Sergeant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 2)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  The formalities were not over, though. The Legion was hosting a social at the O-Club, and each awardee was to attend. A number of Marines wandered over to take a look at the French medal and offer congratulations, and the platoon sergeant had to remind everyone to get to the club. He addressed the enlisted, but made sure the three officers heard him as well.

  “So, Ryck, what do you think?” the staff sergeant asked once everyone was moving towards the club. “This legion medal mean as much as your Silver Star or BCs?”

  “I don’t know, Staff Sergeant. I mean, its kinda zap, I know, what with not many Marines having one.”

  Even after all these years, Ryck still had a problem addressing his former drill instructor. The staff sergeant was low-key, not at all like he’d been on the drill field. He called Ryck by his first name on a social basis. But to Ryck, SSgt Phantawisangtong was still “King Tong.” His actual name was too unwieldy, and Ryck didn’t feel comfortable calling him just “Hecs,” so it was usually “staff sergeant” or rarely “Staff Sergeant Hecs.”

  “Still, we got the froggies out without too much damage to the locals, right?”

  “But it isn’t like we were really in too much danger. Not like on Luminosity,” Ryck countered.

  Ryck had earned a Silver Star on Luminosity as well as his second trip to regen. SSgt Hecs had earned a Navy Cross. A Navy Corpsman and another Marine had been awarded Federation Novas, one posthumously, the first time since the War of the Far Reaches that two Novas had been awarded for the same battle.

  “True,” Hecs replied. “But we saved lives, and sometimes, that is our mission.”

  “If you two can stop jabbering, we’re here. The caic

  [7] is that the Frenchies have brought some real French wine and cognac, and I’m itching to try some of that,” Sams said, pushing past the two to climb the steps to the club.

  Ryck had never been in the O-Club. It was forbidden territory, not open to mere NCOs. As they entered the big double doors, he looked around eagerly—and was a bit disappointed. There was more wood than in the NCO Club and a fancy carpet at the entrance, but it was basically the same layout. Dining tables were off in a room to the left, a more open room with high tables at which they could stand was directly forward, and the bar, with lower tables and chairs and a pool table was off to the right—just like the NCO Club. Even the Enlisted Club was laid out in the same pattern. Ryck hadn’t really thought about it before, but it seemed as if officers hung out, drinking beer and playing pool, just like the enlisted Marines. Officers and enlisted might not be as different as Ryck had assumed.

  “Gentlemen, may I interest you in some of this ’56 Chateau Latour?” a familiar French-accented voice asked from behind them, the major’s hand grasping the neck of a partially drunk bottle of wine.

  “Major, it’s good to see you,” SSgt Hecs said to Maj Gruenstein. “You kinda left us with the impression that the Legion was gonna slap your wrist some.”

  “True, I did say that. But good for me that my father is a schoolmate of our president, so after a short investigation, I was absolved of any wrongdoing. I was, how you say, whitewashed?”

  He grabbed three empty glasses off a passing waiter, handed them to the three Marines, and sloppily filled the glasses.

  “No disrespect, sir, but are you drunk?” Sams asked before taking a tentative sip of the wine.

  “Ah, very astute of you. Yes, I most certainly am drunk. I am bourré. Do you say that? ‘Buttered?’ No, you don’t,” he answered for himself. “‘Smashed,’ yes, that is what you say. But this is very fine, very expensive wine, so it matters not.”

  Ryck took a sip of the wine. He had always liked wine, even the cheap stuff back on Prophesy. This was decidedly not the same. It was intense and complicated. He wasn’t sure how much he liked it, but he knew he should like it, so he swirled it around in his mouth, sucking in some air, just as he’d seen on the food vids.

  Sams made no pretense.

  “Whew! Don’t like it none. Maybe I need to try that cognac stuff instead,” he said, pronouncing it “cog-nac.”

  “So what’s next for you, sir?” SSgt Hecs asked, talking over Sams. “You still getting your command?”

  “That, my dear staff sergeant of Marines, is why I am buttered. Our dear général over there,” he said, pointing with his glass at the Legion flag officer, “is not so much a fan of our president. And with the present situation growing between Greater France and your Federation, he seems to feel that we need a bigger liaison with you Marines and your Navy. As someone who has now performed combined operations with you, I am his logical choice. I found out this morning that I will be staying here on Alexander.”

