And then on Friday nights and Saturdays when they weren't in the field, it was the Weekend Ritual. Promptly after chow call on Friday night those men not on duty details and with kroner in their pockets headed for Bronny. Between 17 and 1715 hours every Friday when the 34th was not training in the field or on a deployment, the spotless barracks degraded into a trash dump, staying that way until Reveille Monday morning. Inevitably, their weekends began at either Helga's or Big Barb's, but gradually the new men were introduced to the other attractions of Bronny, which included fishing in the fjord, learning to operate the primitive vehicles the 'Finnis used for transportation, and impromptu midnight "picnics" along the Bothnia with as many local girls as were daring enough to go out with the Marines—and all of them, it seemed, were game. Inevitably, these outings ended with all parties swimming nude in the frigid waters and then warming up in intimate togetherness on the shore afterward.
Over the course of a week or so, members of the platoon gradually stopped calling Claypoole "New Guy," and soon after he stopped trying to pin that sobriquet on Dean and McNeal. Chan, the veteran who'd been through the ritual before, was quietly amused by it all. Not long after, more replacements arrived, and soon the third platoon and all of Company L were up to full strength.
They also learned more about Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass: who he was, and who he had been. It wasn't that he talked about himself or what he'd done, he never did; he let others do the talking, and they relished the opportunity, incessantly telling stories about him. The most recent concerned the incident on Fiesta de Santiago, which the barracks gossips embellished with unfeigned glee, especially when they got to the part where he beat up Mr. Daryl George—who in these renditions had become an icon for the despicable and unscrupulous civilian entrepreneur making a fat living selling shoddy goods to the Corps. But Bass had been a legend in the Corps for years now. Anyone who wanted to appear a veteran had a Charlie Bass story to tell, most with eyewitness reputability.
The first solid evidence the new men had that he was someone truly special among Marines was the first time the company fell out in dress reds for a FIST commander's inspection.
"Move it, move it move it move-movemove!" the squad leaders shouted in the rising staccato voice that always seems to be issued along with a sergeant's chevrons. "On the parade deck right now! Move it, move it move it move-movemove!" They strode up and down the squad-bay corridor like bos'ns on an ancient slave galley, exhorting the men at the same time to complete their preparations for inspection and form up on the company parade ground.
Inside the rooms the team leaders were everywhere, hovering over their men, breathing down their necks, in their faces, and sometimes calmly making final adjustments to a uniform—at times even their own.
"Okay, Juice, Dean," Leach said when he was satisfied at his men's appearance. "You're as ready as you're going to be. Let's hit that deck."
Dean tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. This was his first FIST commander's inspection since Boot Camp Graduation, and he was for some reason very tense. He'd been well-prepared for the graduation inspection; the recruits knew far in advance that it was coming, and the drill instructors worked with them for several days ahead of time getting everyone ready. For this inspection, though, they'd had only two days' notice. Nobody walked them through their preparations step by step—everyone from the company commander to the squad leaders expected each man to know what was expected of him. If it hadn't been for Claypoole, Dean wasn't sure he would have been ready.
"Snip off that Irish pennant, Dean," Claypoole said with a trace of condescension, gesturing at a stray thread hanging from a buttonhole. "You don't want to meet the Brigadier looking like some kind of sloppy civilian." He shook his head sadly. " 'New Guy'? Everybody was right about not calling you New Guy, you're too boot to be salty enough to even be 'new.' " Claypoole spent so much time helping Dean prepare for the inspection, Dean wondered when he had time to get ready himself. Claypoole raised an eyebrow when Dean voiced his concern.
"Dean-o," he said calmly, "once you've been around as long as I have, you'll always be ready for a FIST commander's inspection. You get as much salt on you as I've got on me, you'll always be ready for anything." Goudanis guffawed at his boast and Claypoole glared at him.
"I got more time in the chow line than you got in the Corps, Clayhead," Goudanis muttered.
"What's the joke?" Dean asked, but Goudanis only shook his head. Claypoole nodded grimly at the lance corporal and went back to helping Dean get ready.
