It was hard to believe that he was the oldest Marine on the ship. He was only 31, for goodness sake.
This had been an eventful deployment, and he was still trying to sort things out. He wondered if the Rangers would have done a better job in Hobyo. Before the deployment, he would have put money on it. After-the-fact, well, he wasn’t sure.
He walked out of the mess decks and to the rail, watching the water rush past. Sometimes, he had felt that he had made a mistake in coming back to the Corps. There was no getting around the fact that he was proud of his accomplishments while a Ranger. But the birthday ceremony also highlighted something that made a Marine a Marine. Back in the US, there would be balls as well, and for some families, this was the highlight of the year. The simple pride in being part of history, being part of an organization that transcended self was perhaps more celebrated in the Corps than in anywhere else.
Burke was still perhaps more proud as an individual of getting scrolled as a Ranger, but the overall unit pride, well, the Marines excelled at that.
“Happy Birthday, Staff Sergeant.”
Burke turned around to see PFC McNamara joining him at the rail.
“Happy birthday to you to, Jesus.”
They stood there for a few moments, just watching the water.
“Jesus, I’ve wanted to ask you this for awhile, but back there in Hobyo, why did you follow me when I went back into the city? No one told you to go, so why do that? You were in the clear. You were about to be evacuated. Why follow me back into the fight?”
“Why did you go?” he asked back.
“Well, it was my responsibility. I’m the platoon sergeant.”
“And it was my responsibility, too. You’re my platoon sergeant, and I’d follow you anywhere. If you need to get in the thick of it, I’ve got your back. I don’t have to ask or wonder why. I know you’re going to do the right thing, so if I stick with you, I’m going to do the right thing.”
Burke harrumphed.
“Now you’re just kissing my ass,” he said, but he was moved.
“I’d rather kick your ass, all due respect, on the flight deck. What say we have a birthday run before evening chow?”
“You? You think you can take me on?”
“Sure do, Staff Sergeant. I wanna see if the oldest Marine can stick with one of the youngest.”
“You’re on, there P-F-C,” he said, emphasis on each letter. “See you back on the flight deck in five.”
He rushed below to his berthing space. Maybe a run was what he needed. He whipped off his uniform and threw on his shorts. He sniffed his socks, and while a little ripe, he figured they’d do. On they went, followed by his shoes.
He grabbed his black Ranger shirt, and just before he pulled it over his head, he hesitated. He put it back down on his rack, smoothing out the arched gold letters with the gold frame. He was proud of being a Ranger, and he wouldn’t change that for anything. But now, he was a Marine again.
Burke folded the shirt up and placed it back in his locker. Rooting around, he found the new shirt, the one the lieutenant had gotten made up in Germany and had sent down to the platoon.
The green shirt was nothing amazing to look at, the art a little amateurish. But over a caricature of a bulldog were the words “First Platoon, Kilo 3/6.” Below the dog were the words, “Pirate Posse.”
Burke thought the lieutenant could have come up with something better, but like the C-Rat birthday cake, it wasn’t the item, it was the meaning. And this shirt had meaning.
Sliding the shirt on over his head, he pulled it down. He wished he had a mirror, but it was what it was.
He ran over to the ladder leading above decks. He had a certain PFC’s ass to kick.
THE MARINES
Chapter 1
Pagasa Island, The Spratly Islands
Two days earlier
“OK, padir. I got to go. Give madir my love.”
Analiza’s father kissed his hand, then held it up to the cam on his side as she clicked off the connection. While she was glad that SMART provided a free connection for residents of Pagasa, it was not the same thing as being home. She missed her family. She looked forward to December when she could go home for three whole weeks, three weeks of family and friends, of seeing strangers, for goodness sakes. With only 300 residents in Kalayaan town, everyone knew everyone else. Everybody and everything was the same. Sometimes Analiza prayed that something, anything, would happen to break the monotony.
