Noah's Story: Marine Tanker (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 3)

by Jonathan Brazee

“Oh. OK. I can wait. And thank you. I appreciate the effort.”

  He hesitated, then decided just to get it over with.

  “We got new orders today. A month-long mission to Opal Lexus 3. Training.”

  She looked up at him, and asked, “Training? No combat?”

  “Just training.”

  “A month, though? Well, that’s the life of a Marine, I guess. And a Marine wife’s. Uh, when is it? I will be a wife then, right?”

  “That’s the thing—”

  “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like this? The dinner, and now the look on your face?”

  “We’re deploying October 3.”

  “The third? Of October? So, you’re going to be leaving me before the wedding? So, I’m going to have to get everything arranged with your family?”

  “Uh, baby. We’re scheduled to come back on the 19th.”

  “The 19th? Oh, that’s not so bad. That’s less than a month.”

  “Of November. November 19th.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and she looked at him for a moment before saying, “And we’re getting married on the eighth? How’s that going to work?”

  “It isn’t. We have to re-schedule.”

  “You’ve got your leave request in. It’s already been approved.”

  “And the first sergeant told me today that the approval’s been rescinded.”

  Miriam stared at him, with an expression he couldn’t decipher. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  Finally, in a brook-no-nonsense tone, she said, “Noah Lysander, I agreed to marry you, and I was fine with just going down to the city center and getting it done. You were the one who wanted the family wedding, not me.”

  “We can forget about the wedding. We can go to the city center tonight, if you want—”

  She held up a hand to stop him.

  “I’ve already been working on this with your family, mostly your grandmother. If we cancel, they’ll think it was because of me, and that will put me at odds with them. With your father and mother gone, and with your sister evidently not the marrying type, this wedding of yours . . .”

  “Wedding of yours.” That’s not good.

  “. . . is a big deal. You’ve been paying no attention to any of this. And if we just cancel the wedding now, after they’ve gotten so embedded in it, well, I’m the bitch who doesn’t want a family. I’m the bitch who turned you away. And that’s not going to happen. We’ll just re-schedule it and make the Marine Corps the bad guy. What with your father, that’s already a given.”

  She hadn’t raised her voice, but the steel in it couldn’t be missed. She was adamant about it.

  “Uh . . . uh, OK. We can reschedule, if you want.”

  “If I want? This is all on me? Not a good way to put it, Noah. Not good at all. What I want is not to be put into this situation,” she said before standing up. “And what I want right now is to take a shower.”

  She strode off to the bedroom, not saying another word. Noah sat there, wondering how he’d blown it so bad. He wasn’t sure what he could have said differently.

  It’s not my fault.

  The dinger rang, and he was tempted to ignore it, but wasting food was not in his DNA. With a sigh, he stood up, went to the oven, and removed the cobbler. It smelled great as he put it on the sideboard to cool. He wanted to pout, he wanted to be mad, but he couldn’t help but bend over to let the aromas wash over him.

  He got out some bowls and scooped out two helpings of the steaming dessert. The white and red berries had formed a pinkish syrup that held them together. They needed something else, though. Stepping over to the fabricator, he dialed up two portions of vanilla ice cream, plopping them on top. They immediately started to melt, sending a thick white stream into the cobbler.

  The simple act of making the dessert had calmed him down. He knew Miriam had every reason to be upset. She’d put a lot of work into the wedding, a wedding that she hadn’t wanted in the first place. And Noah, using his duties as a Marine as an excuse, had not helped much.

  He placed the desserts on the table, walked to the bedroom, and knocked softly on the door.

  “Miriam? The cobbler’s ready.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Miriam?”

  Silence.

  With a sigh, Noah went back to the table and sat down to wait. The ice cream had half melted, the pool of vanilla now covering the rest of the cobbler. He picked up his spoon and ladled some of the melted ice cream back to the top of the remaining frozen part, but it slid back down. He scooped up another spoonful, this time picking up a few of the berries, but instead of dumping it back over the top, he shrugged his shoulders and put the spoonful into his mouth.

