Commandant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 8)
Page 25
The two sat in silence, lost in their thoughts. Ryck had almost forgotten what it had been like when he was not a Marine. His mother dying, then his brokenhearted father dying—killing himself, Ryck was sure, so his kids could get the insurance money. Myke leaving Lysa and him, his intention of joining the Navy, but ending up a Marine with Joshua—and how Joshua led him to the love of his life. He looked over at Hannah, realizing how lucky he’d been in love.
As a Marine, he’d lost so many friends. Joshua, Donte, Hecs, Bert. He’d killed so many men, two with his bare hands: Coltrain Meyers and Sandy. There was an immediacy to that which would never fade. He could feel their blood on his hands even now, and Coltrain sometimes came to visit him in his dreams.
Ryck had lived a full life, but one he was now willingly leaving.
He startled when Çağlar opened the door to the lounge and said, “It’s time, sir.”
“Well, I guess this is it,” Ryck said, standing up and offering a hand to his wife. “Let’s get this over with.”
Çağlar led them outside to where a small hovercart waited. He offered them the back bench seat before slipping in beside the spaceport driver. In silence, they rode to where a stubby yacht was fueled and ready for launch.
“Wait here,” Çağlar told the driver as he led Hannah and Ryck to the small lift. It was crowded with all three, but it was only ten meters to the lock. Çağlar entered the code; the lock opened, and he led the way inside.
The yacht was not a luxury model. It was a workhorse with signs of hard use. Çağlar showed Ryck the controls, not that Ryck would be flying it. The yacht was self-navigating.
“Sorry that the fabricator isn’t working,” Çağlar said, pointing at the small unit.
“Well, it’s not like we’re going to be using it,” Ryck said with a forced laugh.
“Is that the—” Ryck asked, pointing to a large switch, obviously just added to the yacht.
“Yes, sir. Just flip to red, and it’s activated.
“Sir, are you sure about this?” the big Marine started.
“We’ve gone over this. This is the way it has to be,” Ryck assured his friend.
A few tears began to roll down the gunny’s eyes. Ryck stepped up and pulled Çağlar down to his level and hugged him.
“You’ve been a good friend, Hans, and I love you from the bottom of my heart. Fair winds and following seas, my friend.”
“I love you, too, sir. I’ve been honored to serve with you.”
Çağlar broke the hug and stood up, almost hitting his head on an overhead bin. Hannah reached up and took him by the color, pulling him down and kissing his cheek.
“Thank you for watching over my Ryck all these years. You’ve been like a son to him, but you were his guardian angel as far as I be concerned.”
Gunnery Sergeant Hans Çağlar stood staring at the two for a moment, his mouth working, but nothing coming out. He suddenly wheeled about and stumbled to the hatch. A moment later, and he was gone. They were alone.
Traffic control would launch the yacht, and then the ship’s AI would take over to get it out of Earth’s orbit, so the two strapped into adjoining seats.
“Flight 20ZD75, please prepare for take-off,” the spaceport’s AI informed them.
Ryck’s hand reached over to take Hannah’s in his. They sat there in silence, holding hands, as the countdown commenced.
“I love you,” Ryck said as the ship rumbled to life.
Forty-five minutes later, out beyond the orbit of the moon, a bright light flared in a brilliant flash before disappearing.
Fifteen minutes after that, the government issued a news release that General Ryck Lysander, Commandant of the Marine Corps, and his wife, Hannah Hope-of-Life Lysander, were killed when the yacht taking them back to Tarawa exploded. An investigation would be conducted to discover the cause.
TARAWA
November 10, 43 Years Later
Epilogue
The old couple slowly made their way up the uneven walk leading into the pub. The man was well-dressed, his brown spider-silk coat and hand-tied bowtie a rarity anymore. The frail woman, dressed in a fine blue camisole and blossom skirt, leaned heavily on the old man’s arm. His weather-lined face bespoke years out in the sun, but he beamed with pride with his love at his side.
He held open the door for her, waiting patiently for her to make it through.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
He didn’t have any problem hearing her as he answered, “Of course, my lady.”
The Globe and Laurel was an old establishment, loved by generations of Marines. On the walls were three centuries of photos, holos, and displays. The pub was a virtual museum to the Marines.
With the Transium Emergency, most of the Marines on Tarawa were deployed, and those that were still on the planet were celebrating the Marine Corps birthday pageant, so the pub was almost empty. It would fill up later, after the ball. In the back, though, an elderly man sat, nursing a beer. He was a big man, and age hadn’t diminished much about him. He looked up as the couple came in, but kept his seat.
The old man escorted his lady to an overstuffed chair by the real wood fireplace, an extravagance quite rare anymore. He sat her down and tucked a blanket around her legs.
“I’ll be back in shortly,” he told her.
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere,” she said as he leaned over to kiss her cheek.