Staring at the now dark computer monitor, she wondered yet once again if the separation from family and friends was worth it. It wasn’t the job itself, which she actually enjoyed. The pay was certainly good, more than she could ever earn anywhere else in the Philippines as a teacher. Most of all, even as a civilian, Analiza was proud to be serving her country. But like all residents, she knew she was on the island merely to stake the country’s claim to it, and more importantly, to the huge gas reserves and rich fishing grounds surrounding this region of the Spratlys.
She got up, nodded to Bong, the young café clerk, then stepped out into the night. As usual, the pollution-free air was clear, and the stars were bright. Yes, a few things were better here than in Manila, or even her hometown of Cebu. She could never see so many stars at night back in Manila. And traffic? A traffic jam here was when two people bumped into each other while walking into the grocery store.
Even though it was quite late, Analiza wasn’t concerned about walking to her small apartment. That was another thing that was better here. It was safe. This wasn’t just because of the garrison of 40 soldiers on the island. Since every civilian was screened and the population was limited, crime was almost unheard of.
A breeze kicked up, blowing her long brown hair across her face. Pushing it back, she glanced across the runway at the small dock on the east side. It was rare when they had a boat there, especially a foreign boat. Almost everything on the island arrived by air, and except for a few small privately owned bangkas, the small boats belonging to residents and used to go to the reef to fish, larger boats rarely pulled into port on the island.
Gossip was one of the island residents’ Olympic sports, so there was no such thing as a secret. The boat at the dock was a fishing boat from Taiwan that had developed serious engine problems and needed to make an emergency docking in order to effect repairs. Why the boat was in Filipino waters was not explained, but the Republic of China and the Philippines, along with Vietnam and Malaysia, had an uneasy alliance with regards to the Spratlys. With The People’s Republic of China claiming the entire group, it made sense for the smaller players to support one another. So even though the mayor had been suspicious regarding in which waters the boat had been fishing, it was granted docking rights.
The runway itself was dark, but a lone light illuminated the guard watching over the boat. It was too far away to see who it was, though. Analiza wondered if it might be Alan; whoever it was, he had the right build to be him.
Analiza had just turned twenty-four, still young, by Filipina standards, but in a country in which the family held such primacy, she was anxious to start her own family. Her mother, after all, had married at sixteen. But with a father who worked as a merchant marine, her family had the cash to send both her and her brother to school, and so boys and dating were out of the question while she was still studying. Now, however, she was out of school with a well-paying job. And Alan, well, he might not be the one, but Analiza thought it might be fun finding out if he was. The pickings might be slim on the island, but with 40 soldiers, most young and fit, these just might be the best odds she would ever face.
She laughed at the thought, and that emboldened her. Why not just saunter over there, a girl just taking a walk, right? “Good” girls, she knew might not be so open, but what could it hurt?
She made her way across the runway to the water’s edge, then turned left and continued on as if taking a stroll. She kept looking ahead to see who had guard duty. With fifteen soldiers off the island tonight o
n their weekly check/resupply/changing-of-the-guard of Likas, she knew the chances were at least decent that the guard was Alan. Only the junior soldiers would be assigned to the duty, and Alan wouldn’t be going to Likas until the following week.
When she got to about a hundred yards out, the soldier turned his head, and a little thrill ran through her. It was Alan. He stood the bright light and couldn’t see her yet, so she brushed her hair back with her hands and looked down at her clothes. She hadn’t dressed to kill when she left for the internet café: brown shorts, a loose, ratty t-shirt that didn’t quite meet the top of her shorts, and flip-flops. The gap between the shorts and shirt was her style. She was quite slender and tended to dress to keep attention on her waist rather than her less-than-generous breasts. But she wished she were wearing something nicer.
“Hi Alan, is that you?” she asked innocently as she came up.
Alan jumped, then wheeled around, only relaxing as Analiza walked into the circle of light.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, a smile creasing his face.
“Oh, I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to take a walk. I didn’t realize you had guard duty,” she said, trying to keep her voice innocent.
