by Eric Thomson
Two more thunderflashes, including one from Windom, convinced the animals to retreat through the pass, but not without a parting snarl from the enraged male.
Decker raised his helmet visor and flicked off his radio pickup, then climbed up to where Windom sat, breathing hard.
“What the fuck happened, Earle? You’re supposed to stay out of reach.”
“Lost my footing.” He waved at the broken hillside. “Never seen carcajou that aggressive before.”
“Three cubs could be an aggravating factor.”
The sergeant shrugged.
“Not my first carcajou, not even my first with a family.”
“Yeah, well next time, we might be better off waiting for them to move along on their own.” Decker pointed at the claw marks on Windom’s armor. “He was fixing to open your tin can and rip out your guts. Might even have succeeded.”
Windom gave Decker a sour look.
“I suppose you figure I owe you one?”
Zack grinned.
“Nope. But whatever debt you thought I owed you has been wiped from the slate, Earle. What do you say?”
“I think you should rejoin the others and forget this little incident ever happened.”
“Sure.” Decker reached out with one hand to help Windom stand. “Whatever you say, Earle. In less than two weeks our ways part, hopefully forever. If you’re able to forget the past, so am I.”
“Just don’t imagine that we’re buddies again, Decker,” he growled. “But consider the slate wiped.”
Zack chuckled as he led the way down towards the trail.
“Earle, we weren’t buddies back then. What makes you believe I’d mistake you for one now?”
Twenty-Nine
“Despite my best efforts, you maggots are about to become Marines once more,” Sergeant First Class Earle Windom drawled as he entered the barracks.
Decker and his course mates stood at attention by their bunks, wearing the black dress uniform of the Marine Light Infantry Regiment. Black that is, except for the branch tabs on either side of the high collar’s opening.
The tabs backed miniature versions of the flaming grenade and crossed musket regimental insignia, but instead of infantry white, they were rifle green. The Light Infantry was the only Marine regiment to use that particular color, although it was common in the Army, which had begun life centuries earlier as the Colonial Rifles.
In keeping with rifle tradition, where the buttons, collar and cuff piping, as well as rank insignia, were bright silver in the rest of the Marine Corps, they were blackened silver here. And while they were under arms, their carbines strapped across the chest, the recruits did not wear berets or any other form of headgear.
Windom, trailed by Sergeant Jaya and Corporal Radzell, inspected his charges one by one, to make sure the regiment’s commanding officer would find no fault with them. The graduation ceremony was a mere twenty minutes away, and Decker felt strangely buoyant at the prospect of marching on parade again.
He didn’t even mind that it would be as member of a regiment often considered the Marine Corps’ unloved offspring, its ranks filled with those whom no one else wanted.
Earlier, in a fit of whimsy, Decker had wondered whether after his return to intelligence he could stand for the Marine Light Infantry’s regimental march during mess dinners. Considering, he had successfully completed the grueling course designed to take military convicts and rehabilitate them, he could surely count himself as one of the unit’s veterans.
Better yet, tomorrow morning, he would ship out to Marengo, assigned to the 1st Battalion’s recon platoon. That news had visibly annoyed Windom since it signaled the regiment considered Decker a cut above the rest.
The sergeant stopped in front of Zack and examined him from head to toe.
“You must be glad it’s finally over,” he said. “I sure as hell am. And since I’m not a hypocrite, I won’t wish you good luck with your first assignment, nor will I tell you to duck.”
“I was expecting nothing more than advice to not let the doorknob hit me in the ass on the way out, Earle.” Decker pitched his voice low so only Windom could hear. “You were a miserable bastard back then, you’re worse now, but since I’m the bigger man, in more ways than one, I’ll leave you with this thought. A sonofabitch with restraint makes a good trainer. You have the nasty disposition down pat. Work on the self-control. Who knows, you might even become a sergeant major one day.”
Windom took a step back, and their eyes met. Decker saw something undefinable reflected in the sergeant’s gaze, something that almost seemed like grudging respect.
“Recruits,” he said pacing up and down the barrack room, “for that is what you remain until the colonel hands you new berets with the regimental insignia, I trust you will not disgrace me, the other staff and yourselves by giving a poor show during the ceremony. You will not be alone on the parade square, but you will be the only ones whose penal sentence is about to be suspended. For as long as you maintain good behavior, of course. The remaining graduates are transfers from other regiments who volunteered for various career or personal reasons, meaning they’re not jailbirds.”
Windom stopped and let his eyes roam over the trainees.
“Therefore, everyone’s attention will be on you. And although I will lead you on parade, once we march off, you will no longer be my concern, because I’ll have done my job. Sergeant Jaya, form them up outside. It’s time.”
In keeping with light infantry tradition, Decker’s platoon headed for the parade ground at the regiment’s one-hundred and forty paces per minute, the cadence called out by Corporal Radzell. Once on the edge of the square at the center of the training battalion unit lines, two more platoons took up position on their left flank. Both were larger than their paltry ten-man formation.
However, in contrast to the former convicts, these Marines wore their berets with Marine Light Infantry insignia, and the awards and decorations they had amassed during their careers. No noms de guerre in that bunch. The regimental band, their splendid musicians’ finery, topped off by plumed busbies, joined them shortly after that.
