by John Bowers
At first he was restless; he wasn't used to being on base and having nothing to do. Star Marines always had work, even if someone had to make work for them. Idle hands, etc. So he was edgy, half expecting some bellowing sergeant to catch him sitting on his hands. He almost felt guilty. He polished everything in his kit that was leather, shined everything made of metal, inspected and reinspected his equipment — such as it was — and even cleaned his quarters, on the off chance that he might get hit with an inspection. All that in addition to his daily calisthenics, which he refused to ignore just because he wasn't currently attached to a line company.
By the end of the second day he came to his senses and just tried to get caught up on his sleep, always in short supply for the infantryman.
Lt. Hackman showed up on the fourth morning.
"Private Martinez, you've been loaned to regimental headquarters. Until further notice you will report to Sergeant Natali. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good!"
"Sir? What exactly do you mean by 'loaned'?"
"Well, er … it means that you're on loan."
"Then am I actually assigned to Regimental?"
"Uh, no — not exactly. Officially you're still part of Delta." Hackman looked annoyed at having to explain it. "Do you have a problem with that?"
"No, sir! I'm a Star Marine. I obey orders."
Hackman looked relieved. "Good! Report to Sergeant Natali right away."
"Sir … ?"
Hackman had turned to leave. Now he turned back, frowning.
"Are you saying that none of the other companies wanted me, Lieutenant?"
Hackman shook his head. "I never said that."
"Then, I don't understand, sir."
"Martinez, you said you obey orders. Well, goddammit, obey them!"
"Yes, sir."
Rico's dark eyes never left Hackman's face as he snapped to attention. Hackman slowly flushed crimson, but held on to his annoyance long enough to escape. When he was gone, Rico shook his head angrily. Then he went to find Sgt. Natali.
Regimental headquarters wasn't like any other part of the unit Rico had ever seen; there were no bodies of troops working field problems. Rather, it was a miscellaneous unit composed of command officers, office staff, couriers, about a dozen men who did various labor, and the odd unattached Marine, such as himself.
Rico had met Sgt. Natali in the mess hall his first day back. Natali was fiftyish, slightly beefy, but still fit and very tough. He immediately put Rico to work, and over the next few weeks the young Star Marine worked at a variety of tasks, including equipment maintenance, weapons inspection, running errands, and even some computer work. The work wasn't degrading in any way, but Rico felt out of place. He'd signed up as a combat soldier, had trained as a combat soldier, and had shipped out to Titan to fight. He'd missed the battle by getting hit before ever seeing the enemy, and now he felt like a bastard child. He was, as far as he knew, the only original member of the regiment in the camp, yet the other fighting men didn't even know he existed.
He saw them every day. Marching, training, practicing. Singing dirty limericks in cadence. He saw them in the mess halls, walking sentry duty, talking in off-duty groups, laughing and joking and wondering nervously what combat might be like. But he had no contact with them.
One positive aspect of his new situation was that he got to see Yeoman Jiminez every day, and she at least knew who he was. Yeoman Jiminez was a very pretty Spanic girl from northern Colombia. Before the Titan operation Rico had met her only a few times, but like most of the men in his company he thought she was one of the brighter realities of camp life. Star Marine regiments didn't employ women except as office, medical, or chapel staff. Pretty faces were rare.
Rico had been surprised that she recognized him when he returned, as he'd been but one of nearly three thousand men in the 33rd. Maybe it was because he was Spanic — in any case, she'd recognized him.
Now they talked every day, for a few minutes at least, and occasionally ate together. Jiminez lived in a separate barracks with four other women who also worked in the office, and even had her own quarters. Rico was still in the VIP barrack, alone, and began to have thoughts of perhaps inviting Jiminez in some evening after hours. He didn't know if it was against regulations, but suspected it was; men who needed a sexual outlet were supposed to visit the Domestic Service barrack provided for that purpose.
But before he worked up the nerve to invite Jiminez over, he received orders.
