Recruit

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  In reality, Grant had probably been moving at less than a couple of kilometers an hour, certainly nothing extraordinary had he been down on Tarawa’s surface. In space, though, that was too fast.

  The comms crackled as the DIs and the safety officer asked for updates. After a quick check, the Di who had turned off the thrusters gave the OK, and the training was given the go ahead. Grant was going to get his ass chewed but good, but open space was not the place for that.

  The breaching chamber, or the “can opener,” had been previously ferried over by 1042. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a fat metal tube. What it had, though, was the capability to open up almost any ship that existed. Usually, it was put over the target ship’s airlock, but it could force entry into the ship anywhere. Going through the airlock, though, would keep the target ship spaceworthy. Shipline owners, while they wanted pirated vessels recovered, wanted their ships to still be able to ply their routes without extensive time in the yards.

  First Fire Team, led by No Initial, maneuvered the can opener over the airlock. The DIs drifted over to observe as it was put into position. Of course, there would be no breach of the Wilma. Once in final position, the breaching itself would be simulated with a TDI inside simply cycling through the Wilma’s lock.

  Ryck glanced back at the rest of the squad. The two remaining teams hung in space, ready to move forward and enter the ship. Something caught his eye, though, against the blackness of space. A small puff of vapor suddenly sprouted out from the waist of the recruit nearest to him. The puff started turning the recruit around. It was Grant. There was a breach in his suit. Small breaches from microdust were closed by the suit’s internal repair nanos, but as Ryck watched, the breach opened wider, sending out more air.

  The recruits were supposed to stay off the comms during the transit, keeping them clear for emergencies. Ryck figured this was an emergency. So did Grant.

  “Help!” Grant screamed as he started spinning away.

  His thrusters were far more powerful than the force of the escaping air, but he evidently didn’t think of that. He was panicking as he was losing his oxygen. He actually still had air being fed into the suit faster than it was being expelled, but if the spreading rip got too big, he would have an catastrophic suit failure.

  “Emergency, emergency!” Ryck shouted, not knowing what else to say.

  Grant was slowly spinning now, moving away from the others. Ryck was the closest to him, so he turned himself around and blasted forward, colliding with Grant in a classic tackle. He wrapped his arms around Grant’s waist, plastering his chest against the rip in Grant’s suit. He pulled as tightly as he could. He had to get Grant inside a ship. The Wilma was not ready, and looking around Grant’s waist, he could see that the Wong’s forward airlock was not closed as it awaited the arrival of the previous squad on the sleds.

  “Recruit Lysander to the captain of the Wong, keep your forward airlock open. I am returning with Recruit Thomas!” he shouted into his mic.

  He ignored the blast of comms chatter as he tried to align the two of them on the Wong, then gave his thruster a blast.

  He felt the thrust build up before it cut off. Had his thruster failed?

  “Lysander, do not engage your thruster. Do you understand? Keep your hold on Thomas, but do not engage your thruster,” King Tong’s voice broke through the voices as his speaker switched to a direct circuit.

  It was only then that Ryck became aware of three green-suited figures around him. He felt hands on him as the DIs took in the situation, probably discussing things on another circuit. Ryck had been cut off the open circuit. He just sat there, arms clamped around Grant, who had stopped moving. Ryck hoped he was OK.

  Finally, King Tong’s voice came back to him. “Recruit Lysander, listen carefully. We are going to tow you back to the Wong. No matter what happens, you keep squeezing Recruit Thomas just like you are doing. We’ve told him to be completely still. You do not let go until we tell you to. You got that?”

  “Yes, drill instructor. I’ve got it.”

  With his face pressed up against Grant’s waist, Ryck couldn’t see much, but he felt his suit adjust as hands grabbed him. Within moments, he started to move. He squeezed harder on Grant, not wanting to lose his grip. At one point, Grant started to squirm, but he stopped suddenly. Ryck hoped that was because someone told him to stop and not that he had passed out—or worse.

