Parant caught up with Myer just outside the door.
"I understand how you feel. Let Charlie deal with it. I don't believe Doyle will ever pull a stunt like that again."
"But—"
"No buts. Remember, what Doyle did worked wonderfully. Even if he had to defy you on how."
Myer glared at the battalion sergeant major, then spun about and marched after his company commander. The muscles of his neck and shoulders visibly bunched under his uniform shirt.
Parant shook his head. "That man needs to calm down before he tears a muscle," he murmured, then looked around for his commander.
Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass sat at his tiny desk in third platoon's minuscule office. Staff Sergeant Wang Hyakowa, the platoon sergeant, lounged with arms crossed over his chest against the wall next to Bass's chair. Sergeant "Rabbit" Ratliff, the first squad leader, mimicked Hyakowa's posture against one sidewall; Sergeant Tam Bladon, second squad leader, leaned against the other sidewall; arms akimbo and ankles crossed. Sergeant "Hound" Kelly, the gun-squad leader, stood against the door—there wasn't space for him to lean back or to place his arms anywhere, other than to let them hang straight down.
Between Kelly and the desk, Corporal Doyle stood at rigid attention. Doyle had a choice; he could stand with his thighs pressed tightly against the desk, or with his back against Kelly's front. He didn't want to think about what Kelly might do to him later for such intimacy, so he got as close to the desk as he could without tripping over it. Even with his feet together, the office was so small Bladon's toe brushed his ankle. He'd tried to will sweat not to pop out of his forehead, but sweat beaded and dripped from his brow and dribbled down his sides from his armpits.
Bass, the very image of relaxation save for the drumming of his fingers on the desktop, looked at Doyle with an expression that could only be described as mild curiosity. None of the other NCOs in the room displayed any more emotion than their platoon commander did.
"Corporal Doyle..." Bass's mild voice broke what had become an extended silence. "You present me with quite a quandary. All of us, for that matter." He stopped drumming and lifted a hand to indicate the other NCOs. That wasn't true, there was no quandary. He'd discussed the situation with these men immediately after Captain Conorado's briefing with the platoon commanders and sergeants. Everyone involved agreed with his plan, though Corporal Kerr had agreed with less enthusiasm than the others.
"You've been assigned to third platoon," Bass continued "Everybody in the company—hell, probably the whole FIST—knows the Top wants to court-martial you. And with good reason. Having you in my platoon puts me at odds with the first sergeant—a most undesirable position for anyone to be in, let me assure you." He chuckled softly. "But you know all about that, don't you?" He paused as Doyle swallowed.
"Moreover, this is a blaster platoon, and you're a clerk. On the other hand, I've seen you in combat and you acquitted yourself quite well under the circumstances. I even seem to remember saying at some point that if you ever decided to change MOS to real Marine, you were welcome in my command. My word is good, so you're welcome here. I'll deal with the Top. Under that gruff exterior he's really a sweetheart."
He ignored Kelly's snort, but Hyakowa shot the gun squad leader a look that said I'll deal with you later.
"But, Corporal Doyle, you're a corporal, and that's a problem. You see, corporal is a fire team leader's rank. There is simply no way I am going to entrust you with the lives of two of my Marines. You have neither the training nor the experience to be a fire team leader. That seems to mean I have to reduce you in rank. Which brings us back to the court-martial the Top wants to give you."
"But—" Doyle's knees wanted to break and his bowels threatened to let loose.
Bass held up a hand. "No buts from you. I'm the only one who gets to say ‘but’ just now. But, if the Top court-martials you, you'll be facing a long, hard time in a very serious brig. Which in turn would negate the welcome I just extended to you. So, do you understand my quandary?" When Doyle merely swallowed again, he added, "It's all right for you to speak now."
"Gunny Bass..." Doyle's voice squeaked. He swallowed and tried again. "Gunny Bass, I'll do anything you say. And I won't insist on having the job my rank calls for. But please, don't let the Top court-martial me." His voice cracked on "court."
Bass decided to ease some of the pressure. "Be easy, Doyle. There won't be a court-martial. That's on direct order of Brigadier Sturgeon."
