The Price of Honor (The United Federation Marine Corps' Grub Wars Book 2)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  Hondo raised his hand and waved. He could have forked out the credit to make a commercial call, but that wouldn’t be cheap. The USO, on the other hand, provided lines for free, ostensibly for calls home. With the galaxy coming apart at the seams, those lines were in constant use.

  “Look, BK, I’ve got to go. People are waiting.”

  “No problem, bro. Thanks for calling.”

  “Don’t get too enraptured by Glenifer, OK? You know how you are.”

  “Sure, I know.”

  He was just about to hang up when he added, “Keep your head down!”

  That might have been borderline, but he didn’t care. The entire galaxy was melting down, and everyone knew it. If he couldn’t tell BK to stay safe, then screw it.

  “It’s all yours,” he told the waiting staff sergeant.

  BK was a good Marine. She’d be fine. Here on the Egg, he had his own concerns, first of which was to find his wayward corporal. All Trash was not going to be happy once he found him.

  Chapter 9

  Hondo

  “No, sir. I think he’s a detriment to the squad and a liability, and I don’t want him with us.”

  “That’s a pretty bold statement, Sergeant McKeever,” Lieutenant Abrams said. “And you still haven’t given me any specifics.”

  Hondo took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He was trembling, and he desperately hoped that neither the platoon commander nor Staff Sergeant Rutledge could see that.

  Come on, McKeever, just spit it out.

  Asking for this meeting had been one of the most difficult things Hondo had ever done during his career. Boot camp was nothing, combat was nothing when compared with this. Boot camp was demanding, and combat was stress and fear elevated to intense levels, but neither was admitting defeat, and that was what Hondo was doing now. He was admitting to his commander, the man who would write his fitness reports and have a huge impact on his chances to get promoted, that he was a failure.

  He'd gone back and forth over the issue. With BK off facing the Brotherhood along the Second Quadrant’s borders, he couldn’t confer with her, and for some reason, he didn’t want to confess his problems to Cara, so it had been all on him. He didn’t want to admit defeat, that he couldn’t manage and train a Marine corporal, but in the end, he had to face reality. As he’d just told the lieutenant, Al-Atrash was a liability. If he went into combat with the squad, he’d get others killed. There was no way to get around that. Hondo’s pride and hope of getting promoted could not be a factor when Marines’ lives were at stake.

  “Sir, I’ve noted all my official counseling sessions, which I’ve given to Staff Sergeant Rutledge.”

  “Official?” the lieutenant asked.

  The lieutenant had made corporal before going to the Academy. He knew all the unofficial steps that were taken to “correct” weaker links in the Corps. Some technically could result in the NCO taking those steps to subject themselves to a court-martial. Hondo had to focus on not twisting his hand to hide the marks made on the knuckles from the last “counseling session” he administered to All-Trash. If the lieutenant asked him about it, he wasn’t going to lie, but he certainly wasn’t going to volunteer anything not specifically requested.

  “Yes, sir. Official. Since his arrival, Corporal Al-Atrash has shown an almost complete lack of knowledge of military tactics. More than that, he’s shown no desire to learn them. He disappears for hours on end, especially when there is work to be done. More importantly, no one in the squad trusts him. No one in his fire team trusts him.”

  “Why haven’t you brought this to Staff Sergeant Rutledge’s attention before? Corporal Al-Atrash has been with you for three months now.”

  “Sir, I thought I could correct him. I mean, he’s a real Marine—”

  “As opposed to what, Sergeant McKeever?” the lieutenant interrupted, steel suddenly surfacing in his voice. “As opposed to the draftees? As opposed to Lance Corporal Hanaburgh?”

  Oh, shit, McKeever. Stupid move!

  “Uh . . . no sir. I didn’t mean that.”

  Except that he did, and the lieutenant knew it.

  “Let me remind you, Sergeant McKeever. Everyone in this platoon is a real Marine. Corporal Hanaburgh aside, all have gone through Camp Charles, and all wear the uniform. If any of them isn’t a real Marines, then I’d say that’s your fault. Do you read me?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “So, go on.”

