Sturgeon leaned back and gave the two infantrymen a speculative look. “You want to promote him to a company level rank and leave him as a platoon sergeant, is that what I hear you saying?”
“Yessir.”
Sergeant Major Parant nodded vigorously.
Sturgeon rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as if thinking, though his mind was already made up. He abruptly leaned forward. “It’ll take us a couple days to settle in on the ship. Then we’ll have the best ship-board promotion ceremony we can.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Parant stood and stepped to Sturgeon’s desk. He reached a hand across it. “Thank you, sir. Outstanding. This will do no end of good for the enlisted men’s morale.”
Startled, Sturgeon reached out and shook Parant’s hand. He remained on his feet as the two left his office. Alone, he shook his head. The Confederation Marine Corps had revived an ancient tradition that had been discontinued sometime in the mid-twentieth century, the “graveyard promotion.” Certain senior men were promoted on retirement, and their retirement ranks were then higher than any rank they had actually served at. This could turn into a literal “graveyard” promotion for Charlie Bass. How could that possibly be good for the men’s morale?
On the appointed date and time, 34th FIST assembled with all its men and equipment at the appointed place. The Confederation Navy had Essays, surface-to-orbit shuttles, waiting for them. The twenty-four Dragons of the FIST, already loaded with the Marines of the three infantry companies, immediately drove into the eight Essays navy personnel directed them to. The ground crews secured the Essays for launch, then retired to their bunkers. The Essays launched at ten-second intervals, the roars of their rocket-assist engines sweeping over the navy spaceport. As soon as the rockets had the vehicles clear of the ground, they cut off and the Essays’ main engines took over and they flew upward in relative silence. At fifteen thousand meters they circled until cleared to climb to orbit altitude, then shot upward in formation, heading toward the parking orbit of the CNSS Tripoli. The Tripoli’s position in its orbit required the Essays to approach it from below to catch up with it. When they were near, jets would propel them into matching altitude a kilometer to the starship’s rear, then pulses from their rear jets would accelerate them to close the distance; pulses from their top jets would keep them from climbing to a higher orbit. The Tripoli, a Crowe-class amphibious assault battle cruiser, opened the hatches of one of its four docking bays to admit the eight Essays.
All the Marines had been through at least several launches. Even MacIlargie and Godenov, the newest men in third platoon, had been through five launches since enlisting in the Marines. The first was the civilian shuttle that ferried them to the troop transport that shipped them to Boot Camp on the Confederation military training world, Arsenault. During Boot Camp they’d gone through the complete launch-and-landing cycle during the phase of training that took place on Arsenault’s moon. The third time was when they lifted off Arsenault for transshipment to Thorsfinni’s World and their first duty assignment with the 34th FIST; then again at the beginning of the FIST’s deployment to Wanderjahr, and finally the return only a couple of months ago. Older, saltier Marines, such as Claypoole and Dean, who had been with the 34th six months longer, had seven launch-and-land cycles as Marines—the extras having occurred during the deployment to and return from Elneal. Soon-to-be Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass had been through so many launch-landing cycles that he had lost count.
After the first few crushing seconds of blast from the rocket engines that lifted the Essays off the surface, the trip to orbit was a picnic. They all relaxed. They could afford to—everyone knew the landing would be an entirely different matter, and not only because of resistance they might meet on the surface.
The Essays’ only view ports were in the coxswain’s compartment. That didn’t matter to the Marines, who were in Dragons that only had vision slits, up front, for the crew. The Dragon commanders had no reason to open their command hatches inside the Essays. Even if there had been anything to see, there wasn’t enough headroom to raise the hatches.
In sum, none of the Marines could see anywhere anyhow. All they could do was go along for the ride. The passage of time and the Essays’ subtle shifts in attitude and changes in the direction and force of what they experienced as gravity were all the indications the Marines had as to where they were on their journey to the starship. When they began floating against the webbing that held them into their seats, they knew they were in orbit and chasing the Tripoli. They felt the thrusts of the control jets as they matched altitude and velocity with the starship more as resistance from the webbing than as weight. The pinging and clanking of the magnetic clamps that secured the Essays to their berths in the docking bay were all they needed to tell them they were aboard the starship. They waited a few more minutes while spacesuited sailors snaked flexible tunnels to the exit hatches of the Essays and secured airtight locks. Only then did sailors undog the hatches of the Essays. Three pairs of sailors, a petty officer and a rating in each pair, pulled their way into each shuttle. The ratings carried spools of cable.
