In Every Clime and Place

by Patrick LeClerc

  I know there was no water, so “amphibious” isn’t exactly right, but this was an assault from one environment into another all the same. And the term stuck. Three centuries of tradition unmarred by progress.

  After we established that we were not going to be ambushed, Sgt Hernandez and one of his teams took up position around the assault vehicle. His other team would be under Lt Mitchell’s direct command.

  The lieutenant spoke with the officer in command of the guards at the airlock. We assembled to either side of the big inner airlock hatchway. It ponderously swung open, and Ski’s squad whipped through. We waited for the “all clear” before following. From here on in, we assumed every hatch, corner and passageway was a potential ambush.

  I got my first look at the interior of this outpost. It made me miss some of the shithole slums in war-torn Africa. It looked like the late twentieth century artist Escher had designed a tenement block in Hell. The living areas were built on the inside curve of the asteroid’s outer crust. Housing consisted of apartment blocks crammed together side to side, stretching toward the stone overhead. Elevators led “up” to the mines in the center of the rock. A web of steel alloy rigging held everything in place. The effect was like being in a bowl with a huge rocky ceiling irregularly set with lights, many of which had been shot out during the riots, giving the whole place a twilight gloom. The sounds of sporadic gunshots and sirens drifted through the air that stank of burning equipment and homes.

  And dreams.

  “And they actually riot in this paradise?” I muttered.

  “The Vikings thought the world was inside the skull of a giant, didn’t they?” Sabatini asked, scanning the alleyways for hostile movement. “Maybe this place is at the other end.”

  “You sayin’ they built a city in Satan’s asshole?” said O’Rourke.

  “You jarheads want to shut the fuck up and get ready to move out?” asked Sgt McCray. He had his angry face on, which was reassuring.

  “Aye aye, Your Fucking Majesty,” grumbled O’Rourke under his breath.

  And he was still a PFC after twelve years. Go figure.

  Sgt McCray ignored him, if he heard him at all. He was a good enough sergeant to know that now was not the time to get into a pissing contest. O’Rourke was a good Marine in a fight, so McCray overlooked his occasional transgressions.

  Pilsudski’s squad moved out, advancing by leapfrogging fire teams. He kept his Marines well fanned out, nerves straining for signs of ambush. Twenty meters behind, we moved out slowly, my team to port and Cpl Chan’s team to starboard. We moved at a slow but steady pace, scanning the flanks. Immediately behind us came the lieutenants, Gunny Taylor and CPO Kelly. Hernandez’s remaining team followed as rearguard.

  The area near the airlock was heavily patrolled by the corporate guards, and nearly deserted. As we moved further into the city proper, we began to see more and more faces watching from windows, alleys and doorways. I recognized the expression they wore: wary, reserved and mildly hostile. It was not the glare of open hatred of an enemy. It was the cautious dislike which most natives have for any heavily armed outsiders who march through their streets. We’d seen that look on an awful lot of faces down through the years. Once in a great while, the oppressed masses will cheer their beloved liberators, but history has shown that the average citizen just wants the occupying soldiers to leave him the fuck alone.

  Even the rebels didn’t seem to know how to deal with us. We weren’t here to squash this riot, just evacuate government employees, but did they know that? Or trust that if they’d heard it? History has seldom shown government troops siding with disgruntled labor against domineering management.

  We reached the embassy compound after about an hour’s tense march. The cubicle buildings were surrounded by a chain-link fence, and the Marine guards were walking the perimeter. They gave a shout when we came into view. At least somebody was happy to see us.

  As the corporal of the guard unlocked the gate, I noticed that they were carrying shotguns instead of the usual ACRs. I wondered why.

  We marched through the gate. A sergeant ran up to the lieutenant and actually started to salute before Gunny Taylor grabbed his wrist.

  “Not here, Marine.”

  “Stand easy, Gunny,” said Lt Mitchell. “Alright, Sergeant, how many people do we need to escort off this little slice of heaven?”

  “Twenty-two embassy workers or USNE employees, thirty-one dependants, and the six of us Marines.”

  “Joy. Who’s in charge of the civilians?”

