“Lance Corporal Medicine Crow, come on in,” Sergeant Major al Boudrey shouted out from his office.
“Take a seat,” he said as she entered, pointing at a well-worn couch along the bulkhead. “Welcome to the Fuzos. You do know our patron unit, right?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major. The Corpo de Fuzileiros. From Portugal.”
Upon the formation of the United Federation Marine Corps, all of the new infantry battalions had adopted as their patron unit one of the 48 extant national or planetary Marine Corps at the time, absorbing their history and traditions. In addition to celebrating the two UFMC birthdays, each battalion celebrated its patron unit’s birthday as well. Gracie had known that 2/3 was known as the Fuzos, but she had to look up just what that meant. The Marine Corps loved traditions and history, but Gracie was more of a here-and-now girl. She’d known, however, that she’d better be well-versed in the battalion’s history before she reported aboard.
“So you knows our history. I can gives you the long speech about what that means, and how you needs to honor and uphold all of that, but if you don’t already feels that in your bones, nothing saying will change that.
“Before you meets the CO, I want to clear the air and gives you the lay of the land.”
Gracie said nothing, waiting for whatever the sergeant major had to say. She’d had more than a few such conversations in her short career so far, and whichever way it went, she’d just react.
“Major Cranston, our Three, he pulled some strings to get you assigned to us. The Scout-Sniper Platoon is his baby, and he does what he can to get the best. You had the highest final score in your class, so as far as he was concerned, that means the best was you.”
Gracie sat there, looking at the sergeant major with what she hoped was a respectful demeanor.
“But you didn’t receive the Takahara Award, and that’s a red flag to me.”
Gracie had received the highest score of any of her classmates, both in class scores as well as marksmanship and field scores. The Takahara Award, which was given to the Honor Graduate, had gone to someone else. She’d been pissed when she’d first found out, but like so much else in her life, she’d just let it slide off her.
“So I calls me my good friend, Master Guns Masterson.”
Gracie’s heart fell just the tiniest bit. The master guns had not been a big fan of hers.
“Here’s what the master guns tells me. From all accounts, you’re a kick-ass Marine. You can do everything thrown at you, every task, every mission. That’s good, right?”
He seemed to be waiting for a response, so Gracie said, “Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“But, he says, you’re not a team player. You thinks of yourself and not of the rest. He says he thinks that’s why you volunteered for the school, ’cause you think you’ll be working alone.”
Gracie thought that was unfair. She never shirked from her duties, and she didn’t create any conflict. If she didn’t socialize with too many others while off-duty, if she didn’t share in the grab-ass with the other Marines, that shouldn’t matter.
“And there was the incident with a certain corporal, one that could have gotten you dropped from the course,” the sergeant major continued.
Gracie felt the familiar surge of anger start to boil. That wasn’t her fault. Corporal Weintrub had been drunk, and he’d come on to her at the E-Club. She’d been sitting alone, nursing a beer, when he’d taken it upon himself to “give her some company,” was how he’d put it later. What he’d neglected to mention was that his “company” had included a hand on her thigh. So she’d stood up and punched him in the chin before stalking off.
She’d not gotten into any official trouble, and Weintrub had barely escaped harassment charges, but the incident had soured her relationship with most of her fellow students. The master guns had kept it an enlisted problem, not involving official action from the officers, but he had lectured her on “diffusing” such a situation instead of escalating it. Which was exactly what she’d thought she’d done. She’d put a quick end to Weintrub’s advances before it could have gotten any further.
“I knows you had provocation, but the corporal was drunk as I hears it, and you didn’t have to go all physical on him.”
As if drunk is an excuse.
“Look, I’m not saying you were wrong, but we are a team here, and we needs to know how to work together. We needs to know everyone has each other’s back.
“I also knows your nic: ‘Ice Princess.’ That’s not so good, and it worries me.
