Captain (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 4)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  The mood was pretty good before the first game between First and Second even started. Sams was in fine form with an old-fashioned chef’s hat he’d acquired from God knows where. He was supervising the firing of the hickoryoak, something he’d managed to get donated by Propitious Interstellar. The smoke wafting over the playing field had gotten Ryck’s stomach churning. As the senior Marine at the camp, however, he would be the last one fed, so he tried to banish the thoughts of those charbroiled steaks from his mind.

  Ryck didn’t know what was taking more of Sams’ attention: the grill or the cheerleaders. No, strike that. This was Sams, after all. The cheerleaders. A good half-a-dozen of them were gathered around him as he explained, or probably bullshitted them, about how to grill a perfect steak.

  At 1100, Gunny PICS pushed the battleball to the center of the field and called the first two teams to their places. Without any stands, Marines surrounded the sidelines and climbed onto the roofs of the surrounding buildings. The gunny blew his whistle, and the tournament was on.

  With each platoon limited to only ten men, Ryck thought the biggest and strongest men from each platoon would have been selected. He was surprised, then, that Second Platoon had LCPL Summers on the team. Taking nothing from Summers, but he was barely 1.6 meters and maybe 60 kgs soaking wet. Lt Chomsky’s selection of the Marine became clearer when Summers immediately locked his sights on Jeff and tackled the big lieutenant, much to the delight of the watching Marines. Each time Jeff struggled to his feet, pushing the smaller Marine away, Summers was back in the attack, grabbing and hauling Jeff to the deck.

  Without their leader being able to lead, First Platoon suffered a surprising defeat, falling to Second 10-6. After the battleball was pushed over the goal for the tenth time, the entire Second Platoon rushed the field and lofted the battered, exhausted, but smiling Summers on their shoulders.

  The steaks started coming out after the first game, and Ryck tried not to stare. Sams had put together a pretty big grill, and he had three assistants, but he could only get out so many steaks at a time, and while the PI links were pretty good, he knew, Ryck wanted beef!

  Around the field, the cheerleaders were getting more than their fair share of attention from the men. It was like a pack of orca surrounding the mackerel. Battleball, as simple as it was, seemed to be beyond the cheerleaders as they hadn’t done much cheering during the first game, but the Marines didn’t seem to mind that as they tried to chat them up. Some evidently thought the quickest way into their panties was through the girls’ stomachs as there was a never-ending line of Marines bringing food to them.

  “Let’s keep an eye on that,” he told Hecs as the first sergeant walked up sipping on a Bolt Cola. “We don’t want another LCPL Regent here.”

  The first sergeant nodded and held out the Bolt to Ryck, who grimaced and shook his head. Aside from the fact that Bolt was sickly sweet, he wasn’t about to swap spit with him. Ryck really wanted a tried-and-true Coke, but with Propitious Interstellar making Bolt, that is what they had, along with their even sweeter Grab-On and Utopia.

  Grab-On? What vile programmer came up with that shit? Ryck wondered.

  Gunny PICS called together the next two platoons and started the second game. This was a much closer-fought affair. Lt McAult was the central cog for Third, and SSgt Menlo Nomchaikut, the Heavy Gun Section leader, essentially ran the game for Weapons. The score was tied at six apiece when PFC Quita went down, almost immediately followed by Lt Davidson. Down eight men to ten, Weapons scored only one more goal before Third reached ten.

  Ryck glanced back at the grill. Smoke was pouring up into the crystal clear air, forming a nice plume that rose 4o meters high. The XO was standing by, watching the grill like an osprey over a quiet lake. Ryck had to smile.

  Get used to it, son, he thought. The men always come first.

  There was a lull in the action as Third needed a break. Over on the other side of the field, Chomsky was getting his men ready, and once again, he surprised Ryck. Instead of using the same Marines, an entirely new group was getting ready. The lieutenant was spreading the wealth. It might not get him the win, but it was in keeping with Ryck’s intention of breaking the monotony. Ryck wished he’d thought of that earlier and made it a requirement.