  It seemed like forever to him, but it was probably closer to two minutes before the DIs reversed thrust at the last moment, slamming them headfirst into the Wong’s open airlock. The gravity hit them, and they fell to the deck. Ryck almost lost his grip.

  The outer door closed behind them, and the air started rushing in. Sound from something outside his suit once again returned to Ryck.

  “OK, Lysander, you can let go,” a voice, a real voice, not over the comms, said as hands reached down to pull apart his arms.

  Ryck let go and sat back, looking to where he had seen the breach in Grant’s suit. It was larger than he had thought, a good 30 cms across. The suits were not supposed to fail like that, but these were old, ill-fitting suits. Hitting the side of the Wilma as hard as Grant had done must have started the failure, something beyond the old suit’s nanos to repair.

  It took a few more moments for the air to cycle completely through and the inner door to open. Several Marines and a corpsman rushed in. Grant’s helmet had already been popped, and he sat there, eyes wide in contained panic. He was breathing heavily.

  Ryck popped his own helmet. He felt relief that Grant was OK. Up until that moment, adrenalin had been coursing through him. Now, it left his body, and he started trembling.

  “So, Recruit Lysander, you were all set to order the captain of the Wong to keep the airlock open, then take your buddy back to the ship all by your lonesome? With me and the other DIs there at the scene?’ King Tong asked, standing over him.

  Ryck felt his heart fall. Had he screwed up again? Of course, the DIs were more capable of handling the situation than he was.

  “I . . . uh, I guess I wasn’t thinking. I just saw him and reacted,” he stammered out, getting to his feet.

  “That you did. Sometimes, though, reaction is the best action. You saw an emergency, then did something about it. Trying to take him back on your lonesome might have been a little much, but you did manage to limit the breach on Thomas’ suit. If it had grown into a catastrophic failure before the rest of us got there, who knows what would have happened?”

  “I didn’t screw up?”

  King Tong laughed, then said, “No, you didn’t screw up. Hugging another recruit was an odd way of saving his sorry ass, but it worked. Good job, Ryck. Good fucking job.”

  Relief swept over him. He was glad that Grant was OK, of course, but he felt a twinge of guilt that he was happier that he was still a recruit squad leader. He hadn’t been fired.

  Chapter 12

  Ten more steps. That’s all. Just ten more steps.

  Ryck had been reciting that mantra for the last hour, trying to fool his tired body that the Crucible was almost over. It wasn’t true, and he knew it wasn’t true, but it was the only way he knew to keep going.

  He’d been pretty excited when DIs had rushed into the squadbay, throwing gas grenades almost 40 hours before. This was the start of the Crucible, where each recruit would finally be forged into a Marine. This was the culmination of over 290 days on Tarawa. Ryck was confident that he could not only survive, but excel. Nothing could stop him.

  The first six hours had been brutal, but not one recruit had dropped. They had the pass/fail 25 km ruck run, the obstacle course, and over an hour of “motivational” PT. They had done all of this before during training. The only difference was that this was with the entire company. It had actually felt invigorating being out there on the grinder, doing flutter kicks, push-ups, good morning darlings, and squat thrusts with close to 500 other recruits. The run was not as fun. Being towards the rear of the company f
or the first half of the run, they had mercilessly accordioned, slowing down almost to stop at times only to have to then sprint to catch up. At least after the half-way point, they had switched the order of march, and the lead series was in the rear. For something that had loomed over their heads, though, since T1, it was a relief to have it over, with not one 1044 recruit dropping out.

  Immediately after the run came the “Road to Heaven.” During the last week of training, the recruits were run through events taken from all the 46 extant corps that had been combined to form the Federation Marine Corps. The Road to Heaven came courtesy of the Republic of China Marine Corps. The recruits stripped down to their skivvies, then belly-crawled, rolled, and performed maneuvers to get down 50 meters of jumbled lava rock, all the time screaming “I fear no pain!” No one dropped, but the cuts on their bodies stung with sweat, something that would only get worse as the Crucible continued.