Chapter 14
Wednesday, 4 June, 0228 (PCC) – Orbit of Terra
Onja Kvoorik's eyes sprang open as the comm terminal beeped, and she saw the red flashing light that signaled a call. Quickly she leaned over and tapped the Voice button — she was nude, so left the video pickup off.
"Fighter Queen," she mumbled.
"Captain Kvoorik, this is Major Madison. Can you come to my office? I'd like a word with you.”
"Right away, sir. Five minutes."
Madison broke the connection, and Onja rolled out of her rack, slipping into a coverall. David Coffey, her pilot, was still asleep, worn out by their earlier lovemaking.
Onja stepped into the bath cubicle and splashed water on her face, ran her fingers through her hair to straighten the spikes, and headed out the hatch, frowning. Why was Madison calling her in the middle of designated night? It wasn't a combat alert, or there would have been a general alarm. Something must be up.
The carrier was cruising a wide orbit half a million miles off Luna, swinging around both Terra and Luna in a lazy pattern that allowed for a rapid departure in any direction. Onja made her way down several narrow companionways to the squadron leader's office, knocked once, and stepped inside.
Madison wasn't at his desk. Instead, he sat in one of the Solarglas chairs against the wall, studying a printout with eyes narrowed by fatigue. He glanced up at her and waved her into the chair opposite.
"What's up, Major?" she asked curiously, her wide blue eyes pinning him to the wall.
"This is unusual," he said, still looking at the printout. "You're being temporarily reassigned." He looked into her sky-blue eyes with a puzzled expression. "Did you request a transfer?"
Onja shook her head. "No, sir. You'd have known if I did."
"That's what I thought. Unless you went over my head to General Osato."
"I wouldn't do that, Major. Not to you."
He managed a grin and handed her the document. "There it is. Temporary detachment. To the Triple-One."
Onja took the order and stared at it, her mouth falling open in surprise.
"My old squadron!"
Madison nodded, watching her closely. He knew, as did every other fighter pilot in the fleet, about the Triple-One. Onja had been a part of the evacuation from the asteroid base that had created a firestorm of controversy up and down the line of command. The man who ordered the retreat, Major Robert Landon, had stayed behind when the base was lost, but he'd saved over ninety fighter people by sending them back to Luna instead of defending the base. Landon had been Onja's first pilot.
"There's no explanation," Onja said, glancing up at Madison.
"There never is. Anyway, you and Coffey are out of here tomorrow. I sure as hell hate to see you go, and I hope you won't decide to stay with them." He paused significantly. "You won't, will you?"
Onja's lips curled slightly, the closest she ever came to a real smile.
"I'm happy here, Major. I'll be back."
Madison smiled his relief.
"Good. Don't stay away any longer than you have to."
Onja nodded, rising as she realized he meant it as a dismissal.
"Thank you, sir." She turned to leave.
"Onja … "
She looked back.
"Good hunting."
Thursday, 5 June, 0228 (PCC) – Luna Base 4, Luna
Rico had taken an infantry hover to deliver a package to another regiment and was on his way back. As he reached the 33rd camp ar
ea he became aware that something was up. Men poured out of barracks to join company formations, sergeants yelled instructions, a general electricity filled the air. Men were shrugging into full combat gear, including weapons, backpacks, and pressure suits.
Nor was it just one company; the same was happening in all battalion areas. Each Star Marine regiment was composed of four battalions of four companies each; all sixteen companies of the 33rd were scrambling. Twice he had to brake hard to avoid running over Marines who darted into his path. He jerked to a halt at Regimental and stepped down, staring back down the street toward Delta Company, his heart suddenly thumping. As he watched, hover transports shuddered to a stop and Marines fell out by platoons to board them. Rico swallowed with adrenaline and hurried into the office.
Jiminez was on the vidphone, talking rapidly to someone he couldn't see. She, too, seemed unusually animated.
"Jiminez!" he whispered hoarsely, bending over her desk. "What the hell's going on?"
Still talking, she frowned and waved him away.