  “Sorry about that, sir,” SSgt Hecs said, reaching out to take the almost empty wine bottle. “But you’ll get your command billet soon, I’m sure.”

  “C'est la vie, mon sergeant, c’est la vie,” he replied, refusing to relinquish the bottle, tipping it up instead to drain it into his mouth.

  Ryck wasn’t sure how, or even if, he should respond. He looked up at the two generals on the other side of the room. Both men were watching them, and the Legion general didn’t seem happy as he said something to General Praeter.

  “Uh, Staff Sergeant, check your six,” he said quietly, worried for the major.

  SSgt Hecs casually glanced about, immediately realizing what Ryck had meant.

  “Sams, why don’t you take the good major and try and find that cognac you said you wanted. Ryck, grab Holleran and Groton, and let’s go make nice with our honored guests.”

  The rest of the evening dragged on. Ryck was bored after 15 minutes, but he put up with the congratulations of the legionnaires, Marines, sailors, and civvie bigwigs. The deputy mayor wanted to drag Ryck into a discussion on what whether Greater France and the Federations would ease tensions between them, but Ryck begged off comment, saying that was for the civilian government to decide.

  He finally decided that he did like the Latour, as well as several other nice vintages. The Le Bleu champagne was particularly nice. Sams, on the other hand, tried the cognac and immediately switched to beer. When Ryck spied Lips standing alone behind one of the buffet tables, he took that as an excuse to make his getaway.

  “You ready to blow?” he asked as he walked up.

  “Oh, cement it, sergeant! I’ve been ready!”

  “Let me get Sergeant Samuelson, and we’ll diddiho.”

  Sams wasn’t ready, though. He was in deep conversation with and cleavage-peering at an attractive member of the governor’s entourage. She seemed to be welcoming his attention.

  Typical Sams, he thought as he went back to pick up Lips.

  He stuffed a couple more pieces of saucisson, the label called it, but seemed like normal salami to him, in his mouth and grabbed a half-full bottle of wine that someone had left on a table as he took Lips and got out of there.

  Chapter 3

  “You coming? It’s your brills-bro, after all,” Sams said after sticking his head in the small squad leaders’ office.

  Ryck looked up from his screen to where Sams and Popo waited, both in their PT gear with their MCMA belts on.

  “MacPruit’s not my anything-bro, dipwad,” Ryck responded sourly.

  “Come on, Rycky-my-boy, you and him, you’re tight, recruit buddies, and all,” Sams went on as Popo laughed.

  For the hundredth time, Ryck wished he hadn’t told the other two squad leaders about the beasting the recruit platoon leaders had given MacPruit when the recruit had refused to acknowledge his recruit squad leader’s authority. It had been Ryck’s rabbit punch to the back of the neck that had knocked MacPruit to his knees, but not before he had taken down two of them. Seth MacPruit had been an MMA planetary champion before enlisting, and he was one tough customer. Against eight other recruits, though, he had taken a pretty serious beasting. It had brought him around, at least. He hadn’t questioned recruit authority, and by the end of training, he had even started assisting other rec
ruits in need.

  Given his background, it wasn’t surprising that he’d eventually been grabbed from a line company to coordinate the regiment’s Marine Corps Martial Arts program. Ryck just wished that MacPruit hadn’t gotten orders to Ninth Marines. It wasn’t bad when MacPruit been in First Battalion as a regular grunt. Ryck only occasionally saw him around camp. But when he made sergeant and became the MCMA instructor, Ryck was going to have to enjoy his company once a quarter.

  “OK, I’m coming. Just let me log off,” Ryck said.

  “You should thank your buddy, there. What Marines wants to have his nose stuck in his PA studying when he could be out kicking ass and taking names?” Popo asked, punctuating his question with a series of lame air punches and a side-kick. “Pow, pow! Take that, motherfuckers!”

  “If that’s the best you can do, Popo, then maybe you’d better be doing some studying, too, ‘cause you aren’t going to be advancing based on that weak shit,” Ryck said.