Corporal Doyle sagged with relief. Sergeant Bladon flexed his knee muscles and rapped Doyle's ankle with his toe. Doyle stiffened again.
"You're a corporal, but the only thing I can do that doesn't unreasonably jeopardize anybody else is give you a PFC's job. Are you sure you're not going to be upset about that?"
"Yessir, Gunny Bass, that's all right. I know I can't do a fire team leader's job." He would have agreed to giving away his testicles; at that moment all he could think of clearly was he wasn't going to be court-martialed.
"Good. The platoon's short a couple of men, so we—" A hand wave included the other NCOs "—came up with a reorganization of the platoon. I'm putting you in Corporal Kerr's fire team. That's Sergeant Bladon's second fire team."
Bladon smiled a shark's grin, which Doyle caught out of the corner of his eye, and tapped his ankle once more.
"I know Corporal Kerr. He's a good Marine."
"One of the best," Staff Sergeant Hyakowa growled.
"Any questions?" Bass asked.
Why not? "Who else is in the fire team?"
Bass smiled beatifically. "Lance Corporal Schultz."
Doyle blanched and groaned. He knew Lance Corporal Schultz too. Schultz was reputed to be the toughest man in the Marine Corps. Doyle believed it. Schultz scared him.
The room wasn't big. None of the fire team rooms in the barracks were. It held three single beds—one alone, two stacked one above the other. The single bed and the lower of the bunk pair had a bank of drawers under them. A narrow set of drawers climbed the foot of the bunk pair. There were three small desks against available wall space. A low table centered on the floor completed the room's furnishings. Personal items stood on the desks, and a few hanging 2-D images kept the walls from being blank. A door on one sidewall led to a not very large closet that was divided into three sections. On the other sidewall a door led into the head the occupants of the room shared with the occupants of the room on the other side of the head.
Sergeant Bladon rapped on the doorjamb.
"Come," said a voice from inside the room.
Bladon poked his head inside. "Corporal Kerr. Schultz." He nodded at the two men in the room.
Corporal Kerr looked up from the Marine Corps Institute course he was studying. "Sergeant Bladon," he replied.
Schultz glanced up from his desk and nodded, then returned to the book he was reading.
"I brought your new man," Bladon said.
Kerr stood and faced the room's entrance. "Bring him in."
Schultz gave no indication that he heard what his squad leader said. He knew who was coming, he didn't have to show any curiosity. Even if he didn't already know the identity of the new man, a new man would be another Marine. That and the man's name were really all he needed to know.
Bladon stepped in and gestured toward the corridor. Corporal Doyle stepped in and gave Kerr an apologetic smile. His eyes darted nervously at Schultz, then quickly back to Kerr.
"You already know Doyle," Bladon said.
Kerr leaned against his desk and folded his arms across his chest. "I know more about Doyle than he realizes."
"Well, he's yours now. Get him settled in."
"Oh, we'll do that all right. Won't we, Hammer?"
Schultz grunted and kept reading.
Corporal Doyle let his eyes wander. He swallowed. The room was the same size as the one he used to share with then-PFC Palmer. That room had felt crowded with two men. This one was home to three. He swallowed again.
"Well, he's yours now. Going
on liberty tonight?"
Kerr shook his head. "Nah. I've got too much studying to do." He nodded at his course material.
"Good idea. That'll help you get these." Bladon self-consciously tapped the rank insignia on his collar, Before Kerr had gotten almost killed, he'd been senior to Bladon. During Kerr's extended absence, Bladon had been promoted and was now Kerr's squad leader. There was no particular tension, but both men were aware that except for the wound their positions would most likely be reversed "See you at chow?"
"Sounds good. Seventeen hours?"
"I'll stop for you on my way." Bladon left, headed for the end of the corridor where the squad leaders' room was.
Doyle stood nervously, waiting for his new fire team leader to say something.
Kerr let the silence stretch long enough for Doyle's nervousness to make itself visible with a twitching of one leg before he broke it.
"Got your gear?"