“Look, I’m out of here in a month. I’m being bumped up to be the regimental sergeant major. But until then, unit morale’s my responsibility. You’re going to one of the best, if not the best, scout-sniper platoon in the Corps. I told you the platoon is Major Cranston’s baby, and he pulled one of our best lieutenants, Lieutenant Wadden, from the line companies to be the platoon commander. The platoon is tight, really tight. I wants to keep it that way. I don’t care if you are Annie Oakley reincarnated, if you creates a diversion, if you creates a rift, then I’ll yank you so fast that you won’t know what hit you. Capice?”
Gracie had no idea how to respond. Her hope of a clean slate had rapidly flown out the window.
“Capice, Sergeant Major. I understand.”
“OK, good,” he said, standing up and offering his hand. “You’ve got the skills, Lance Corporal, so with only a little effort here,” he said, pointing at his heart, “you can be one of the best. Master Guns Masterson thinks so, and I’ve known him my whole career, so I trust his opinions.”
That took Gracie a bit by surprise. If the master guns had thought that, he’d never let on.
“Let me see if the CO’s ready for you,” he said to her before lifting his head and speaking out, “Connect with the CO.”
After the soft chime, he said, “Colonel, you ready for Lance Corporal Medicine Crow?”
There was a pause, and Gracie could hear what sounded like papers being shuffled before, “Sure. Give me a second and bring her over.”
“Remember, the colonel’s busy, so this is an in-and-out. If she asks if you have any questions, no, you don’t. Understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“She doesn’t usually welcome every non-rate to the battalion, but she does for the scout-snipers since you works for her, so we goes in, she says ‘welcome aboard,’ and we goes out.”
Technically, the Scout Sniper Platoon worked directly under the S2,[5] but Gracie didn’t think she should mention that. Besides, when you got down to it, everyone in the battalion worked for the commanding officer.
She acknowledged the order and followed the sergeant major out of his office and across the passage to the CO’s office. The sergeant major nodded at the duty clerk, then rapped on the door jamb of the open hatch.
“Ma’am, Lance Corporal Medicine Crow.”
“Come on in, Sergeant Major,” the CO’s voice came out the hatch and reached her.
“Report to the CO.”
Gracie marched in centered herself in front of the CO’s desk, and while staring a meter above her head, announced, “Lance Corporal Gracie Medicine Crow, reporting as ordered, ma’am!”
“Stand at ease,” the CO said. “I’ve only had a chance now to look at your records, Lance Corporal Medicine Crow. I can see now why Major Cranston pulled strings to get you here. Very impressive.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Gracie said, risking a glance down to look at the CO in the eyes.
And she was surprised. Lieutenant Colonel Rhonendren was short, almost as short as Gracie. Gracie hadn’t expected that. She knew that the CO was one of the first women to take command of an infantry battalion, and she’d pictured some hulking Valkryie of a woman, a street-brawler. But facing her was a petite, very attractive woman. She’d obviously never let her size or appearance get in the way of her military advancement. And if the CO could succeed in what was still for all practical purposes a boys’ club, then why couldn’t she succeed as w
ell?
Women had only been allowed into the Federation armed forces after the Evolution, and while the integration was now a fact of life, a much lower percentage of women than men qualified for recruit training and then completed boot camp. The pool of women selected for the officer ranks was therefore smaller, and it had taken this long for the first of those female enlisted Marines selected for officer school to reach lieutenant colonel.
Gracie realized her mind had wandered, and she snapped her gaze up.
“. . .good training during workups,” the CO was saying. “So unless you have any questions, I’ll let the sergeant major point out the way to the Scout-Sniper Platoon. I think they’re coming in from the field this afternoon.”
“No ma’am, no questions,” she said, very conscious of the sergeant major hovering just off her shoulder.
“Sergeant Major, Lance Corporal Medicine Crow’s all checked in with admin?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sergeant Ruskin’s standing by at the Pig Shack to get her locked on.”
“OK, then. Welcome to the Fuzos, Lance Corporal Medicine Crow.”
Gracie recognized a dismissal, so she came to attention, did an about face, and marched out of the office.
