Jethro: First to Fight

by Hechtl, Chris

  “We're down to details at the base so once we've got our maintenance caught up, we'll lend you the earth-movers like the admiral agreed to,” the Major said.

  “We'll appreciate it,” George replied, unsure what project to put them on first. He kicked himself, that was something his people needed to work on. Here he was thinking of acting as the governor, a central source of authority. And he realized, they needed it. They couldn't keep going on without some sort of central authority to make quick decisions like this. Sometimes time counted.

  “I've got a list somewhere. Let me pull it up and check in with the mayors then get back to you on that,” George said.

  “Of course. As I said, it'll be another day or so,” the Major replied expansively. He waved a hand. “It will take at least two days to shift the equipment to the mainland for the jobs.”

  “Understood,” George said with a nod. He looked over to Jim and Chumly, both chatting with a work crew digging into cleaning a bulldozer. “I think Chumly wants to drive one.”

  “Hell, I want to drive one,” the Major snorted. “It's fun for oh, a minute I heard. Then it can get tricky if you have to do something in tight quarters. If you don't watch the mud you can get stuck easy.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine,” George chuckled.

  “The agreement is to make roads, improve flood control, plus create dams and fire breaks. I think that's it. Drainage ditches, bridges, that sort of thing too.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don't have a clue where to start,” the Major teased.

  George eyed him for a brief moment and then took a pipe out. He snorted softly and banged it on his heel. “Nope,” he said. “I knew you'd keep your word, but others weren't so sure. And we didn't think you'd be finished so quick. Like I said, I have a list, but it's not organized.”

  “Ah.”

  “I'm starting to see how well your people are, and how important it is to be organized. Saves wasted time.”

  “True.”

  “I don't suppose I could borrow a few of your planners and architects? Maybe get them to help train some of our people to eventually replace them? Everyone's still looking out for number one back on the mainland. We're not quite hand to mouth, but it was close until the admiral came. Well, him and you folks,” George said.

  “I see,” the Major said, turning away. He nodded, coming to a decision. “Sure. It'll give idle hands something to do, keep our people's skills up, and help you out. I'll get a team together.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  “Are you going to be at the graduation?” The Major asked.

  “I wouldn't miss it for the galaxy Major. You must be proud,” George said, sticking his pipe stem in his mouth.

  “I'm not quite there yet, they have a lot to prove with the crucible. But I'm getting there,” the Major replied.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  As the trainees worked on their field craft, Jethro paused to check on the status of the field. They were waiting for the movement to finish so they could board their shuttles and do a night exercise. He checked his internal chrono and then checked the time stamp the flight ops AI had sent him. Another hour to go, that was if they didn't have any more hiccups. Somehow he was fairly sure they'd be delayed, they always were.

  He turned to watch the shuttles pick the great machines up and move them out as the sun slowly set. It was glorious, golden rays of sun mixed with the bright blue and white of the hot shuttle wash, complete with the heat ripples on the concrete. It truly was an awesome sight. He made certain to record it, it would make for a great inspirational piece for the corps.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Naga Ris'ha toured the spaceport as the designated driver to Captain Pendeckle for the day. The duty rotated, each of the Marine officers had drivers assigned to them, they tended to do paperwork while in the vehicles so they needed looking after.

  He'd missed the sight of the earth movers getting shifted to mainland. He'd caught sight of them once, but he'd gotten stuck in the parking lot behind HQ for most of the movement, the massive concrete and steel building had obstructed his view. It had sucked, but he'd picked up a vid feed from the web. It looked impressive. He would have loved to have ridden in the cab of one of those monsters when it was carried aloft. Quite a sight.

  Captain Pendeckle liked to get out of the office. He toured the base daily, something the drivers enjoyed. He checked out the Cobra squadron as it did touch and go landings. Firefly had carried eight fighters and four other craft forming a makeshift squadron. Lieutenant JG Alex Rogan was in charge, though only by date of rank.