  Two minutes later, his bowl was empty, and he picked it up to lick any remaining traces.

  “Miriam? You coming?”

  He waited for a moment, but she didn’t answer.

  With one more dramatic sigh, which was wasted as he was the only one there, he reached across the small table and picked up Miriam’s dessert. He held it for a moment, listening for any sound coming from the bedroom. When he still didn’t hear anything, he plunged his spoon into the cobbler.

  No use wasting good food.

  OPAL LEXUS 3

  Chapter 12

  “The Rangers suck big time,” Chili said, flicking a gummy bear at Corporal Knight Lewis, the Ba-Boom’s new driver.

  “Bullshit. They may be down inna pisshole now, but they’ll be a’coming back up,” the corporal said, catching the candy after it bounced off his face and popping it into his mouth. “Wit Kuyiko at center, things are gonna change, you jes watch.”

  Noah tried to ignore the two, sticking his nose deeper into the novel he was reading. He found the constant bickering about sports rather mind-numbing. It wasn’t easy to keep rooting for teams while traveling around the galaxy. Growing up on Tarawa, he’d been a casual fan of the planetary teams, even getting up for some of the rivalries within the sector. He wasn’t the die-hard fan that his sister Esther was, but still, he could get excited. But with Marines coming from every corner of the Federation and even from some non-Federation worlds, they represented a vast array of not only teams, but sports that were only played locally. Yes, he watched the Olympic games, along with most of humanity, and of course he watched the Gladiatorial combat with the Klethos, but he’d lost interest in most professional sports. Heck, he didn’t even know what sport the two Marines were arguing about. There had to be a dozen professional sports that had a center as one of the positions.

  But sitting in the White Cliffs Hotel, there wasn’t much else to do. They were not allowed out into town, so hanging out or hitting the hotel gym were the daily riguer du jours. Without their tanks, there wasn’t even the daily maintenance that would keep them busy. And they were getting more than bored. Just the night before, Lessa and Jadelle Portis had gotten into a knock-down, drag-out fight that had broken Lessa’s nose and gotten both Marines restricted to their respective rooms. They were lucky at that. If the captain had gotten wind of it, they’d both have faced NJP.

  Chili flicked another gummy bear at Knight, but it flew past his shoulder to hit Noah in the chest.

  “Grubbing hell, Chili! Watch what you’re doing!” Noah snapped.

  “Well, fuck me royal, Noah. Sorry to ruin your entire day.”

  “Just . . . just . . .” Noah started before giving up and turning on his side, presenting his back to the other two Marines.

  “Shit, Lewis, I guess Her Royal Highness has got her pussy in a tizzy,” Chili said, flicking one more gummy bear, this time aiming for and hitting Noah’s back. “Let’s me and you get out of here and leave her to play with herself.”

  Noah didn’t say anything as he listened to the two Marines get up and leave. He knew he was out of line. Chili was a pretty good roommate, and they were all bored, but his mood was sour. He looked at his PA, on which he’d opened a window for Williamson time on Prosperity. It was 1233 in the afternoon ther
e, November 8th.

  With a sigh, he turned back to his book, but while he could see the words, nothing was registering. He had no idea what he’d just read. Giving up, he turned off the book and folded it up.

  He got up and walked over to the window. The view was great, he acknowledged, and the hotel was a high-end resort. But it was a gilded cage. They were essentially prisoners, free to use the grounds, but nothing else.

  They’d arrived on the planet and been bused directly to Camp Amethyst where they’d been scheduled to provide training to the planetary militia’s newly formed armor regiment. All had gone as planned for the first few days, with the company starting the training syllabus. On the third day, however, that training came to a screeching halt. On the fourth day, the Marines were packed up and transported to the White Cliff.

  Politics had reared its ugly head, and the Marines—along with the local armor regiment—were the ones to suffer while the politicians blustered and maneuvered.