  Beside Ryck, several members of Third’s team were sitting on the ground, sucking air. They needed more time, and Ryck wondered if bringing in fresh players might have a strategic basis. Was Chomsky that calculating?

  With the delay, Marines were losing interest, especially those who’d already been served. They were gathering in small groups to shoot the shit. The mood was still good, but Ryck didn’t want to lose them just yet.

  “Lieutenant de Madre!” he yelled out to Jeff at the spur of the moment. “You up for a challenge?”

  “Sir?”

  “I asked, are you up for a challenge? Or are your Marines too tired?”

  “What, sir, against Weapons?” Sure, we’re up, aren’t we?” he asked his men who cheered back at him.

  “Not Weapons. Headquarters.”

  “Sir? Headquarters?” he asked, sounding slightly confused.

  Ryck understood why. Headquarters didn’t even have ten Marines total. With the XO, the first sergeant, the gunny, the police sergeant, the comms chief, and the admin chief—and Ryck—that was seven Marines, three short of a team. Doc Kitoma and Corporal K’Nata were with the headquarters, but Kitoma was the official corpsman for the tourney, so he was off-limits, and K’Nata was back at battalion entering PDPs.[16]

  He understood it, but pretended not to as he asked, “What, you’re afraid of Headquarters?”

  That brought a roar from the rest of the company.

  Jeff had no other response possible but, “Bring it on, sir!”

  “First Sergeant, get the headquarters together. That’s seven of us.”

  “Thanks for the opportunity, oh captain of mine,” Hecs said sarcastically. “Just as the SNCOs are getting their steaks, too.”

  “Oh, you love it. Admit it,” Ryck said.

  “Well, maybe I do, but you could have given my old bones a warning,” he grumbled as he moved off to gather the others.

  “Private Çağlar, where are you?” Ryck shouted out.

  After a few moments, he heard a “Here, sir!” from the other side of the field.

  “You’re my driver, so I’ve drafted you into headquarters. Get your ass over here!”

  Çağlar made his appearance as he started to run across the field accompanied by coughs that thinly disguised the “Brown-noser,” “Captain’s bitch,” and “ass-kisser” that were being yelled at him.

  “Corporal Patrick! I see you over there trying to make time with our guests,” Ryck shouted to the Gun Team leader, who’d been one of the more active Marines attempting to make nice with the cheerleaders. “You’re attached from Weapons Company, and that makes you part of Headquarters, so get your PFC and get your asses over here, too!”

  Patrick was the team leader for the M54 Field Gun that had been attached to Charlie from Weapons Company. He’d been working out of Ephraim Davidson’s Weapons Platoon, but Ryck used his command prerogative to make the two Marines part of Headquarters for the game.

  There were more hoots and hollers that intensified when one of the cheerleaders reached out and briefly took his hand as he pulled away to come join Ryck and the rest of Headquarters. Sams was the last to arrive, his chef hat still on. Battleball was played in “utes and boots,” and old phrase that meant the utility trousers, combat boots, and t-shirt, and Sams frankly looked ridiculous with the towering chef’s hat on, but that was Sams. Ryck just shook his head and addressed his team.

  “Sorry for the lack of preparation, but we’ve all played before. We know the drill. Let’s kick some First ass, OK?”

  “Uh, have you looked over there, Skipper?” the first sergeant asked. “I’m guessing they outweigh us by 15 kg apiece, and they can’t average over 20 years old. Even with our ringers here,”
he continued, pointing at Çağlar, Patrick, and PFC Yarby, the M54 A-gunner, “I’d say they’re six years younger than us. They’re going to be full of kick-ass, so I think we need to be crafty sons-of-bitches and use our vast experience.”

  The first sergeant had the crux of the matter. Jeff had been able to choose the ten best players in his platoon to face Headquarters. Ryck had to make do with what he had. To tilt the odds further against them, Ryck, Hecs, and Sams were all in their 30’s, and the others were mostly older than the other team as well.

  “Speak for yourself, old man. I’m reckoning I’m more than a match for any of those young boys,” Ryck said, going into a flex pose, which elicited a roar from the Marines who were gathering on the sidelines to watch.