“Someone has to….”
Analiza stared, not quite understanding as shadows seemed to jump out at Alan, cutting the words off in his throat. The shadows materialized into three men, one in back of Alan with his arm around the Filipino soldier’s neck and the other two rushing in front of him.
The three men moved with dangerous, violent grace, but Alan wasn’t a pushover. The soldiers stationed in the Spratlys were among the country’s best, and one reason Alan had caught Analiza’s eye was that he was so, well, so much a man. Alan reached back to gouge his attacker’s eyes and somehow grabbed enough of the man’s ears to bring his attacker up and over his back as he jerked himself forward. The assailant landed hard on his back on the ground, and Alan lunged forward, striking at the man’s exposed neck.
The blow never got there. There was a soft chuff, almost insignificant, as one man pointed a handgun at Alan and fired. Alan fell on top of the prone man, limp and lifeless.
Analiza was having a difficult time understanding what was going on. Why were Taiwanese fishermen attacking Alan? Then their uniforms registered. They were soldiers, too. Pagasa was being attacked!
While The Republic of China technically claimed all of the Spratlys, the two countries had an understanding, what with the People’s Republic of China being their strategic adversary over the island group. So why attack?
The two upright soldiers pushed Alan’s body off the third man, pulling him upright, voices jabbering in what she recognized as Chinese. With the way his body flopped, she knew for certain that Alan was dead. She gasped and stepped back.
Three sets of eyes swiveled to her. It was as if they had forgotten she was standing there. It was only then that something else registered. Instead of Taiwan’s red flag with the blue and yellow star thingy in the middle, over the boat now flew the red flag with the yellow star of the People’s Republic. This wasn’t a Taiwan attack. This was China invading them!
The garrison had to be warned. She wheeled around and started to run. For a moment she thought they might let her go, just a helpless girl in the darkness. In seconds, however, she heard the heavy footfalls of someone chasing her.
Her left flip-flop tore and fell off, the hard coral runway digging into her foot with each step, but she couldn’t stop. She had to warn them. She could see the lights ahead, but they were a long way off, and the footsteps were right behind her. She opened her mouth to scream, knowing no one could hear her yet, when the heavy body crashed into her from behind, driving her face onto the runway and sending her into blackness.
Chapter 2
Pattaya, Thailand
1st Lt Peter Van Slyke walked into the Fantasy Sports Bar on Walking Street, peering around to find his group. It was quite late, but the street was well-lit with garish neon signs, so with the low light levels inside, it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust.
“Welcome, sir!” a petite waitress almost sang in a high, lilting voice as she came over to greet him.
This was a sports bar, complete with three pool tables and a number of televisions currently showing various sports, ranging from what looked, at first glance, to be soccer, billiards, and badminton. He shifted his attention to the waitress. She was cute, no doubt about that. She might have come head-high to his chest, and she might weigh 90 pounds soaking wet, but in her cheerleader-looking outfit, well, Pete hoped she was a good omen on what might happen later on in the night. He had heard enough about the surplus of women in Pattaya on the ship before pulling in, and though he was normally somewhat shy around the fairer sex, he figured that here, his wallet might trump his appearance, and he was looking forward to that. But first, he had to attend to a tradition.
He was just about to tell her he was meeting a group when a voice called out, “Glad you decided to join us, there, lieutenant of Marines. Why don’t you get your scarred ass over here and buy us a round.”
He looked to the right to see Capt Niimoto, along with the rest of his old security guard detachment, sitting at a table, bottles of Chang already in evidence. Pete was normally quite conscious of the huge scar that distorted the entire left side of his face, but the captain had an equally impressive one on his neck and face, courtesy of his Somalia adventure. So from him, he didn’t mind the barb.
“Sorry sir,” he said as he pulled out a chair. “The colonel wanted me to finish my gear inspection before libo, and I only now got it done.”
