by J. F. Holmes
Jesus Christ, thought Papadatos. What the hell have I gotten myself into? Far from hoped-for redemption after his screw up in Iran, he was facing a nightmare.
“But aren’t they way behind us in technology? Late Middle Ages?” persisted the cadet.
“That doesn’t mean shit when a battle axe takes off your leg or your head,” said the briefer. “Ask me how I know.”
“How do you know,” said Papadatos, “friend told you about it?” He couldn’t resist needling the man, obviously a desk soldier.
“No, Sir. I was at Shoreham last year. I came back to Alpha Centauri because I love it here.” The man pulled up his pants leg to reveal a carbon fiber leg going into his combat boot. “That’s what the swing of a battle axe can do after you’ve emptied a full magazine into one of those bastards.”
Both Papadatos and Walters, both feeling a bit ashamed of their snap judgement of the man, let the briefing continue with no more questions. He moved on past the picture of the Gvit and launched into a list of places that soldiers were forbidden or discouraged from going to.
“Most importantly, stay out of the bars the roughnecks call their own, the Pipe especially. They’re really pissed at General Hallstead’s conscription, and they’ve been taking it out on Regular Army guys. Oh, yeah, there’s an epidemic of soldiers catching crabs from the dancers at the Swishing Skirt, and the Knight’s Inn is off limits. Chinatown has the best restaurants, and the Aviation chow hall at Hunter Airfield has the best food, as always.”
The briefing ran on for almost another hour, and by the time it was done, there was a collective feeling of stupor. The staff sergeant dismissed them all, and they stepped out of the air-conditioning into the oppressive Alpha Centauri heat and humidity. Cadet Walters started to walk toward the logistics facility where he’d been assigned to do his summer internship, but Captain Papadatos pulled up in a Humvee and offered him a ride.
“Thanks, Sir,” said the teenager as he dropped his backpack in the seat well and climbed in. “Sorry about interrupting the briefing,” he said, buckling up his seatbelt. “It’s just that this stuff really interests me—the Gvit I mean—and I got assigned to logistics.”
The older man laughed at the irritated expression on the kid’s face. “It’s the Army, Cadet; it’s a machine that doesn’t give a flying fuck about you as an individual, and you’re a cog in that machine. Soon as you get worn out, you get replaced by another one, and right now they think you might be a good logistics cog.”
“Still sucks. I’d like to see a Gvit in action; they’re fascinating.” Since they’d gotten to the causeway and were waiting for the light to turn green, Papadatos looked at him.
“Kid, trust me, action is the last thing you want to see. Pray to God you don’t. Though sometimes, it’s glorious,” he said and trailed off, lost in his own thoughts.
Chapter 6
Seaside, “The Strip”, Gatecrash minus two weeks
Like any town with a sizeable military presence, there was a street full of businesses designed to quickly and painlessly separate young men and women from their money. Cheap beer, shoddily-made knives, outrageously expensive electronics, tattoo parlors, and strip joints. Only the names changed from place to place.
At times, certain places become the domain of various species of soldier, or whomever else had money to burn. In this case, Iron Mike’s was the hangout of the infantry, and the day after payday, it was crowded. It was pretty much a given that the drinking age of twenty-one was ignored, since it would have cut ‘Mike’s’ revenue by two thirds.
Deep within the bar a small birthday party was going on. Technically, Joe Johnson was an NCO and shouldn’t have been hanging out with the junior troops. Specialist Crane was his buddy, though, all the way from basic, and he wasn’t going to miss that.
“So, twenty years old!” toasted Johnson. “About time you got married, old man!”
Crane laughed and chugged his water. He was a serious body builder and never touched a beer if he could help it. His buddy had gone past the two beer limit he’d set for himself because there was something important he had to do. “No frigging way am I gonna get a dependa, Joe!”
“It’s Sergeant Johnson to you, dipshit.”
Crane laughed; his friend was still getting used to the rank he wore. It was kind of hard for them to get mad at each other, since the scouts owed each other their lives. “Hey, I’ll get my stripes eventually.”
