“You look stunned,” he said as she threw herself into a chair. Like most of the inhabited areas of the base, their quarters were gravplated. Human bodies stayed healthier with something near normal gravity.
“I am stunned, and angry. This battalion is in bad shape.”
“Bad troops?” he asked.
Jill stared at him in disbelief as she loosened her collar and began unbuttoning her thick fitted dress jacket. “Tell me something, oh husband of mine who holds field grade rank but only because of his technical expertise,” and she took a breath. “What’s the most important factor in any organization?”
“Umm…is this a trick question?”
“Nope. Just answer.”
“Okay…morale?”
“Morale is a symptom and an indicator, not a cause.”
“Oh, like…the answer is always ‘Jesus’?”
Jill burst out laughing at the old joke they’d discovered they both knew: in church, the answer is always ‘Jesus.’
“You’re not so far off. In a military unit, the answer is always ‘leadership,’ even if it seems like something else. And leadership starts with the commanding officer. When there is a problem, start looking in concentric circles starting from the commander’s desk.”
“Bad officer then?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how bad. It’s only been twelve hours but I already see conflicting agendas and even the good people look bad to me. Sometimes if the boss just takes his hand off the tiller, the unit can go bad because, say, the executive officer is the problem. Or the CO might be negligent, or clueless, or actively corrupt, or perhaps he’s being blackmailed, or, or, or.”
“I see.” Rick stood up to open the small fridge and take out a precious bottle. “Orange juice?”
“The real thing?” Her face lit up.
“Yes. They have extensive hydroponics here. I did a little shopping. Fresh vegetables and fruits, herbs, and even some fresh chicken, though that’s hellaciously expensive. But what else do we have to do with our salaries, and hey…”
“We might not live to enjoy it? Please, pour me a glass. I’ve already had my alcohol for the day, trying to get people to open up.” Jill took the plastic cup and sipped. “Wow. That’s good.”
“Yes. So…what can I do to help?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Her eyes turned pensive. “I need a few days to observe, just keep my eyes and ears open. Later, I may ask you to find some things out for me.” She suddenly looked up at the ceiling, waving a pointing finger around questioningly.
“I swept the room. No bugs. I plugged into the base net too. It’s pathetically open, and there’s a lot of interesting stuff I already found out. Illegal casinos and cathouses, unregulated alcohol and drugs, smuggling…this place is a regular Barbary Coast, minus the slavers. ‘A wretched hive of scum and villainy.’ I even found what I believe are back doors into the military nets, though I’d rather approach them from the other side in case of ICE.”
Jill blinked. “Okay. Sounds like you have your work cut out for you as well. I wonder if the Fleet bureaucracy here is as bad as Battalion?”
“It’s run by Aerospace, more or less, though overall command of trans-Jovian space is held by a navy rear admiral by the name of Huen.” Rick waited for Jill to recognize the name, and when she did not, he went on. “Huen was Absen’s executive officer on Orion. Rank of Commander back then. Chinese, though from Hong Kong, so not a PRC insider, and by all accounts a fine, by-the-book officer, if a bit hands-off. He stays aboard Artemis and out of the base, mostly, I hear.”
Jill sighed. “So…a leadership void at the top, or perhaps just below, perhaps the Aerospace base commander. And with the Marines. Did you know that the Marines are completely handcuffed from performing security duties except in very specific instances – such as their own barracks? They aren’t even assigned to police Fleet facilities, though they have plenty of them as ‘guards.’ The problem is, they can’t do anything unless someone threatens Fleet facilities or property.”
“Nothing?”
“Illegal activities go on right in front of them and they have no right to detain or arrest unless it affects Fleet, so they get used to not caring, and that’s only one step from participating. They are supposed to report anything to the base Security Police, of which there are exactly twenty-six personnel to deal with more than twenty thousand pilots and trainees and the staff. They then pass reports on to the civilian corporate security liaison officer, who is supposed to then pass it on to the correct corporation, who then might direct their security forces to do something about it. Maybe.” Jill finished her juice, then slammed the cup down on the table, causing a few droplets to splash.
