To Esther’s surprise, she was actually enjoying reconnecting with family. There was a sense of community within the Torritites that mirrored the brotherhood of the Corps. Esther wasn’t particularly religious, and she hadn’t been raised in a Torritite household, but it was still part of who she was. Her mother had been born and raised within the community, and she’d held fast to her beliefs until the day she’d been killed. And despite Esther’s lack of contact over the years, her family was welcoming her with open arms.
Miriam and Uncle Caleb reached the chancel, and with a huge smile that threatened to crack his face, Uncle Caleb handed over Miriam to Noah. Her brother hesitated for a moment, seemingly lost in Miriam’s eyes, before he turned to Aunt Rebekah, who was officiating. While Uncle Caleb was her mother’s brother, Esther wasn’t even sure of her exact relationship with Aunt Rebekah—within the community, second, third, or further separated cousins usually resorted to age to determine how to address each other, and since Rebekah was a decade older, she was “aunt.”
Noah and Miriam took two steps forward until they were a single pace away from Aunt Rebekah, who looked over the nave and spread her hands.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today under the eyes of the Lord to join Noah Absalom Lysander to Miriam Seek Grace . . .”
Holy hell! It’s really happening. My brother’s getting hitched!
REISSLER QUAY
Chapter 13
“Look at all the lemmings,” Ter said as at least two dozen Marines crowded around the airedale major.
“They’re in for some disappointment,” Nok added.
Which was true, Esther knew. The air community was one of the most difficult MOS[7] groups to get into, but that didn’t stop starry-eyed Marines, visions of Dax Puller, Fighter Pilot and The War Eagles filling their heads.
All Marines, started out as infantry riflemen. And most support positions were filled by civilians. But combat specialties were pulled from the pool of infantrymen. To fill these positions, the Corps conducted quarterly “recruiting drives.” Marines in various MOS’s gave presentations touting the benefits of being an artilleryman, combat engineer, tanker, field logistician, pilot, or whatever.
The crowd around the major were chasing dreams. As the major had said during his brief, prospective pilots were drawn from either the officer ranks or from some highly qualified enlisted who were eligible for commissioning. There were limited slots for enlisted aircraft or ordnance techs, and they had to be eligible for warrant officer. Forsun Eisenstadt, one of Fox Company’s platoon commanders, had just been approved for flight school, and a few of those surrounding the major might qualify to be a tech, but Esther thought that would be about it as far as airedales went.
Getting a secondary MOS was much easier. Except for recon, all of the infantry MOS’s could be assigned by the battalion commander at any time during a Marine’s career. A one-year private first class could go to the mortar, rocketeer, or machine-gunner course. Primary MOSs such as armor, combat engineer, recon, arty, field communications, field logistics, the air billets, and the few support specialties open to Marines were board-approved, and were generally limited to NCOs and above.
“So, are you going to take off for the sky?” Nok asked. “You look like a beak-jockey.”
“Yeah, you know me so well,” Esther said. “I live to drive assholes like you around.”
Esther was a diehard infantryman, and Nok simply liked to pull her chain. A “beak-jockey” was a less-than-complimentary term the grunt officers used for Stork pilots. Where the Navy had huge numbers of pilots covering many different platforms, the Marines only had two manned airframes: the cargo Stork and the fighter Wasp.
Esther didn’t want to be a pilot, but what she hadn’t told anyone yet was that she wanted Nok’s job. Better yet, she wanted the PICS mission to simply transfer to First Platoon. She had served almost two operational tours so far, and the luck-of-the-draw had it that she had never been in a PICS platoon. The big combat suits were a vital component of the Corps infantry strength, and Esther knew she needed that experience if she was going to be a well-rounded senior officer someday. Getting it as a company commander would serve as a ticket punch, but it would not give her the same degree of knowledge and experience as being a PICS platoon commander.
She hoped with Nok already in receipt of orders, she could convince the skipper to give First the PICS mission. If not, she was willing to move to Third as the new platoon commander.
“Ladies, may I have a word with you three?”
Esther turned around to see Captain Vansant standing there. The captain had just given the recon recruiting brief. She was the only female recon officer in the Corps, so she had a degree of notoriety mixed with mad credibility. Another six or seven women had attempted the courses, but the rest had come out short.
This wasn’t the first time Esther had met the captain. Rory Vansant had been an All-Federation etherball player, and at the Federation championships when Esther was a sophomore, the captain’s Fortress University had knocked Esther’s UM team out of the tournament. Esther had shaken the then senior’s hand during the team line-up after the match. Yet of all the billions of people in the galaxy, the two were crossing paths again.
She doubted that the captain remembered some sophomore, but due to Vansant’s notoriety, Esther remembered it well.
“Yes, ma’am,” all three chorused as they faced her.
“What did you think of my presentation?” the captain asked.
“Uh, fine, ma’am?” Nok said, a question in her tone as to why the captain asked.
Captain Vansant laughed, then said, “OK, I’m not really asking if I’m a great public speaker. But I’d like to know your opinion on what I said about women in recon.”
What had she said? Esther wondered, trying to dig it out of her memory.