“You know the routine, Marines,” the petty officer in each pair said. He began unreeling the cable as the Marines unhooked themselves from their webbing. The petty officer handed a clamp that was on the lead end of the cable to the Marine on the port side of the Dragon’s hatch. The Marine hooked the clamp onto his belt. The petty officer reeled out more of the cable, exposing more clamps at two meter intervals. Each Marine in turn took a clamp and attached himself to the cable. When all the Marines and the Dragon crew were attached, the petty officer led them out of the Dragon and the cables from the three Dragons in the Essay were linked together. Then he led the linked Marines out of the Essay into the bay and through a hatch into the interior of the starship. The ship was in null-g, and would remain so until it left orbit.
Eight strings of Marines followed sailors up, down, and sideways along tunnels, some of which would be passageways, others ladderways once the ship was underway.
On the surface, the rest of the Marines of 34th FIST were boarding other Dragons. Some of the Dragons belonged to the port, but most of them were ship’s complement off the Tripoli. As soon as the Marines were aboard the Dragons, they drove onto more Essays—half of which were from the Tripoli. The second flight launched a half hour after the first. This flight would have to gain a higher altitude than the starship’s and wait for it to gain on them before they could maneuver to its docking holds.
A third flight of ten Essays from the Tripoli landed at the air station of Camp Major Pete Ellis. The FIST’s ten Raptor assault aircraft and ten hopper troop-carrier aircraft boarded them, two per Essay, and launched for orbit.
Two hours after the first flight of Essays launched, the entire FIST was aboard the CNSS Tripoli.
Chapter 9
The CNSS Tripoli was a Crowe-class amphibious assault battlecruiser. It was designed to carry two full combat-armed FISTs. The 13th FIST, which was always glad to leave its home base on New Serengeti, where the Marines never felt welcome, was already on board when the Crowe swung into orbit around Thorsfinni’s World.
The Tripoli’s troop accommodations were luxurious compared to most other navy vessels the Marines had mounted out on. Each major troop hold was designed for one company and was subdivided into squad-size compartments. In each squad compartment the racks were stacked only three high, which gave the men room to roll over without bumping the man sleeping above. Each squad compartment had its own head. The company commander and executive officer shared what amounted to a small stateroom; the company’s four other officers shared an only slightly larger stateroom. The six senior noncommissioned officers—the first sergeant, gunnery sergeant, and four platoon sergeants—had an even larger stateroom. The squad leaders had it the best—the ten from each company shared two compartments the size of squad compartments.
The “keel up” design of the “amphibious assault” part of th
e Crowe class allowed for sufficient VR chambers for Marines headed to an operation to maintain or increase their proficiency in weapons and tactics—including squad-level movements. Included in the design were sufficient gymnasiums for all the Marines of both FISTs, should the starship be loaded to capacity, to keep in top physical trim. The gyms and some of the VR chambers could also be used as briefing rooms or classrooms.
As a battlecruiser, the Crowe could outfight any known spaceship or starship from any of the independent human worlds, and virtually any ship short of a dreadnought from the Confederation Navy. One Crowe-class amphibious assault battlecruiser, with an escort of a few destroyers, could defeat any of the lesser worlds in Human Space. The five Crowe-class starships of the Confederation Navy together with a strong enough amphibious task force of the Confederation Army behind them, could defeat any but the strongest worlds in the Confederation.
Diamunde wasn’t one of the strongest worlds, but it was far from being one of the lesser ones. But the mighty warships weren’t going to engage in battle against the planet, only against its ships. Diamunde was too valuable for the Confederation to risk doing serious damage to the planetary infrastructure and surface. The Crowe-class ships were being used only because they were the most efficient means of transporting six full Marine FISTs while allowing the Marines to continue training with the still-unfamiliar antiarmor weapons. When the three Crowe-class amphibious battlecruisers and their destroyer escorts converged on Diamunde, they would meet the largest interstellar amphibious invasion fleet ever assembled. The Confederation Army was committing five hundred thousand combat troops to the fight.
