The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins: The Complete Series: Books 1-5

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “Sure thing.”

  “Oh, and one more thing. Let’s, uh, let’s keep this between us. I don’t want this broadcast over the 1MC.”

  The command master chief mimed locking her lips, then putting the key in her breast pocket.

  “Mum’s the word, Sergeant Major. This is an E9 need to know only. No officers involved.”

  Noah suddenly realized that she wasn’t keen on making this widely-known, either. Noah didn’t really know Commander Anderson, but the Navy higher-ups might not want people to know that they had to reach out to a Marine lance corporal for an engineering fix.

  That’s one big difference between officers and SNCOs. They worry about the big picture and how things look while the command master chief and I only care about getting things done.

  “I’ll send him down after chow. I hope he can fix this tub.”

  “It will take a lot more than that to bring the Fujiyama up to 100%, but it’ll be a start, Noah.”

  “OK. Well, take care of him.”

  “Don’t worry, we will.”

  Noah left the command master chief to find First Sergeant Pistorious. Josev could be by-the-book as well, and Noah would have to smooth over his ruffled feathers over this. But he’d come around. The SNCO mafia stuck together, after all, doing what had to be done.

  And that was how the Marine Corps had kept functioning for over 400 years and counting.

  Chapter 12

  Esther

  Esther ducked through the door, then stopped as someone crossed her path in the passage intersection.

  “Uh . . . Noah, was that Lance Corporal Coffman I just saw up there?”

  “Could be. He’s on the ship, after all.”

  “But why was he in blue Navy overalls?”

  “Don’t worry about it none, Ess. If he’s in overalls, there’s a reason, and that’s way below your paygrade.”

  “But not below yours, Noah, from the tone of your voice. And you are telling me to ignore it.”

  “I’m not telling you anything. You’re the commanding officer, after all. I just think you don’t have to worry yourself about every little detail.”

  Esther wanted to ask more. She didn’t understand why one of her Marines was in a Navy uniform, but she could also tell that Noah didn’t want to explain anything.

  “Just tell me there’s nothing illegal, or immoral, for that matter.”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “OK, then. Let’s see what the captain has for us.”

  The two passed the wardroom and knocked on Commander Anderson’s hatch.

  “Come on in,” the commander shouted from inside.

  “What’s up, Steve?” Esther asked as the two entered the surprisingly spacious stateroom.

  “I think you might want to see this,” the commander said before instructing his PA to display something.

  “Holy shit,” Noah said as an image appeared on the holoscreen.

  “That’s me,” Esther said stupidly.

  The image had been taken down on Vanity at the embassy. She had her Ruger drawn and was looking damned fierce. Behind her, an explosion filled the rest of the image, the bright white and yellow highlighting her image.

  “De’Sander Yule,” she said as she realized who’d taken the holo.

  “Right. An instant before he died. His family found the image in his personal effects, and it’s gone viral since.”

  “I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . . ” Esther started before being interrupted by the commander.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s out now, and creating quite a buzz.”

  “Can we quash it?”

  “Quash it, Ess? Are you kidding? You look grubbing amazing!”

  “Your brother has the right of it, Esther. Admiral Jallaby has already authorized the payment to the family for the rights to it—approved by General Rzeminski, of course. We’re going to use it,” Anderson said, excitement in his voice.

  “But—”

  “But nothing. That’s a great shot, and there’s the fact that the reporter lost his life taking it. The public will eat it up.”

  Esther stepped closer to the projector field. She did look great, she had to admit. She looked, well, heroic, like she was ready to defend the Federation to her dying breath. But she hadn’t been doing anything heroic at the moment, just reacting to the sounds of firing.

  Esther understood the need to let the public know what they did to keep them safe. But this wasn’t it. The image was not a true reflection of reality.

  And a man died to take it, she reminded herself.

  “I’m not sure this is appropriate.”

  “Whether you think so or not, Esther, I’d say it’s out of your hands. Be prepared to see a lot of it for the next however long.”