Dean was so concerned with getting his uniform ready he didn't notice the amused way Leach kept an eye on him and Claypoole, ready to step in at any time to make sure his most junior man was ready. But instead of intervening, Leach let Claypoole do the job he'd assigned himself—if nothing else, it was good practice for Claypoole, a good way for him to learn something about leadership. Ratliff approved also—he was glad to have Claypoole out from underfoot.
Finally, the day, the hour, the minute of the inspection arrived and the men of third platoon scrambled out of their rooms, down the stairs, and out to the parade deck for the ordeal. Dean barely noticed Bass as he passed him at the head of the stairs. It wasn't until they were outside, standing at attention in platoon formation, Bass front and center, that he had a chance to get a good look at his platoon sergeant in his dress uniform.
Staff Sergeant Bass was resplendent. The scarlet of his tunic seemed to burst into flame above the blue of his trousers with the bloodred NCO stripes running down their outer seams. His ebony NCO sword scabbard gleamed. But what caught the eyes of the men who'd never seen Bass in dress uniform before were the medals displayed across his left chest. The first, farthest to the wearer's right and occupying the "field of honor," as the precedence of personal decorations was called, had a navy-blue ribbon with a scarlet stripe down its middle, suspending a cross with a fouled anchor in its center—the Marine Medal of Valor, second only to the Confederation Medal of Heroism in the hierarchy of decorations. A gold comet pinned to the ribbon told the men he'd won the medal twice. Next came a medal with the ribbon colors reversed from the first, the Gold Nova. Then a Silver Nebula, once more two awards; then a Bronze Star with three gold starbursts, indicating he'd been awarded the medal four times in action against an enemy. After this, his Good Conduct Medal—it was short one silver comet cluster that denoted subsequent awards since his recent court-martial invalidated the award for that entire enlistment. His Marine Expeditionary Medal was so covered with comets the ribbon could hardly be seen through them.
Those six medals, slightly overlapping, formed the top row. Under them were clustered so many campaign medals they couldn't easily be counted or individually recognized. On his right chest were the rectangular ribbons for the Confederation, Marine, and Meritorious Unit Citations, again with multiple awards of each. The only mar on the uniform was a slightly darker swath of red under the gold chevrons that showed where a second rocker had once been. But no one in the platoon cared that Charlie Bass had once carried a higher rank, they only knew that they'd follow him into combat anywhere, under any circumstances. And so would any other professional who met him on the street, because what counted about Charlie Bass was not his "conduct," but how he conducted himself under fire.
"Listen up, people," Bass said in a soft voice that nonetheless carried clearly to every one of his men. "I've watched you prepare for this inspection more closely than you realize. I'm here to tell you we are going to ace it." It may have been only their imagination, but his men detected a trace of pride in his face as he looked them over. Bass drew his sword and held it at rest. "Sergeant Hyakowa, front and center."
The senior squad leader stepped briskly from his position and marched to face Bass, also drawing his ceremonial sword. The two NCOs exchanged salutes with their swords. The blades flashed brightly in the strong sunlight, slashing up and down in brilliant silver arcs.
"Sergeant, the platoon is yours."
"Aye
aye, Staff Sergeant, the platoon is mine."
The two exchanged salutes again, then Bass sheathed his sword, about-faced, and marched to take his place among the platoon commanders where the company officers were assembled.
Hyakowa about-faced to look over the platoon. "First squad, one pace to the right." The men of his squad sharply shifted position to fill in the blank he had left when he stepped into the platoon sergeant's position. "Like the man said," he said when the platoon was again in crisp formation, "we're going to ace it." He paused for a moment, then cried out, "Third platoon! Pa-rade REST."
With a sharp thunk, the men of third platoon shifted their left feet to a shoulder's length apart and leaned their grounded blasters out and to their right in the classic position. Hyakowa about-faced again and assumed the position of parade rest himself.