  He saved his notes and bookmarked the site he was reading, then powered down his screen. He’d been working on his degree in his free time, much to the delight of the other NCOs who accused him of wanting to become an officer, something he vociferously denied. He was just interested in history, something that had bloomed in him during Dr. Berber’s classes back at recruit training. As long as he was studying, he figured he might as well earn a degree while he was at it.

  If he could ever keep on track, that was. He had a paper on the background leading up to the War of the Lost Surrender due by 2200 that evening, and he hadn’t even started writing it yet. He had started the research, but he’d gotten lost on a tangent reading about one of the true Marine heroes, First Lieutenant Ian Cannon, Jr., who was awarded the Federation Nova for taking command of the FS Ponce when the entire navy command had been wiped out, and instead of retreating, took the heavily damaged ship into the fray, destroying two enemy corvettes.

  “Uh, forgetting something?” Sams asked, pointing down to his own waist at his blue belt.

  Ryck had already changed into his skin trou and t-shirt PT gear before sitting down to study, but he hadn’t put on the yellow belt that signified his MCMA level. He went back to his locker and grubbed around until he found it. He put it on.

  “Satisfied?” he asked Sams

  “Now we’re talking! Let’s diddiho. They’re already out there, and Hecs and the lieutenant’ll be out there soon,” Sams said.

  The three of them left the squadbay and made their way to the large, sawdust-filled pit where MCMA was conducted. MacPruit was already waiting, looking assured in his skin trousers, red shirt, and boots. Around his waist was a black belt, of course. He nodded at Ryck, but didn’t approach the other three sergeants.

  “See you two on the bounce,” Popo said as they split up to join their squads ringing the outside of the pit.

  Keijo and Prifit had been wrestling around, with Khouri egging them on when Ryck came up. He didn’t have to say anything, though. They both stopped and started a more appropriate warm-up. Within a few minutes, the platoon commander and sergeant came out, signaling the start of the instruction.

  “Marines of First Platoon, you ready to kick some ass?” MacPruit called out as he stepped into the training pit.

  He was greeted by a chorus of “oo-rahs.”

  “As all of you know, you NEED your MCMA belt to get promoted. Iffen you don’t have it, you ain’t gettin’ that next rank. Sose you all better pay attention. All you white belts, you ain’t safe, neither. Iffen I think you don’ rate that measly white belt, I can take it back right now,” MacPruit yelled out as he strode back and forth in the middle of the ring.

  Ryck wondered if he could take a yellow belt away, too. Not demote it to a white, but take it completely away. He decided he better keep that thought to himself. No use giving anyone any ideas.

  “But you are not here jus’ to qualify, jus’ to get promoted. You are Marines, an’ you want to close with and destroy the enemy. This is what you’re made for! Am I right?”

  There was another chorus of “oo-rahs,” but not quite as enthusiastic. Ryck thought MacPruit might have gone a little heavy with the demotion threat. Three of his Marines--Stillwell, Peretti, and Rey--were white belts, and they had to be a little nervous. The previous regimental MCMA instructor had never mentioned demoting Marines, so for most of them, this was a new concept.

  “Some of you ask why MCMA? Am I right?” MacPruit went on.

  Damn skippy! Ryck agreed. Golf Company was a heavy company. They fought in PICS. All this hand-to-hand stuff was so much horseshit. Ryck knew it was to foster the warrior spirit, but in reality, just like pugil stick training, it offered nothing for a Marine in combat.

  “Well, you aren’t always gonna be in your PICS, you know. You could go in light, or you can lose your PICS. Your own Sergeant Lysander over there, he lost his PICS when you guys were fightin’ on Luminosity, right? Without his PICS, he even got a Silver Star, right? So you never know, you never know.”

  Ryck was surprised that MacPruit singled him out. He wondered what game the sergeant was playing. Yes, Ryck’s PICS had been disabled, and yes, Ryck had continued the fight, but not as some kung fu master. He’d just figured out how to engage his weapons without the PICS’ interface.

  “So let’s get goin’. First, let’s do some warm-ups. I wanna see where you all are. Give yourself a little room,” MacPruit told them before leading them in some basic forms.

