Sergeant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 2)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  He left the testing center feeling pretty good. A degree! He’d never really considered any schooling after high school. Glancing at his watch, he picked up the pace back to his IBC. As an NCO, he rated an Individual Berthing Compartment rather than the Dual Berthing Compartment of a non-rate. He had to get ready for the Camerone Day reception and had less than an hour before the bus left.

  The Legion only had a small detachment of about 30 legionnaires on Alexander, including the embassy staff. They handled liaison with both the Navy and Marines. But no matter the size, every Legion post celebrated April 30. Larger units had parades, but all units read the story of the battle where faire camerone became embossed in the Legion psyche. After the ceremonies, “receptions,” or authorized excuses to get drunk, were usually the order of the day, and it was to the reception that Ryck was invited. All the members of the two platoons who had been on Soreau were honored guests, along with the military and civilian bigwigs. Last year’s reception, which had been the first to which the Golf Marines had been invited, had started slow, but by the early hours of the morning, had turned into something the Marines only blurredly remembered, but remembered as a smashing good time.

  He checked his watch. It wasn’t Camerone Day back in Paris yet, but by the time they got to the Westin in St. Petersburg, it would be.

  He got into his room and gave his underarm a sniff. Unfortunately, pit juice wasn’t going to cut it. He jumped into the shower, ignoring the autocycle in order to manually zip through it. He used his old t-shirt to dry off as he took his blues out of the closet. Luckily, he’d prepared them the night before. He gave them a once over, but they looked fine. He dressed and was about to leave when his PA chimed. He looked at the desk screen to see if he could ignore it. He couldn’t.

  He hit the accept, and Hannah’s face appeared. She had a big smile which morphed into a look of grudging admiration.

  “Wow, you be looking smart, there, Ryck. Very impressive! Makes a poor girl’s heart flutter!” she said with a laugh.

  “Right. I know you can hardly contain yourself,” Ryck said, pleased to see her, but knowing he had to cut the cam short.

  “What girl can resist a handsome wolf in uniform?” she asked.

  “Well, as much as I’m happy you cammed, I need to leave. I’ve got a reception I have to get to,” Ryck told her.

  She looked puzzled as she asked, “Reception? What time be it there? I installed the app like you told me, and it says it be 3:15 your time.”

  With all the planets in the Federation, each rotating at different speeds, each with different landmasses, keeping track of local time could be confusing. All Federation planets and countries, as well as many independents, kept Greenwich Mean Time as the official time and date. But night and day, not to mention planetary years, varied, and Hannah, for all her scholastic achievements, continually got confused on what local time it was for Ryck. The app Ryck had her download was so she wouldn’t keep waking him up in the middle of the night.

  “No, you’re right, it’s after three here, but I have to take a bus into St. Petersburg, and we’re leaving in 15 minutes.”

  “Oh, too bad. I tried to get a hold of you a few hours ago to wish you luck on your test, but it’s been hard getting a line out. How did you do? Did you take it?”

  Hannah was working on her masters and had been a big supporter of Ryck’s attempt to earn his own degree.

  “Yeah, I took it. All good, I think. I’ll find out in a day or two,” he told her.

  “OK, that’s copacetic. Well, that be all I wanted to know. You have fun at the reception. Don’t let those local girls snare you, though,” she said.

  “Nah, all they want are officers, not a lowly sergeant like me,” he said. “I don’t make enough to keep them in the lifestyle they want.”

  “A handsome wolf like you? You’ll have your pick.”

  “Hah. I think you need to get your eyes adjusted again, young lady. They seem to be failing you,” he said. “Uh, I . . . I really have to go. Thanks for camming. Tell your family hello, OK?”

  “Oh, sure. Don’t let me be keeping you,” she said.

  “OK, well, goodbye!”

  Ryck turned off the cam and looked at his watch. He needed to move it. He grabbed his cover and rushed out of his IBC, then hurried to the battalion CP. He didn’t want to run and start sweating under his blues, so he kept it to a speed walk.

  SSgt Hecs was standing at the door to the bus, his PA out.

  “Glad you decided to join us, sergeant. We keeping you from anything important?” he asked, checking Ryck off the list on his screen.