Hyakowa must have gotten a signal from somewhere, because he suddenly whirled around and commanded: "Platoon! A-ten-HUT! Open ranks for inspection, HARCH!" The first rank took one smart step forward; the second stood fast; the third took one step backward. "Platoon! In-spec-shun, HARMS!" In two sharp, perfectly coordinated movements, the platoon hoisted their blasters to the port position, bisecting the body at a forty-five-degree angle.
Abruptly, the FIST commander and his retinue were with the company officers. They went through the motions of introductions and stating briskly what was about to happen, and then the Brigadier walked the ranks, inspecting the men. He stopped briefly in front of each man and said a crisp, "Good morning, Marine," as the man operated the charging lever of his weapon, exposing the battery well, glancing down quickly into the empty well and then back up. The Brigadier then stepped to the next man. Once or twice per squad his hand shot out to take a blaster that was held at port arms. The Marine's arms snapped instantly to his side, fingers extended and joined, thumb placed carefully along the seams of his trousers, eyes fixed steadfastly to the front. He gave the weapon a cursory glance, simply going through the form of inspection, and then casually handed it back. The man snatched it out of the Brigadier's hands with a sharp smack as his own hands clapped loudly onto the weapon.
He stopped in front of Dean, who operated the charging bolt instantly, ready for the Brigadier to "inspect" his weapon. The Brigadier noted the Expert Marksmanship medal on Dean's tunic. "Name?" he inquired.
"Dean, Joseph F., private, serial number 21993014C, SIR!"
"You ever fire this weapon, Private Dean?" "Yes, SIR! Zeroed in on the range last week, SIR!" "Your chest won't be bare for long," he said to Dean. "Thirty-fourth FIST never stays on Thorsfinni's World for long." When he finished the inspection, which was more of a review than a true inspection, he took a place in front of the company to address the men. The company's officers stood behind him.
"The 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team is a proud unit." The Brigadier's voice carried clearly without need of amplification. "We have fought in more campaigns and expeditions than any other unit in the Confederation Armed Forces. It has now been more than half a year standard since we returned from our last mount-out. We don't know when next we'll receive orders to go somewhere, nor do we have any idea where we will be sent or what we will be required to do once we get there. Still, we have to be ready for any contingency. To that end, you will be going into the field tomorrow on a training operation of an at-this-time-undetermined duration. Your officers will be briefed at zero-seven hours as to the nature of this training exercise. They will then have one hour to formulate their preliminary plans and get the company ready to move out. Do well, whatever the mission is." He cracked a smile. "Right now, I don't even know what the exercise will be. My F-3 hasn't sent me the operations order yet, so I don't know what he's got planned for you. That is all." The Brigadier turned to the company officers and returned the company to them. He was gone as suddenly as he arrived. Captain Conorado stepped forward and looked over his company. "You heard the man, people. Be ready." He turned to Top Myer. "Company First Sergeant, the company is yours."
"Aye aye, sir, the company is mine."
The two exchanged sword salutes and Conorado led the officers into the barracks.
"Platoon sergeants," Myer bellowed. "Dismiss your men." He about-faced and followed the officers.
"Platoon!" the platoon sergeants cried out. "Dis-missed!"
Released from formation, the hundred-plus men of the platoons broke ranks and raced back into the barracks to strip out of their dress uniforms and prepare for the next morning's exercise. Sergeant Souavi, the company supply sergeant, got busy issuing weapons simulators to the platoon sergeants—just because they weren't using real ammunition didn't mean they wouldn't be able to tell where they were hitting, or that they were hit.
But 34th FIST didn't go into the field the next morning. The overnight arrival of Admiral P'Marc Willis's orders canceled the training exercise. Instead, the men of Company L fell out on the company parade ground to get new orders.
Chapter Thirteen
Many of the tribal leaders sitting around the brightly lighted cavern had traveled far for the council. It was the largest such gathering even the oldest among them could remember. Not even Shabeli the Elder had been able to muster as successfully.