  From what he had heard a lot of the squadron looked to the older Lieutenant JG Martha 'Hurt Locker' Huert. She was good too, squared away, a natural leader, and a damn good pilot. Rogan 'Rogue 1' had her by date of rank. From what he'd picked up from the grapevine the two occasionally clashed, but 'Hurt Locker' and 'Rogue 1' were professionals, they kept it mostly in the family. The older woman knew better than to undermine the younger man's authority. Alex in return seemed to have settled down during the trip out, deferring to the older woman on occasion, but not afraid of using his authority when needed.

  The two Marines silently watched as a Cobra stopped to refuel. The cockpit canopy opened and a woman took her helmet off. She stood and shook her hair out. It was short, the action must have been reflexive. She waved away a boarding ladder a rating was holding and climbed down using hand holds on her bird. A rating handed her a tablet clipboard and a bottle of water.

  Ratings were swarming the craft, plugging in diagnostics, flipping up ports to attach hoses for fuel and life support. They could see the occasional puff of escaping gas when one hose was finished and detached. It added to a hazy effect around the fighter.

  A series of concrete half cylinders lined one taxi area, each sheltered an aerospace craft ready to lift off at a moment's notice. Well, all but one, one was being used as shelter for a shuttle being torn apart by dirty mechanics.

  “They're doing good,” Captain Pendeckle murmured. “I wonder if they're going to do anti-shipping strikes on Firefly next? Or are we going to finally get a coordinated exercise and do a ground support tasking?”

  “Sir?” Ris'ha asked.

  “Nothing. How goes the training?” the Captain asked.

  “I don't know sir, Gunny Schultz is handling it. I'm in the motor pool.”

  The Captain looked at the Naga coiled in the seat and then back to the flight line. “Sorry forgot. You were in F platoon though right? I thought you had a grapevine.”

  “We do for some things sir, but we don't keep up with each other very well sometimes when we're all busy.”

  “Ah, and we have been busy,” the Captain murmured distractedly. He nodded in approval, the ground crew had finished the refueling. The woman finished drinking from a bottle of water, crumpled it, then tossed it to a rating. She turned and climbed her bird.

  “And life moves on. Driver, move to the cliffs to the south, let's see this bird take off from a different angle,” the Captain said.

  “Aye aye sir,” the Naga replied dutifully, switching the electric engine on and then moving out.

  “I need to remember to get with the Major and establish a place off shore for the fighter and shuttle exercises. We'll need to do some water recovery exercises, and some crashes I bet.”

  “Sir, has the flight training building been completed yet?”

  “No, they are doing that on San Diego for now. We'll get one in phase 2,” the Captain replied absently, looking around. Marines were jogging nearby, a group was working its way around, training on field craft. They crouched, going over some sign near the edge of the gravel drive. The Captain nodded in passing as the men and women straightened and saluted. He did a quick salute and they were gone, on their way.

  He turned just in time to see the fighter taxi to the end of the runway. They were headed to the far end. He tapped the Naga on the shoulder. “Here. Here is good,” he said, eyes still on
the Cobra. The craft's flaps worked, checking things, then she seemed to crouch, the front end dropping lower. They could see heat waves rippling from her rear. Something bright flared behind her into the scorched concrete wall behind the craft and then she was moving, picking up speed fast.

  The Captain gasped as the craft ripped up the strip and then rose, her landing gear folded into her bays and she screamed aloft, almost overhead. The wash ripped his cover off, sending it tumbling.

  “Damn that's cool,” Captain Pendeckle said.

  “Yes sir.” The Naga turned to look over the drop. He could see bodies in the surf. One he recognized, the Selkie Deja. He sent a hi text to him.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Deja looked up from his sporting when he got the text. He looked around until he spotted someone up on the cliffs. He waved to the vehicle. A hand claw waved back. “What's up?” he texted back.

  “Just playing hooky with the boss,” Ris'ha texted back. “I didn't know you were here. I thought you were in San Diego?”