The gymnasium compartment HL/q/v/I4-3 was assigned to the exclusive use of Company L, 34th FIST. Every day, when they weren’t in the VR chamber or the mess line, the Marines of Company L were in HL/q/v/14-3 working out individually or in organized calisthenics or athletics. Captain Conorado was determined that two months aboard ship weren’t going to cost any of his men muscle strength or endurance.
During the Tripoli’s first hop, the compartment was used for another purpose. On the fourth day all of the gymnasium equipment was stowed away and a small platform was raised at one end. The men of Company L assembled in parade-ground formation. The uniform of the day would have been dress scarlets, had they brought their dress uniforms. There was a susurration of voices in the ranks as the Marines asked each other what the formation was about, and speculation when nobody knew. The noise level grew louder when the officers and senior noncommissioned officers of the other companies in the battalion crowded in behind them, then were followed by all the officers and senior NCOs from the rest of the FIST’s units, including the FIST and battalion headquarters. Everyone was present except the FIST and battalion commanders and sergeants major.
Of the more than two hundred Marines in the compartment, only Captain Conorado and First Sergeant Myer, both on the raised platform, knew what was going on. Conorado stood at ease, calmly looking over the assembled Marines. Myer, also at ease, less calmly eyeballed the side entrance to the compartment.
At a signal from someone in the passageway who only he could see, Myer snapped to attention, faced front, and bellowed, “COMP-ney, A-ten-HUT!” The heels of the Marines standing in formation slammed together with a thunderous clap.
Brigadier Sturgeon strode in with Commander Van Winkle immediately behind him. Sergeants Major Shiro and Parant followed them. FIST Sergeant Major Shiro had a rolled sheet of parchment in his hand. The four senior Marines were in their dress scarlets; they had room in their kits to carry them. They mounted the platform and stood facing Conorado and Myer.
“Sir, Company L and attachments all present and accounted for,” Conorado said sharply. He didn’t salute his commanders; the gymnasium compartment wasn’t an area where the Marines wore their hats, and they didn’t salute “uncovered.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Sturgeon replied. The six men then formed a single line along the back of the platform.
Sturgeon spun in a sharp about-face to look at the assemblage. “We are Marines,” the FIST commander began without preamble. “We take care of our own. We honor our own. There are some of you, and some who aren’t with us in this compartment, who a month ago were serving in positions above the rank you held then. You were promoted in recognition of this before we left Camp Ellis. There are some of you who a month ago had decorations or letters of commendation coming to you that you hadn’t yet received. You have received them. We are assembled here today to give recognition to another outstanding Marine. I’m sure everyone will agree that this recognition is richly deserved. Many, perhaps most, of you will think a higher recognition is deserved.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “We honor our own, but sometimes the honor we wish to give is beyond limits we cannot pass. We are Marines. We do our best. Our best is always enough.” He turned his head to Van Winkle. “Commander.”
“Sergeant Major,” Van Winkle said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “call Staff Sergeant Bass.”
“Staff Sergeant Bass, front and center,” Parant called out in a voice that made Top Myer’s sound soft.
Bass suffered an instant of startlement, then stepped forward and marched to the platform.
“Sir, Staff Sergeant Bass reporting as ordered.” He flicked his eyes questioningly at Parant, who studiously ignored him.
“FIST commanders sometimes have levels of authority unknown to brigade commanders in the past,” Sturgeon said to the assembly. “The commander of a FIST on a remote outpost such as Camp Ellis has levels, of authority that other FIST commanders don’t. The commander of a FIST on a combat operation has further levels of authority. That means I have certain extraordinary powers. I’m going to exercise one of them now.” He held out his hand and Shiro slapped the rolled parchment into it. Sturgeon unrolled the parchment, looked at it, then let it roll itself back up. “Commander,” he said, handing the parchment to Van Winkle, “would you like to do the honors?”