  “Sorry, Staff Sergeant,” Ryck told him, climbing up into the bus and sitting down in the seat Sams had saved.

  SSgt Hecs followed him and told the gunny everyone was aboard. Gunny Smith told the driver to take off. The big bus rose on it air cushion, then eased out of the camp before opening up on the highway.

  Ryck dozed off during the three—and-a-half hour ride to the capital city. He woke up when Sams punched his arm as they pulled into the Westin.

  “Some company you’ve been,” Sams said sourly.

  “Sorry, I was up late studying for my exam,” he said.

  “I still don’t know why you’ve been putting in the time for that,” Sams said. “Popo and Brett swear you’re gonna be putting in to be an O.”

  “An officer? No I work for a living,” Ryck said with the time-honored reply. “I just like history, and Hannah thinks it’s a good idea?”

  “Crispus! It always ‘Hannah this’ and ‘Hannah’ that lately. You getting serious?”

  “Oh, good God no. She doesn’t like the military. She’s just a friend,” Ryck protested.

  “Yeah, that’s what everyone says before they’re hitched.”

  As the officers got off, Gunny Smith stood up and said, “This is our second time here as guests. We want no liberty incidents. Enjoy yourselves, but remember, this is not just a drinking binge. You are representing the Federation Marine Corps. General Praeter is there, the governor is there, Admiral Yost is there, the French ambassador is there. I don’t have to tell you what’s going to happen to the negat who spills some of that fancy French wine over one of those esteemed gentlemen.”

  “Won’t be me, Gunny. I’ll be drinking beer!” SSgt Gordon, the First platoon sergeant said amidst the laughter.

  “I’ll be watching you most of all, Gordon!” the Gunny replied as the laughter intensified.

  “OK, OK! We’re all in a good mood. Last year was brills, so have fun. One more thing. The CO, that’s the battalion CO, says no politics. No matter what, no matter who asks you, especially some civvie who’s probably a reporter looking for a tag line, you say nothing about what’s happening back on Earth. This is a social gathering, so keep it social. Any questions? OK, no? Then let’s go have some fun!”

  The Marines trooped off the bus and wound their way into the huge lobby of the Westin. Ryck had been there a year ago, but it was still pretty impressive. About 50 meters across, it reached up to the hotel’s roof, some 20 stories above them. Hanging from the roof was a sculpture that had to be 40 meters tall, given that it covered eight stories of rooms. Ryck wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be, but he liked it.

  A Legion lieutenant was standing to the right of the lobby, and when the Marines came in, he started ushering them to the ballroom. It would have been hard to miss even without their guide. A French flag was beside the doorway, and a huge bunting of the same blue, white and red was hung over the door. Not many people were there yet: Marines being Marines, they had gotten there early. Major Gruenstein, though, was there, and he hurried over.

  “Welcome, sir,” he said to LtCol Adeyemi, the battalion CO, as he shook his hand. “As always, the Marines of Golf, 2/9 are eternally welcome. I hope you enjoy our hospitality.”

  He looked behind him, then turned back around and continued, “I see the receiving line hasn’t started yet, but if you and Captain Davis would follow me
, I’d like to introduce you to Colonel Giraud, our new head of mission. I don’t believe you have met him yet, no?”

  Sams nudged Ryck as the CO and company commander were led off, gesturing at the two bars in the back of the ballroom. Unfortunately, Gunny Smith put a kibosh on any immediate libation.

  “No drinking until after we make pleasant with the brass. Just hold steady for now,” he told the gathered Marines.

  “Well, might as well check out the chow,” Sams said. “The gunny said nuttin’ about that.”

  Ryck and Rey followed Sams to the buffet line. There was a huge ice sculpture of a hand in the middle of the line, between a huge ice bowl of peeled shrimp and an equally huge bowl of small cracked crab claws. Ryck knew that had to represent Capt Danjou’s wooden hand. The real wooden hand, recovered from the battlefield at Camerone and then bought by the Legion a few years later, was probably the Legion’s most sacred relic.

  The spread was pretty impressive. It was mostly finger food, some on crackers, some in little glasses. Sams grabbed a puff ball of some sort and popped it into his mouth.

