Ryck thought that after hundreds of years, someone would have figured out an easy and quick way to put a ribbon or medal bar on a uniform. But here he was, trying the same methods that Napoleonic soldiers had used. If his blues blouse was off, he could see to align the bar, but as soon as he put the blues on, the curve of his chest threw the alignment off.
“Geez, Lysander,” Donte said, shouldering his way into the stateroom. “If there was ever a man more in need of a wife, it’s you.”
“Just don’t assume all the wifely duties, Donte,” Frank said.
Donte rolled his eyes, but he removed Ryck’s ribbon bar, gave a good look, then pressed it home.
“Hey, watch it!” Ryck said as one of the bar’s prongs poked his chest.
“Oh come on you big baby. If you don’t want to deal with it, then quit being such a fucking hero,” Donte said.
Ryck reached under his blouse and slipped on the backings to the prongs. He took a quick look in the mirror. The medals were straight and parallel to the deck, exactly as per regulations.
“OK, let’s vamoose,” he said.
“Uh, you forgetting something?” Donte asked.
Ryck checked his gloves and cover, then his ID and PA. Donte pointed behind him, to Ryck’s small desk.
Ryck looked, and his Federation Nova case was sitting on a stack of papers.
“Oh, shit,” he said. “Thanks. The CO would have been all over my ass for that.”
The battalion was on Sierra Dorado to celebrate the June 1st Mexican Marine Day, but Ryck knew that as one of two living Marine Nova holders, he was on display at all times. Not wearing his medal could be taken as an affront to the government and people of the planet.
The medal itself was somewhat understated, and Ryck appreciated that. The Brotherhood did not issue medals, but Ryck had seen some of the most gaudy pieces of ego on a ribbon among the military of other governments, all probably awarded for making sure the coffee was hot at the weekly staff meetings.
Ryck put the ribbon around his neck, then centered the medal itself right below his throat. Now he was ready.
“Come on, move it,” Ryck shouted to Preston, Frank, and Donte. “Don’t make me miss the shuttle!”
Franks said something entirely un-chaplain-like as the four O-3s hurried out two decks and aft to Hangar 3. This was the smallest of the hangars, large enough for one shuttle and the Captain’s skiff. The skiff was gone, so the CO, XO, and LtCol uKhiwa were undoubtedly already on the surface. A petty officer stood by the hatch of the shuttle, and as the four climbed aboard, he checked them off his PA.
The shuttle was only half full. Evidently, others were even later than the four of them. Ryck elbowed Preston in the ribs. It wasn’t for another ten minutes that the shuttle was loaded and it was able to depart for the planet’s surface.
The mood was high in the shuttle. This should be a great time. The battalion’s patron unit was the Mexican Fuerza de Infantería de Marina. Each battalion in the Marines had adopted a patron from the extant Marine Corps at the time the Federation Marines were formed. All Marines celebrated November 10th as the birthday of the Marines and February 27 as the founding of the first modern Marine Corps, the Spanish Infantería de Marina. Each battalion, though, had another holiday, that of its patron unit’s anniversary date. The Mexican Fuerza de Infantería de Marina was founded on June 1, 1822, Old Reckoning, so that was First Battalion, Eleventh Marines’ battalion holiday.
What made the battalion lucky when compared with some of the other battalions was that both in old Mexico and on Sierra Dorado, the largest Mexican-settled world, the people had embraced their history and had adopted the battalion as its own. Whenever possible, the battalion was sent by the government to help celebrate the festivities. No one doubted that this was a political move by the Federation government, but no one cared. The Doradons put on one heck of a good party.
“I hope there are mucho senoritas who love the uniform,” Donte told the others, keeping his voice low so the majors and lieutenant commanders would not overhear him.
“Doesn’t matter much for you. Even with your blues, your face looks like the north end of a south-facing hog,” Preston put in.
“Oh, you wound me,” Donte protested. “But when they see my magic feet, they will all want to flamenco with me.”
“You’re getting your ethnicities mixed up, there, Donte-my-lad,” Ryck put in. “Didn’t you download the brief?”
“Si, señor. How do you think I became so fluent in Spanish?”