  Ryck had participated in normal PT before, but this was the first time the Marines in the company would see him in this type of activity, and he knew they would be evaluating him. Ryck wondered if this was a mistake. Having a good showing would stand him in good stead in the company, but if he were embarrassed, that could plummet his credibility.

  Too late now, he thought as Gunny PICS pointed to each end of the field.

  Before the two teams were in place, someone shouted out “Incoming Air!” Ryck looked up to see a Stork arriving. The big bird circled the field, which was also the LZ for Camp Joshua.

  “Clear the LZ!” Sams shouted as he ran back and forth, motioning for everyone to move back.

  Who the grubbing hell? Ryck wondered. We don’t have anything scheduled.

  The Stork flared and landed, and Ryck’s heart fell when the CO and sergeant major stepped out.

  What now?

  Ryck rushed up to the CO as the Stork lifted off. “Sir! I wasn’t expecting you. Can I help you?”

  He felt self-conscious in his utes and boots, sure that the CO wasn’t going to like that.

  “Carry on, Captain. The sergeant major told me about your field day here, so we thought we’d come take a look. You do have all your patrols out and security manned, correct?”

  “Yes, sir, we do,” he assured the CO.

  “And I take it you are about to play yourself?”

  Ryck wasn’t sure if there was a note of displeasure in the CO’s voice or not, but he was committed, and he was standing there in his utes and boots. Hard to deny that.

  “Yes, sir, Headquarters is getting in one game.”

  “Well, unless Gunnery Sergeant Samuelson is the only chef, perhaps the sergeant major and I can get a steak and watch?”

  “Certainly, sir.” Ryck looked around and spotted Chomsky’s platoon sergeant. “Staff Sergeant Kondo, please have someone rustle up the CO and the sergeant major a plate.”

  Gunny PICS was not going to let the CO’s presence keep him from his sacred duty, and he was impatiently motioning for both teams to get in position.

  “Don’t let me keep you, Captain. Gunnery Sergeant McTanish is ready to kick this off.”

  Ryck ran to his team’s goal line, where Hecs asked, “Anything up with that?”

  Ryck just shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t change anything, so he might as well enjoy the game. Gunny PICS blew the whistle, and Ryck joined the mad rush to get to the battleball first.

  It had been a number of years since Ryck had played, and in his rush to be first, he launched himself at the ball, hitting it a little high just as several Marines from First hit it on the other side. For every action, there is an opposite and equal reaction, and Ryck’s reaction was to get bounced backward up in the air to land on his ass three meters back. He could hear the roar of the crowd as he scrambled back up—only to be taken down hard, his breath knocked out of him.

  “Sorry ’bout that, sir,” a ginning Sergeant Joab Ling said, looking down at him.

  “Grubbing hell, Ling,” Ryck said to one of his long-time Marines. “Et tu?”

  “All’s fair in love and war—and Battleball!” Ling shouted as he rushed to join the rest of his team pushing the ball.

  At least Ling wasn’t going to birddog Ryck, à la Summers and Jeff. Ryck struggled back to his feet again, then ran to try and join the defense. It was too late. The big ball had momentum, and within a minute, it was First: 1, Headquarters: 0.

  The next score went to Headquarters. The ball had bounced out to the side, and Sams, Çağlar, and Sergeant Singh, the admin chief were in position to take advantage of it, pushing the ball on a breakaway down the sidelines. Two Marines from First converged on them, but when Sams’ chef hat began to slip down, and he reached up to right it, the two First Platoon Marines couldn’t resist and took him down, letting the other two score.

  “Still got it!” Sams shouted as he got up, hat securely in place.

  Ryck was in on one score, and more importantly, he took Ling down hard, eliciting hoots from the crowd. With the score 4 to 3 in favor of First, Singh, quickly followed by Yarby, went down to injuries. Neither was serious, but this was not do-or-die, so both Marines left the game. With no one else to pull, Headquarters had to go on short-handed. Within two minutes, the score was 6 to 3. It was going to be a blow-out.