“Wait here,” the sergeant major said, pointing to the bulkhead outside his office. “I’ll get Sergeant Ruskin to come fetch you.”
Gracie stood at an easy parade rest, back against the bulkhead, as the sergeant major disappeared into his office. It had been an interesting check-in. She hadn’t been pleased when she found out the sergeant major had done his sleuthing about her time at the sniper course, but seeing the CO, who could have been an older version of her, lifted her spirits.
If the CO could succeed in the Corps, then why not her?
Chapter 3
Gracie sucked in her gut, slipped past Staff Sergeant Riopel and plopped into the vacant seat. The PIG Shack’s “briefing room” had once been a storage locker, and the bolt holes from the shelving that had been removed gave the briefing room a rather makeshift feel. More Marines wandered in, taking seats where they could.
The room was tight and the rows of folding chairs close together, and Corporal Pure Presence made a show of trying to slide past Sergeant Win, then “accidently” fell to sit on the smaller Marine. Gracie couldn’t see exactly what the sergeant did to Pure Presence, but it made the corporal jump up with a yell, much to the delight of the other Marines.
Gracie had been with the platoon for over a week, and she thought she had meshed well with the others. She was one of only three “lance coolies”[6] and the only female in the nineteen-man platoon, but she had felt welcomed enough, or at least not rejected. The platoon had returned from a two-week training exercise the day Gracie had arrived and had immediately gone on a 96,[7] so her first four days had been spent either on duty or drawing her gear. Consequently, she hadn’t had too much interaction with the others in the platoon, but still, even after everyone got back, they seemed to accept her. The lieutenant had given her the usual ooh-rah welcome aboard, and the gunny had painted a demanding, but entirely reasonable view of what he expected of her. The rest of the platoon hadn’t exactly embraced her, but no one had expressed anything negative about her, either. That was a win in Gracie’s book.
Some people seemed to elicit an immediate impression of themselves. Gracie was one of them. With her striking appearance, people usually took an instant liking or disliking of her. With the platoon, there was a casual acceptance, but it seemed like they were delaying developing an opinion of her until after she proved herself as a sniper—and that was exactly as Gracie wanted it.
Gunny Buttle entered the briefing room with two Marines in tow. The casual jaw-jacking ceased as he walked behind the podium. Toby Buttle was the senior HOG,[8] or Hunter of Gunman, in the platoon. He’d gotten his first kill on First Step during the Evolution, and he’d added 26 more to his tally since then. Gracie was a little in awe of the man, and she hoped she could hone her craft with his guidance. She knew she was probably a better shot than anyone else in the platoon, but that was on the range, not in a field environment, and Gracie was not arrogant enough to think she was anything but a crass newbie as a sniper. If she wanted to succeed, she needed to absorb everything she could from the other HOGs.
Of the nineteen Marines in the platoon, twelve were HOGs. The rest, including the lieutenant, were PIGs, or Professionally Trained Gunmen. The PIGs would remain PIGs until they shot and killed an enemy.
Gracie glanced up and the stuffed head of a mean-looking boar that hung high on the bulkhead behind the podium. She had no idea where the tradition of HOGs and PIGs originated, but the boar’s head was a decent-enough mascot/logo, even if it was probably a fabricated fake.
Under the boar’s head was a sign that read:
Snipers aren’t deadly because they carry the biggest rifles;
they’re deadly because they’ve learned how to weaponized math.[9]
You’ve got that right, she thought to herself, remembering the hours upon hours of high-level physics she’d endured at sniper school.
“Ok, listen up,” the gunny said. “The lieutenant’s ordered a stand-down of all personal weapons. We’ve been pretty up-tempo, and he wants everything re-calibrated. Sergeant Irvash, coordinate with Staff Sergeant Holleran for a schedule. I’m locking on R102 for zeroing in on Friday.”
Gracie’s ears perked up at that. She’d been issued all of her field gear, but without the lieutenant around until yesterday, she hadn’t been issued any of her weapons. A Marine without a weapon, much less a scout-sniper, wasn’t much of a Marine, after all.