“Holy mother of pearl. So what you’re saying is, no one is watching the henhouse. Enormous amounts of materiel and goods coming through here, fifty thousand plus people, billions of dollars, and no law enforcement or policing to speak of. It’s the Wild West.”
“Reckon so, pardner,” Jill replied.
Rick smiled. “So, Sheriff, what are you gonna do about it?”
Jill’s mouth turned up at the corners but no one would have called it a smile. “I prefer ‘Marshal,’ thank you. I’m a cop at heart, Rick. What do you think I’m gonna do?”
“Clean up this here town, I reckon.”
“Ayup.” Jill took off her jacket and went into the bedroom to hang it in the small closet. “Just give me some time to gather intel and figure out a plan.”
Chapter 35
The next morning Master Sergeant Repeth entered battalion headquarters in perfect dress uniform, wheel cap held precisely flat and horizontal in her left hand, her fingers curled upward to grip its brim. Every hair was in place, every medal and accoutrement measured thrice and aligned, the U.S. Navy Cross at her throat.
Fifteen seconds before 0900, Staff Sergeant Duyers nodded to her and then preceded her to Lieutenant Colonel Simms’ closed office door and knocked. At an indistinct command from inside he opened the door and said, “Master Sergeant Repeth for your oh-nine-hundred, sir.”
“Send her in.”
When Repeth entered, she saw Simms sitting at his desk with his palms flat on it, as if to hold it in place, and staring – not merely looking, staring, perhaps glaring – straight at her.
Oh my.
She marched to a position in front of his desk and snapped to rigid attention. “Master Sergeant Repeth reports as ordered, sir.” Her hand came up in a salute sharp enough to cut paper, and she waited, staring at the wall over his head. Of course, with her cybernetic eye she could actually see everything out to the limits of its periphery…and it was recording everything, along with the audio from her ear implant.
Just in case.
Simms lifted his right hand and returned the salute, then put it back down again flat on the desk. Its surface was free of papers, except for one folder squared in front of him, and every other item on it seemed to be set precisely in place.
Repeth dropped her salute and waited.
“What is that abomination around your neck?” Simms asked the question in a mild voice, as if inquiring about the weather.
Repeth’s mind whirred for a moment, reorienting into this unexpected track. “The United States Navy Cross, sir. EarthFleet uniform regulations allow the wear of certain national awards in full dress uniform.”
“Did I ask you why you were wearing it, Master Sergeant?”
“No, sir.” Now I see how this will be. Like a recruit in front of a drill instructor, nothing I do or say will be right. Okay, I can handle this kind of game.
“Staff Sergeant Duyers!” Simms raised his voice to carry to the outer office. “Please bring me a copy of EarthFleet uniform regulations open to the section for wear of medals on service dress.”
Duyers came in almost immediately with a three-ring binder and set it open in front of the CO, between his flattened hands, and then left. “Shut the door, Staff Sergeant.” Simms leaned over without moving those hands
and looked down his nose at the paper for more than a minute.
He has hardcopy files printed out, in this age of digital. Well, I suppose that’s reasonable, if he uses them a lot and likes them. With cheap fusion energy it’s not prohibitively expensive to ship paper here. Lots of people still prefer physical books…though I am starting to think it’s more about having his people bustle about like lackeys than efficiency. I’d hate to be in Duyers’ place.
Simms head came back up and he stared at Repeth. “I really detest a barracks lawyer, Master Sergeant. Though you may be correct in technicality, displaying such awards shows me you are trying to make yourself look better than others. Do you think you are better than others, Master Sergeant?”
Better than some, and worse than others, of course, she wanted to reply, but reason had already fled this conversation, replaced by classic Lords-of-Discipline-style traps. There was, by long tradition, no way to win an exchange like this, except to maintain her military bearing, give him nothing to really gig her, and endure the attempt to beat her down.