  “I passed the advanced class,” Deja replied. “Accelerated program since I was a civilian pilot before joining up.” He'd aced the shuttle training program in record time. Flying a shuttle was incredibly easy for someone who had a three dimensional inner ear, lived in water, and had been trained to fly a starship. Hurranna had some issues when he had left, but she was getting a handle on them.

  “Ah.”

  “I had almost gotten stuck on milk runs to the orbital forts, but the brass changed their minds.”

  “Cool. Glad they did.”

  “Besides, they needed someone for the water training,” Deja added.

  “I see. Never did say the brass got it wrong all the time. Still, cool. Beers sometime?”

  “Name the time and the bar,” Deja replied. He was a little reluctant, the sea called to him more and more while he was on the planet. He missed the salt water, the ebb and surge of the tide, the occasional drifting piece of sea weed.

  “I'm off shift in two hours. Today?”

  “I'm on shift in two,” the Selkie replied with a sigh. He watched a pair of surfers. Surfing was fun, he had to admit, but so was swimming. He had to be careful though, maintain his situational awareness. The water had sharks in it. He wasn't sure why humans had brought sharks to so many worlds, something about keeping the food chain functional. He didn't care, he just didn't want to get eaten.

  “Sucks,” Ris'ha replied. “I gotta go, I'll send you an e-mail.”

  “Cool,” Deja said. He waved again as the jeep moved, making a three point turn and then left in a slight cloud of dust. The Selkie shook his head and then returned to swimming. He'd better enjoy it while he had the chance.

  He turned to the barge moored off shore. That was a fun thing, not only was it a ball to dive off of, sea life liked to shelter under its bulk. Kelp was starting to form a forest nearby. He hoped the thing would remain there for a while, but a work crew had been out yesterday to service her. He knew it was only a matter of time before it was gone. “Better have fun with it while we have the chance,” he said, waving to a couple of Gashg swimmers. “Race you!” he said, pointing to the barge. They immediately started in, kicking fast. He snorted and eeled forward.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  “Who's not ready?” Jethro asked simply, staring at the recruits in formation. He stood at parade rest, eyes scanning the recruits for any hint of indecision, doubt, or fear. The recruits had realized straight off, DI's smelled fear, they homed in on it and would rip you up, making you sorry, sore and more afraid of them than the task you were scared of. Yes, they'd learned. They hadn't conquered their fear, only a fool thought they had, but they had learned to channel it and not let it stop them.

  He and Asazi had just had them do warm up exercises. Each boots was in full kit, ready for war. Over the past eleven weeks he'd tried to slip in tidbits he'd picked up over the past two years. He'd have to wait and see if it was worth it. He wondered briefly if the Gunny had gone through this, this anxiety before their crucible. He shook the thought off and stuck to the prepared script.

  “The crucible is the final test of boot, it is the best we can do at full combat without anyone actually dying. Of course accidents can and do happen, so don't screw up. Keep your head on straight, keep it down, and don't pop up in the same place twice. Remember your training,” Jethro said. After a moment he began to move, pacing the platoon. Platoon Alpha and Bravo had started their crucible rotations a few moments ago. Alpha was in space, starting that leg of the exercise program. Bravo was doing the simulated mortar attack, he could hear the crump and occasional explosion in the distance with his enhanced hearing. He knew the recruits heard it too, they knew what to expect. He'd damn well made sure, he'd run them through it.

  Now it was Charlie's turn. Soon it would be Delta's. “Future potential for promotions might be a factor here, it is by far not the only criteria, so don't get your head so far up your ass worrying about that. Keep to the program. Keep your head in the here and now. Watch your six, watch your buddies six, and don't lose focus. Get it done. Get it done or men die. Are you ready?” he snarled, turning to face them.

  “Hoorah drill Sergeant!”

  “Semper Fi!”

  ...*...*...*...*...