“Section leaders, we’ve still got the 5500 checklist, so unless someone is physically in the armory for the recal, I want them working on getting that thing out of the way.”
There was a collective groan among the platoon. The 5500 checklist was an inordinately long, detailed, and excruciatingly boring admin requirement that had to be updated every three years. Gracie had gone through a 5500 twice: once at boot camp, then another a year later with 3/12. The general theory was that headquarters required it only to make Marines so sick of the process that any mission, no matter how onerous or dangerous, would be heaven-sent in comparison. Gracie tended to accept that theory.
“And as you can see, we’ve got new meat. Lance Corporals Oesper and Gittens have just completed the division school. Kierk, you’ve got Oesper as your new spotter, and Crow, you’ve got Gittens.”
Gracie sat up quickly and turned to look at the two newbies in shock. She’d just been assigned to Corporal Kierkegaard as his spotter, and now she was a sniper? As a graduate of the top-level Marine Corps Scout Sniper School, she knew that she’d probably be assigned as a sniper sooner rather than later, but within a week, and a week in which there had been no real training?
“Section leaders, meet me in five in the lieutenant’s office. The rest of you, get your asses moving. I want the 5500 done and out of our hair by COB Thursday.
Which one is Gittens? she wondered for a moment as she stood up.
The larger of the two newbies looked around, spotted her, and stepped over the row of chairs to stand in front of her, hand out. He was tall, at least 2.2 meters, and probably hit 110 kgs. His square jaw and rather handsome face beamed with a confidence with which some people were born. He was probably his school Alpha, the star jock, the one who dated anyone he wanted, the kind of man who thought he controlled not only his destiny but the destiny of all those around him.
Gracie always seemed to attract the attention of his type. But she was not some sort of arm-candy, and it took the cold and down-right rude face she exhibited to them to quench their interest in her. She wanted to become the best sniper in the Corps, and dealing with some hormone-filled hulk was not in her plans.
“Hi. I’m Eli. I’m your new spotter,” he said, holding out a massive hand.
This is not going to be good, not at all.
Chapter 4
“Work it out,” Gracie tol
d Eli.
“I know what you said, but I don’t quite get it,” Eli said, frustration evident in his voice.
“Work it out again,” she told him. “You need to understand this.”
“Not that I’ll ever have to use iron sights,” he muttered, but he dutifully looked down at the pad of plastisheet and tried to make the calculations.
Gracie didn’t try to correct him. “Iron sights” were not actually old-fashioned post and aperture sights, but were the slang for what was merely a simple scope without an internal AI. The scope provided a reticle and magnification, but nothing else. He was right in that he most likely would never have to fire without a normal AI-powered scope, but Eli was her spotter, and it was up to her to make sure he was trained. If they were in a hide for any length of time, she couldn’t be on the glass 24/7, and he’d have to spell her. Since it could be her ass on the line, she wanted him trained up.
The Miller sniper scopes were all pretty well shielded, and the likelihood of them being compromised was slim. It had happened before, however. Anything from a virulent virus to a powerful, directed EMP could knock them out. Every sniper rifle in the Marine Corps’ inventory was fitted for iron sights for a reason.
She heard another batch of chuckling to her right where Staff Sergeant Riopel and his spotter, Creach “Possum” Khalil occupied the next firing position. She knew they thought it was ridiculous that she was making Eli fire without a scope, and they hadn’t held back from expressing their opinions. But Gracie was in charge of her team, and unless she were doing something illegal or dangerous, not even her section leader would interfere.
The platoon had R505, Known Distance Range. Targets were scattered from 350 to 2,000 meters out from the firing positions. R505 was a kinetic small arms range, and along with R506, the Unknown Distance Range, was one of the more frequented firing ranges for the platoon. While scout-snipers had a few energy weapons in their arsenal, the very nature of their missions—long range sharpshooting—and the physics of energy weapons with regards to ablation, meant that they almost exclusively used their kinetics.
Sniper (Women of the United Federation Marines Book 2) Page 2