  “Hey, you heard the gunny!” Ryck said.

  “Yeah, no drinking he said. Last time I checked this was eating, not drinking you Alice,” Sams replied, speaking around the puff ball still in his mouth. “Hey, not bad!”

  “What is it?” Ryck asked, inching closer to snatch one for himself.

  “Hell if I know. Where’s Henri?” Sams asked, referring to Cpl Henri, a Marine in Second Platoon. “Rey, go get him, OK?”

  Sams grabbed another and popped it into his mouth. Ryck glanced about, only to see Gunny at the other buffet table, filching something for himself. That was good enough for Ryck, so he took one of the same fried balls and bit in. It was pretty good; a little fishy, but light.

  Cpl Rey returned with Henri in tow.

  “What are these?” Sams asked the corporal.

  “Hors d’oeuvres. Appetizers,” Henri answered.

  “No shit, Sherlock. I mean what kind?”

  Henri looked over the spread, then said “I don’t know. Just hors d’oevers,” before taking a small glass with what looked to be a bite-sized piece of chicken and avocado inside. “Tastes good, though.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know. You’re French, right?” Sams asked.

  “French-Ergat, yeah, but I don’t know shit about cooking. I’m a fucking Marine, not a chef. We’re BBQ people, anyway, big hunks of meat.”

  Ergat was one of the French worlds, out there in Second Sector. France populated all or the bulk of nine different planets. Three, like Ergat, were technically part of the Federation.”

  “You might try LCpl Paddyfoote. He’s from Clercy,” Henri said, scanning the waiting Marines. “There he is,” he said before waving the Marine over.”

  “What’s cracking, mon corporel? You feeling your blood here?” asked gesturing at the French-themed decorations.

  Paddyfoote was one of the darkest Marines Ryck had seen, his skin almost black. Ryck didn’t know much about him other than he was one of the strongest Marines in the company. He knew Henri was ethnically French, but he hadn’t realized Paddyfoote was, too.

  “Sure, oui and liberté, égalité, fraternité and all of that. But Sergeant Samuelson here is asking me about these hors d’oevers, and I can’t answer him. You know what this shit is?”

  “Shit? You wound me, mon corporel. This should be your lifeblood,” he said with a laugh. “Let me see . . .” he said as he looked around the table.

  “Theese eeze a ballotin,” he said with a comically exaggerated French accent, pointing at pieces of asparagus wrapped in some kind of ham. “And theese, theese eeze accras, what you say feesh balls, from lovelee ’aiti,” he told them, pointing at the puffball Sams had just taken.

  “In zee glass, we call theese verrines, but for ’eaven, you must try zee beignets,” he said, bringing his fingers to his lips and kissing them before pushing them out while making a popping sound, then grabbing what looked to be a fried doughnut ball.

  Several other Marines had gathered and were laughing at Paddyfoote’s over-the-top performance. Six or seven did grab the beignets, though, at his suggestion.

  “Gents, the receiving line is about to start. I would suggest we all get in line and pay our respects before it gets too long,” SSgt Hecs said, pointing back to where the French Ambassador, the Legion colonel, and some other men and women were lining up.

  The quicker through the line, the quicker to the bar, so the platoon sergeant didn’t have to tell them that twice. It wasn’t actually a rush, but still, no one took their time as they got into position.

  The line started moving as each guest was introduced, shook hands with the ambassador and her husband, then the Legion colonel and his wife. Each person was asked his or her name by a resplendent legion lieutenant, who then repeated it to the ambassador.

  SSgt Hecs followed Lt. Nidishchii’ and was right in front of Ryck. The poor Legion lieutenant had a hard enough time with Nidishchii’, but he completely mangled “Phantawisangtong.” He seemed relieved when Ryck told him his last name.

  The receiving line was, well, a receiving line. The ambassador smiled and thanked the Marines for coming. The ambassador’s husband seemed friendly, but a strong smell of mouthwash did not completely hide the aroma of alcohol in his breath. Evidently, his celebration had already started. The Marines filed past the colonel and his wife, then most made a beeline for one of the two bars. The few teetotalers headed back to the buffet line to start loading up on food.