  He wandered through class as he barked out commands, stopping to critique a few Marines. Ryck wanted to puke when MacPruit complemented the lieutenant on his form. As MacPruit moved on, the look on the lieutenant’s face led Ryck to believe that the platoon commander had not been taken in by the brown-nosing.

  “OK, Marines, OK,” MacPruit shouted out. “Good job. But that’s the boring part, am I right? You want combat, am I right? We’ll get to that now, but first, I’m gonna demo it. I need a partner for that. Who’s it gonna be?”

  Ryck felt his heart sink. He thought he knew where this was leading. He was right.

  “How about Sergeant Lysander? Me and him go back a long way, an’ let me tell you, he’s one tough hombre. An’ he’s already got combat experience without a PICS, without his skins and bones. Am I right?”

  There was clapping from some of the Marines, and a “Kick some ass, Sergeant Lysander!” was shouted up from someone in Sams’ squad.

  Neither the reference to recruit training nor the combat was lost on Ryck. MacPruit, despite the ensuing years, had not forgotten that beasting in the showers that night. It also sounded like he resented Ryck’s combat record. All MacPruit had done during his first tour with 1/9 was one show-the-flag-in-force to intimidate a case of social unrest. The unit had earned a Combat Mission medal, but Ryck doubted that MacPruit had even fired his weapon in anger.

  There wasn’t much Ryck could do, so he plastered a smile on his face and moved to the center of a pit. He stood in front of MacPruit, trying to look at ease. The other sergeant reached into the cargo pocket of his skins trou and pulled out a training knife. He tossed it to Ryck, who managed to catch it.

  “OK, sergeant, show me what you’ve got. Come at me,” MacPruit told him.

  This is stupid, Ryck thought. When am I ever going to come at someone with a freaking knife?

  He couldn’t hesitate, though. He raised the knife over his head and started forward with a yell.

  MacPruit pulled an eGun out of his pocket and shot Ryck in the chest. Ryck looked down, staring at the slowly fading “hole” in his chest.

  No shit, Sherlock. You’ve got a grubbing gun while you give me a freaking knife, he thought.

  “That’s not how you do it,” MacPruit said to the platoon. “You don’ need a knife. You don’ need a rifle. You don’ need a PICS. You, the Marine, are the weapon, whether you are naked or in a battle cruiser. But you need to know how to fight.”

  “Here, sergeant, give me the knife,” he said, turning his attention back
to Ryck. Ryck tossed it to him and caught the eGun tossed back. It was only a training aid, but it felt good in his hand. He checked the setting. I was set as a generic handgun. This was a standard training eGun, so it could be set to simulate all Marines ballistic small arms as well as several of the pulse weapons. It worked by calculating the range to a target, then sending a small electrostatic charge that simulated the effects of a specific weapon. The charge ionized at the target, leaving a glowing “impact” to show where a real round or charge would have hit. They were limited in range. The further out, the less accurate the simulation, but close in, they were a pretty fun training tool.

  “OK, Sergeant Lysander. This time, I’m comin’ at you.”

  Ryck held his eGun out. He was going to nail MacPruit and shut him up.

  MacPruit turned to sweep his gaze around the pit at the Marines in the platoon before continuing, “Before I show you this, though . . .”

  MacPruit suddenly spun, dropping down almost to the sawdust before springing up at Ryck. Ryck fired the eGun, but he was aiming at where the other sergeant’s chest had been a moment before. The charge went right over MacPruit’s head as the instructor crashed into Ryck, taking him down. Almost immediately, Ryck was stretched out, held captive by MacPruit, his right arm stretched out over his head and slightly behind him.

  “ . . . I should remind you never to give your enemy a warning. Hit him, and hit him hard.”

  MacPruit leaned back, stretching Ryck out further. Ryck tried to resist the pressure, to muscle through it, but the pain on his arm was too great. As much as he hated to do it, he tapped out with his left hand.

  “Another thing. Iffen you ever get into combat with someone, neutralize him. See, this is hurtin’ Sergeant Lysander’s arm. See him trying to tap out, his hand flappin’ like a beached salmon? But iffen I let him go now, he can still turn on me and do me damage. So I got to make sure he can’t do nothing anymore.”

  He pulled back even further, and the pain made Ryck scream out. Something in his elbow popped, and MacPruit finally let up.