Esther's Story: Recon Marine (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 2)

by Jonathan Brazee

  “And the second reason?”

  “You are General Lysander’s daughter.”

  If Esther had been surprised at his first reason, she was floored by the second.

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” she asked, her voice rising.

  “Almost the same reasoning. People will take notice if your father’s daughter is a MARSOC Marine. It could possibly open up the bankbook, but it will certainly raise our profile.”

  “I thought MARSOC was supposed to be swift, silent, and deadly.”

  “Operators, yes. As a branch, maybe not.”

  “So if I’m supposed to be some MARSOC figurehead, then how can I be an operator? It would be hard for my team to get anything done with legions of paparazzi following me around.”

  Top smiled as he said, “Discussed and dismissed. We have methods to ensure that does not happen. MARSOC might be using you in the big picture, but you would be a real operator. Anything else could actually backfire on us.”

  This wasn’t going as Esther had hoped after Top said she was getting an invitation. Esther wanted to succeed on her own terms, not for being a woman or having the right father. She was about to tell the Top to shove it up where the sun doesn’t shine.

  “And, pray tell, what is this third wonderful reason?”

  “Because you’re a good officer. Couple that with your background and your drive to succeed, the general consensus is that you will succeed. You’re on the fast track to stars, and if you don’t screw up in the meantime, the entire recon community would like to have one of its own in positions of authority. We don’t seem to do so well with officers, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said in an even voice while staring at the Top. “So you think I’ll make flag because of my father?”

  “Not in the least, Captain. If you were a shitbird, or hell, if you simply weren’t an outstanding officer, your father could be God Almighty and you’d never make major. But facts are facts. You are who you are, and because of that, you will be noticed. If you continue to excel, more senior officer will hear of you, and that will help you during the boards.”

  “But in the universe according to Lee Gann, that means if I screw up, everyone will know and it can’t be hidden.”

  “True, so I suggest you don’t screw up.”

  Esther’s mouth dropped open as she looked at him, shocked at his statement. Then she broke out into a laugh, unable to help herself.

  “OK, Top, maybe I’d better not screw up.”

  She got control of herself and sat back, right hand on her chin as she looked at her platoon sergeant. She hated the first two reasons he’d given her and barely tolerated the third, even if they all had a degree of truth or logic to them. The question she had to answer was whether she should accept the invitation or not. If it was right for her, if it was right for the Corps, did the reasons matter?

  “And what do you think, Top? I’m asking you as my senior SNCO, not as a MARSOC Marine.”

  “It’s kind of hard to differentiate between the two, Captain. I am who I am. I’ll say this. I recommended you. First and foremost because I think you will advance MARSOC’s mission. Second is because I think you need it. You are unraveling here, and becoming an operator might just save your sanity. But that right there is where I have my reservations.

  “Being blunt, ma’am, your attitude sucks right now. I know, I know,” he said, holding up a hand, palm out to forestall what she was going to say, “that you’re just bitching to me. You don’t show any of that to the team members. I don’t mind listening to you. But just by voicing your feelings, you can make them stronger, reinforcing them in your mind and making them more real. MARSOC is different that battalion, but it’s got its own share of bullshit. There’s an old saying that the Marines never promised anyone a rose garden, and ain’t that the truth.

  “I went out on a limb for you, Captain. I know you are dedicated, but I know losing Monty and the others was hard on you. But you’ve got to put that behind you now if you’re going to succeed and serve the Federation.

  “So before you say yes—if you are going to say yes—I’ve got to know if you can do that. You need to go into this without reservation.”

  “And if I say no, you’ll put the kibosh on the invitation.”

  He didn’t bother to insult her intelligence by denying it. He just sat there, watching her.

  She stared back at him as her thoughts raced. Her attitude had sucked lately. And if it did when she was a platoon commander, crying because her Marines were getting all the action, how would she be in a staff billet at some headquarters? She couldn’t expect to have all command billets during her career. If she’d wanted to stay a fighter, she should never have accepted her commission.

  She hated the reasons she was being made the offer. The first two were things completely out of her control, and even the third was only partially her own doing. Sure, she’d made it through RTC on her own, but she didn’t think she’d done anything so far to earn the invitation.

  She knew she could do it, though. She could excel in MARSOC. So maybe the ends justified the means. Who cared what the reasons were if it was the right decision to make? And suddenly, it did feel right to her.

  “OK, Top. I accept. When do I start?”

  UFSGS MANTA

  Chapter 28

  “Have you ever been on a Space Guard cutter before, ma’am?” the senior chief asked.

  “Yeah, just last year on the General Habitats JTA,” she said, looking at the ship with reservation. “This is a cutter, though?”

  The senior chief laughed, then said, “That’s more of an honorific, ma’am, if you know what I mean. We kinda call all Space Guard ships ‘cutters,’ for tradition like. But the Manta’s a good ship. We’ll get you to Elysium nice and cozy.”

  The “cutter” was barely 20 meters long, which for a space-faring vessel was tiny. She didn’t see how the ship had room for her crew, much less her eight-man team.