“I dunno, you’re kinda dumb.” Johnson laughed. “All muscles, and shit.”
“Excuse me while I squeeze your head like a zit.”
The two continued like this, with PFC Alverez joining in occasionally. Their machine gunner made the third of a tight team. At the front of the bar, Staff Sergeant Giamatti, their squad leader, was hanging out with her ‘friend’, a woman who worked for Exxon-Mobile as a mechanic. Out of respect for her legendary fieldcraft, no one bothered Giamatti, and she was a fixture at Iron Mike’s, with her own reserved spot.
As such, she was the first to see the girl striding through the front door. The redhead had a pissed-off look on her face, and Giamatti knew violent storms were just below the pretty face. She looked back at the table where Johnson was carousing with his friends and winced. It was past 22:00, and she sensed that someone had screwed up.
“Hi, Gina!” Giamatti called to the redhead. “Sit down and have beer with us!”
“Hi, Sarge, and would you kindly tell me where your shitbag soldier Joseph Johnson is?” Before Giamatti could come up with an answer, the redhead said, “Oh, never mind. I see him.”
The scout squad leader used her foot to push a chair out in front of Gina Kelly, stopping her headlong advance. “Don’t hurt him too bad; we have an FTX coming up day after tomorrow.” Then she hooked her toe around the leg of the chair and pulled it back. The younger woman nodded and strode toward the back of the bar. To be fair, Giamatti cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “JOHNSON, INCOMING!” toward the back of the room, then she laughed at the look on his face.
“Wait, Gina, I can explain…” he started to say, but Kelly ignored him and sat down next to Crane. Alvarez had already pretended to have to get a drink from the bar, and disappeared.
“Hi, Devin, Happy Birthday! Now GTFO.”
“Yes, Ma’am!” answered Crane with a grin, and mouthed the words, “Sorry, bro!” to Johnson, then slid out of the booth.
His friend silently mouthed back to him, “Pussy!” but Kelly grabbed his face and said, “I’m over here, Joe. Guess where I was two hours ago?”
“Gina, I’m sorry,” he started to apologize again, but she put her finger over his mouth and said, “Guess!”
“Uh, waiting at the movie theater.” This was said barely audible above the music.
She made a great show of thinking, rolling her green eyes to look up at the ceiling. “Hmmm, why yes, I was at the movie theater! I rode the shuttle there, because, you know, my bike isn’t really made for this fantastic dress I’m wearing!” and she sat up straighter, sticking her chest out. The dress was a bit revealing, and Johnson’s eyes involuntarily travelled downward. Pretty damn spectacular, if you asked him.
“Oh, no, Joe,” she said, putting her finger on his chin and lifting his face. “You fucked up. Say goodbye to Joe, girls!” and she took Johnson’s sweatshirt, which was sitting on the bench between them, pulling it on, to the sorrow of more than one onlooker. Then she stood up and said, in as loud a voice as she could muster, “NOBODY STANDS GINA KELLY UP!”
With that, she turned on her heel and marched out of the bar. On her way past Staff Sergeant Giamatti, she waved politely, said, “No visible wounds!” and continued on her way out the door. Johnson followed her with the laughter of the whole bar ringing in his ears.
****
“Gina, wait!” said a young man across the street from where Greg Papadatos was having a beer with his new executive officer. Well, more than one. More than five, actually. They’d gone out to sit and talk ove
r the company he was inheriting, but it had been a long time since the captain could relax.
“Ah, young love!” he said and continued his story. “So I punch this prick, right on stage, and next thing you know I’m going through the Gate.”
First Lieutenant Sanders prompted, “So now what?” He was a bit in awe of his new boss; through no fault of his own, he’d just happened to not be in deploying units his whole career. During the battle with the Gvit, he’d wound up managing the transportation for the entire battalion, since he’d once taken the Unit Movement Officer’s course, and missed the entire thing.
“Well, now I keep my nose clean. It seems pretty quiet here, and honestly, after that shit in Iran, I need a break.”