"… the requisition this morning. You're going to have to talk to the Quartermaster, because I don't have that clearance here …"
The person on the other end apparently cut her off, but Rico couldn't hear because she was wearing headphones. She nodded patiently, trying to break in on him.
"Yes … Yes — yes, I know that, sir, but Colonel Ireland isn't here right now, and I don't have that authority. I'm sorry, Major, but …"
Her eyes widened in shock, her mouth fell open, and she sat back slowly, then broke the connection.
"Same to you, sir!" she muttered. Her dark eyes fixed on Rico. "He called me a bitch! Can you fucking believe that?"
Rico leaned forward again, his face anxious.
"Jiminez, what's happening? The whole damn regiment is mustering!"
"You mean you don't know?" She looked surprised. "We got a mobilization order thirty minutes ago. Where were you?"
"Over at the 42nd." Rico felt his blood pressure rising. "What did the order say?"
Jiminez leaned forward confidentially.
"Looks like a combat drop," she said. "It's not specific, but they never are. The entire regiment is ordered to muster at Luna 4 Embarkation by 1100 hours. Apparently the transports are already in orbit, waiting to load."
Rico felt his mouth turn dry. He remembered all too well. At Luna 4 Embarkation they would board the shuttles by company, each man lugging his combat pack, pressure suit, and weapons kit. Hearts racing, stomachs churning, they would file into the narrow, unarmed shuttles and settle into acceleration seats to wait for liftoff. One by one the shuttles would leave the lunar surface, and thirty minutes later dock with the deep space transports. Each transport would carry from one to three battalions, depending on its capacity, and once loaded they would rendezvous with their convoy escorts. After that …
"What about us?" he asked. "Is HQ Company supposed to go, too?"
Jiminez shrugged. "I'm not going, but you'd better check with Sgt. Natali. If you can find him."
Rico blinked rapidly. Where would Natali be right now? He hadn't seen him yet this morning, but he had to be around somewhere.
"Okay. Thanks, Jiminez. Look, if he shows up here, or if you hear any orders for me, page me, okay?"
She smiled and nodded. He turned for the door.
"Rico … "
He spun around.
"Good luck." She blew him a kiss, her eyes glistening.
"Thanks." He turned and ran out the door.
And almost ran over Sgt. Natali.
"Martinez! Where the fuck you been! Christ, man, get your gear! We've got a shuttle to catch."
Rico stared in disbelief. "We're going?"
"Orders said 33rd Star Marines. You been reassigned recently?"
"No, Sarge!"
"Then get moving! Full combat pack, pressure suit, standard issue weapon."
Rico nodded, then stopped.
"I don't have a pressure suit, Sarge!"
"Then get over to QM and draw one. Hustle!"
Rico raced at full speed to the Quartermaster office. Nearly a hundred men were ahead of him, mostly heavy weapons people from the various companies, drawing gear for their particular specialties. Rico stopped in frustration, but quickly ran around to a side entrance. Since working for Sgt. Natali he'd gotten personally acquainted with several quartermaster people, and now he spotted Cpl. Barron, who was busy filling orders.
"Corporal!" he panted, "you gotta help me out, man! I need a pressure suit, like right fucking now, man!"
Barron looked at him as if he were crazy.
"You kidding, Rico? I'm up to my ass in aardvarks here! You gonna have to get in line."
"I don't have time! I'm not in a line company, and my unit is already leaving. I need that suit now."
As he talked, Barron was hoisting a heavy laser tripod and counting out power packs. Sweat sheened his face.
"Got my hands full, man. Sorry."
Rico chewed his lip in frustration. Barron outranked him, so he couldn't bully him, and they weren't so close that he could appeal to him as a buddy.
"I know where they are, Corporal," he said. "Since you're busy, I can just go get one. Okay?"
"Against regs, man. They gotta be checked out by me or one of my people." He stopped, looked into Rico's half-panicked eyes for a second, then shrugged. "Of course, I could use some help. If you wanted to bring one up here, I'm sure we're gonna have a call for one sooner or later." A faint grin traced across his lips.
