Star Marine!

by John Bowers

  When Wade was ten years old, his father had retired from the Space Force. Eight years later, after the Sirian attack, when the Federation suddenly found itself fighting a life or death war, Charles Palmer had stepped out of retirement and returned to active duty, taking a post as executive officer on a star destroyer. Less than a year later he was lost. Wade was a sophomore at Berkeley then, and wanted to drop out of school to enlist, but his mother had insisted he finish college. The war would wait, she said; it would still be there after he had his degree.

  She'd been right.

  But upon graduation, Wade was no longer sure he wanted to enlist in the Space Force. His patriotism burned as brightly as ever; he felt an obligation to serve as his father had done, but his resolve had slipped. He had two reasons for that, one of which was his desire to pursue graduate studies.

  The other was a tiny redhead named Regina Wells.

  Wade had fallen in love with Regina within a few months of their first meeting, and knew she also cared for him; but to say she was in love would have overstated the truth. Even had she been madly in love with him, he knew that marriage was out of the question for the time being. With the war hanging over them both, too many issues remained unresolved. Regina wanted her degree, and he had to make his own decision. Even if he went to war, he wasn't certain just when that would be. To put it simply, his life was on hold.

  Dr. Elliott's Sirian Philosophy class had been something of a diversion for Wade, whose degree was in statistical analysis. He took the class because Regina was there and it was almost the only chance during the week they could see each other — Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Elliott himself was a lunatic-fringe radical, and a boor to boot. Still, the course was interesting, and Regina was passionate on the subject.

  It was, therefore, something of an irony that Elliott's blunt assertions — and Regina's reaction to them — provided the catalyst Wade needed to make up his mind. During those five minutes when the redhead stood the professor down, Wade realized with crystal clarity that the time had come to do what he had to do.

  Two days after walking out of the lecture, he enlisted in the Space Force.

  * * *

  As an athlete in high school and college, Wade had kept himself in good physical condition, watching his diet and general health. When he arrived at boot camp two weeks after enlistment, however, he quickly realized he was basically a weakling. The camp was located in northern Montana near the Canadian border, squarely in the middle of the Rockies and fifty miles from the nearest small town. For three months Wade and his fellow torturees chased up and down near-vertical mountain peaks at a dead run, heaving for oxygen in the thin atmosphere and straining muscles they didn't even know they had. Those thirteen weeks easily qualified as the worst memories of Wade's life, with the possible exception of his father's death. He kept going because he had to, and because he knew his dad had once done the same thing.

  Days and nights crawled by at first, endless hours of misery; muscles that screamed in silent agony, bellowing mouths called drill sergeants, abusive insults worthy of dueling pistols, and never, ever enough sleep.

  But gradually the muscles ceased to complain, the lungs expanded, the stamina increased. The verbal abuse relented only slightly, but the recruits were making progress, and the training became more interesting as they were taught weapons, hand-to-hand combat, and a thousand details that would one day become second nature. Many would go on to train on starships, others would become fighter pilots, and a select few would proceed to officer training. But for now they were all nameless, faceless lumps of raw material with no identity of their own.

  Wade had no idea where he would end up, but as boot camp neared its conclusion, he knew he was now in the best physical shape of his life. He could run ten miles uphill under a full pack, shoot down a sparrow at half a mile with a laser rifle, and kill any man alive with his bare hands. His confidence soared, and he knew that, good or bad, he was ready to take on the Sirians.

  Or their Vegan allies.

  Or anyone else he was told to fight.

  His mother and sister came to graduation, and he was given two weeks' leave. He returned home to Tucson and strutted around in his new dark green uniform, enjoying the stares of his friends for a few days. He called Regina Wells in California, hoping to spend a day with her before going back, but her mother regretfully advised him she was no longer there. She'd taken a job with the War Department, and was now working in the Polygon. That was quite a shock, but Wade could only smile with admiration; Regina had apparently found her own way of fighting back at the enemy.

  Well before his leave was up, he became anxious to get back; he sensed that a new adventure awaited his return, and his curiosity was such that he could hardly wait to find out what it was.

  Thursday, 24 January, 0228 (PCC) – Grand Forks, ND, North America, Terra

  Upon his return to Montana, Wade received orders. Four hours later he boarded a hover transport that took him to Grand Forks Space Force Base in North Dakota. There he was directed to the personnel office where he met a Major Owens. Wade saluted stiffly as he stood before the major's desk.

  "At ease, Palmer," Owens said absently as he gazed at Wade's record on his terminal. "Sit down."

  Wade sat, remaining uneasily erect. Up to now he'd had very little contact with officers, his training handled by chiefs, who could be quite brutal. Officers were probably worse.

  "Palmer, Wade William, age twenty-four. Home, Tucson, Arizona, father a career fleet officer, retired; returned to duty and killed in action. You're a Space Force brat." Owens hadn't yet made eye contact with him, but peered at the screen with a frown, as if he had better things to do. Wade didn't comment, uncertain if an answer was required. "Four years at U.F. Berkeley, degree in statistical analysis, started graduate studies but never finished. Hm."