  When she was younger, Esther had been willing to use her father’s name to get ahead. She’d drifted away from that over the years. Niggling at the back of her brain was the thought that if she weren’t her father’s daughter, this image would not have taken off.

  Noah and Steve evidently weren’t concerned about that. Both were oohing and aahing over the image.

  It is what it is, she told herself.

  Esther wanted to be known for what she did, not for looking like a warrior queen going into battle. She’d have to do a lot more with the battalion to overshadow a fierce-looking holo.

  NOVYY DONETSK

  Chapter 12

  Noah

  “Are all of you ready?” Noah asked the Major Frazier,

  “We’re pumped and ready to perform, Sergeant Major,” the XO answered.

  “I’ll give you the heads up when it’s time, sir.”

  Noah left the performers and went to the door leading into the vast ballroom. Sandra Kolls, the planetary governor, was still into her welcome speech. He checked the time—she’d been talking for over 20 minutes and didn’t show any signs of slowing down. Sitting beside her was Esther, who was doing a credible job of looking interested. For the first time, Noah was glad that she’d made him the point man for the Patron Day celebration. Otherwise, he’d be up there on the dais as well.

  It wasn’t that Noah disliked patron day celebrations. He’d always loved them. As a child, the pageantry had almost overwhelmed him, and the historical perspective was something that had tied him to his father. Now, as a deployed unit, there was just too much on his plate to worry about everything that went into a patron day, especially 1/8’s patron day of Nov 16, less than a week after the Marine Corps Birthday celebration.

  The governor was droning on and on, from how Novyy Donetsk was settled by Ukrainian dissidents, but over the centuries, welcomed people from all backgrounds without prejudice, blah, blah, blah. Noah knew that the patron day celebrations had a purpose beyond reminding Marines of tradition. There was the political aspect of it. The entire concept of each line battalion having a patron Marine Corps or naval infantry from the extant Earth and planetary units when the modern Federation Marine Corps was formed help tie the Corps to the people. When his father was the CO of 2/3, the “Fuzos,” he’d been an honored guest back in Lisbon each year for the Military Outlook and Beyond Conference. The Portuguese took great pride in their relationship with the battalion.

  First Battalion, Eighth Marines might not have quite the same degree of a relationship with the Ukraine, but Novvy Donetsk, one of the two Ukrainian-settled worlds in the Federation, was more than happy to assume the role of host, and with the battalion deployed aboard the Mount Fuji, it had only taken Navy scheduling to make sure the battalion was on the planet for the celebration, the first time 1/8 had been on Novvy Donetsk in almost ten years. And the planet had certainly rolled out the welcome mat.

  As a junior Marine, Noah would be enjoying the three-day interlude. As the sergeant major, he was up to his ass in alligators. Already, the battalion had three liberty incidents, but this time, he couldn’t restrict liberty. The federal government wanted the Marines to be out and about, to remind the citizens of the planet
what their tax credits bought for them. Novyy Donetsk bled Federation blue, but it never hurt to consolidate support.

  At last, the governor reached the end of her speech, introduced Esther, and gave her the podium.

  “Governor, Administrator Gilsap, citizens of Novyy Donetsk, I’d like to thank you for the warm welcome you’ve given your First Battalion, Eighth Marines, the Cutting Edge.”

  She had to stop while the crowd erupted into applause. She looked calm, but Noah knew she was nervous. Fearless in battle, Esther didn’t like public speaking. Noah had listened to her speech five times over the last two days as she fretted over her time in the spotlight.

  Which was pretty ridiculous, Noah thought. Whatever she said, it was pretty evident that the people would love it. Politics went both ways. The Marines were getting good PR, but so was the local government, and the people were grateful that they had an entire Marine battalion and the Mount Fuji on an official visit.

  “On September 4, 232, during the War of the Far Reaches, a Marine platoon was pinned down outside a small, nameless settlement on Sahra’. The lieutenant and platoon sergeant were killed, and the remaining twelve Marines, most of them wounded, faced upwards of fifty enemy soldiers, enemy determined to wipe them out.”