Command Sergeant Loos, the non-commissioned officer commanding Delta Company took over the formation and, to the tune of Lutzow’s Wild Hunt, played at regimental speed, marched them on.
A small number of spectators sat behind the reviewing stand, and they rose with the arrival of the troops. One in particular, caught Decker’s attention. A middle-aged, dark-haired woman, wearing a Marine lieutenant colonel’s uniform and a sardonic smile he knew well.
Though she seemed different from the Hera Talyn he had last seen at the court-martial months earlier, when their eyes met he felt that thrill of recognition.
Loos took them through the full ceremonial of dressing ranks before placing them at parade rest. Then, at an unseen signal, he called them to attention.
An open-top skimmer, bearing a small Marine Light Infantry flag entered the parade ground and came to a halt in front of the formation. A powerfully built officer with colonel’s oak leaves and stars on his shoulders, and a massive rack of medals on his chest climbed out. He took the single step up the reviewing stand and stood at attention, facing the troops.
“Delta Company, to your commanding officer, present ARMS.”
The band burst into the traditional ruffles and flourishes as Colonel Diemens raised his hand in salute.
When the music died away, Loos, shouted, “Delta Company, shoulder ARMS.” Then, “Would the Colonel care to inspect the troops?”
“The Colonel would.” Diemens stepped off the reviewing stand.
To Decker’s surprise, Diemens stopped in front of each newcomer, examined his face, and matched it with the nameplate above the right tunic pocket, while exchanging a few words.
Once the inspection was over, the regiment’s commanding officer took his place on the reviewing stand again.
“Marines, stand at EASE,” he bellowed with a voice that would have put many serge
ants major to shame.
When they had done so, he continued in a more conversational tone.
“Today we welcome new members to the Marine Light Infantry family, coming from both ends of our recruiting spectrum. At one end, we have the volunteers, who for reasons of their own chose the arduous road to become light infantrymen. By being here today, they proved to have the right stuff.”
His eyes turned towards Decker’s platoon.
“At the other end, we have those who, after being dismissed from the Service, chose reenlistment with the regiment, for rehabilitation, atonement, redemption even. And for a fresh chance at a productive life in the Corps. Their road was even more arduous, and yet they stand here, in front of us, much as they stood in front of the court-martial that ended their previous careers. A Marine condemned to dismissal loses the privilege of wearing the Commonwealth Armed Services’ blue beret and marches out of the courtroom bareheaded. That is why they currently parade in a beret-less state. They are, for the next few minutes at least, trainees and not Marines.”
Diemens paused to let his words sink in.
“But that is about to change because they have earned, through hard work and discipline, the privilege to serve once more. And therefore, I am about to present new headgear to each of the ten men who left their pasts behind so they could forge a new future. A beret bearing the insignia of the Marine Light Infantry, their new home.”
Trailed by a sergeant bearing a stack of berets, Diemens and Loos headed for Decker’s platoon. Windom called them to attention, then saluted.
“Delta Company, Accelerated Course, ten Marines ready to resume their service with the Corps, sir.”
Decker, by dint of being the honor graduate, was the first to formally rejoin the Corps. Diemens offered him a beret with both hands. Zack took it from him in the same manner, and then placed it on his head at the approved angle.
“Welcome home, Private Whate. May you have a long and prosperous career.”
“Thank you, sir!”
Zack experienced a moment of pleasure he couldn’t quite identify at first until he realized it was because of his formal and legal return to his beloved Corps.
The court-martial that saw him stripped of everything, although held on false pretenses, nevertheless had the full force of law.
It meant up until this moment, he hadn’t been a Marine since arriving on Desolation Island. And although he wouldn’t quite admit it to himself, it was also in part because he’d slipped so deep into his role that he felt a genuine rebirth. One on par with that of his comrades.
When he glanced up at Talyn, he spied an indulgent smile tugging at her lips, proof she could read the emotions behind his stoic facade.
With the presentations completed, Command Sergeant Loos called the formation to attention once more and turned them into column of route. Then, with the band playing O’er the Hills and Far Away and the troops singing with gusto, the newly minted Light Infantry troopers marched past the reviewing stand.
Talyn caught Zack’s eye when he turned his head to the right on Sergeant First Class Windom’s order, and she winked at him. Decker fought hard to repress a smile because everything was well in his universe again.
Back in the Corps, with his partner in sight and, thanks to orders shipping him out to the 1st Battalion, a step closer to Ariane Redmon. What else could he ask for?
After another general salute to underline Colonel Diemens departure, Command Sergeant Loos marched the troops to the drill hall for a traditional post-ceremonial glass of wine.
It would be the first alcohol to pass the former convict-recruits’ lips in a long time. Windom gave them a stern warning to watch out for each other, then dismissed his now former trainees to their new lives.
Talyn, looking every millimeter a Marine lieutenant colonel, with well-earned Pathfinder wings on her left breast, motioned him to join her soon after he and his mates had toasted each other. He left them to chat and met her by the main door.