They were interrupted by a woman’s shout from the front of an establishment three doors down from them. Both men could clearly see the group in front of “The Pipe”, which Papadatos knew to be the domain of mostly oil workers. Three men and a woman were arguing.
“I SAID, YOU FUCKING GREASE MONKEY, HANDS OFF!” She yelled and shoved one of the men. He fell, laughing, onto the sidewalk and started to get up.
“Oh, shit, that’s Sergeant Titon. I think we should just leave this one alone,” said Sanders.
Papadatos looked at his XO and said, “Titon from Second Platoon, Third Squad?”
“Uh, yeah, but how’d you know who she is?”
“I reviewed every personnel file, XO, as soon as I got here. What’s she doing here?”
A look of trepidation crossed Sanders face and he said, “Well, um, she strips as a side job, Sir. At Club Paradise next to The Pipe. It’s a civvie place. Probably just got off shift and is on her way back to the barracks.”
Papadatos stood and looked at the group, watching to see what would happen. If they just gave her shit, well, too bad. Nope, he thought as one of the men tried to put his arms around her and kiss her neck. The woman delivered a blow to his solar plexus that sent him reeling and gasping, and another man grabbed her around the waist.
“One of my troops is in trouble, XO. Here, hold my beer,” the captain said, handing it to the surprised officer and vaulting over the low rail that separated the table area from the street.
Chapter 7
Gate Crash minus two weeks
“So, Captain, what should I do with you?” General Halstead sat at his desk, and Captain Papadatos stood at rigid attention. On the screen behind them was as cell phone video of the captain in a brawl with several other men.
“No answer, Sir,” was the reply, the only right answer in his situation.
“Captain Davis, can you read me the incident report again?” ask the ACECOM commander.
The Regimental JAG officer sat in a chair off to one side. Next to him sat Lieutenant Colonel Ibson, the 2-9 battalion commander. He had his fingers templed in front of his face, probably to hide the look of amusement there.
“On the early morning of 4 June, Military Police were summoned to a drinking establishment located on the corner of Main and Elm. Upon arrival at the establishment known as “The Pipe”, they discovered Captain Greg Papadatos, commander of Charlie Company, 2-9 Infantry, involved in an altercation with approximately four individuals, three males and a female. In conjunction with civilian law enforcement, all involved parties were arrested. Three civilians were admitted to the hospital with extensive injuries. Captain Papadatos was remanded to the custody of military authorities and his statement was taken.”
The captain in question had a dozen stiches in his scalp and a severe black eye, now green and purple two days later. “May I explain myself, Sir?” he said, not breaking his position of attention.
“By all means,” said Halstead. “I’ve already had Lieutenant Colonel Ibson’s recommendation, and I’m tempted to go with it, but let’s see what you have to say in your defense.”
Papadatos shifted to parade rest and looked at the General. “Sir, I heard one of my soldiers had been assaulted at The Pipe and went myself to investigate.”
“You mean you were drinking outside a bar three doors down, and you heard a commotion, so you decided—in your inebriated state, and against the recommendation of your XO—that direct action was necessary instead of defusing the situation. Does that sum it up?” said Halstead.
“Well, Sir, she’s one of my infantrymen, being harassed by several construction workers, they were being extremely rude to her, and one of them put their hands on her.”
“Sergeant Titon was working an unauthorized second job as a stripper, you mean, and shouldn’t have been there in the first place,” said Ibson. He was testing his new officer, seeing his reaction, but Papadatos didn’t know that.
The captain turned his head slightly to look at his commander and said, “Regardless of why she was there, Sir, she didn’t deserve to be assaulted. No one does, and I won’t tolerate it.”
“And you decided to defend her honor?” Ibson was actually secretly delighted. He was tired of getting politically correct pushovers who didn’t have the balls to get into a fight.
“No Sir. She’s one of my men, and I will never stand by while one of them is in a jam. And they did swing first,” he added.
“Captain, can you list the injuries to the civilian construction workers?” Halstead asked the lawyer.
“Two concussions, one dislocated arm, severe lacerations from impact with concrete, a broken jaw, and a shattered kneecap.”