“I think you missed something. Flamenco is from old Spain, not Mexico,” Ryck told him.
Donte looked confused. “But they’re the same thing, right?”
“Grubbing hell, Donte. Who’s our patron?”
“The Fuerza de Infantería de Marina,” he answered automatically.
“From Mexico. And what do we celebrate on February 27?” Ryck asked.
“That’s our birthday, for the oldest Marine Corps.”
“And who was the first Marine Corps?” Ryck asked.
“The Infantería de Marina, the Spanish Marines.”
“Exactly, the Spanish Marines, not the Mexican Marines. This is June 1, not February 27.”
“Ugly and dumb,” Preston said. “And you’re leading Marines into battle?”
Donte seemed to think for a moment, and Ryck could see comprehension dawning over his face.
“Well, sweat-balls. Of course they’re different. But it’s an easy mistake. Spanish language, both have Infantería de Marina in them. You can see that, right?” Donte asked.
“No one over the age of five would see that,” Preston said.
“So I guess all those flamenco lessons were wasted,” Donte declared, lifting one hand over his head and snapping his fingers a few time. “I guess I’ll have to rely on my sparkling personality instead.”
“God help the women of Sierra Dorado,” Frank interjected.
Ryck had never been on the planet, and while Donte, Frank, and Preston went back and forth with their smack talk, Ryck watched the screen which displayed the view from the shuttle’s cockpit. The planet, with the blues of the ocean, then browns and greens of the land and the white of clouds, did not look much different from most of the inhabited planets of human space. But watching the images helped screen out his friends’ banter. He shifted the Nova around his neck to keep it from digging in. Because of the Nova, he’d be on display, sitting with the VIPs, but keeping his mouth shut. The ship’s PAO
[9] had briefed Ryck on his duties, but this was getting old hat to him. Smile, say how proud he was to be there, and praise the heck out of the Federation.
He looked back to his friends. Once the official ceremony was over, they could exfiltrate the throngs of local officials and find a small pub where they could enjoy the best this planet could brew. Ryck almost wished he could chuck the Nova and just be one of the guys tonight.
As the shuttle neared the surface, the view on the forward display became more detailed, and talk died down as Los Lobos, the capital city, came into view. Once again, there was nothing much to make it stand out. That didn’t quell the good spirits, though. Several of the Marines and crew had been on Sierra Dorado before on Marine Day, and their stories had worked to amp them all up.
The shuttle came in for a smooth landing, and they quickly debarked. A local official was waiting right outside with an electric tram of some sort, and he ushered them on board as the shuttle took off to return to the ship and pick up its next load.
“Welcome to Sierra Dorado,” the young man said with way too much cheerfulness. “I’m Greg Sanduski with the mayor’s office. I’ll be escorting you to Polk Hall where the ceremony will be taking place. There will be a small buffet set up for you, and as we still have almost two hours, please feel free to help yourselves. If you need anything, I’m your man, so don’t hesitate to ask.”
Sierra Dorado was an Admin 1 planet where other Federation citizens merely got scanned upon entry, but wi
th Greg as their guardian, they even bypassed this minor formality, with the tram operator driving around the terminal.
As they pulled in front of the terminal, the enlisted men from a previous shuttle were coming out the main entrance. Among the rest of the people, there were two lines of locals. In front of one line was an LED sign with a red “Married” being displayed. In front of the other line, the sign was a green “Single.”
“Saint Pete’s nose!” Donte exclaimed. “Look at them!”
They’d all been briefed on the tradition, of course, but seeing it in action had far more impact.
In the married line, men, women, and family groups waited to be paired up with married sailors and Marines. After the ceremony, they would adopt the servicemen, be their tour guides, and offer them a bed at their homes.
Every man on the shuttle had his eyes locked on the single line. The women standing in the line to be paired with their sailor or Marine were dressed to kill. Some had on traditional Mexican costumes, some had on more modern clothes. But from the tram’s vantage point, all looked amazing. What might happen after the “hostess” showed the men around was up to them, but those who had been there before claimed that for quite a few of the newly formed couples, the pairing would last beyond the afternoon’s celebration and evening. Gunny Heija in Alpha claimed that when he was here four years prior, seven marriages resulted.