Doyle jerked at the sudden words. "Ah, yes." He scrambled out of the door and came right back in, clumsily carrying his issue seabag, a civilian suitcase, and a few smaller parcels.
"There's closet space," Kerr said, "and the drawers under the bottom bunk are yours."
"Top bunk's mine," Schultz growled without looking up from his reading. Schultz held the high ground and nobody ever argued the point with him.
Scrabbling, almost tripping over himself in his desire to do things right, Doyle hung his reds and some civilian clothes in the closet and put other items in the drawers. When his clothes and most other items were put away, he looked longingly at the desks.
"The one by the head's yours," Kerr said.
Doyle's head bobbed several times. He loaded his personal comm unit, vid, library, medals—Kerr shook his head in wonder at the Bronze Star—and a few other items into the desk.
Before he was finished, Kerr came over, picked up his library crystal, and popped it into his own vid to read the titles.
"I'm not surprised at all the novels you have in here," Kerr said as he popped the crystal out and handed it back, "but that's more military history than most of the Marines in the platoon have. I might want to borrow it sometime. You've got several books I haven't read."
"Well, Corporal Kerr, I may only be a clerk—"
"Belay that, Corporal Doyle," Kerr snapped. "You were a pogue. You are now in the real Marine Corps. Let me remind you your primary MOS was changed."
Doyle fish-mouthed for a few seconds. "Right," he got out.
"You were saying," Kerr said encouragingly.
"Well, I've always had an interest in military history and tactics."
Suddenly Schultz was there. He had his personal vid in one hand and the other extended. when Doyle simply looked at him dumbly, Kerr picked up the library crystal and handed it over. Schultz popped the library into his vid and scanned the titles.
"You don't have Oberholtz's Sun Tzu: Twenty-fifth Century Relevance," he said. "Lend you mine when I finish. Too scholarly for its own good, but some good shit in it." Having spoken nearly an entire evening's worth of casual conversation in one burst, Schultz returned to his desk and his copy of Oberholtz. Doyle stared after him—the thought of "Hammer" Schultz reading scholarly analyses of classical literature was a shock.
"Sit down," Kerr said when Doyle was finished unpacking.
Doyle pulled out his desk chair and sat on its edge. Kerr pulled his own chair over and sat down nearly knee-to-knee with him.
"Here's the way it's going to work. This is my fire team, I'm in command, what I say goes. When I say jump, you wait until you're up in the air before you ask how high."
Doyle's head began bobbing as though it was on a spring.
"Technically, you outrank Lance Corporal Schultz, but he's got more experience and knowledge than you'll ever have. He's second." He ignored Schultz's snort. "That means you're on the bottom of this particular totem pole. For that matter, everybody—" His eyes flicked to the Bronze Star ribbon on Doyle's chest and he nearly shook his head again. "—nearly everybody in this platoon has more knowledge and experience than you do. You need to get a couple deployments under your belt before you can begin thinking about becoming an acting fire team leader."
Doyle's head was still bobbing. He stopped it with visible effort.
"Corporal Kerr, I know that. Once upon a time I thought maybe I was good enough to be a salty lance corporal in a blaster squad." That was when he won the Bronze Star. "I know more now. I don't know nearly enough to be a salty lance corporal." He made a face. "I think you're right about me not knowing as much as anybody else in the platoon. I was only in a real firefight one time, and that was more than two years ago."
Kerr burst out laughing. "Great Buddha's balls! One firefight, and you got a Bronze Star out of it." Kerr hadn't seen it; it happened when he'd almost gotten killed, but he'd heard about it more than once.
"He earned it," Schultz snarled. He'd been with Doyle on that particular action.
"I know he did, Hammer," Kerr said, still chuckling. "That doesn't mean it's not bizarre." He reached out and clapped Doyle on the shoulder. "Keep alert and I think you'll do all right."
Then it was 1700 hours and Sergeant Bladon was back, rapping on the doorjamb. "Chow call!" the squad leader shouted.
"Chow call!" Kerr shouted back. The two NCOs left.
Doyle still sat on the edge of his chair, not sure of what to do.