“No, sir,” she replied.
“But you wore that decoration,” he pressed.
Repeth saw a small opening, but then realized he was trying to sucker her into explaining further, which would only provide him with more ammunition. Therefore, she simply responded, “Yes, sir.”
Simms stared at her, evidently nonplussed that he had not gotten what he wanted. He tried a different tack. “How do you intend to rectify this error?”
“I will wear only the medals and accoutrements mandated by EarthFleet regulations, or those which the chain of command instructs me to wear.” There, try to find a flaw with that.
Simms seemed to chew on that for a moment, and then suddenly stood up, thrusting his head directly into her line of sight. He closed the binder with an audible snap and called for Duyers to recover it. Once that was done he said, “Master Sergeant, I expect you to be a model Marine, an example to the enlisted in Bravo Company.”
This coming from a man who apparently has only been a Marine of any sort for a year or two…
“Those enlisted people are a collection of goats, wayward sheep and lambs,” he continued as his voice dropped in volume but grew angry and intense. “Not a one of them has proper direction it seems: not from their company commander, whose leadership is questionable even when he is not pursuing improper relationships with his subordinates; not from the battalion sergeant major, who is a drunk and a deviant; and not from the other NCOs in the company, who have apparently abandoned their roles as the backbone of their unit. In short, Master Sergeant, I expect you to fail just like the rest, and nothing I have seen today from you has dissuaded me from this expectation.”
Repeth remained rigidly braced, shocked but not really surprised at this diatribe, this spewing of inappropriate and undeserved bile upon her. But I’ve had worse. Just not lately; not since early training, and never in EarthFleet.
Simms’ voice dropped even more, to a faint whisper as he thrust his chin forward almost to her face. “Now get out of my office, you ugly, arrogant and incompetent piece of shit, before I have you broken in the ranks.” He stayed in that pose for a long moment, then drew back to stand straight before her.
Mind stunned and blank despite believing herself prepared, Repeth responded properly. “Aye aye, sir. Will that be all, sir?”
“Get out.”
She lifted her hand in salute and held it.
“Just get out.”
Repeth held the position a moment longer, just in case he was trying to trap her again. When he opened his mouth once more, she dropped the salute and about-faced, marched to the door and opened it. At any moment she expected to be called back for some petty infraction, but only silence followed her as she exited.
Duyers threw her a look of sympathy as he turned toward his boss’ office, and then she passed out of the battalion HQ spaces, her mind in turmoil. Her thoughts spun and twisted, trying to rationalize this kind of treatment by an officer with such a bizarre attitude toward command.
Encountering petty tyranny bordering on madness would not have surprised her in a training unit, which often bred or attracted strange unhealthy little minds. Or perhaps at some isolated posting, without oversight from higher up.
But perhaps this base, this command may fit that definition. It is certainly remote, and Simms is the most senior Marine, answerable only to Admiral Huen aboard Artemis, who himself has fifty thousand or more people to supervise. But still…it’s too extreme. It really does seem to be a kind of madness, a psychological pathology, brought on by…what?
As she walked around the battalion area, just strolling and moving to help her think, one phrase kept coming back to mind. Broken in the ranks? Where had she heard that saying? Some old movie, or perhaps a book?
In her youth she’d read sea stories, of Hornblower and Ramage and Jack Aubrey, and watched Sharpe’s Rifles, the entire series of movies. They had inspired her with tales of bravery and discipline, and especially of those wearing the red coats of Brittania’s Marines and soldiers. It sounded like a saying common in that time, roared by some aristocratic tyrant ship captain, or an army officer who had bought his commission instead of earning it.
The man is simply bughouse mad. He’s living out some historical fantasy. That’s the only explanation. He’s gone ’round the bend, as the Commonwealthers would say. So what the hell can I do about it?
She spent a day or two just thinking without confiding in Rick, preferring to mull it over without input and observe, though eventually she did.
