the Marines of Company L already knew. He didn’t tell them about the juvenile Skink found on Kingdom, that later disappeared on Earth. Then again, he didn’t know about the juvenile Skink, so it’s not that he was withholding anything.

  After an hour, Cervera wrapped things up and took his leave. During his entire presentation, nobody had muttered or showed any expression.

  “Seats!” Captain Conorado ordered when the S3 was gone. There was a momentary clatter as the Marines resumed their seats after having stood at attention while Cervera left. He gave his men a long, hard look. Even though, sitting in the front row with his back to the company, he hadn’t seen their reaction to the presentation, he was fully aware of the stony silence that met the words of the battalion operations officer.

  “Marines,” he said firmly, reminding them of who they were and what was expected of them, “you heard the word: We are going into training for a possible invasion of the Skink home world. FIST, battalion, and squadron headquarters have already been working on training plans. Gunny Thatcher will now brief you on what you need to know before we go into the field.” He looked at Thatcher, who was sitting in the front row.

  “Gunnery Sergeant.”

  “Sir!” Thatcher said, standing and mounting the stage.

  “The company is yours.”

  “The company is mine, aye aye, sir.” Thatcher stood at attention facing the room and barked “A-ten-tion!” as Conorado stepped off the stage and strode out of the classroom. The other officers, First Sergeant Myer, and the company clerks followed.

  “Siddown,” Thatcher snarled when first platoon’s Staff Sergeant DaCosta closed the door behind the departing officers. He glared at the Marines as they resumed their seats. “I heard what you said while Captain Cervera was talking.” The Marines, at least from squad leaders on down, looked at him expressionlessly. “And you’re saying the same fucking thing to me. I’m telling you right now, I’m not going to stand for it. You’re Marines, I expect you to behave like Marines. You’ve got a job to do, and you’re going to do it to the best of your ability. Nobody said you have to like it. I don’t give a kwangduk’s ass if you don’t like it. I don’t either. But we’re going to do our jobs, and we’re going to do them better than anybody else.

  “Now. Next week we’re mounting out to Sumpig Island.” He grinned a shark’s grin. “Sumpig’s a wonderful tropical paradise. You’re going to love it.”

  “What is this happy horseshit?” Lance Corporal MacIlargie yelled as soon as third platoon reached its squadbay corridor. “First we get extended for the duration, then we get indefinitely extended on Thorsfinni’s World, and now we start training for an invasion of the Skink home world. And nobody has any idea where the goddamn place is, or what it’s like!”

  Sergeant Tim Kerr gave Corporal Rachman Claypoole a meaningful look: He’s your man, control him.

  Claypoole didn’t have to do or say anything, Lance Corporal Dave Schultz beat him to it. Schultz didn’t do anything, and he didn’t exactly say anything, either. The big man merely growled something not quite intelligible.

  MacIlargie shot Schultz a startled look and edged away. He also stopped complaining.

  MacIlargie wasn’t the only man in the platoon who was unhappy about what Captain Cervera had said; he was just the first and loudest to give voice to his unhappiness. The Marines quickly converged on their squad leaders, forming three distinct clumps of men in the corridor. Lieutenant Bass was careful to stay wherever the officers had gone, and Staff Sergeant Hyakowa studiously avoided going to the platoon’s billeting area.

  As the senior fire team leader in first squad, Corporal Dornhofer started off by demanding of his squad leader, “Sergeant Ratliff, what do you know about this that we don’t?”

  Ratliff spread his hands and shook his head. “I don’t know a damn thing that you don’t, Dorny. You got everything that I know at the same time I found out about it.” As he spoke, he tried to edge past Dornhofer, but Corporals Pasquin and Dean, along with three other members of the squad, blocked his way.

  “If you don’t know, who does?” Pasquin demanded.

  “And how soon are you going to find out?” Dean added.

  “Yeah, who knows?” a chorus of voices called out. “And when will you find out?”

  Just a couple of meters away, Kerr, the tallest man in the platoon, stared down the members of his squad who were blocking his way. By himself, he might not have been able to do it, but Schultz stood at his side and began moving forward. When Schultz moved, people tended to get out of his way. Kerr followed in his wake. Even first squad made a hole for Schultz. Ratliff took advantage of the brief opening and trailed Kerr closely enough that Kerr asked, “You trying to tell me something back there, Rabbit? You’re getting awful friendly.”

  “Hey, wait for me!” Sergeant Kelly, the gun squad leader cried. He managed to break through the knot of Marines surrounding him.

  Schultz turned into his fire team’s room, leaving the three squad leaders to fast-step to their room at the far end of the corridor. They ignored the questions and rapid footsteps coming after them and managed to reach their sanctuary before anybody caught up.

  Safe behind the closed door, they dropped into the chairs in front of their tiny desks and looked at one another.

  After a long moment, Kerr broke the silence. “There’s going
to be a lot of shot morale out there.”

  “Forget about out there,” Ratliff said. “We’ve got to deal with the shot morale in here, first.”

  “Got that right,” Kelly said. “Right now I feel even lower than I did when Barber got killed.”

  “Living on the point of the spear,” Ratliff said, nodding.

  “A bloody point that’s in serious danger of getting blunted,” Kerr said.

  “Or even broken,” Kelly murmured.

  “Buddha’s blue balls,” Ratliff said softly. “Imagine, Marine squad leaders talking like this.” He shuddered.

  Kerr and Kelly exchanged haunted looks.

  The corridor slowly emptied as the junior Marines filtered into their fire team rooms.

  In his room, Corporal Dean sat at his desk, turned on his library, and pretended to look something up. He knew his men, PFCs Francisco Ymenez and John Three McGinty, had questions. He also knew that he didn’t have any answers. During the years he’d been in third platoon, so many years that he was already past his initial eight-year enlistment without having ever reenlisted, he’d lost many friends and comrades to death or crippling at enemy hands. With these latest rapid-fire announcements, his being involuntarily extended “for the duration,” no transfers, and preparations for an invasion of the still-unlocated Skink home world, he was almost overwhelmed with a feeling of dread that he wouldn’t live long enough to make the decision whether to reenlist.

  Damn, damn, and triple damn. He almost had to smile at that last. It was Triple John, not triple damn. So make that “damn, damn, damn.” “Damn,” he whispered.

  “Did you say something, Corporal Dean?” Ymenez asked.

  “What? No. No, I didn’t say anything. Just thinking.”