  Opal Lexus 3 was a newly autonomous world, taking control over their own governing from Exlar, the big conglomerate who’d terraformed the planet over 100 years prior. The local government was friendly to the Federation, but Exlar was almost fanatically devoted to neutrality—and the company (one of the few with only a UAM charter) still wielded significant power on the planet.

  The fledgling military had requested aid from the Federation which was more than happy to provide it, and Marine rifle, armor, and air units had been dispatched on training missions. That only lasted until Exlar-leaning politicians saw the reporting on the news holos, much to their surprise and displeasure, and they stepped in. The Marines were whisked away and hidden from sight while the politicians played their political games, with the Federation keeping in the background. That was a month ago. And while Marines and sailors of Charlie Company and 2/11’s Echo Company had initially been impressed with the pure luxury of the White Cliff, that had quickly soured. They’d been cut off from the outside worlds, and that included calls back home.

  The initial contract was to expire in a week, and no one thought the training would commence before then. They couldn’t even leave early, though. The Opal Lexus government—both factions—didn’t want to officially antagonize the Federation by breaking the contract, so the Marines were put up in luxury for the duration.

  Noah’s stomach growled, and he looked at the concierge on the table between the two beds. He’d skipped lunch with the rest of the Marines, choosing to go back to his room after the makeshift hip-pocket class Lieutenant Huang had given about living wills, only the latest in a series of classes the skipper had them attend each morning. That wasn’t a big deal, though. Room service was part of the package, and with a simple call, he could get a meal sent up, and as much as he almost hated to admit it, the food was pretty darn good. He’d snuck into the kitchens a few times to talk with the staff, and he knew he was out of their league.

  No, I’m not going to call for room service, he told himself forcefully.

  It was rather childish, he knew. He was not a happy camper, true. He didn’t like the situation, true. But it made no sense to refrain from one of the advantages of the place just because he wanted to hold onto his resentment, to keep reminding himself that the situation sucked the big one.

  His PA, which he’d left on the bed, buzzed. Snapping back to reality, Noah took two steps and picked it up. The time in Williamson was 1259. He stood there motionless, holding the PA, and watched it count to the new hour.

  “I do,” he whispered as it hit 1300.

  Without this stupid deployment, he’d be on Prosperity now, standing in the front of the cathedral, waiting to see Miriam emerge on the arm of his Uncle Caleb. He’d be getting married.

  The Big Suck, the Green Weenie, could and did make demands on Marines. Noah had eaten his fair share of shit in his career, as had all Marines. But this was the first time he’d resented the Corps. He was missing his wedding, and for what? So, he could sit in some sort of resort—one that would be great, in all irony, for a honeymoon—and be a bit-part spear carrier in a larger game of thrones. He didn’t need to be here, but the unit was bigger than the individual, and the Federation was bigger than the unit. He signed on the dotted line, so he understood it—but he didn’t have to like it.

  He pulled up his favorite pic of Miriam, one where she was laughing at something he’d said, and kissed the image.

  “I love you.”

  He put the PA down on the table, right next to the concierge. His hand was next to the power-button—none of the voice-activated room genies here—and he froze for a moment.

  “Screw it,” he said, hitting the button.

  “May I help you, Sergeant Lysander?” a real person immediately responded.

  Neither Chili nor he had found any sort of surveillance device in the room, but the person on the other end always knew which one of them was on the concierge.

  “Yes, I missed lunch, and I’d like a . . . a . . .”

  What the heck do I want?

  “I want a piece of Black Volcano,” he decided.

  “With snow or without?”

  “With, please.”

  “Very well. Chef will cut you a piece right away.”

  If he was going to indulge, Noah thought he might as well go whole hog. The Black Volcano was the most indulgent dessert on the hotel’s menu, a spongy layer of chocolate goodness with chocolate and raspberry “lava” pouring from the top. The “snow” was the ala mode plopped right in the “crater.”

  They’d missed the wedding date, and that was that. He realized that approaching the date, he’d been getting more and more depressed, but now that D-Day had passed, surprisingly, he felt a little better, and he thought he could move on. It wasn’t as if the wedding was canceled, after all.