The old man straightened up and made his way to the back of the pub where a double set of wooden doors led to another room.
As he reached for the doors, a voice called out, “Excuse me, sir, but you can’t go in there now.”
The old man turned around to see a young man, behind the bar.
“That’s OK Mr. Geiland. He can go,” the other patron said from his table.
“But Sergeant Major Çağlar, that’s for—“
“I know, and it’s OK.”
The old man peered into the dark corner where the sergeant major sat, and a smile slowly crept across his face. He lifted one hand in a half salute, and despite the disproving look on the young man behind the bar’s face, opened the door and entered the back room.
The room was dark, the ancient incandescent lights turned off. The only illumination came from the from the two emergency exit lights. The old man blinked several times as his eyes adjusted. Slowly, he made out a figure sitting alone at a table against the near wall.
“Sorry, Mr. Geiland, but I’m not done yet,” the gravelly voice spoke out.
The old man cleared his throat, and the other man, also old, but short with extremely broad shoulders turned around to see who had disturbed his solitude.
“I’m sorry, sir, but this is a private affair. Could you please give me some time here?” the short man said.
The old man seemed to ignore the request. He shuffled forward and took a seat at the adjoining table.
“You seem to be alone, so I’d appreciate it if I could just sit for awhile.”
At his words, the short man looked up as if recalling something. Finally, he shook his head, unable to make the connection. He hesitated, and then waved a hand at the seat the oldster had already taken.
“It’s not tradition, but then again, it’s not tradition that Derrick and Jericho chose to pass within a few days of each other. So stay if you want. But I won’t be good company.”
There was a bottle of sherry on the table in front of the short man, unopened. Both men sat in silence, their minds going to wherever old men’s minds wandered when the memories became too intense.
“Jorge Simone,” the short man said.
The old man said nothing.
Finally, Jorge asked, “And you are?”
“Donte.”
“Hmph. I knew a Donte once. We toasted him in this very room, a long time ago.”
“I know,” the old man said.
That phrasing caught Jorge’s attention, and he looked closer at the man, trying to d
istinguish something about his new companion. Something seemed to be registering with him.
“You seem familiar. You remind me of someone I once knew,” Jorge said.
“The universe is a big place. We all have doppelgangers, I’m guessing,” the old man replied.
“You don’t look like him, though. It’s your voice and cadence that remind me of him.”
The old man shrugged in the dim light.
“Where you from, Donte?”
“Fresh Beginnings. I’m a farmer there. Good land for farming.”
“The independent world? Not much in the way of a government there, right?”
Right enough. The corporations run most things, but they tend to leave the immigrants alone.”
“I thought you sounded Federation. When did you leave?”
“You’ve got a good ear, Jorge. My wife and I immigrated 43 years ago. I would have thought I’d assimilated by now.”
“Forty-three years? Right during the evolution?”
“Thereabouts.”
“Did you serve?”
“I’d have to admit to that.”
The two men sat in silence for another minute, before Jorge asked, “Don’t mind me being nosy, but most men who emigrated then fought for the loyalists. I’m guessing you didn’t.”
“Everyone knew you were a perceptive man, Jorge,” the old man said, not confirming nor denying the statement.
You know, I saw Sergeant Major Çağlar out there when I came in. He was just sitting there, like he was waiting for someone.”
“I’ve heard of him. One of the best Sergeants Major of the Marine Corps, if what I read was right.”
“That’s true. He served when General Ling was the commandant, and together, they changed the Corps to what it is today. I wonder, though, why he’s out there.”
“I doubt he was asked to meet anyone,” the old man said.
“You know, about that time, even evolutionaries needed to make fresh starts. Do you think it would be possible for someone, say someone pretty important, to fake their death, say in a ship explosion? Then with help, maybe from someone on the inside, and maybe with help from someone in the Confederation, escaped, underwent plastic surgery, and started a new life?”
The old man smiled and said, “Quid visum accipias est.”
“Ah, ‘Accept that which you see,’ Donte. I said that once to a very good friend. A friend who I lost 43 years ago, and have missed every day since.”
“I think all of us have had to make sacrifices. All of us lost someone in those days.”
“Donte, I’m here because I am the last living member of Class 59-2 of our Naval Officer’s Training Course. It is tradition that the last two members meet here on the Marine Corps birthday and share a bottle of sherry that we saved back so many years ago. Unfortunately, my two surviving classmates, Jericho Freemason and Derrick Ohu chose to pass last month, just a few days apart from each other. So I am alone. I’ve been sitting here looking at the sherry, and we all know that old men with memories should not drink alone. I would be honored if you would join me and lift up a glass to our classmates.”
“It is I who would be honored, Jorge,” the old man said.
Major General Jorge Alfredo Guzman Simone, UFMC (Ret) took the bottle of 302 Massandra and carefully peeled back the foil, releasing the cork. The flowery bouquet of the fine sherry filled the room, bringing atrophied senses back to life and triggering so many memories.