“Sir,” interrupted Papadatos, “I’m not responsible for the shattered kneecap. That was the sergeant, Sir.”
Halstead sat back in his chair and looked at him for a moment. “Captain,” he eventually said, “let me explain something to you, since you’re new here on Alpha Centauri. Relations between the civilians, namely the oil workers and miners, and the military are always delicate. This city is like a giant prison, except that we turn our guns to the outside to keep the inmates safe. We resent them for the dangers they don’t share and their large paychecks, and they resent us for keeping them cooped up in here unable to just go on vacation or shopping at the mall.”
Pausing to let that sink in, he continued, “Last week, Governor Conklin and I decided, in light of the withdrawal of the armor battalions, to conscript and form a civilian militia in case the Gvit start to give us trouble. It hasn’t exactly gone over well, and we’ve had almost ten percent of the workforce jump ship and head back to Earth. Their union rep and manager, Mitch Verdao, is a huge pain in the ass, and he’s been talking about filing a lawsuit in local court to block our militia order. So having one of my officers getting into a fistfight and seriously injuring three civilians isn’t exactly what I’d hoped for, based on your record.”
“Sir, I…I understand. It’s just, well, I’ve got a problem. I don’t do well in garrison.”
“We can see that,” commented Ibson, looking at Papadatos’ service record. “Distinguished Service Cross for actions in Iran, covering the retreat of an ambushed armor column. Two Bronze Stars with valor, one for Afghanistan and one for Iran. Promoted to major below the zone, then busted back to captain for verbally abusing a field grade officer at your awards ceremony.”
“That assho—” the captain began, flushing with anger, then stopped himself from completing what he was going to say, continuing with, “Sir, with all due respect, Colonel MacDonald got eleven of my men killed and twenty-three wounded in the ambush. If he’d had any kind of tactical sense, my men would still be alive.”
Ibson looked at Halstead, and Papadatos knew to just shut up. “Captain,” said Halstead, “I’m going to go with your commander’s recommendation. Second Platoon, 3-9 is on duty at Rorke’s Drift, guarding the bridge. They come off rotation in three weeks, when 1-9 assumes Firebase duty. Their LT’s come down with something, and they’re without an officer right now. I think you’re going to fill in to get some experience with the local natives and gain familiarity with the tactical situation here.”
“Sir, yes, Sir! Am I being busted down again?”
“For w
hat, Captain? Coming to the defense of one of your soldiers?”
“Understood, Sir. You’re getting me out of the city for a while. Thank you.”
“Oh, don’t thank me, or Colonel Ibson either. You were exiled to the Regiment, so to speak, to get you away from the Big Army for a while. Now you’re being exiled again for not thinking at a strategic level. Take some time and ponder what you want to do with your life, Captain, then come back and be the great company commander we need you to be. This peace with the Gvit isn’t going to last forever, and you’ll get more fighting than you ever desired.”
Papadatos knew when he was being dismissed, so he came to attention, saluted, and said, “Keep up the fire, Sir!”
“Manchu!” General Halstead responded. The captain saluted his commander, who returned it, then he left the office.
“You’ve got a fireball in your hands, Jamie. Good idea getting him out of here for a bit.”
The battalion commander laughed and said, “Someone once said, ‘I can’t spare this man, he fights!’”
“Rare thing in the bullshit PC Army. Now, back to your Quarterly Training Calendar,” said his boss.
“Hell, no!” exclaimed Ibson, “send me to Rorke’s Drift with him! I’d rather drown in Chak shit than face that horror!”
“Sometimes a man has to do what a man has to do. Now, I want to see more ruck marches on here. We aren’t always going to have the transport we need…”
Chapter 8
Outdoor food court, Fort McHenry, Gate Crash minus two days
“You know, this looks like every other FOB we’ve had the ‘luck’ to be sent to in the last twenty years.”
“Well, Top, you could’ve retired,” said his companion, using the nickname for the company first sergeant. The two men were sitting at an outdoor table in front of a trailer with the letters “KFC” emblazoned on it. Not that the food was actual chicken, but it tasted close.