  “Sir, I thought I could correct him. But we’re deploying in a week, and I am positive that he won’t change. We’re going to be facing Grubs, and if I’m going to be an effective squad leader, I can’t be a fire team leader at the same time. It’s go time, sir, and I can’t afford to take any longer.”

  “So, you’re telling me you failed?”

  There was no way to sugarcoat it, so Hondo simply said, “Yes, sir. I failed.”

  The lieutenant looked at the platoon sergeant and asked, “What do you think, Staff Sergeant Rutledge?”

  “Sometimes admitting failure is the first step in fixing a problem.”

  The lieutenant nodded, then turned back to Hondo, asking, “If we leave Corporal Al-Atrash behind, who do you suggest taking over?”

  “Well, sir, if we can’t get another corporal, then I’d say Lance Corporal Acevedo.”

  “He’s not your senior lance corporal. Lance Corporal Haus is.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s true. But Antman . . . Lance Corporal Acevedo has been with the fire team, and the other two are used to him.”

  The lieutenant stared and him for a moment, and Hondo felt the platoon commander was stripping him down to the bare soul.

  Finally, he gave an almost imperceptible nod and said, “I want a Form 54 by 1500 today with everything you just told me.”

  Hondo felt a rush of relief sweep over him.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll have it to you.”

  “OK, better get to it,” he said, dismissing Hondo. He added, “Don’t use the word ‘official’ for your counseling sessions, Sergeant,” as Hondo started out the hatch.

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  The hatch closed behind him, and Hondo took a moment to lean back against the bulkhead to gather himself. He’d faced Grubs, but facing the lieutenant had been more daunting. But just as he’d survived the Grubs, it looked as if he’d survived this meeting as well, at least temporarily. He wouldn’t know for sure until his first fitrep from his platoon commander, but at least now he had time to work on his reputation.

  He was just about to leave when through the closed hatch, he heard the lieutenant say, “Well, you were right. Close call, but right.”

  “Close was good enough. That’s why you gave the deadline. Besides, maybe All Trash would have come around. Stranger things have happened.”

  Hondo knew he shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but his feet were rooted in place.

  “And McKeever?” the staff sergeant asked.

  “He recognized the problem, and when nothing else was possible, he cut it out. He didn’t have a choice.”

  “I hate to say I told you so, sir.”

  “Bull crap, Staff Sergeant. You love it, so go ahead. McKeever came to us, just like you said he would.”

  “Yeah, I do love it. So, OK, sir, I told you so.”

  “Enjoy it. We’ve still got Wiscombe, and his deadline’s twenty-hundred tonight, too.”

  “We’ll see about that. So, do you want me to wait for McKeever’s Form 54?”

  “No. You’ve already got it documented. Just send it off now, and then hit up First Sergeant Nordstrand about Corporal Marasco. You said he’s good on that?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s good.”

  “OK, go take care of that. I need to get down to the armory.”

  Hondo’s feet suddenly took on the wings of Aires as he bolted down the passage before Rutledge could see him. He’d been confused for a moment as he listened in on their conversation. If the two of them knew that All Trash had been a lost cause, then
why put him through that? Heck, Rutledge had called him “All Trash” as well. They’d even already asked the first sergeant about Corporal Marasco as a possible replacement.

  Then he realized that this wasn’t just about All Trash—it was about him as a squad leader. He was being tested. Lieutenant Abrams probably wanted to see if could salvage Al Trash, but from the sounds of it, he also wanted to see if he would address the issue with them. As the lieutenant had said, sometimes you have to cut out a problem.

  Feeling far more comfortable than he’d felt all morning, he stepped out of the company headquarters, a bounce in his step.

  What was that they were saying about Falt? He’s got some sort of problem, too?

  Sergeants stick together. That was just the way it was done. All Trash could wait, so he pulled out his PA.

  “Hey, Falt, you got some sort of problem with your squad?” he asked when the Third Squad leader answered.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, sounding wary, his eyebrows furrowed together.

  “I don’t know what I mean. I just happened to catch something about the lieutenant having a deadline concerning you, and I think it’s tonight. Does that register?”