  Ryck headed for the bar. It was well-stocked, but Ryck thought it was only fitting that he try some wine, first. The bartender gave him a glass of beaujolais noveau, something Ryck had never heard of much less tried. It meant “new beaujolais,” and it was light and a bit sweet, OK, but not great. Ryck thought Hannah might like it, though.

  Sams was drinking single-malt scotch from New Halifax, pleased to see not only Greater French booze, while Popo, Rey, and Corporals Henri and Stenski from Second Platoon were drinking beer while they munched on the various appetizers. It wasn’t too long before Sams drifted over to chat up a young lady in a long, blue gown.

  Their little core group shifted with the three corporals drifting off, SSgt Groton drifting in, PFC Ling coming over and trying to impressed his NCOs with some sort of questions on tactics. The boot was a certified butt-kisser. Several of the legionnaires came over to make them feel welcome, but mostly, it was Marines mixing with Marines, which was fine with Ryck and the rest. The booze and food were good, and that was what mattered.

  Shortly after it turned April 30 back in France, the ambassador gave a speech full of praise for French history and brotherhood between France and the Federation. Everyone dutifully applauded, then got back to his or her drinks.

  “Fucking Sams,” Popo said, pointing to where the young lady, obviously in her cups, was now leaning against the tall Marines, laughing at something he had said. “How does he always manage to pull a dove wherever we go?”

  “Yeah, it got him busted to private once, back on Atacama. He’d be a staff sergeant now, maybe a gunny if not for that. He says it was worth it, though,” Ryck told him.

  “Looking at the ass on that girl, yeah, it might be worth it,” Popo said.

  When the busybody Legion lieutenant came and whispered into Colonel Giraud’s ear, no one seemed to notice. The two legionnaires left, then the lieutenant came back a few moments later to fetch the ambassador, who stopped socializing with the governor and hurried out of the room.

  “Wonder what’s up with that,” SSgt Hecs said. “Hope nothing cuts this party short. I’m just catching my stride.”

  “Shit, don’t worry. You ever see a froggie leave with booze still in the bar?” SSgt Groton said before lifting up his glass in a wordless toast before downing the rest of his glass. “Time to get recharged,” he added before staggering ever-so-slightly off to get more beer.

  Talk drifted back to Sams and his ma
gic touch with women when Ryck noticed General Prater getting a call. He didn’t think much about it until the Division commander’s posture changed and he held up his hand to get the officers around him to stop talking. When the Legion lieutenant came back into the ballroom one more time and evidently asked both the CG and Admiral Yost to follow him, Ryck knew something was up. The CG said something to Col Pierre and the others, then followed the legionnaire out of the room.

  The regimental sergeant major waved over the gunny as the officers put down their drinks. Gunny Smith listened, then nodded. Ryck felt the tension build as the gunny came back to them first.

  “The bar is closed. Quietly and calmly, get everyone to dump whatever drink they have. I want everyone to move to where Captain Davis and First Sergeant Peale are heading. Be ready for an order to move out,” he quietly told them.

  Most of the Marines and other party-goers hadn’t noticed anything, and a few Marines thought it was all a joke. One look to the company staff, though, brought it into focus. Something was going on, something big.

  SSgt Groton tried to ask what was happening as the company gathered, but Capt Davis motioned him to be quiet. Ryck thought the captain was in the dark as much as the rest of them.

  With the Marines in one corner of the room and the small Legion detachment gathering back near the bar, the civilians slowly coalesced across from the Marines. The governor started walking over, and Col Pierre met him, whispering in the politician’s ear. The two of them stood there for a few moments, discussing what was happening, before the CO came back to the rest of the Marines.

  A long 15 minutes later, Admiral Yost, the Legion colonel, and General Praeter, came back into the ballroom, somberly marching to the center of it.

  The admiral cleared his throat and began, “Ladies and gentlemen, please listen up. Colonel Giraud, General Praeter, and I have something to say. At 0100 Paris time, the Greater French president formally revoked the Mutual Defense Treaty with the Federation, declaring themselves divorced from all Federation laws and agreements. At 0115. FCDC troops began to move into France and the French Lunar base.”