  A heavy, middle-aged man in a suit was already puffing his way across the deck. He stopped before our assembled officers.

  “Welcome, Lieutenant. I am ambassador Merrill. The personnel are assembled in the main building. I just want to thank you and your Marines—”

  “No need, sir,” the lieutenant cut him off.

  “Uncle Sam does that twice a month,” O’Rourke whispered.

  “With all due respect, sir,” the gunny interrupted, “we’re a good size crowd here and the ambassador is in a suit. We may as well put a target on him.”

  He was right. A tight gathering like that around a diplomat indicated officers. If a rebel with a stolen grenade launcher was watching, this was a beautiful opportunity.

  “Good call. Move it inside! All squad leaders, follow me. Gunny, take command out here.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Gunny Taylor quickly dispersed the fire teams around the perimeter. He grabbed one of the embassy Marines. “What are you guys carrying those duck hunters for?” he asked, pointing at the shotgun.

  “Orders, Gunny. Shotguns loaded with nonlethals only.”

  “Christ! Get your asses inside and get some real weapons! There’s a friggin’ shootin’ war goin’ on out there!” As the Marine double-timed for the compound, the gunnery sergeant shook his head. “Fuck me.”

  “Is there a promotion involved, Gunny?” Sabatini asked. She never let a line like that go by. She really enjoyed being the only woman Marine in the platoon. Ninety percent of the time, we forgot she was a woman. We claim to be a band of brothers. She was just a brother with tits.

  “I’m way out of your league, Marine,” Gunny Taylor grinned. “Now keep your eyes open! This shitbird outfit hasn’t been too locked on. We better keep our shit together.”

  We walked around the compound, keeping an eye on the city. Angry looking miners moved around, hurling abuse and sometimes stones at the corporate offices nearby. A few of them looked our way, saw our rifles, contemplated their rocks, did the math, and let discretion be the better part of valor. We could hear sporadic gunfire from elsewhere in the city. The smell of smoke and fire-suppression foam hung in the air. Not a picture for the vacation brochures.

  The most surprising aspects of the whole situation were the mundane things that still went on. Across the way from us, a neon “open” sign flickered on in a bar, and a man unlocked his doors to a line of regulars waiting outside. Food and cold drink vendors worked the crowd. I guess throwing rocks and yelling builds a thirst. I imagined empty cans and sandwich wrappers would follow the stones. A few scantily clad and heavily made-up young women were working the crowd as well. I suppose rebellion stirs up other passions which cry out for quenching.

  I saw it in Kinshasa. Life goes on. It never fails to amaze me, but people will carry on with the routine they know while the great movements of history roll past, leaving them to continue their mundane existence, unchanged through the eons.

  O’Rourke nudged me and nodded toward one of the ladies of questionable virtue. “Wanna lend me a few bucks? I’ll get a blowjob for you, too.”

  “What? You gonna get two and bring me back one? Spend your own money.”

  “Your Dago girlfriend cleaned me out.”

  “She was doing you a favor. The clap would probably kill you faster than a rebel bullet.”

  “Yeah, but I’d enjoy some of the experience. Unlike a combat deployment.”

  “Come on,�
�� I said, grinning. “Admit it. You live for this shit.”

  “Dream on, Mick. Dream on.”

  Our witty banter was interrupted as Sgt McCray stormed up. He was trying to decide if he was angry or disgusted, and settled on both.

  “Collins, get your team ready. We gotta march halfway across this friggin’ city.”

  “What the fuck for?” O’Rourke inquired.

  “Cause I want to see you get killed, asshole,” McCray retorted. “We need to rescue some bleeding hearts over in the low-rent district.”

  “This is the high-rent district?” I asked.

  “I know it don’t hold a candle to uppercrust South Boston, but this is the good part of the city,” he said. “Now, do you Yankee Irish fucks wanna shut up and listen?”

  He clearly didn’t know Boston if he thought Southie was uppercrust.

  “Hell, Sarge, your name is McCray. That ain’t Irish?” asked O’Rourke.

  “Black and Irish,” I agreed. “Two strikes.”