  Hondo could almost see the gears turning in his fellow sergeant’s head.

  “Maybe,” he said grudgingly. “Did you hear anything else?”

  “Nope, just that, so I thought I’d give you a head’s up.

  A look of determination came over Wiscombe’s face, and he nodded.

  “I think I know what it is, and I’ll take care of it.”

  “OK. I didn’t want you to get caught unawares.”

  “No, I won’t. Not now, at least.”

  Hondo was about to cut the connection, when Wiscombe said, “And thanks, bud. I owe you a big one.”

  “No, you don’t. I know you’d do the same for me, too. We’re Marine Corps sergeants, and that’s what we do.”

  He cut the connection, then started whistling as he headed to the squadbay.

  SMS Zrínyi

  Chapter 10

  Hondo

  “Come on, Jorgenson. We’ve gone over this,” Corporal Lorenzo Marasco said.

  Private Jorgenson was getting flustered as she wracked her brain, trying to pull out the answer.

  Hondo kept a straight face, then surreptitiously queried his PA. The anti-personnel round for the PICS WP 2 had 54 pellets, each massing 285 grains. All Hondo knew was that it was a devastating round. Trying to look like he’d known the answer all along, he looked back up at where his new Second Fire Team leader was drilling his three Marines.

  Did Diva really need to know the exact specifics of the round? Probably not, Hondo thought. But they were stuck in transit without the large gym and sim-trainers that were aboard a typical Federation troop transport. Military leaders throughout the ages thought that troops left to their own devices degraded by the minute, and the SNCO and officer equivalents of the time devised anything they could to keep the troops occupied. If Marasco wanted to drill them on their PICS’ specifications, that was copacetic with him.

  Corporal Marasco was fitting in fine. In only two-plus weeks, he’d taken over the team and was working well with Wolf and Ling, to Hondo’s relief. When he’d told Lieutenant Abrams that Antman could take over the team, he wasn’t exactly lying—it was just that when compared to the dear departed All Trash, anyone would be an improvement.

  Life on the Zrínyi wasn’t optimum from a Marine standpoint. There wasn’t room to do much in the way of tactical training, and the so-called gym had room for only ten Marines at a time. First Squad was scheduled for 2030 ship’s time that evening, and even then, they’d have to trade off between themselves halfway through their 20 minutes. Of a greater concern to Hondo was that they didn’t have easy access to their PICS and weapons. Each Marine had his or her sidearm, but everything else was locked away in one of the holds for the duration of the transit.

  At the far side of the berthing space, Ling was taking the improbably named PFC Tony B. Good, Hanaburgh, and Private Radiant Purpose, through molting drill, but without a PICS. Hondo thought they looked somewhat ridiculous as they went through the gyrations, but not actually molting from inside anything.

  It was probably a good idea, though. Burger was the second senior Marine in the team, but he’d had no PICS training while in the FCDC. Tony B. Good had a year in PICS, while the super-gung-ho Radiant Purpose had been in the fleet for two months. No amount of training could replicate an emergency combat molt, as Hondo well knew, being one of the few Marines to have done it not only once, but twice. However, the more they practiced, even going through the motions, the easier it would become.

  “Ten more minutes, then we’re up for chow,” he told his three team leaders before stepping out of the space.

  Chow was a highlight aboard the ship. The New Budapest Navy had that down pat. With so many Marines crowded aboard, though, feeding them, as well as the ship’s crew, was a choreographed ballet.

  He made his way down to the sergeant’s berthing, stuck his head in, and asked, “Anyone on the next chow shift?”

  “We are,” Cara said, putting down a reader and swinging her legs out of her rack. “Hold on, I’ll go with you.

  “I’ll be glad to get off this tub,” she said as they headed to the galley.

  “It’s not really a tub. It just isn’t made for three hundred Marines,” Hondo said.

  “I still don’t know why we had to split the battalion,” she said, something she’d been grousing about ever since boarding.

  “They told us. We don’t want to attract Brotherhood attention. We’ll board the La Paz at J-Point.”