“You know what they say there, lieutenant. ‘Excuses are like assholes. Everybody has one, and they all stink.’ I thought I trained you better than that,” SgtMaj Jacob McCardle told him, Chang in hand.
“Well, now that Ricky Recon has chosen to grace us with his presence, as soon as he gets his drink, we can get to the matter at hand,” the captain said, motioning over for a waitress.
Pete looked at the gathered Marines, all of them from his old security guard detachment in New Delhi. There was Captain Anthony Niimoto, then a sergeant, but now the senior Marine in this elite group. Next to him was SgtMaj McCardle, who had been a gunny and the detachment commander at the time. Gunny Mac had been a good guy, but not the most aggressive Marine around. SgtMaj Mac had seemingly grown into his rank, and he seemed more assured than Pete remembered him.
Stepchild was there, too. Sgt Harrington Steptoe, the tall, soft-looking Marine who was now the captain’s company comm chief. Next to him sat GySgt Ian Harwood. Ian had gotten out with the embassy staff and guests and hadn’t taken part in the fight, but he had still been part of the detachment. Only Mahmoud Saad was missing, doing whatever he was doing back as Ft. Meade. A lance corporal at the time, he was already a staff sergeant and doing some sort of secret squirrel stuff at NSA.
These were the men with whom Pete had formed an unbreakable bond. They were all well-known throughout the Corps, of course, being largely responsible for not only keeping the president alive but in bringing back the Corps as a viable combat unit. But their bond was on a more personal level, that of men who had fought together and lost friends. Each year, on the anniversary of the takeover of the embassy, those who could got together to toast their fallen comrades. A few times it had been over the internet, and several times, the commandant had joined them, given honorary status as the man who had led the rescue mission. But this, their eighth ceremony, was the first time that they were meeting overseas.
And this was the first time that they would be saluting Joseph Child. SSgt Child had passed away a few months earlier at his Detroit VA hospice.
Pete’s Chang arrived, and now that they were all charged, SgtMaj Mac took over.
“To Joseph Child!” he declared, raising up his bottle of Chang.
“To Joseph Child!” the rest of the New Delhi vets chorused, raising their own bottles of beer.
Pete looked over at Stepchil
d. He had been devoted to Child, hence his “Stepchild” nickname. The big Marine tilted up his bottle, but a tear could be seen rolling down his cheek.
One by one, SgtMaj Mac went down the list. Seth Croker. Tracy “ Little Mac” McAllister. Jesus Rodriguez. Samantha Ashely. Ivy “Princess” Ramon. Mike Fallgatter. Greg Chen. Shareetha Wynn. Each one got an individual toast.
Then they went to the others. MAJ Defilice, the assistant Army attaché. Drayton Bajinski, the USAID officer. Capt Leon-Guerro, their company XO who had been there at the time. And Mr. Dravid, the old Indian man who was treated as little more than a servant, but whose sacrifice might have kept the president alive long enough for the rescue.
Pete couldn’t help but feel a lump in his throat. And, as usual, he felt a bit of guilt that he had survived when so many others hadn’t. If he hadn’t been shot in the face at the very beginning of the siege, he probably wouldn’t have survived. But as he was badly injured, the others had to take the more dangerous missions, and most of them didn’t make it.
With the roll call finished, each of them sat back, quiet. No one had to speak. Their presence alone gave each other support.
For the thousandth time, Peter Van Slyke wondered about his position in life, in the Corps. He was the sixth generation of Van Slykes to serve as a Marine. His grand-father had earned a Medal of Honor in Vietnam. His father had been killed in Iraq. There had been little doubt that Pete would become a Marine, even when the Marines had been cut back to little more than a ceremonial guard. And then, as a PFC, he was thrust into the embassy takeover. As a result, he had been given a presidential appointment to the Naval Academy, despite his horribly disfigured face that had still required several surgeries and therapy while he was a midshipman.
The Return of the Marines Trilogy Page 45