“That’s Brubaker! He’s one of mine!” Donte said in awe as the next Marine, a young PFC, was ushered up to meet his hostesses, a stunning brunette in high heels and a rather short skirt. “He’s as shy as they come!”
“Doesn’t look too shy now,” Preston observed. “Look at that shit-eating grin.”
“Man, this isn’t fair. Why do the men get all the fun?” Donte said.
“That’s because we’re officers, far above the primal need for carnal pleasures,” Frank said.
“Speak for yourself, Frank. I need me my carnal pleasures,” Donte replied.
Then the tram eased out on the main road and the welcome lines were lost to view. Ryck didn’t mind their bypassing the pairing up. He wouldn’t mind meeting a local family, but he figured he would be kept pretty busy for the next three days.
One lane of the road seemed to be kept clear of traffic. The tram glided along, barely making a sound. Other vehicles were in the remaining lanes, but their lane remained clear of other traffic. Within five minutes, they were pulling into the concert hall where the ceremony would take place.
Polk Hall was pretty impressive. The Aztec influence was evident, but it was only influence. This was not Chichen Itza transported to Sierra Dorado. As they walked through the main entry, they left the stone exterior for a shining expanse of marble and metal. Two winding staircases led to the upper seating section of the concert hall itself. The lobby was as impressive as anything Ryck had seen.
As they stood and gawked, their guide shooed them to the left to an auxiliary hall—one that could easily hold a Marine division, much less a battalion. Quite a few Marines and sailors were milling about. Liberty would not start until after the end of the ceremony. A good half of the single men had their hostesses with them. Ryck guessed the one who were paired with families would meet them after the ceremony ended.
“This way, gentlemen,” Greg said, still in sheepdog mode as he tried to herd the officers to the far right side of the hall. A long table covered in food dishes and surrounded by a gold rope was his destination. Ryck joined the rest as they converged on the food. Some of the food was traditional Mexican dishes: Fish and carne asada tacos, chips and guacamole, rice and bean burritos (Ryck remembered reading that burritos were actually more of an American dish than Mexican), carnitas tostadas, puerco caldara, and the like. But shrimp tempura? Cocktail wieners? Chocolate-dipped panderfruit? Either the lines had been blurred over the years, or the people of Sierra Dorado just liked to party with whatever food tasted good.
There was one cake, tres leche, that was new to him. The name sounded Spanish, and it didn’t strike him as a traditional Mexican food—but he loved it, and made a note in his PA to get the recipe. He knew Hannah and the twins would go crazy over it.
“This is good stuff, better than what the enlisted guys are getting,” Drayton Miller said, four big shrimp tempura on his plate.
Ryck glanced over at the nearest table, one surrounded by sailors and Marines. He couldn’t see the whole table, but it did look rather less-filled. That struck Ryck as odd. This was a battalion and planetary celebration, and he would have thought everyone would be treated equally. He felt a little guilty as he looked down at his cake.
At least the beer looked to be the same. No one was drinking it yet, however. The ship’s CO had ordered that no alcoholic beverages be served until after the ceremony, and the cases stacked behind the tables were watched over by sailors in duty belts.
“Welcome, Captain Lysander,” a middle-aged woman said, hand out to be shaken. “I’m Gloria Perez, the governor’s press secretary.”
Ryck took the proffered hand as Drayton quietly backed away, a wry grin on his face.
“I hope you are being well taken care of. I know Greg Sanduski from the mayor’s office is here at your beck and call.”
“Yes, ma’am, everything’s fine.” He held up the cake to show her.
“Yes, the tres leche. ‘Three milk,’ it means. One of our traditional favorites. I hope you like it.”
“It’s delicious. I was hoping to get a recipe to take home.”
“Really? Well I’ll make sure you get it. I’ve got to run—as you can imagine, I’ve got a lot to do. But I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes after the ceremony to meet with the governor. Nothing formal, of course, just for a little chat.”
Yes, a little chat that comes with photographers to capture the moment, Ryck thought cynically.
“Of course, ma’am. I would be happy to,” he said instead.
