“And what might that be, oh Master Sergeant Extraordinaire?”
“There is another part of the community where officers are operators.”
Esther’s interest vanished like a puff of smoke.
“Yes, MARSOC. I know. I also know that you have to be invited in after your first tour with battalion. I’ve told you, Top, that even if I was somehow invited, after my next tour, I am back with the infantry.”
If Recon was the premier branch of the Corps, then MARSOC was the premier of the premier. To be assigned to MARSOC, there wasn’t some ass-kicking school like RTC that had to be conquered. If a Marine got orders, he or she went to MSOC for three months for advanced training, and then was in, just like that. But getting the orders was problematic. A battalion recon Marine had to be invited in, and any such invitation came after first proving himself or herself in the battalion. A mysterious MARSOC “mafia” did the selections, which were always approved by HQMC.
“Occasionally, I repeat, occasionally, Marines are invited before their first tour is completed,” he said as if discussing the weather or what he was going to have for lunch.
Esther looked up in surprise, though.
“Uh . . . interesting. But that would mean someone would have to know said Marine, or said Marine might have done something remarkable,” she said, trying to keep her voice collected.
Could it be possible?
“Normally, yes. But there can be many reasons for an invitation.”
“So why are you telling me this?”
Just say it, Top. Say it!
“Well, it so happens that you do know someone from the community. Yours truly,” he said, sweeping his arm over his head as if conducting a regency bow. “And you will be offered an invite.”
Holy Christmas! How? Why?
She gathered herself, cleared her throat, and asked, “Why am I being offered this opportunity?”
Top Gann hesitated as if gathering his thoughts.
“The truth, ma’am? Or do you want me to blow smoke up your ass?”
Hell. He never says “ma’am.” What’s going on?
“The truth, Top.”
“Well, first, the decision wasn’t unanimous. As you said, you haven’t completed a tour in battalion yet, and you haven’t done anything remarkable in the billet.”
It’s not like I’ve had an opportunity.
“But, you proved yourself in RTC, and you’re a good officer. No one doubts that you can be an effective operator.”
“But . . .”
“Someone who’s served with you thinks you’re too self-centered, too much out for yourself.”
“What?”
Esther wanted to argue, to take issue with that, but she realized this was not the time for that.
“Others disagree. I disagree, if it matters to you. So did Gunny McNeill back at Prettyjohn. But beyond that, there are three reasons.”
She was only somewhat surprised that the gunny would be involved. It made sense that the mafia keep track of what was going on at RTC.
“And these three reasons are what?”
“First, you are a woman.”
“What? Why does that matter?” she asked, getting a little angry.
“It does matter. There is only one woman in MARSOC now, and she’s been a great asset to her team for more reasons than she’s a kick-ass warrior. But right now, too few women enter the pipeline. To have another Marine, and an officer at that, in MARSOC, could convince other kick-ass warriors to go to RTC.”
Esther wanted to argue with that, but as much as she tried to preach gender-blindness, there was some truth to what the Top was saying. The Marines had adopted the old MARSOC designation for more reasons than having a clandestine capability. MARSOC was an answer to the longer and better-established SEALs, and the Corps took every opportunity to tout its achievements when it could without compromising security. If she was in MARSOC, other women in the Corps would know that, and it could convince some of them to apply to RTC. She still had problems with the concept, but now wasn’t the time to get into another long conversation on gender.
“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 from 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 Zeiger 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 no 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.
“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 go
t 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.
The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins: The Complete Series: Books 1-5 Page 42