  Owens swiveled his head and pierced Wade's eyes with a laser-like stare. "How's your military history?"

  "Good, sir." Wade gulped, hoping that was a true statement. He'd studied military history as an elective — not because it was required, but because he liked it.

  "Know anything about strategy? Logistics? Tactical planning?"

  "Er, yes, sir. That is, I have no formal training, but…"

  "You know what the terms mean, though? And you've studied case histories?"

  "Uh — yes, sir." I think.

  Owens turned his body to face him, studying him intently.

  "Ever heard of Adolf Hitler?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What was his biggest mistake, militarily?"

  Wade's eyes widened slightly. "Well, you name it, Major. He made so many."

  "Give me a list."

  Wade bit his lip slightly, took a deep breath.

  "He never should have started that war in the first place. He went to war before his armies were ready, then he bit off more than he could chew. He expanded the war before consolidating his victories. He'd won most of Western Europe, but he invaded the Soviet Union before defeating the British. He declared war on the United States after the Japanese attacked them. In the East, he mistreated civilians who would've joined his cause, alienating them. He didn't trust his generals; he forced them to fight to the death when retreat would have spared their armies for more winnable battles. When his armies desperately needed supplies and transportation, he diverted the rails to deportation of Jews to his death camps, leaving his armies exposed. The list goes on and on, sir."

  "Tell me about the Japanese. Same war."

  "Imperial Japan?" Wade mentally shifted gears. "You mean their military mistakes?"

  "Yes."

  "Several things, sir. First, their national arrogance worked against them. They believed their racial superiority could overcome the numerical and industrial superiority of their enemies. That caused them to make suicidal attacks against overwhelming opposition, in the belief that virtue would bring victory. Secondly, their services weren't united. Even in the face of the enemy, they continue
d to squabble among themselves, each one trying to grab all the glory. But their biggest failing, in my opinion, was their inflexibility. They didn't allow unit commanders to adjust to meet the demands of the situation. Once a strategy had been decided at the command level, they tried to follow it to the bitter end, even when the enemy had compensated and blocked their moves."

  "In your opinion, what is the most important mistake a military leader can make?"

  "Arrogance, sir. Underestimating the enemy, overestimating his own ability."

  "What is the solution to that?"

  "Don't put people like that in charge, sir."

  "Aside from that. What I'm asking is, how can a military leader protect himself from that kind of arrogance?"

  "Intelligence. Unceasing surveillance of the enemy. Never, ever get to the point where you think you know it all."

  Owens glared at him for thirty seconds, leaning back in his chair. Wade returned the eye contact, trying to keep his expression neutral. Why all these questions?

  "Your enlistment forms didn't specify any particular preference for a duty assignment," Owens said finally. "Did you have anything special in mind?"

  "Sir, my father served on star destroyers. I would be pleased to follow in his footsteps, but beyond that — none, sir."

  Owens nodded. "Is your heart set on a combat assignment?"

  "No, sir. Is — is there something wrong, Major?"

  "Palmer, the service has the option of placing people anywhere at all, and we do. But some fellows join up wanting to fight. If they don't get a combat assignment they complain to high heaven. That doesn't help them, of course, but it makes them unhappy, and sometimes they don't perform well. We do try to place people where they'll serve efficiently, and that's why I'm asking you all this. It isn't uncommon for someone like you, who's already lost a parent, to want to go out and get revenge. But in your particular case … "

  Owens looked at the terminal again, frowning. Then he turned back.

  "Your degree in statistical analysis, and your military studies, suggest that you might be useful in planning. We have openings for junior officers in that area. It's going to be a long war, and long before it's over, some of those junior grades may well be senior officers." Owens paused again. "Do you have any comment?"

  Wade shook his head. His heart had accelerated slightly at the idea of working at such a high level. And yet … Part of him did want to go out and get revenge. He had, to some degree, fantasized about standing on the bridge of a star destroyer as, lasers flashing, it closed with the Sirian fleet. The idea made a nice fantasy, but it was also rather scary.

  "No, sir," he replied slowly. "If you think I could be useful in that capacity. But I thought those kinds of jobs were filled by Academy graduates."

  "The Space Force Academy trains a large number of candidates, but only a small percentage end up in the Polygon. Most prefer battlefield assignments, and in any case, very few have the aptitude for planning. Your profile suggests that you'd be a natural fit for Polygon work. That's where we'd like to place you, unless you have some compelling reason to the contrary."

  Wade shrugged and shook his head again.

  "No, sir. If that's where the service wants me, I'll do the best job I can for them."

  Owens pursed his lips and nodded.

  "Good. Your next stop will be Officer Candidate School. You have to pass that first, and if you do, you'll go on to the Polygon. But, if you wash out at OCS, you'll get another assignment. Any problem with that?"

  "No, sir."

  "Good." Owens handed him an envelope. "This contains your orders. You'll spend the night here at the BOQ, and tomorrow you'll take a transport to Pearl Harbor for OCS. Any questions?"

  "No, sir."

  Owens stood suddenly and Wade leaped to his feet.

  "Good luck, Space," Owens said.

  "Thank you, Major."