  “And being a jarhead grunt has gotta be good for a third,” Sabatini added.

  “Enough!” he yelled, but I could see the smile trying to come out. “We have to take our squad, plus the gunny and one of the embassy Marines as a guide. Some shit-for-brains social workers got cut off by the riots. The Old Man is apeshit. He says we ain’t leavin’ anybody behind. He’s gonna march the main body out with the embassy staff, then wait for us at the airlock. We detour off, collect the social workers, then meet up at the airlock. If we get in trouble, we hole up and call for help. The rest of the platoon will come make a hole and we’ll fight out and link up.”

  “Sounds like a fucking blast,” I muttered. “When do we shove off?”

  Chapter 4

  14 NOV 2075

  SUNFLOWER ONE, ASTEROID BELT PATROL

  Our guide was a lance corporal named Nolan. He looked thrilled to have traded his shotgun for a real rifle. I sympathized with the poor guy. Embassy duty is shit work, unless you get assigned to the embassy in Monaco overlooking the nude beaches. Everyplace else sucks. You spend your days surrounded by people who probably want to kill you, and all you can do is smile politely and play tin soldier while you baby-sit ambassadors who got the job by being too incompetent for service in Washington, or by giving enough money to the right candidate.

  Nolan was happy to be playing Marine again.

  He led us along some nasty narrow alleys, skirting the worst of the unrest. We came on a corporate outpost and he and Gunny Taylor went up to chat with the guards while we stood around and looked menacing.

  “What’s your business?” asked the guard sergeant.

  “We have to get to the Heights to evacuate some government personnel that got cut off.”

  “No way, Gomer. Ten of you? You’d get cut up in no time flat and the rebels would have some real rifles. The only teams we have out there are dug in with heavy weapons.”

  Gunny Taylor glared at the zero G rent-a-cop. I saw the man wilt a little, but he tried to keep up a good show.

  “We’re the friggin’ Marine Corps!” the gunny said. “We have a mission, and we’re going to complete it. No ragged-assed, rock-throwing cocksuckers are going to stop my squad!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but—”

  “Stow it! You want to stop us, go ahead and try. Just leave us an address to send the pieces.” He turned to the rest of us. “Move it out, Marines!”

  The guards knew better than to try to restrain us. We had them very much outgunned. One shouted, “I’ll break the bad news to your Navy boyfriends!”

  Tame stuff. We’ve heard it all before. O’Rourke and Sabatini agreed, for once, replying with the same obscene gesture.

  We moved out. After about ten minutes, Nolan looked at the way ahead and cursed.

  “What’s the problem?” Taylor asked.

  “The road is choked with rubble, Gunny. I don’t want to stray too far, this place is a friggin’ maze.”

  “Just keep on, steady as she goes. Stay alert.”

  Like that was news.

  “Hey-diddle-diddle, straight up the middle,” I grumbled.

  “That was my line, you thievin’ bastard,” O’Rourke smirked.

  We followed Nolan through a road filled with rubble. We had to watch our footing as well as scanning the environment for traps, ambushes or rockslides. If there was a better time to hit us, I didn’t know of it. Nolan had point, followed by Sabatini, O’Rourke, me, Johnson, then Sgt McCray, Doc Roy, the Gunny, and Chan’s team. We tried to maintain some distance between us. O’Rourke slipped on some loose stones ahead of me. I ran to him and caught his arm before he could slide into an open street drain.

  He turned to thank me, then suddenly shoved me aside as the report of a machine gun split the air. I went down on my hands and knees. I looked up and droplets of blood spattered my visor. O’Rourke went down hard.

  “Ambush! Ten o’clock high!” I shouted into the mic as I sprang to O’Rourke’s side. Rounds were smacking the stone all around us, spraying me with fragments. I grabbed the back straps of his web gear and hauled him to cover behind a mound of broken stone. I fired a few rounds one-handed as I dragged, hoping to spoil the enemy’s aim. I saw the gunner about fifty meters away, and tried to get my sights on him, when I heard the snap of Sabatini’s rifle from up the trail. The machine gunner’s head lurched back, spouting gore.