  After that welcome-to-the-Crucible, they had broken back into platoons to go tactical. Storks had lifted them to the mountain training area on the other side of the valley where they were given a patrol mission. The patrol went up and down the almost impassible terrain. That was bad enough, but the cold was unrelenting. It was here that 1044 had their first drop. Garret Shin had sat down in the snow during a five-minute break and simply didn’t get back up. He was whisked away by two of the DIs. No one knew if he DOR’d or was suffering from a cold-related injury. So close to the end, no one wanted to pry into it, the old superstition about knowing too much kicking in. The recruits studiously ignored what had taken place.

  By morning, they had reached their objective. But no Storks would be taking them to their final destination. It was a 65 km march down the mountains and across the valley to Camp Prettyjohn and Mount Motherfucker. Camp Prettyjohn, named for a British Royal Marine hero, was a restricted base for special operations training. The recruits had never been taken there, but Mount Motherfucker was in full view of Camp Charles, hanging over them like their own version of hell. It wasn’t so much its appearance, but rather its reputation. Rising up almost 2,500 feet above the valley floor, it actually seemed innocuous, almost serene. But each recruit knew that he had to make it to the summit with his weapon and full kit. Ryck had often gazed at the mountain while at Charles, thinking he could run up it. But that was without being up for two days during the Crucible and after a 65 km hump to the base.

  The hump itself had been a bitch. They had to move tactically, making two river crossings in the route. Several times, they had been ambushed by other DIs, getting gassed in the process. After the last ambush, three of the recruits had been “killed,” forcing the rest to carry not only them, but their gear as well.

  Ryck barely noticed as they entered Prettyjohn. He had often wondered what the snake-eaters did there, but as they passed through the gate, he was too tired to care. He knew he should be urging the recruits in the squad on, but with half of Duc’s gear in his pack, Duc being one of the “dead” recruits, he had turned inward just to keep going.

  At the base of Mount Motherfucker, he might as well have been looking up Mount Ascent back on Prophesy. The treeless mountain would have offered a stunning vista of the valley and Camp Charles 10 kilometers or so to the south, but that would be if they had time to sit and take in the view. The dirt path leading up was fairly even, but the operational word was “up.” Ryck managed one “let’s keep it tight” before he just leaned forward, trying to keep himself moving.

  Tradition had it that there had been a “Mount Motherfucker” since the early Marines on Earth, something the brass liked so much that on the Federated Marines’ first base on New Beginnings, they had searched for one there. This was going to be the United States Marines’ contribution to the final week. When they had again moved to Tarawa, this current mountain was chosen to carry on the tradition. It had seemed more uplifting when they had first heard of the tradition. Humping up it, Ryck probably joined thousands and thousands of Marine recruits who had wished that this was one tradition that would have died.

  At about 500 feet up, Duc quietly slipped out of the makeshift stretcher being carried by No Initial and Petir Borisovitch, letting John Emerson get on. John’s feet were mangled with huge blisters, but at the last stop, he’d just jammed his bloody feet back into his boots, refusing the let the corpsman see them. The DIs had to have noticed the switch, but not one took issue with it.

  Ryck was vaguely aware of another platoon marching up the mountain on an adjoining trail, but he was focused on his own mission. He had to will one foot being put in front of the other. When he bumped into the recruit in front of him, it took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t moving.

  Hodges was in front of him, bent over at the waist, hands on his knees. His weapon dangled, the butt in the dirt, but the sling still in his hands.

  Ryck straightened up, catching his breath. They were moving up the trail in a column of twos, all pretense at tactical dispersion gone. To his right, Seth MacPruit was doggedly marching. With a hand attached to Seth’s ruck was Ham Ceres. Seth was pulling Ham, the very guy who had arranged for Seth’s beasting in the showers so long ago. Seth was still an asshole, but he had come around. If he could do that, then so could Ryck.

  “Come on, Terry,” he told Hodges. “Just a little more. Grab my ruck and let me pull you.”

  He moved past the recruit, and felt the tug as Hodges grabbed the “dead man’s strap” on the side of Ryck’s ruck.

  Ten more steps. That’s all. Just ten more steps.