“And how are you today, Private Whate? Looking fit, I’d say,” she said with a small, almost mocking smile.
“Lack of food, lots of fresh air and almost continuous exercise will do wonders for a middle-aged spy. We want a Sharon Lee, private, 1st Battalion recon platoon. Fortunately, I’m headed there aboard the next ship which docks tomorrow.”
“That was my conclusion as well. I’m glad we agree. It means we’ve found the right woman. So it’s to be Birkenhead for you? The same transport that brought you to Parth?”
“Indeed, and a chance to find the bastard who removed my tracking implant and left me to die in Desolation Island’s interior. I’d say he’s one more thread in the skein we’re trying to unravel.”
Talyn smiled at the intimation of deadly violence and retribution in her partner’s tone.
“That explains why you never came up in the Correctional Service database. Our unseen foes expected you to vanish without a trace. I’ll order myself aboard Birkenhead instead of taking a civilian liner to Marengo, as I’d planned. If you’re going to interrogate one of the crew, I should be there. Now’s not the time for you to risk breaking cover.”
“Agreed.”
Windom, curious about Whate and a lieutenant colonel having a private conversation, sauntered up, his black rosewood cane tightly tucked under his left arm. He saluted Talyn.
“Good morning, Colonel. Can I be of assistance?”
She returned the compliment, then shook her head.
“Private Whate reminds me of someone I used to know, but it seems we have no acquaintances in common after all.”
Windom, mystified by her Adjutant-General branch collar and beret insignia, nodded politely.
“Private Whate apparently got around before coming to us, so who knows? Have a good day, Colonel.”
He saluted again and wandered away.
“I guess there’s quite a tale behind that man,” she remarked.
“Quite. Earle Windom was one of my squad leaders in the 902nd. He came to the Marine Light Infantry via the hard route, in part thanks to me.”
“And he was your course non-commissioned officer in charge? I can’t wait until we’re home to hear that story.”
“You mean other than him trying to convince me I was over the hill...”
“...and far away,” she quipped quoting the regiment’s marching song. “How very appropriate.”
“And that I should quit,” he finished, deadpan. “Failing that, he spent the course praying I’d have an accident, keel over from some malady, or find myself ostracized by the others. Whatever God or gods he was praying to obviously didn’t listen, even though he tried to help them along. So here I am, ten kilos lighter, with the physique of someone ten years younger, and nary a good ale in months. Life has been interesting.”
“Speaking of which, we’re attracting more interest than we want. See you aboard Birkenhead.”
With that, Talyn found a convenient horizontal surface to leave her empty wine glass and vanished.
Decker returned to his comrades, who had already reached the backslapping stage of the old war story competition. They weren’t a bad bunch.
Merely men who had made bad decisions at some point and had worked hard to regain a place in society. Men he could stand with, and if need be, with whom he could die.
But that would be for another day. With the next step in his mission clearly laid out, Private Whate had to take a backseat to Major Decker. He still had to make sure other comrades and friends didn’t die at the hands of whoever was extinguishing the Fleet’s ability to conduct covert operations.
Thirty
The next morning, Decker, carrying a Marine private’s basic load, reported to the Fort Erfoud landing strip, only to find himself one of forty reinforcements headed for the 1st Battalion. The troops were under the command of a sergeant first class returning to his unit after a furlough. He had been drafted as non-commissioned officer in charge for the duration of the trip.
Fare
wells at the barracks earlier had been perfunctory, in classic Marine Corps style, and that suited Zack. The chances he’d ever see them again were slim. But he preferred to let his former course mates believe they would cross paths often enough, confined as they were, for at least five years, to a single regiment.
The SFC, by the name of Gurung, took one glance at Decker’s nametape when the latter reported with proper military courtesy, then glanced at the tablet in his hand. “Whate, William B. Good of you to join us on time.”
His raspy voice betrayed no hint of sarcasm and Decker figured it was merely his way of speaking.
“Wouldn’t miss my escape from this place for every cred in the galaxy, Sergeant.”
Gurung grunted.
“No arguments here. I’ll tell you what I told everyone else. We’ll be living in the Marine barracks aboard Birkenhead. The barracks have messing, fitness and entertainment facilities, everything we need. The rest of the ship is out of bounds, on pain of summary punishment. You can consume alcohol, but only two drinks in a standard twenty-four-hour period. I expect all of you to spend at least ninety minutes a day in the gym. The bush war on Marengo is a nasty one, and you’ll be joining your unit in mid-fight, so going soft in transit isn’t an option. Questions?”
“No, Sergeant.”
“Find yourself a seat. The shuttle will land when it lands, and that means we could be hanging around for a few hours.”
“Hurry up and wait, right?”
Decker gave Gurung a wry smile.
“You know it. The unofficial motto of the Corps.”
No sooner had the words left his lips that a distant rumbling reached their ears, and both glanced up at the cloud cover.
“I guess there’s always that one time when everything falls into place,” Decker said, “just so we can look like liars.”
Not long after that, a large shuttle, boxy, inelegant, bearing Fleet Auxiliary markings, emerged from the clouds, riding its thrusters as it slowed to almost nothing before settling on the cracked tarmac.