There were three glasses in the class box, and Jorge poured half a glass of sherry in each one. One was left on the table for fallen comrades, and the two men carefully lifted the other two glasses and lightly clinked them.
“In retrospect,” the two intoned together.
There wasn’t much else to say as they slowly sipped the sherry, each lost in his own thoughts.
Finally, the old man struggled to his feet.
“I want to thank you, Jorge, for allowing me to share this moment with you. If you ever get to Fresh Beginnings, please look me up.”
“What are you doing now?” Jorge asked. “The ball is tonight, and I would love to have you as my guest.”
The old man hesitated, tempted, but with a sigh, he shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but my wife is waiting for me outside. And we really need to get back to the farm.”
“Your wife? Ha—”
“My wife, Rachel,” the old man said with finality.
With that, the old man turned and headed for the door.
“Fair wind and following seas, my friend,” Jorge said.
The old man hesitated, then pushed the door open. His wife looked up as he emerged into the main pub and started to rise, but the old man waved her to relax. He walked over to the retired sergeant major, who was still nursing the same beer.
“Sergeant Major, happy birthday.”
“I was hoping you’d come. I made sure the obituaries reached you.”
“Thank you, but I’m not who you think I am. I’ve, I’ve changed. I’m just a farmer, living a quiet life. And it suits me.”
“A man does not change, sir,” the sergeant major said. “And you will always be who you were, no matter what you’re doing now.”
“I was never able to tell you thanks before. For everything,” the old man said.
“It was my honor, sir,” the retired sergeant major said. “If I may ask, though, will you see your great grand. . .I mean, anyone else while you’re here?”
“We discussed it, but too much time has passed, too much water under the bridge. It’s probably better if we left things as they are.”
“I understand,” Çağlar said. “But if I came out to Fresh Beginnings one day, to see where we captured the Ferret, for example, do you think I could perhaps stop by and say hello?”
The old man hesitated. He owed the sergeant major so much. He and Major Pohlmeyer had arranged everything and had given his wife and him 43 more years together. Without them, the old man and his wife would have had to do in actuality what had only been staged. Yet, secrecy had been so much a part of their life that to even give the slightest chance of discovery was anathema to him.
He looked at his wife, who was sitting watching him. She was in failing health, and that killed him. It probably wouldn’t be long now for her.
Hell, I’m the one with recurrent bouts of the Brick, and I’ll outlast her. It isn’t fair.
The thought of being alone petrified him. He looked back at Çağlar, then back at the door to the back room where Jorge still was. He missed them. He missed the Corps. He couldn’t go back to the Marines, but the Corps was not the organization, not the uniforms, but the men and women who made it up. And he came to a sudden decision.
“Grubbing hell right you can, Hans. I would appreciate it.”
He shook the sergeant major’s hand, then turned and walked to his wife, the love of his life.
“Come on, Hannah,” he said, as her eyes widened at the first time in 43 years he’d used her real name. “Let’s go home.”
Author’s Note:
I want to thank all of you who have read this series. When the idea of Ryck and the UFMC hit me in early 2014, I never realized how much I would enjoy writing the series and the overwhelming response it has received. This was a labor of love, but unless others read the books, then they have no purpose. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you.
I also want to thank those of you who have helped me along the way. You’ve made me a better writer, and the correspondence I have received has been a welcome part of the process. And for those of you who have let me “borrow” your names as characters in the books, thanks again.
This is the final book in Ryck Lysander’s saga. Ryck has been a huge part of my life over the last year-and-a-half. I hope you enjoyed watching him grow as much as I enjoyed writing about his journey. There will be more books in the UFMC universe, though. I currently have four planned and more are bubbling around somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain. Some characters you alrea
dy know will be in the forefront, and some issues, such as the Klethos, will be examined in more depth. I hope you will give these books a shot.
Jonathan Brazee
25 December 2015
Bangkok, Thailand
As always, I welcome a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or any other outlet.
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Other Books by Jonathan Brazee
The Return of the Marines Trilogy
The Few
The Proud
The Marines
The Al Anbar Chronicles: First Marine Expeditionary Force--Iraq
Prisoner of Fallujah
Combat Corpsman
Sniper
The United Federation Marine Corps
Recruit
Sergeant
Lieutenant
Captain
Major
Lieutenant Colonel
Colonel
Commandant
Rebel
(Set in the UFMC universe)
Werewolf of Marines
Werewolf of Marines: Semper Lycanus
Werewolf of Marines: Patria Lycanus
Book Three: Coming Soon
To The Shores of Tripoli
Wererat
Darwin’s Quest: The Search for the Ultimate Survivor
Venus: A Paleolithic Short Story
Non-Fiction
Exercise for a Longer Life
Author Website
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[1] CIC: Combat Information Center. The hub of a ship’s communications and data gathering from which a naval battle is fought.