  “It’s going to be a tight trip, Ess,” Gunnery Sergeant Tim Ziegler said beside her as they looked at the screen display of the ship. The station’s docks in this terminal were designed for Class C ships, those up to 200 meters in length. Even in the “baby” docks, the Manta looked like a child’s toy.

  “I hope everyone’s showered,” she said to Tim. “It looks like we’ll be living in each other’s armpits.”

  She turned back to the chief and asked, “Where’s your commanding officer? I’d like to go over a few things before we pull out.”

  “You’re looking at him, ma’am. Senior Chief Arleigh J. Carpenter, at your service.”

  “You? You’re the CO?”

  “Yes, ma’am, in the flesh. I know, you were expecting some high and mighty officer, like an ensign or maybe even a JG, but I can assure you, I have enough experience to take you were you need to go.”

  Oh, a little sarcasm now, huh Senior Chief?

  While almost all Marine officers were pulled from the enlisted ranks, most of the Navy officers were commissioned directly from civilians. Esther didn’t know much about the Space Guard, but it probably followed in line with the Navy, so she got his point.

  “I’m sure your capabilities are more than adequate, Senior Chief. I was just surprised. I wasn’t aware that the Space Guard had enlisted commanding officers,” she said, stressing the word “enlisted.”

  Esther had not doubt that someone who’d made it to senior chief would be far better qualified than a brand new ensign, but his sarcasm grated on her. She hadn’t thought her question was out-of-line.

  “Well, ma’am, we’re just the Space Guard. We don’t get the funding that you and the Navy get, and we’re short of personnel. So all of the Class 5 ships are given to command-screened chiefs. That’s what this star means,” he said, pointing to the small badge on his chest.

  Oh, this relationship is starting out great. Just ignore him, Esther. Let him get us where we need to go, and then it’ll be good riddance.r />
  “Thank you for explaining that, Senior Chief. Are we ready to board?”

  “Once I have your orders, then yes, ma’am.”

  You know we’re who we say we are, she thought, but she pulled out her PA to tap his.

  The orders were coded, so they would only transfer to his.

  He made a show of reading them, then said, “Welcome aboard the Manta, ma’am. If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

  He nodded to the FCDC security who keyed open the gate. Juliette 6 was a civilian station, but as the ship and passengers were Federation military, the FCDC trooper was taking boarding gate duties.

  “Let’s get everyone embarked,” she told Tim, who turned and motioned to the other six team members.

  Esther had been with the team for more than a month now, and she still was amazed at the feral grace with which the men moved. They might look like average civilians. Heck, Merl looked like he never left his gaming chair except to get more snacks. But as soon as any of them moved, there was no hiding that they were bad hombres. She couldn’t put her finger on just what it was, but it was patently obvious to her. These men were deadly.

  At least for the first time in her career, she’d had time to meet her Marines and work with them before being given a mission. One month might not seem that long, but it was better than she’d had with her previous three units.

  Esther followed her team down the docking tube to the ship. Each Marine and Doc saluted aft and requested permission to come aboard. It seemed a little ridiculous—they didn’t do that when boarding shuttles, and most of them were larger than the Manta. But traditions were important in the naval service, and technically, the tiny cutter was a man-of-war.

  Esther wanted to retract that admission as soon as she passed through the hatch directly into the bridge. Four “taxmen” were standing by the control stations, watching the team enter. Along with the senior chief, that mean the tiny ship had a crew of five, unless someone was hiding somewhere—but the ship seemed hardly big enough for that. Esther could see into a cramped berthing space to the rear of the bridge, and beyond that was a featureless bulkhead.

  “Where do we store our gear?” Tim asked.

  “We’ve cleared out Locker B for you,” one of the Space Guardsmen answered, pointing to the locker.

  Doc Buren opened it up, then turned to the rest and said, “Uh, I don’t think this is going to work.”

  Esther stepped forward to look inside. The locker was about a meter-and-a-half square. The team had much more gear than that.

  “That’s it?” Tim asked.

  “Whatever else you have, just stack it up over there. Try and keep it out of the way,” the taxman replied.

  Tim looked over to Esther, and she said, “Just make do. We’re not going to be on here long.”

  “What about our weapons?” Bug asked.

  “There’s our weapons locker,” the same man answered, indicating a four-place rifle rack on the rear bulkhead. “That’s our total armament, in fact.”

  The spots were filled with two M99-A1s and two older plasma rifles that Esther didn’t even recognize. The A1s were in use even before her father’s time, so these were pretty old. The Marines sometimes complained about getting hand-me-down equipment, but if the weapons were any indication, the Space Guard might have it worse.

  “Did he say those are your total armaments?” Esther asked the senior chief.

  “That he did. The Drum Class used to be armed, but the guns were pulled out 20 years ago. Made us too ‘militaristic,’ doncha know.”

  “But, your mission is to stop smuggling, right? That and piracy. What do you do if someone refuses to heave to for an inspection.”

  “Why, we politely ask them to comply, that’s what we do.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. If you’ve got no bite, no one’s going to obey, not if they’ve got a cargo hold of smuggled goods.”