  The first Crucible started at dawn. Recon was tapped as one of the op forces. The Crucible was different than F platoon's, most of it was ground oriented. The platoons were rotated between exercises, with short breathers in between to reset for the new exercise. Op squads that had thought it would be a duck shoot found out differently. They also found that going up against platoon after platoon was exhausting for them as well.

  Jethro and the DI's were out of it, tasked to monitor their people for safety. The Gunny had brought in independent Marines to act as referees and inspectors.

  Charlie platoon did well in the shuttle drop exercises, but hit the middle of the field when it came to the space ops. The platoon had only a week of skinsuit time so it really wasn't fair. They did better in boarding ops, and of course excelled in marksmanship.

  Jethro noted his people had also done well in the leadership, his squad leaders had settled down to the sims right off, after all, he'd run them through them all at least once before. Of course not all at once, nor simulation after another, with little chance to rest.

  Two of Charlie platoon had been injured in the simulated mortar attack, another had been downed by a concussion. The cliff assault had been a bruiser, exhausting his people, but they had pulled through it and had soldiered on.

  Now they were on the last part, tired, some swaying in the breeze, damn near out of it. Two Marines had drifted off standing upright, their buddies propped them up. They were standing in their barracks as inspectors went through their kits with a fine toothed comb, making notes of errors.

  Jethro hated the GI detail and inspections, but knew it was necessary. OCD it might seem, make work it might be, but attention to detail was a matter of life or death in the corps. All too many forgot that, they slacked off and let the job slip. Hopefully this new group wouldn't pick up those bad habits too soon.

  They'd made it though, he flicked his ears and nodded in approval to the sagging faces of the platoon leader and squad leaders. Tired blood shot eyes stared back at him. They didn't know it yet, but they had made it. This, this was chickenshit. Necessary to some, but not to him right now. His people had survived, survived and thrived. It was a good day to be a Marine. He about faced and walked smartly out, head held high.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Before the graduation, janitorial crews were assembled to clean the newly constructed parade grounds and ready them for the graduation ceremony. Crews clipped the growing bushes and grass, chatting as they worked. Most treated it as make work until the Major let slip that the entire proceedings would be broadcast planet, and later sector wide. That got some noncoms onto their people to get it right the first time. Security crews checked everything over carefully. They knew t
he threat of sabotage or an attack was remote, but they also knew the danger of letting their guard down. Besides, it was great training.

  The recruits had three days of calm, time to rest and recover from the crucible while also getting their paperwork and uniforms squared away. On the third day they drilled, intensely boring drills and hurry up and wait, but necessary so they didn't make an ass of themselves in front of the cameras.

  ...*...*...*...*...

  Sunday dawned bright and clear. Marines went about their business, some stretching, some doing PT, others shining gear and getting ready for the assembly. Only those on duty would be excused for this, if you weren't sick or working, the order was to be there. Heaven help anyone who wasn't ship shape.

  Graduation of the recruits went well, they passed in review one platoon at a time in front of the grandstands. As they passed the VIP grandstand they saluted Major Forth. The Major returned the salute. Captain Pendeckle, Second Lieutenant Valenko, Lieutenant Myers, the other officers, along with Captain Mayweather and the Agnostan dignitaries watched from the front row behind the Major in the VIP stands. Marines and civilians filled the assembly.

  Captain Mayweather attended in her white uniform, with some of her officers and even one or two enlisted. The entire proceedings was recorded with sensor balls and film crews, both for propaganda purposes, to show the families back home, but also to inspire and entertain the natives. A radio booth had been set up with a tower for a local radio station to broadcast.

  The first group to be honored were the honor recruits, those who had garnered the highest points through boot. Some were given medals and certificates for achievements. The number one ranking boots was a heavyworlder female named Chase, she received an automatic rank of Corporal. The top four below her, most of them squad or platoon leaders received Lance Corporal stripes. The four below them received PFC rank. The four under them received second Private rank, also known as Private or P2. The rest of the rank and file would start out as Private third class.