  Then suddenly it really was only ten more steps. They crested a ridge, and there, lining the dirt path, were the company’s DIs and officers. Behind them were a number of the TDIs. Ryck was confused for a moment, but as he passed Captain Petrov, the officer slapped him on the back with a “Good job, Marine.”

  It took a moment for that to sink in. “Marine?”

  It wasn’t a mistake, though. Each Marine on the top of the mountain greeted them, saying the same thing. They had made it. They were Marines!

  Several corpsmen were up there as well, and they quickly took those who needed help from the arms of those who had carried them up the hill. 1043 was already there, along with 1039 from the lead platoon. Most of them were on their butts with their rucks off, but they shouted out their greetings. 1044 was not the first to finish, but it wasn’t the last, either.

  “Keep your heads up!” Ryck told the others as they moved to their staging area.

  He wanted nothing more than to flop down on the ground, but he was going to keep it strong until the end. They reached the small 1044 sign that indicated their staging area, and Ryck managed to keep on his feet until each recruit . . . each Marine, that was, sat down. He checked them for water before he eased down himself. He didn’t think he would ever get up again.

  When 1045 marched up, he surprised himself, though. Led by their platoon guide, Joshua Hope-is-Life, he couldn’t help himself. He jumped up and ran to embrace his friend.

  “Hey, Marine,” Ryck said, “you grubbing son-of-a-bitch. We made it!”

  Chapter 14

  Ryck held his eyes high as the colonel gave his speech. He’d never even seen the man before. He didn’t really give him much thought. Boot camp consisted of his fellow recruits, the DIs, the TDIs, even some of the officers. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could just make out the colonel, up on the podium in his dress blues.

  In front of him, though, was the contingent from Eltsworld. Not many family members had come to graduation, but at least fifty Eltsworlders had made the trip in a private ship, and they made quite an impression in the minton-robes and head coverings, the colors changing with each movement or shift of the breeze. They comprised the extended family of Dhakwan Nagi, “Duckman,” from 1045. Since their arrival the day before, rumors had started swirling about Duckman, that he was some sort royal prince, out to prove his courage as a warrior before going back to take over the government.

  Ryck would have loved for Lysa to come, but wit
h a new baby, and more importantly, with the cost of a ticket, it just didn’t make much sense. It didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that he had made it. In two more days, he was shipping off to his first duty station, The Third Marine Division at Camp Kolesnikov on Alexander. He would have to attend the 12-week IUT, Initial Unit Training, there before getting to his unit, but it would be as a Marine, not as a recruit.

  “. . . and so I am proud to be sending you to where your Marine Corps career will take you. I know you will make me proud, you will make the Corps proud, but more importantly, you will make yourself proud. From our forefathers, Per Terra et Mare, Per Mare, Per Terram, Qua Patet Orbis, and Semper Fidelis. And from the here and now, Audaces Fortuna Iuvat, Marines.

  “Captain Petrov, you may dismiss your Marines,” the colonel told the company commander.

  The company commander saluted, did an about-face, then called forward the first sergeant and turned over the company to him. He took a step back, did an about-face, and marched off, the other officers following him as the seniors replaced them.

  Ryck could feel the excitement build in him. He waited eagerly for the seniors to get the command. SSgt Despiri received the order, did an about-face, and stared at the new Marines for a moment.

  “Platoon 1044, dismissed!” he barked out.

  “Aye-aye!” they yelled out in chorus, taking one step back before performing an about-face.

  The band kicked in as the platoon erupted into cheers. Ryck pounded the back of Shaymall, who as the platoon guide, sported the single stripe of a Private First Class on his sleeve.

  “We did it!” he shouted as he was pulled off Shaymall and bear-hugged by No Initial. The next few minutes were a scrum of hugs, arm punches, and back-pounding. These were his brothers, the men with whom he’d accomplished the toughest challenge of this life. He couldn’t have made it without them, and he knew they had needed him. Hodges, No Initial, Duc, Wagons, Ham, Mac, even MacPruit, they were all family. They were all going their separate ways, but this was a watershed moment that none would forget.