She hadn’t been paying much attention to the captain’s brief, or any brief, for that matter.
“Not many women in recon,” Ter said, “so it’s hard to say much about it. Not enough data.”
“Which is why I’m here, Lieutenant, uh, Opal,” she said after peering at Ter’s name patch. “I’m on a tour of units now, and my goal is to get more women into the service.”
“But why? Male or female, what does it matter, ma’am?” Nok asked.
“Twenty years ago, it probably wouldn’t have mattered from an operational standpoint. But now, with the SpecOps initiative, well, it does matter.”
Esther frowned as she tried to grasp what the captain was doing. Twenty years ago was before the Evolution, and women weren’t even allowed in the military then, but that couldn’t be what she meant. Shortly after the Evolution, the Marines had adopted a policy to keep the standard recon missions in support of infantry units but also adopt a SpecOps posture. Refered to as MARSOC, they were no longer going to leave those missions to the SEALS and the FCDC’s Volaire teams. But why would that make a difference?
Then it hit her.
“Cover,” she said.
“What?” Nok asked.
“Blending in,” she said, looking at the captain for confirmation.
Much to the dismay of many of the Old Corps Marines, the MARSOC teams did not maintain Marine Corps grooming nor uniform regs. When they went out, they tried to blend in with the community. The problem was that military men tended to stand out, whether in uniform or not. Women had not been in the Federation military for long, and Esther was pretty sure that a female Marine, dressed as a civilian would attract less notice than a male counterpart.
Captain Vansant smiled and nodded before saying, “A good team has a variety of people who can contribute their skills. We need all types in the teams, and that includes women.”
“But begging the captain’s pardon, you’re the only officer to have made it through those schools so far. Most wash out. You know, not lowering of the standards and all,” Nok said.
“RTC, then MSOC,” the captain said, for Reconnaissance Training
Course and Marine Special Operations Course. “And your point is?”
“Well, ma’am, the course is hard enough for men, and, to be blunt, I think fewer women could make it through.”
“Which is why we need more recruits. To make sure the Corps gets what it needs,” the captain said, swiveling to look Esther dead in the eyes.
“I get that, ma’am. But it wouldn’t be good on our records to try and wash out,” Nok said, voicing her misgivings.
“Not many women earn the title of Federation Marine. Not too many men, either.”
Why is she looking at me?
But Esther knew. The captain was recruiting her. Not Ter, not Nok, but her. She knew who Esther was, and she wanted Esther to volunteer. That wasn’t ego speaking. It was just an acknowledgment of fact.
Nok was a good Marine, smart and personable. But while she was capable enough to manage boot camp, she wasn’t a physical stud. Ter wasn’t much better. If RTC was indeed as difficult as advertised—and it had been when her father had gone through—Esther might be one of a small number of women who could manage the physical aspect of it. Nine enlisted female Marines had managed it, but Esther didn’t know how many had tried.
And she was just as sure that politics were involved. The recon community was somewhat of an outcast among the rest of the Corps as they received a significant share of the Marine Corps budget. The perception was that they took what they wanted while keeping separate from the normal command chain. More than a few general officers had advocated abandoning the MARSOC mission entirely. If Esther Lysander, daughter of Ryck Lysander was in recon, then that could mute some of the overt criticism.
Or cause more if my presence brought in outside attention.
The SEALs sure suffered from that. Being semi-mythological as the SEALs were had some advantages, but it sure made the “clandestine” parts of their mission all the more difficult.
“Things worthwhile usually require risk. To be the best, you have to try,” the captain said, her eyes still locked onto Esther’s, leaning forward like a lion stalking a cape buffalo.
An image flashed through her mind of the plaque that hung over her father’s desk at home. It was a quote from an Old Earth 18th century naval commander, John Paul Jones: “He who will not risk, cannot win.” That was true enough, and for a moment, the competitive aspect excited her.
But she knew that recon could be a dead end for an officer. Her father had gone into recon only because he felt that it was recon or resigning. The tour had reset his motivation (and earned him his first Federation Nova), but he was an outlier. Not as many officers within the recon community rose to senior ranks, and making senior ranks was Esther’s goal.
On the other hand, a single tour as a lieutenant shouldn’t hurt her. It might not help, but it wouldn’t be the kiss of death.
Not good enough. If it won’t help, then it’s not worth doing.
She stared back at the captain, keeping her face emotionless.
“I just would like you three to consider it. The Corps needs women in recon, and they have to come from somewhere. Here, take my card,” she said, swiping her PA near theirs. “If you have any questions, give me a shout.”
Esther’s PA buzzed, waiting for instructions on whether to accept or reject the captain’s contact information.
The captain stood up straighter and said, “Thank you for your time, ladies. I’ve got another brief with First Battalion, so please excuse me. And I’m serious; call me at any time.”
“Fat chance,” Nok said as they watched the captain walked off. “No way I’m going to volunteer, only to wash out.”
“Yeah, fat chance,” Esther agreed.
The challenge was tempting, though.
Chapter 14
“Fuck those assholes,” Julio Santos, one of the Echo lieutenants said. “And of course, the Brotherhood ain’t doing jack shit.”