Schultz turned his vid off and stood over Doyle. "Remember," he intoned. "This is the best FIST in the Corps. We have the best company commander. The best platoon commander. The best fire team leader. You be the best."
Doyle swallowed. He'd heard an emphatic "or else" in that.
Schultz stepped back and said, "Chow call." When Doyle didn't get up he jerked a thumb in the direction of the mess hall. Junior men in the same fire team usually took their meals together. Schultz wasn't going to leave Doyle out of that tradition, even if he was a corporal and was really a pogue.
Chapter Seventeen
Olwyn O'Mol stood back in the shadows of a doorway across the street from the Free Library. He was why Sticks's headquarters was so heavily guarded. Sticks had refused to answer Claypoole because neither he nor any other member of the mob wanted to admit that a man like O'Mol existed in the well-ordered world the crime families had created on Havanagas.
A gust of icy wind blew cold rainwater into the doorway. O'Mol stepped farther back into the recess, tightening his cloak more securely about him. Absently, he fingered one of the several weapons he carried. Arms were necessary to O'Mol's survival. He was one of the most hunted men on Havanagas. Only his wits and his caution had kept him alive—and his guns.
O'Mol and his confederates had been keeping a close watch on the three Marines since they'd come through customs at Intourist, but not for the same reasons the mob had been watching them. O'Mol needed help.
Olwyn O'Mol was descended from one of the families that had originally settled the world now known as Havanagas. For generations his ancestors had farmed successfully, cultivating crops imported from Earth which thrived in the Hanavagas soil. In time his people had become one of the major landowning families on Havanagas. Now the family holdings had shrunk to a few miserable farms. Most of their land had been expropriated by the mob, once it got control of the local governments. Ironically, most people on the other worlds in the Confederation would have still considered O'Mol a rich man, judging just by the property that still remained in his hands, but he smarted constantly over the forced reduction of his family's wealth and prestige. He dreamed of getting it back.
The first colonists on Havanagas, organized by a company based in northern Italy on Earth, had named the place Neo Milano. They had gone there for the simple reason that they wanted a chance to run their own lives on their own terms, the age-old motivation for moving to a new place. The population on Neo Milano had remained small over the years, and when the crime families—calling themselves the "Havanagas Conglomerate"—started investing in the place,
the natives had welcomed them with open arms. Havanagas had brought jobs, security, and tourism. Everyone benefited. But as Havanagas's operations expanded, droves of new settlers were required to run them, and many were rootless people recruited from all over Human Space. They owed everything to their employers. The original inhabitants found themselves being absorbed into this system, and most of them did not object to that. But Olwyn O'Mol did.
Life on Havanagas was good for those who did not ask questions, stayed in line, and let the crime bosses make all the major decisions for them. But ask for a raise or a promotion? Ask where all the money the Havanagas operations were making was going? Ask why your neighbor had suddenly disappeared without a trace? Any of those questions—or a dozen more anybody would normally ask of his government—got you "replaced." The mob on Havanagas was utterly ruthless in its enforcement of discipline.
Worst of all, the mob deliberately stifled its employees. For instance, Katie knew she would always be a whore. The mob had brought her to Havanagas to be a whore, and she would whore until she was too old to whore anymore, and then and only then would she be allowed to do something else, like help in the management of a whorehouse. She could live a long and comfortable life if she were careful, but she would never marry or have a family, get into another line of work, or capitalize on her intelligence and the first-class education she'd managed to pick up on her own. She could never share her interests with anyone, except maybe the john she was with for the night, and always the only thing he wanted from her was what he had paid for.
People like Gerry Prost were a little better off because they had careers elsewhere before being recruited for employment on Havanagas. But now that the mob paid his salary and bought his precious books for him, he was their man too, for the rest of his life. No library in the universe except the Free Library on Havanagas had the money to build a collection like the one Prost had put together, but the mob's pockets were bottomless and their methods effectively ruthless. Prost did not know this because he did not care to know. For him the end—exquisitely rare books available to those who worshiped them—justified the means. So do decent people accommodate themselves to evil.
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