Rico didn't hesitate. He turned and trotted down the long corridors of the warehouse until he reached the area where pressure suits were stored. In less than five minutes he was back, but Barron had moved away. The side entrance hatch stood open, and without a second thought Rico dashed through it, the pressure suit in his arms.
* * *
Luna 4 Embarkation looked exactly as Rico remembered it. Also located underground, it very much resembled the loading gates of a civilian spaceport, except it was much, much larger, and boasted none of the esthetically pleasing finish work. Everything was stark and military; instead of textured walls there were plasteel girders; instead of soft pastel colors everything was dull grey and black.
Lines were painted on the floor, assembly areas were numbered. Each company of the 33rd assembled at its assigned number. The place was so cavernous that the nearly three thousand men were swallowed up, taking up less than a quarter of the available space.
Rico, Sgt. Natali, and nine other men stood in Zone 9. Rico felt his heart jump erratically as he remembered the bone-chilling experience from the last time. From this very room he and his entire regiment had shipped out to Titan, and only he had come back. He didn't let himself think about what might happen this time.
"Any idea where we're going, Sarge?" he asked, just to keep his mind off it.
"Yeah. We're gonna get on a shuttle and go up to orbit. Then we'll board a military transport."
Rico waited for the rest, but that was all. He peered at Natali in disbelief.
"You mean you don't know, either?" he asked.
"Nobody tells me more than I need to know," Natali growled. "Same as you."
"You heard any scuttlebutt?"
"Yeah. I heard we're at war with Sirius."
"Come on, Sarge …"
"What the fuck you want, Martinez? Do I look like a fuckin' fortuneteller?"
Rico scowled unhappily and shut up. They stood around for nearly an hour — not all that long in military time — before the order was passed to start loading. Companies were loaded in alphabetical order, which meant Delta was the fourth to file aboard a shuttle. But Rico wasn't with Delta, and when the first four shuttles were loaded he was still waiting with the headquarters group. He sat down and crossed his legs to wait.
Once the shuttles had lifted to the surface for launch, they waited forty minutes until the next four were lowered to the loading gates for embarkation, and four more companies filed aboard. This con
tinued until all sixteen companies had loaded. Rico and his group didn't get on a shuttle until mid-afternoon. Theirs was the very last to load, and Rico found himself aboard a shuttle with Colonel Ireland and his staff officers, who showed up twenty minutes after everyone else had boarded. Leave it to the officers, he thought impatiently, to be fashionably late!
Once strapped into an acceleration seat, Rico was suddenly assailed by a case of the shakes. It was completely unexpected, and there was nothing he could do about it. This was all too familiar, the stuff of nightmares. Déjà vu. His stomach twisted into a knot, he broke into a sweat, and found it suddenly hard to breathe. For a moment a sense of panic welled up inside him, for he hadn't made any arrangements. Hadn't written to his family, nor settled any of his affairs. Jesus! Why had he let that slide? Last time he'd left vidchips to be mailed, had said good-bye to everyone who cared about him, just in case.
But not this time.
And now it was too late.
He thought of his mother, old and ailing, who'd begged him not to enlist. He thought of Angela, his beautiful sister, and her cute little boy, Johnny, whose father had already died in the war. God! What if he didn't come back? He almost hadn't come back last time, so what had he been thinking?
He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and tried to calm himself by breathing slowly, breathing deeply. Next to him, Sgt. Natali closed his eyes and dozed off.
Chapter 15
Saturday, 14 June, 0228 (PCC) – Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
Wade Palmer sat beside Cdr. Kamada in the War Room, which was different from the Strategy Room. This room was bigger, more complex, less like a conference area. Huge holos along one wall depicted a variety of map-like scenes and actual live video of the action as it progressed. The tension was higher, voices talked over one another as the scene unfolded. There was much less concern over propriety and military protocol; when someone had something to say, he or she simply said it.
This was where the Polygon planners watched the war being fought, where they discovered if they'd guessed right or wrong.