Esther looked up from her orange-honey cake to the feed. The twisted remains of a maglev lay smoldering on its side while numbers were flashed under the image. Thirty-two people had been killed with many more wounded, numbers that were expected to climb. Suddenly, the sweet dessert one of her favorites, lost its allure. She pushed it aside and watched intently. Throughout the messhall, talk dwindled as more Marines became aware of the newsbreak.
The Right Hand of God was taking responsibility for the action. The RHG was a fairly new group, either an offshoot or an allied group to the more established Seventh Revelationists. Esther wasn’t sure why Julio was blaming the Brotherhood; just because both were religious organizations didn’t mean they were aligned with each other.
They watched somberly as the story unfolded. Marines had fought the SevRevs often enough, and Esther knew they were all thinking the same thing. This could be the birth of a new enemy for them to face.
“Man’s inhumanity to man,” Steel muttered from across the table. “What the hell are we turning into?”
“That’s San Isidro Labrador,” Esther said as she saw the banner feed. “Is Nok coming to eat?”
“Oh, yeah, wasn’t she born there?” Steel asked.
“Yeah, she’s dual. Father from San Isirdor, mother from Heritage,” she answered, still intent on the feed.
“Do you think she knows anyone there?”
With over three billion on the planet, Esther doubted it, but she’d certainly want to know.
“She and Bull went to Giorgio’s,” Julio told her.
Most of the lieutenants and a good number of the captains in the battalion were single, and with officers only being charged 2-and-a-half credits for dinner in the messhall, most made use of Marine Corps chow to keep their cost-of-living down. Even a simple shwarma out in the ville would run four credits at a minimum, and most Marines couldn’t imagine having only one schwarma for dinner.
Still, it wasn’t very romantic, and as Nok’s end-of-tour was getting closer, she and the Echo Company XO were heating up together.
Esther got out her PA, but Ter said, “Let them enjoy their dinner. It’s not like she can do anything about it.”
Esther hesitated, but then nodded. Ter was right. She could find out later. She looked back up at the feed, listening to the reporter describe in graphic detail what he was witnessing.
Talk gravitated to a possible Federation response. San Isidro Labrador was nominally an independent planet, but with ties to the Federation and Alliance of Free States. What the Federation could do and what they would do were not necessarily the same. Esther knew that throughout history, heavy-handed responses to terrorist often begat new terrorists, but a people couldn’t stand by and ignore such acts. There had to be a response.
During her brief that afternoon, Captain Vansant had noted that one of recon’s SpecOps prime missions was to combat terrorism. It seemed like a good idea to Esther.
So why am I thinking about recon?
She watched for another five minutes, but the reporter was repeating himself. She put her tray in the cart and walked out into the evening. The weather was a comfortable 19 degrees, and the last remnants of the sunset lit the clouds in reds, blues, and oranges. It was a beautiful, peaceful evening here, but light-years away, on San Isidro Labrador, 32 people had been killed, people whose only crime had been to take the maglev to work that morning.
She walked slowly through the Quad, past the company offices on her way to the Q. She didn’t have plans for the evening (which gave rise to the briefest of jealousies of Nok). There were some interesting fellow lieutenants in the battalion, and more than a few had expressed interest in her, but Esther thought it better to keep her social life separate from her professional life. It took discipline, but she knew it was the right choice.
She’d had a few interludes over the last two years with Marines and one Navy ensign from other units, but not many, and none lasted past a couple of dates. She was too focused on her career to give much of herself, and she knew that was necessary for a serious relationship.
Maybe later, after I�
�m more established.
She suddenly didn’t want to be alone, so she pulled out her PA to call Ter, but then she realized she didn’t know what she wanted to do. She needed to think up something first or she’d sound like a morose baby who was lonely for company.
Which I am, but I don’t have to let her know.
She glanced at the company offices, which took the back right side on the bottom deck of Building 188. The corner office light was on, which wasn’t a surprise. Captain Hoffman might be married and with kids, all living out in base housing, but he often worked late.
Esther’s feet changed direction before she knew it, and she headed to the building.
“Evening ma’am!” the duty Marine said, jumping to attention and saluting as she entered the front hatch.
“At ease, Lance Corporal. I’m just going back to Golf.”
Esther didn’t return the salute as she’d taken off her cover as she entered. She turned left down the main passage and made her way to the end office, rapping at the doorjamb.
“Sir, you got a minute?”
“Sure, Esther, come on in. Take a seat, and I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Esther sat on the couch while the captain’s fingers flew over his keyboard while subvocalizing into his throat mic. Most people used voice-to-word while writing. Some used qwerty keyboards. But the captain used both subvocs and a syl-keyboard to record his writing.
Two minutes later, the captain turned off the keyboard projector and lowered his throat mic.
“What’s up?”
Esther hadn’t planned on bringing up switching the PICS to First Platoon yet. Nok still had more than three months left on station. But with the skipper working late, it seemed like a good time.
“Sir, you’ve told us that Marine officers are generalists, right?”
“Yes, I think I might have mentioned that once or twice . . . or 20 or 30 times,” he said with a chuckle.
Esther's Story: Recon Marine (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 2) Page 11