  Chapter 7

  Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  Regina Wells turned off the holoviewer and rubbed her eyes, feeling her blood pressure rise as her heartbeat accelerated by fifty percent. She let out a deep breath and turned her green gaze on the man seated next to her, Major Zintz.

  "Where did all that come from?" she asked incredulously. "Is that what you're planning to feed the troops?"

  Zintz looked startled. He was a humorless man in his late twenties who had a nervous habit of scrubbing his head with his hand, as if the weight of the war rested on his shoulders alone. At Regina's question, he began unconsciously brushing his head.

  "What do you mean?" he demanded. "It's official doctrine."

  "Well, it may be official doctrine, but most of it is wrong."

  "Wrong?" Zintz was on his feet, looking down at her. "What do you mean, 'wrong'?"

  "Wrong. You know, not correct."

  "I don't understand."

  Regina also stood. She barely came up to his shoulder.

  "Look, Major, if you want to give that to the soldiers just so they'll hate the enemy, go ahead. But it's shot through with inaccuracies. If any of them ever encounter the Sirians in a nonthreatening situation, a lot of them are going to find out that this office didn't tell them the truth."

  "You haven't explained to me what's wrong." Zintz swiveled to stare at the holoprojector, as if it were somehow at fault. "This is official doctrine."

  "You said that. Okay, what's wrong with it … I don't know where to start. First of all, Sirius is not a free society. They claim to be, but freedom exists for only about a third of the population, the Caucasian elite. And not even all of them — women aren't allowed to vote, for example. And while it's true that women do serve in the military, they are subjected to sexual insults of every kind …"

  "How do you know that? You're not Sirian!"

  "No, but I have been to Sirius on several occasions. I've talked to a lot of Sirians, and my father has access to tons of files. I've seen most of them, except those that were classified."

  Zintz chewed his lip, clearly unhappy.

  "This data came from FIA intelligence," he said.

  "How long ago?"

  "I —" He stopped, frowned. "I'm not sure. I just assumed … "

  "My data is current," Regina told him. "As of the day the war started. Six years ago."

  He sat down abruptly and stared at her.

  "Keep talking," he said.

  Regina shrugged helplessly.

  "Okay … Jews. Your holo said that Jews are not persecuted on Sirius. That isn't true."

  "Not true! But their constitution …"

  "Their constitution guaranteed Jewish settlers equality with the ruling white class," she said over his protest. "They enjoyed that equality for nearly forty years, but in 0154 the Confederate Constitution was amended. Anti-Semitism had reared its head again, and Sirian Jews lost their citizenship. They were still classed as higher than serfs, but they were no longer citizens. All their holdings were confiscated and their women were no longer protected by law. The net result was that Jewish women began to suffer the same kinds of insult that serf women did."

  She gazed at Zintz steadily, and he twitched.

  "You're certain about this?" he demanded.

  "Yes. And there's more. A lot more."

  "This is unbelievable! I need to check this out."

  "Go ahead, if you don't believe me. Call my father. He'll confirm it for you, and he can send you source material to prove it."

  "Goddamn it!" Zintz whispered in frustration. "I can't believe the fucking front office hasn't updated this data!"

  Regina's manner softened a little. She couldn't blame Major Zintz, she realized. He'd inherited this job only a few months earlier. Until she was hired, he'd been working largely alone, trying to prepare indoctrination material for Federation troops. The only data he had to work with had already been compiled.

  "Well, Major, we can put this stuff out, but it'll mislead our men about the enemy they're fighting. I personally don't want to add my endorsement t
o false information, so if you want my face in your holovids, we're going to have to start over at the beginning."

  "Start over?" He looked horrified. "That'll take months! I'm expected to have a preliminary holo ready in three weeks!"

  "How much of this stuff has already been distributed?" she asked.

  "Nearly all of it. My predecessor sent out thousands of holovids for officers. I was supposed to make a slightly modified version for the enlisted ranks."

  "You mean the officers in all the services have already seen this information? As it is now?"

  He nodded slowly.

  "Doesn't anybody in the government know anything about the Sirians?" she asked, her voice rising unintentionally. "Surely someone in authority had to approve it!"

  "Of course. The first people to view it were the chiefs of staff. They all saw it and cleared it for distribution."

  "My God! That's frightening."

  "What do you suggest?" Zintz asked, looking overwhelmed. "I don't want to pass on false information, either, but — what choice do we have?"

  "We have three weeks," Regina told him. "I can do a hell of a lot in three weeks."

  Saturday, 26 January, 0228 (PCC) – Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  The holovid lab was located in a subbasement of the Polygon, which was headquarters to the armed forces of the entire Federation. The outbreak of war had taken the Federation by surprise, in spite of several years of growing tension and an alarming boldness on the part of Sirius. The Polygon had scrambled to regain its balance, throwing every resource into the arming, training, and positioning of defensive fighting power. The Armed Forces Information Office had been at the bottom of everyone's priority list; if someone didn't stop the Sirians quickly — or at least slow them down — information wouldn't be worth a damn. Dozens of departments had been hastily reorganized, offices moved, personnel shifted. The wonder was that AFIO had survived at all.