Actually, the younger Shabeli did not need the other tribes called to the council; the Siad alone had sufficient manpower for his immediate intention. Publicly, of course, Shabeli maintained the fiction that he desperately needed their assistance in his great crusade to wrest control of Elneal from Consolidated Enterprises. His real motive in calling them together, however, was to bind them to him as allies. Then, if the Confederation sent in its forces, they would be obligated to fight on his side. He had gotten this idea from a vid he'd seen as a boy, in which a group of assassins, after murdering their leader, pledge allegiance to one another by staining themselves with his blood. If the Confederation intervened and there was serious fighting, Shabeli would sacrifice his allies to weaken the Confederation forces until he could defeat them. If the Confederation forces proved too strong, and defeated his "allies" so severely he knew his Siad could not beat them, he could conclude a favorable peace with the Confederation that would buy him time to lay other plans for seizing full power on Elneal.
Either way, Shabeli knew he would emerge as the single most powerful leader on the planet, with all others paying obeisance to him.
Sitting on Shabeli's right, the sword-arm side and hence the position of honor among the Siad, was his uncle, Wad Ramadan. Since Shabeli the Elder's death six years before, Ramadan had served faithfully as his nephew's adviser and counselor. But Shabeli the Magnificent only tolerated his uncle because of the old man's powerful connections among the other Siad leaders. He seldom followed the old man's advice and secretly wished him dead—honorably, of course—and safely out of the way. Now in his seventies, Ramadan was far older than most Siad, who, without the medical care available on the more advanced worlds, seldom lived much beyond their fifties. Shabeli hoped nature would soon take its course and remove the meddlesome old warrior.
On Shabeli's left sat his consort, Moira the journalist, one of the few outworlders ever to voluntarily remain on Elneal in the society of clans. Her white skin, golden hair, and blue eyes betokened northern European ancestry. Although it would be death to stare or even look directly for more than a few moments at the beautiful consort of Shabeli the Magnificent, the other men in the assembly managed to avoid that fate with sly glances. And she was someone to admire: Only a bit shorter than Shabeli himself, and taller than most of the other Siad or the Bos Kashi men, Moira was a full-figured woman. Some of the Siad resented her presence among them. She was an outsider, and to make matters worse, Shabeli had never formally taken marriage vows with this woman. Some thought she had an undue influence over him. Looking at her, the delegates could understand why. But she was Shabeli's most valuable adviser not because of her voluptuousness, but because she understood something none of these other men could ever know—the psychology of the Confederation. The only qual
ity Shabeli admired as much as courage in a man was intellect in a woman; she did not even have to be beautiful to earn his respect—but Moira definitely was both.
Next to Moira sat the Bos Kashi delegation. Short, dark-skinned, wiry men, bow-legged from lives spent constantly in the saddle, they bristled with weapons, as did all the other clansmen present in the great underground hall. The one thing not even Shabeli could persuade these men to accept was to go anywhere unarmed. It would be more natural for them to walk about with their bottoms exposed than ever to be caught without weapons. The delegations from the Gaels and the Sons of Freedom, the transmontane tribes, were seated beyond Wad Ramadan. These men were light-skinned with fine hair and beards. The Gaels were known among the Siad as the "Potato Eaters," and the Sons as the "Beer Bellies." These nicknames belied the respect the Siad professed to have for them as fighting men, and many among them and the Bos Kashi sitting in peaceful conference in this very hall carried the scars from wounds inflicted by one or the other in past skirmishes.
Beyond the Bos Kashi were the representatives of the Shan, secretive, dark-skinned little men whose sharp facial angles contrasted with their slanted eyes. The daggers that bristled from their waist sashes bore hilts encrusted with precious gems. Even so, these were working knives.
Opposite the Shan were the Euskadi, the truly unknown quantity in the gathering. Where Shabeli was certain of how the Bos Kashi, the Gaels, and the Sons of Freedom would react to his proposal, and was fairly sure of the Shan, he had no idea what the Euskadi would say. The Euskadi representatives sat close, their heads together, whispering to each other in a tongue that was so unrelated to any language spoken by others on Elneal no one could ever learn to understand it.
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