“Great. I’ll track you down. Until then, enjoy yourself.” She shook his hand again and then rushed off.
“Yep, the hero strikes again,” Donte said as Ryck rejoined them.
“Eat me,” Ryck muttered.
The room didn’t exactly fill up, as large as it was, but more and more Marines and sailors as well as civilians came in a steady stream. At five minutes before the ceremony, the bigwigs arrived. The ship’s CO, LtCol uKhiwa, and the senior staff arrived with who Ryck knew were the mayor, the governor, the Federation administrator, and other noted luminaries. Ryck didn’t recognize any of the civilians, but he knew who was going to attend. Most of them stepped up to a raised dais that had been erected in the back of the room, and people started to drift away from the food table to stand in front if the VIPs.
Exactly at 5:00 PM, one of the battalion drummers marched into the room, pounding away on his side drum. People parted for him as he marched through the crowd to the dais. As always, Ryck felt a tingle of both pride and anticipation when he saw a drummer. Each man in the corps of drums was a volunteer, and being accepted into the corps could be difficult. Rank was not considered. This drummer was Sergeant Horatio from Bravo Company, a squad leader by billet. In his dressed blues, draped by a leopard skin and armed with a short sword, he presented an imposing figure.
He marched to the front of the VIPs, and in very precise, almost mechanical movements, he performed an elaborate about face, his arm steadily pounding a slow beat. His face like stone, he stood there, one arm in motion, the rest of him completely still. The crowd quieted.
The sergeant drew out the moment, and Ryck could almost see people lean forward in anticipation. With a suddenly flurry, both of Sgt Horatio’s arms flew into a blur, beating out Present the Colors!
“Color Guard, forward, march!” a voice rang out with authority from near the entrance as soon as the drummer fell back into a measured cadence.
The crowd turned around, and with a little help from the duty sailors, a corridor was cleared leading up to the dais. With the Federation flag in the midd
le and the Sierra Dorado flag to its left, the Marine Corps and Navy flags on the ends completed the color guard.
Ryck joined all the military in coming to attention as the color guard made its way to the dais and did their reverse marching move to finish up facing the crowd. The three subordinate flags were lowered to the Federation flag, and a small local band, accompanied by a young lady, broke out into the anthem. The crowd broke into applause as the last strains died away and the color guard split to go around the dais and put their flags in holders on a raised platform in back of the VIPs.
The first person to address the crowd was the Federation administrator. Mercifully, he kept it short, and within a couple of minutes, relinquished the podium to the governor.
“Buenos tardes,” the governor began, in an atrocious accent that even Ryck knew was so far removed from old Mexico as to beggar belief.
Evidently, Spanish was only a historical footnote on the planet. Luckily, he switched right into Standard, welcomed the Marines and sailors, and recited a scripted list of how well the planet had been doing since he took office. Ryck wondered if elections were coming up soon.
The governor gave way to the mayor who gave way to the Inchon’s CO. Finally, it was LtCol uKhiwa’s turn. The crowd perked up. This was Marine Day, after all, and the CO was the senior Marine present.
“On September 13, 1847, Old Reckoning, forces from the United States of America, to include US Marines, stormed Chapultepec Castle in Mexico City. Six young cadets: Juan de la Barrera, Juan Escuita, Francisco Márquez, Agustín Melgar, Fernando Montes de Oca , and Vicente Suárez refused to surrender. Juan Escutia, determined to keep the Mexican flag out of the hands of the Americans, wrapped himself in it and plunged off the walls and to his death. Thus began the celebration of the Niños Héroes, which has been celebrated on every September 13th since.
“On February 18, 2029, Old Reckoning, the Mexican Coast Guard seized a Chinese long-line boat that had been shark fishing in Mexican waters. Shark-finning had been banned by an international treaty, and the Mexican Coast Guard was within its rights to seize the boat, which was towed to Isla Clarión where a small garrison of the Fuerza de Infantería de Marina were stationed. The 14 Marines, commanded by Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Michael Suarez, were given the task of holding the Chinese ship until its disposition could be decided,” the CO continued in his deep, stentorious voice.
Captain (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 4) Page 6