  There was an appreciative murmur from the crowd. Some of them knew what was coming, and Noah gave a satisfied smile. He’d been right when he suggested Esther focus on this story.

  “One Marine, though, was not deterred. Private First Class Anton Dovzhenko—.” She had to stop again for applause before continuing with “. . . had been a Marine for less than a year, but he understood, at the deepest level, what it meant to be a Marine. It means serving the Federation—not just the government, but the citizens. And it means serving your fellow Marines.

  “With ammunition dwindling, and the enemy massing for one last push to wipe out the rest of the platoon, PFC Dovshenko started to crawl out of the depression where the Marines were holed up.

  “‘Where do you think you’re going?’ his sergeant, the senior surviving Marine asked.”

  There was a rustling among the crowd. They knew the story, but as Noah looked over them from his vantage, that wasn’t taking anything away from their enjoyment of hearing it again.

  “‘Well, Sergeant, I’m going to kick some ass,’ he told him.”

  There were whoops from the crowd.

  Whether Dovzhenko had actually said that was open to debate among historians, but in the Hollybolly flick made shortly after the war, that’s what he said, and that became the accepted lore.

  “‘Get back here, Dovzhenko, that’s an order,’ the sergeant told him. And you know what he said back, don’t you? He said, ‘You know Sergeant Pillsbury, my comms are out, so I can’t hear a word you’re saying.’”

  Interrupted again by an enthusiastic audience, Esther was visibly relaxing. She looked up, caught Noah’s eye, and winked.

  “I can tell by your reaction that you know exactly what happened next, but you know what? I’m going to tell you anyway. Private First Class Anton Dovzhenko low-crawled down the hill to where the enemy was getting their final brief. And Dovzhenko decided to make his introduction as only a Marine knows how. With one burst of his rifle, he killed the commander and those standing next to him. Hurling grenades, he became a one-man tornado, dropping the enemy right and left. And what did they do? They ran, that’s what they did. They ran from one Marine.

  “When the relief arrived later that evening, they found twenty-two dead enemy at that spot. PFC Dovzhenko was found two hundred meters away, with ten more dead enemy he’d killed as he chased them. Chased them! Thirty trained soldiers, running from one Marine.”

  She looked up again and caught Noah’s eye, then took a deep breath and said, “Well, you can’t blame them for that. Thirty-to-one are pretty steep odds . . . against them!”

  She and Noah had discussed that line. It was corny, and Noah had leaned against it, but she wanted to say it. And from the laughter in the audience, she’d been right. Noah gave her a little salute.

  “PFC Anton Dovzhenko was posthumously awarded the Federation Nova for his actions on Saha’. Camp Dovzhenko, on Tasis II was named in his honor. So why am I telling you this story? I know you already know it. Because Anton Dovzhenko was one of you. He was born and raised on Novyy Donetsk. Yesterday, your governor graciously escorted me to the statue you have of him in Izyum, his hometown.

  “Many, many of your best and brightest have served in the Marines, the Navy, or the FCDC, cementing the bonds with the rest of the Federation. You’ve produced sports stars, masters of commerce, and three Federation ministers, but as far as I’m concerned, not one has shined more than Anton Dovzhenko.

  “And so, it is with great pride that I bring the First Battalion, Eighth Marines, here to your planet for our Patron Day celebration. I can’t think of a greater honor.”

  And that was it, short and sweet. Neither Noah nor Esther knew that the governor would drone on for so long, but that probably made the impact of Esther’s speech all the more powerful. It was a succinct and moving reminder of the connection between the citizens of the planet, and not just the Federation at large, but with the Marines in specific.

  Telling the story hadn’t been without trepidation. On the dais was also the Sahra’ commercial attaché. He didn’t seem to be upset, but then again, he was a politician, and he had to be skilled at hiding his feelings. Enemy then, a trusted friend now, still, he and Esther had discussed this, and in the end, they went ahead, but by just saying “enemy” instead of anything more specific.