  I got O’Rourke behind the pile and fumbled the pressure dressing out of my cargo pocket. His right arm was torn badly, tattered streamers of flesh and bloody utility shirt hanging.

  “Hang on, Marine!” I shouted at him. “I got ya! Corpsman!”

  I yanked out my combat knife and cut the uniform shirt away at the shoulder. I tried to press the tattered muscle of the arm back where it belonged.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he moaned.

  “Quit your bitchin’, it’s just a scratch,” I lied. I pressed the bandage against the ragged wound. “Hold this with your other hand. Corpsman! Today, for Christ’s sake!”

  O’Rourke was able to hold the dressing on while I wrapped the tails of the bandage around and tied them securely over the wound.

  “Need a hand, corp?” Johnson was at my side.

  “I got him. Use that TAR. Kill some of those fuckers!”

  Doc Roy crawled up to us.

  “Take him!”

  “I got him, Mick,” the Navy medic said calmly. She looked at his face, then the wound, checking his pulse.

  Despite the rounds whipping by and striking chips from the rubble around us, she was all business. “He looks stable, he’s got a good strong pulse. I’ll get him some blood going. Squeeze my hand, Marine.”

  “How bad am I, Doc?” O’Rourke grunted as he gripped her hand.

  “As bad as they come, but the arm’s alright,” she said. “Bone’s not broken, and the nerves and blood supply are intact. You’ll be opening beer bottles and playing with yourself in a week.”

  Wow. Guess she knew Terry better than I thought.

  She looked back to me, taking care to look me in the eye and speak firmly. “You’re all set, Mick. I got it from here.”

  I must’ve been hovering. Guess she knew me pretty well, too.

  “OK. Thanks, Doc.” I scuttled away, leaving my best friend in her care, vowing to kill me the fuckers who did it.

  I peered around the rubble pile. Johnson, Nolan and Sabatini were firing at the enemy, keeping them pretty well suppressed. I saw one enemy pop up, fire a burst at Johnson, then drop back behind cover. Lying on the rubble, I sighted in on the spot he had occupied. I tried to steady my rapid breathing and keep as low as possible, resting my finger on the trigger. Just come up again, you bastard. The stones bit into my legs and elbow. My body armor protected my chest.

  A second later my patience was rewarded. The enemy soldier’s head and shoulders came into view. I snapped off three rounds. He jerked back and fell out of sight. Through my scope, I could make out the splash of blood he left on the rocks in front of him. />
  “Collins!” McCray’s voice boomed in my helmet. “What’s the situation?”

  If we had the same equipment as the Army, I could have sent a digital image from the scope of my weapon directly to the sergeant through his communication link. Marines, however, get the cool toys last, so I had to describe the situation verbally.

  “O’Rourke’s wounded. We got an estimated half-dozen hostiles in a second story apartment. One heavy weapon, gunner hit. They haven’t replaced him. They’re about fifty meters away and three meters above us. We can assault up the rubble to their position.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I’ll put a smoke round on their position. Light ’em up. Johnson will suppress with the TAR, you guys help him. Sabatini and I will assault.”

  “It’s your call. Just say when.”

  I was the only NCO to see what was going on, so it was my decision, comforting as that was. As a team leader, I had a smoke round on top of the mag for my 20mm, to mark enemy positions and direct fire. I aimed and launched it at the wall behind the enemy.

  The enemy occupied the second floor of a ruined building. A heap of rubble sloped down from their position. The front wall ended about a meter above their deck, giving them a nice firing parapet. The wall behind them was intact, so I bounced the smoke grenade off it.

  As the smoke rose, Chan’s team opened up on the enemy. They dropped out of sight as dust rose from the mortar and stone around them amid the hail of 5mm ball ammo and 20mm grenades.

  “OK, listen up!” I said into the mic. “Johnson! Get a full ammo box on the TAR. When I say, rock and roll!”

  “Got it.”

  “Sabatini!”

  “Yo!”

  “When Johnson opens up, we beat feet to the rubble below the target. Get out a frag, then we cook ’em off and toss ’em over.”