  Hondo sort of agreed with Cara, though. They could put the entire regiment aboard the FS La Paz. Take a cruiser as an escort, and blast any Brotherhood ship that tried to interfere. But as the Navy wasn’t effective against the Grubs, most of the capital ships were facing off with the Brotherhood alliance navies. The powers that be decided that using non-Federation or Confed ships and splitting up the Marine units was the best strategy for moving the division to J-Point, the empty piece of space that was serving as an assembly area for the next Grub attack.

  Alpha and Charlie companies drew the Zrínyi, an old New Budapest passenger liner modified with minimal weapons systems for self-defense. With the battalion spread out over three ships, they would reform once they reached J-Point and join the rest of the regiment aboard the La Paz. The Zrínyi had been given the most roundabout route to J-Point, so Alpha and Charlie would be the last to arrive, but that should still be five days before the turnover with the Confed legion.

  Unlike in the large Federation Navy galleys where a sailor or Marine could simply dial up his or her meal on the industrial-sized fabricators, the New Budapest cooks chose up to five main courses for each meal. Hondo had been very hesitant when they’d been briefed on that aspect, but the cooks had put that hesitation to rest. The food had been great so far. Hondo had never heard of hybrid meals, where the raw ingredients were fabricated, then the dishes prepared by the cooks, but he sure appreciated the end result.

  The rest of the platoon arrived over the next couple of minutes. They seemed to be in good spirits. The two sergeants held back, waiting for Falt and Staff Sergeant Rutledge. The platoon sergeant arrived, but Falt was nowhere in sight. If he didn’t make the platoon’s designated slot, he’d have to wait to eat with the ongoing watch section at 1820.

  “What’re you going to have?” Cara asked as they waited the final few moments until their time slot.

  Hondo glanced at the menu board. He didn’t recognize two of the dishes, but he understood “grilled ribeye steak with burgundy sauce.” His mouth started to water at the thought. If this was his third steak in a row, so be it.

  “Oh, come on. Try something new,” Cara said when he told her.

  “I am. I’m having that Bordoon Swirl Cake for dessert. I don’t have a clue what that is.”

  Cara rolled her eyes, but said nothing. From
a nutritional standpoint, there wasn’t much difference between ribeye steak and BBQ pork belly—both meats were manufactured by the fabricators from the same raw bases. It was the final touches that made the taste, shape, and texture different.

  The clock over the serving line clicked to 1740, and with a surge, the privates pushed forward, followed by the rest of the Marines and corpsmen in order of ascending rank. Hondo, Cara, and Doc Nielsgard-James waited their turn, with only the platoon sergeant behind them.

  Hondo kept an eye on the steaks, which seemed to be going fast, feeling more than a little anxious. The cooks would bring out more once they were all taken, but that could take a while, and his stomach was rubbing up against his backbone.

  “Just relax, Hondo. You look like a dog begging to be fed,” Cara said. “There’ll be more of your precious steaks.”

  “What? I’m not worried,” he said, trying to act nonchalant.

  Behind him, Staff Sergeant Rutledge choked back a laugh. Hondo didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around.

  With one steak left when Wolf hit the line, Hondo tried to will the corporal to leave it. To his relief, Wolf took the Border Stew.

  “OK, Doc, we’re up.”

  Doc was an HM5, which was the equivalent of a sergeant, and since she was junior to Hondo, she stepped up to the line before him. She started to reach for the biryani when she diverted and grabbed the last steak, sliding it to her tray.

  “Hey, you’re a vegetarian,” Hondo burst out in surprise.

  With a laugh, Doc handed the steak to Hondo, saying, “Sorry, Cara, I couldn’t keep it up.”

  Cara and Staff Sergeant Rutledge were laughing, and Hondo felt his face turn red.

  “OK, OK, very funny you guys.”

  “You should have seen your face, Hondo, like a kid whose parents took back his Christmas presents. Waaaah!” Cara said, rubbing her fists into her eyes.

  Hondo rolled his eyes, but he had to admit, they’d gotten him. Payback would be a bitch, though.

  He picked up the rest of his food, including the red-swirled cake and joined Second Platoon’s sergeants at the table the E5s had staked out as their sovereign territory.