  He turned back to the holding area and shouted out, “Marines, head’s up. The CO’s done, so we’ve got a few performances by the locals, then you’re up. Get yourselves ready.”

  The Marines stirred as they slowly gathered together. The drummers went over their rhythms, sticks silently beating the air. All of them were volunteers, putting in long hours for one, maybe two performances a year. Despite the work load, there was always a long waiting list to be accepted.

  Back out in the ballroom, several local groups put on performances. Noah listened with half-an-ear, just waiting until it was the Marines’ turn. Finally, after some sort of folk dance performed by pre-teens, he got the OK.

  “This is it, Marines. Go to it.”

  A Marine Corps beating was one of the highlights of tradition. When the Federation Marine Corps was formed from the 48 extant Marine Corps at the time, there had been a competition to see who would form the basis of the new Marine band. Not surprisingly, the US Marine Corps band, made up of who were essentially professional musicians, won the competition—as judged by senior Marine and Navy officers—and became the bulk of the new band. The members would no longer be professional musicians and would come from the ranks, but they would serve alternate tours with the band. “The Chairman’s Own” couldn’t be complete amateurs, was probably the thinking.

  However, the Royal Marine Band, especially the Corps of Drums, caught the attention—and hearts—of the rank and file. Almost immediately, separate Corps of Drums sprang up in almost every unit. They followed Royal Marine traditions, including the faux leopard skin worn by the members. All corps members were Marines first, drummers second. They were infantry, armor, artillery, support, or whatever and practiced when they could. Rank had no bearing, and they kept up a degree of mystery about themselves. Practices were almost always hidden from public view, and their performance plans might as well have been Corps-wide operation orders stamped TOP SECRET. Noah had been tasked with putting the show together, but as he wasn’t a member of the Corps of Drums, not even he knew what they were going to do.

  The lights went off in the ballroom, and the drum corps silently marched past Noah to take their position.

  “Now,” he passed to the light operator, and a moment later, a spotlight snapped on Corporal Lee Spain, the battalion drum major, who was standing perfectly still, one raised hand holding a drumstick. He waited another 20 seconds bef
ore he started slowly bringing the arm down, like a mechanical man in a giant Swiss cuckoo clock. At the last second, he flicked his wrist, sending out a single drumbeat reverberating through the hall. After a moment, Lieutenant Eickbush, shrouded in darkness at the back of the ballroom, responded with a single beat.

  Corporal Spain raised his hand, a little quicker this time, and brought it down for another beat. The lieutenant answered almost immediately. Spain repeated, and this became a 30-second case of dueling drums. With a shift that was hard to catch, suddenly, the two drums were pounding out an intricate beat together. More spotlights snapped on, illuminating 18 Marines standing in a line at the back of the hall.

  The beating had begun.

  The 18 Marines in the back started a slow, almost straight-legged march to close the distance with Corporal Spain. As they beat their drums, each man paused in turn for two beats, drumsticks raised and frozen, before joining back in.

  The second-to-last man in the line was XO. He was the second most senior Marine in the battalion, but in the Corps of Drums, he was just another drummer, commanded by Corporal Spain.

  The Marines married up, and Corporal Spain slipped into his position within the group. For the next ten minutes, the 19 Marines moved through a series of intricate maneuvers, never stopping their drums. When the two bass drummers came to the front and somehow performed a duet that would put a snare drummer to shame, the crowd erupted into cheers.

  Noah could feel his blood pounding. He’d probably attended fifty beatings during his lifetime, both as a dependent and as a Marine, and they still never failed to move him.

  Too soon, the Corps of Drums went into their finale, the crescendo rising as they moved like Dervishes, sure to crash into each other, but never quite doing so. The crowd was calling out and cheering, but the drums’ pounding beat drowned the crowd out.

  Just when Noah thought their drumsticks surely had to burst apart, they stopped dead, one stick raised, the other on their drums. They stood like statues, not moving. Noah could feel the anticipation.