  And if he was going to be stuck here, he might as well try to enjoy it. Maybe he could get the chef to give him a few pointers to take home.

  A few minutes later, there was a discreet knock on the door. Noah let in the server, who wheeled in his dessert on a silver tray. When he put it on the table, the rich chocolate aroma filled the room.

  “Enjoy, Sergeant,” the server said before leaving.

  Noah felt bad about not leaving a tip, but they’d been briefed that the Opal Lexus government was covering everything.

  He probably makes more in a week than I make in a month, Noah thought as he sat down and looked at the chocolate extravaganza.

  Miriam was not a chocoholic, but he thought she’d like it. But he was here and she was there, so he just picked up his spoon and dug in.

  QUINTERO CRAG

  Chapter 13

  Noah tracked the incoming drone, barely leading it as it dove to take them under fire. With the rail gun, and with automatic targeting, the Anvil would have already engaged it, but the with Mad Mike, range was more limited. More pertinent, though, was that the targeting AI was turned off. This shot was on his shoulders.

  “Four thousand meters,” Chili said from where he was crouching beside him, scrunching up his 1.6-meter frame the best he could in the small space. “What’s your trigger point?”

  “Two thousand?” Noah said in a question despite knowing it was the textbook answers.

  Ground attack drones were moderately shielded, enough so that a shot from the Anvil’s Mad Mike would have little effect at maximum ranges. In order to assure lethality, the range needed to be narrowed—but letting the drone approach closer made the Anvil a more vulnerable target at well.

  “And at the recycle rate, how much ground will it had covered after you fire?”

  Shoot, I forgot to check.

  “Uh . . . 402 meters,” he said after checking his sight display. “So, I . . . “

  “Don’t tell me. Look at your range!”

  The range display was rapidly dwindling, and the drone was at 2,200 meters and closing.

  He adjusted the aim and fired, just at the drone passed the 2,000-meter mark. It kept coming as the Anvil’s gene
rator poured power into the meson cannon. Either the audible whine or the inaudible subsonics grated on Noah’s inner ears as the gun powered up.

  “No effect,” Staff Sergeant Cremineli passed. “Fire again.”

  Noah worked the hydraulics, slewing the cannon to keep the drone in his sights. The drone fired before his cannon was charged, but the instant his go-light turned green, he triggered another shot.

  “Dead on,” the TC passed. “Target down.”

  Noah let out a huge breath of air as he watched the drone glide to the ground downrange.

  “Not too bad,” Chili said from beside him. “We’ll check the readouts to see what happened with that first shot. But right now, how about letting me out of here? My legs are killing me.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” Noah said as he popped the hatch on the cupula and scrambled out.

  “Uh, Staff Sergeant, what about the shot the drone got off?” he asked as he stood up next to his TC, who was standing in his open hatch.

  “Eighty-two for combat ready,” the staff sergeant said, meaning that the Range AIs had given the Anvil an 82% chance of still being combat ready.

  “That means a go,” Noah said with relief.

  “Yeah, a go,” the TC said, almost sounding reluctant.

  Noah had been concerned about this shot. With Chili moving to crew with the new first sergeant, Noah was next in line as the Anvil’s gunner, but only if he qualified on each of her three main guns. Staff Sergeant Jones, over in First Platoon, still hadn’t qualified, and so he was still a driver, the highest-ranking driver in the company. In most militaries, a driver would be a private or PFC—or the local equivalent—but even in the Marines, where all tankers had previously served a tour as a grunt, it was almost unheard of for a staff sergeant to be a driver.

  Noah hadn’t been concerned with auto-fire or AI assist, but the manual firing had been nerve-wracking. It would take extraordinary circumstances for him to have to manually aim and fire any of the three weapons configurations, especially the Mad Mike, but if the Anvil were hit with something that knocked out her systems, then he’d be tasked with turning her into a Marine-powered artillery piece, using glass sights and hydraulics to aim the tubes.