“I certainly would, sir. Thank you very much.” The infantry commander unrolled the sheet of parchment and began in a loud, clear voice, “To all who shall see these presents, greeting: Know ye that reposing special trust and confidence in the fidelity and abilities of Charles Bass...”
When Van Winkle finished reading through the Marine promotion warrant, a document that hadn’t changed its wording in centuries, he glanced at Sturgeon, who nodded. Van Winkle said, “Sergeant Majors.”
The two sergeants major stepped up to Bass. Each withdrew something from a pocket.
“Charlie,” Shiro said, “this was pinned on me by my company first sergeant the first time—the only time, I might add—that I was promoted to gunnery sergeant.” A pointed reference to the fact that Charlie Bass had already been a gunnery sergeant twice before and was busted both times. He pinned gunnery sergeant’s chevrons on one collar.
“This was pinned on me,” Parant said, “by the”—he quickly glanced at Van Winkle—“the second best battalion commander I ever served under.” He pinned chevrons on Bass’s other collar.
The two sergeants major shook Bass’s hand, then returned to their positions.
“Gunnery Sergeant Bass, my hearty congratulations,” Sturgeon said, shaking his hand. Lower, he added, “I’m sure you understand why we had to wait until we were en route before your promotion.”
Van Winkle shook his hand and said, “Richly deserved, Charlie. Though I’d rather it was a bar.” But Charlie Bass always refused a commission; he thought he was of more value as a noncommissioned officer.
Conorado added his congratulations.
“I’ll see you after formation, Charlie,” Myer said softly, smiling.
“You’ll have to ambush me, Top,” Bass said and smiled back.
Myer chuckled.
“Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher,” Sturgeon said as soon as the congratulations were completed, “you are still Company L’s gunny. All other gunnery sergeants rest easy. Gunnery Sergeant Bass is still third platoon’s
platoon sergeant. Nothing changes except the number of rockers Gunny Bass wears on his rank insignia. That and the size of his paycheck.” He chuckled briefly, then said, “That is all.” He looked at the other officers and senior NCOs on the platform, pivoted, and marched out of the compartment with Van Winkle, Parant, and Shiro following.
When the commanders were gone, Conorado nodded to Bass, who marched back to his position.
“Today we honored one man,” Conorado said when Bass was back in position. “But I like to think that one man could not have been honored if the entire company wasn’t as good as it is. I also believe the company couldn’t be as good as it is if that one man wasn’t the outstanding Marine he is. Gunnery Sergeant Bass, you have been honored. In return, you honor all of us by being the Marine you are. First Sergeant, dismiss the company.” He strode off the platform and out of the compartment.
Myer waited until the company commander was gone, then faced the Marines. “COMP-ny, dis-MISSED!”
Working out and VR weapons training weren’t the only things the Marines had to do during the voyage; the navy wasn’t that dumb—no way they’d want to inspire a mutiny from two thousand overworked and bored Marines. The Tripoli also had a library well-stocked with books—archaic hardcopy as well as digital—educational programs, and games. There were also several vid theaters, two-dee and trid, with enough variety that a Marine could attend one every night without having to see a repeat of anything.
Which is not to say the Tripoli had all the comforts of home. The stock in the ship’s store had a limited variety, and access to it was equally limited. The vid and trid theaters were cramped, and during long features it became very easy to tell if the Marine alongside you was showering after the gym. Short features, especially military comedies like General Clinton’s War, became very popular. Nothing could be taken from the library—of course, some Marines found out how to defeat the ship’s security system. Marines always figure out how to do what they aren’t supposed to. Neither alcohol nor tobacco was allowed in any of the troop areas—and the Marines weren’t allowed in those parts of the ship where alcohol could be drunk or tobacco smoked. Naturally enough, several Marines found ways around that restriction as well, and there was more than one drunken party in a smoke-filled squad compartment. And, of course, there were no women. Well, there were women in the Tripoli’s crew, but the Marines couldn’t get close to them even though from time to time a navy woman’s duties would bring her to a place where the Marines could see her. It wasn’t only navy policy that kept the Marines and the women apart. The navy women didn’t want to get close to those dirty Marines with their hungry reputations.
Steel Gauntlet Page 10