  “You’re pretty smart for a grunt, ma’am,” the senior chief said.

  “Tell her about the Bonito, skipper,” a petty officer said.

  She’d been wondering about how to refer to the senior chief. “Captain” seemed odd, so it was good to hear the petty officer call him “skipper.”

  “What about the Bonito?” Esther asked.

  “Five months ago, in the Praceous System, the Bonito did ask a ship to heave to for inspection. She was blown into her component atoms. Evidently, the ship didn’t want to comply.”

  “And they ain’t never been caught yet,” the petty officer said, her voice full of venom.

  That floored Esther. The Space Guard might be a cross between the Federation Navy and the Ministry of Revenue, but they did sail into harm’s way. She couldn’t think of any valid reason for them to do that unarmed.

  “And they took out your ships’ armaments because they made you look too militaristic?”

  “Well, to be honest, only partly. The old Pattersons were not very effective, so some brainiacs thought better nothing than something that wouldn’t do the job. We were supposed to get upgrades, but that nasty funding issue keeps getting in the way.”

  Damn! Sucks to be you, I guess, she thought, but feeling more than a bit of empathy for the senior chief and his crew.

  “Where’re we supposed to rack out?” Chris asked.

  “We’ve got six racks in berthing. That’s where the fabricator is, too.”

  “The coffee program’s corrupted,” one of the crew shouted out. “Don’t even try it.”

  “So, we hot-rack it. If the racks are full, stretch out on the deck,” the senior chief continued. “Space is tight, so please clean up after yourselves and try to stay out of our way.”

  “You heard the skipper,” Esther said. “Try to get settled the best you can.”

  She didn’t even try to put her pack in the locker. She plopped it on the deck against the bulkhead, lay down using it for a pillow, pulled her cover over her eyes, and tried to get some sleep.

  No berthing, no space for our gear, an unarmed ship, and now, no coffee. This is going to be a frigging great transit!

  ELYSIUM

  Chapter 29

  The air tore at Esther’s wingsuit as she descended into the planet’s atmosphere. There were none of the acrobatics she’d enjoyed the first time she’d dropped from a Space Guard cutter. This was business, and it was a night jump.

  She’d been grateful that she’d already had a cutter jump. This was the first time for three of her team, and considering how small the cargo compartment had been—barely able to hold all eight members of the team—and jumping at night, it had been beneficial to already know what to expect.

  The transit on the Manta had been uncomfortable, but as she’d thought about it, she realized it had been a smart move. The old cutter was small and unarmed. She doubted that any watchers would think she had any combatants on board. If the team was supposed to be clandestine, then using the Manta for the insert gave them a pretty good start to the mission.

  Now they were on their own. There was no one there for support if things went to shit. And she had to admit there was a very reasonable possibility that it could.

  Esther watched her display. Jumping over water at night made determining altitude by visual means almost impossible. There were no references on the water for scale, so she didn’t even try.

  She couldn’t see any of her team, but their avatars showed up on her display. Everyone was close enough to rendezvous after landing, but not so close as to constitute a danger of collision either while in flight or after their chutes deployed.

  This jump was a HALO, or High Altitude, Low Opening. They’d jumped at 15,000 meters, and with the wingsuit’s ability to cover ground, they’d have flown close to 50 klicks to just offshore. If anyone had been tracking the Manta as it entered the atmosphere to land at the spaceport Patra, there would little be reason to connect it to the island of Naxos, the team’s destination.

  At 1,500 meters, Esther deployed her chute. By i
nstinct, she looked around to make sure her team’s chutes deployed, but of course, she couldn’t see a thing in the darkness, which was the whole idea of dropping at night. Below and in front of her, she could see the darker mass of the island in the distance as it rose from the sea. She was already about even with the top of Mount Zeus, the highest peak on the island.

  At 100 meters above the surface, Esther unlocked her harness and dropped her pack, which was still attached to a 25-meter long equipment line. Ten seconds later, first the pack hit the water, then she hit. As soon as her feet touched the surface, she lifted her arms and slid forward, freeing herself from the chute which drifted down behind her to settle in a heap.

  Esther was still in her drop helmet. She was not planning to submerge more than three meters, so it would do as diving gear. She needed mobility, though. With quick, sure movements, she stripped off the “wings” between her arms and her side and between her legs, then pulled the fins off her back and put them on her feet. She hauled her equipment strap, pulling in her pack, and deflated the small air bladders allowing her to submerge the pack and attach it under her chest. Finally, she removed the tiny impellor motor from its hook and oriented herself to the shore.

  Esther couldn’t see any of the rest of the team, but their avatars moving toward her was reassuring. The jump wasn’t particularly dangerous, but any jump at altitude had risk. No one had broken radio silence, and that was a good sign.

  It took almost 20 minutes, but finally, the team was in their diamond formation. Esther keyed her impellor, and it slowly started to pull her through the water. Within moments, all of the team was moving along at a steady 3 knots. The ocean had been seeded, so Esther’s body was illuminated with bio-luminescence, but at three knots, it wasn’t too severe, and at three meters down, she didn’t think any of it could be picked up from the surface.