  As Gunny PICS was setting up the battleball again, the CO walked out on the field and approached him.

  Is he going to call the game? Ryck wondered.

  Sure, they were getting trashed, but Marines don’t quit. Ryck started to get angry. This was not the message to send.

  The CO walked off the field, but Gunny PICS didn’t blow the whistle. It wasn’t until then that Ryck noticed the CO and the sergeant major were taking off their blouses. When the two trotted out to join Headquarters, it became clear. They were going to play.

  “I hope you don’t mind us joining you. I spoke with Gunny McTanish, and he agreed that as part of the battalion headquarters, we were eligible to join you. If you’ll have us, that is.”

  “Hell yeah!” the XO shouted. “I mean, yes, sir, but it’s up to the skipper.”

  Not really, Ryck thought.

  But he said, “Glad to have you with us, sir. And you, Sergeant Major.”

  Then Gunny PICS blew the whistle, and matters were OBE.

  [17]

  The CO was immediately in motion, and the rest of the team was a half-step behind. LtCol uKhiwa was short and broad-shouldered, and he hit the ball low a split second before a couple of Marines from First reached hit. Hitting it low, the CO managed to launch the big, heavy ball into the air, where it hit Jeff and LCpl Hotchkins in their faces, surprising them and knocking them flat on their backs. The CO didn’t stop, trampling Jeff in the chest as he kept the ball moving. The entire headquarters team joined in, and with two men trying to get back up, First couldn’t gather themselves, and Headquarters got a quick goal.

  The Marines on the sidelines were going crazy. Several ran out on the field and fell to their backs in fake swoons as Gunny PICS screamed at them to get off the field.

  “Sir, that was awesome!” Ryck shouted, pounding on the CO’s back.

  “That’s how you get it done, Captain,” the CO said, a grin running ear-to-ear and a trickle of blood running from his nose.

  He wiped the blood with his hand and seemed to be surprised to see it. He probably hadn’t known he’d been hit, Ryck thought. When the CO looked at the Marines close to him, he smiled and made a show of licking the blood off of his hand. Which, of course, drove the on-looking Marines wild again.

  The rest of the game was more even, both teams trading goals. Ryck got one breakaway, and he leveled Ling again, putting him one up on the sergeant. The CO got zeroed a couple of times, but he gave more than he received. Jeff got up limping after one nasty hit from him, and Ryck knew he would be going to Doc for some nanos that evening.

  With the score tied at nine-all, the final push broke down into a long, drawn-out exhibition of brute force. Ryck was exhausted as he tried to hold back the inexorable force that pushed them back, step-by-step. The CO was beside him, his lungs heaving like bellows. Several times, the XO went low, under the ball, using his body as an obstacle t
o make the opposing Marines stumble. This bought them time, but the young bodies on the other side were just too much for them. Ryck wanted to win badly, but when Gunny PICS blew the whistle signaling a score, he was almost relieved.

  Both teams lined up for the handshake. As each team filed past each other, Ryck pulled in Sgt Ling.

  “Don’t think I’m going to forget that cheap shot there, Sergeant of Marines,” he said into Ling’s ear.

  “Oh, shout it loud, sir, I think you more than got me back,” Ling said with a rueful laugh.

  Ryck pounded Ling on the shoulder, and they filed past each other. The crowd clapped through the handshakes, and as the exhausted warriors reached the sidelines, Marines stood there with full plates to give to them. Ryck needed a few moments to catch his breath, but the steak did look delicious, and finally, he was going to get a bite of each.

  Ryck was appreciative of the gesture, even if he knew it wasn’t entirely altruistic. While Ryck had to wait to be the last person to eat, no one could get seconds until he’d been served, and Marines were hanging around like vultures at the lion’s kill, waiting to descend on the serving line again. Ryck cut off a small piece of steak, then sniffed at it, taking in the aroma. He turned the piece around on his fork as if admiring it. He started to take a bite, but then stopped, as a groan swept through the Marines.

  “Oh, you want me to eat this?” he asked innocently.

  “Yes, sir!” came the chorus.