***
Master Sergeant Repeth did a double take as she passed the young lieutenant in the corridor. If he hadn’t looked so melancholy she might have missed him entirely, but she’d seen that expression before, she was sure…on someone else’s face.
Actually, she was happy to have a distraction.
“Pardon me, Lieutenant,” she began, and when the man turned, she used her cybernetic eye to zoom in on his name tag. FLT Markis? That’s why he looks familiar. “Vincent Markis? Sir?”
“Yes, uh, Sergeant…Aunt Jill!” Suddenly his face lit up and he reached out to hug her, changing his motion into a grab for her hand with both of his, as they were in uniform. Of course she was no blood relation, but she’d been “Aunt Jill” ever since she married “Uncle Rick” Johnstone, who was twelve years older than Vincent. The Johnstones and Markises had lived across the street from each other in Carletonville, South Africa.
Repeth squeezed his hand in return with no more than ordinary pressure. “I see wings. You’re an Aardvark pilot?”
“Yup. And you’re assigned here?”
“Yes. Rick and I just got here a few days ago.”
Vincent’s smile widened even more. “That’s fantastic. With the…I mean, it’s all training, and these guys are buddies, but…”
Jill nodded. “It’s not the same as having real friends and family nearby, especially a billion kilometers from anywhere.”
“No, it’s not.” The lieutenant’s face fell slowly back into the miserable expression it had started with. “Not at all.”
“Having a tough time?”
Vincent looked around at the people coming and going, passing them as they stood talking at the side of the corridor, and Jill could see pain in his eyes. “Yeah, kinda. Maybe we could go somewhere?”
“I’m off duty in about an hour. Why don’t you come by our quarters after the duty day? It’s over in the married officers’ block.” She told him the address. “Twenty hundred hours?”
“Sounds great, really. Great.” To her, he resembled a starving dog that just had a bowl of food set in front of him but couldn’t quite believe it.
“See you then.” Jill nodded, as this accessway was a no-salute zone. With twenty-some thousand lieutenants and warrant officer pilots around, there were actually only a few places designated for standard customs and courtesies. As far as she was concerned, this was part and parcel of the whole
rotten base.
Lose customs and courtesies and respect for each other isn’t far behind. Familiarity breeds contempt.
She spent the last hour inspecting the barracks, having instituted random checks of the lower enlisted personnel, something well within her scope of duties, no matter what the officers thought. In fact, Rapplean and the smaj both approved, the captain because he wanted his company to look good as long as someone else did the hard work, and the sergeant major because…well, all sergeants major loved to see a perfect display of kit in the barracks.
More than halfway through the line of bunks and lockers, she came to her Private Pyle, a kid named Wingen. In her experience, every unit of platoon size or larger had one, a screw-up that just didn’t get it. Five years ago EarthFleet Marines had been elite, the best of the best, but like any bureaucracy, the selection process had let more and more marginal people slip through with the pressure to recruit. All it took was a personnel NCO with a soft heart for a kid who “needed” a second chance, or a training company commander who didn’t want his attrition rate to drop below a certain number, and some goober would get passed to a line unit in hopes that the chain of command there could hammer him or her into a decent troop.
Sometimes it worked. Some youngsters just needed some extra time. Some became mascots, serving unusual functions or finding their niches. But a Pyle was always a Pyle.
This time his kit looked pretty good, almost good enough. Given that Repeth had held more than a dozen personal inspections in the last week, it had better be. Something odd about it this time, though. She slid a drawer all the way out and flipped it upside down, as she’d felt something catch and crackle on it. Taped to the bottom was a packet of clear flat buttons. Some kind of pills.
“That ain’t mine, Top,” Wingen babbled.
“You’re supposed to be at attention, Private,” Repeth barked. “How can you possibly see what just happened if your eyes are caged and locked front?”
Plague Wars 06: Comes the Destroyer Page 16
