Gods of War (Jethro goes to war Book 5)

by Chris Hechtl

  As he looked in deeper, he didn't like what he found. There had been a rash of recent accidents, some weather related, but a few others stood out as well. Two of the accidents had been in the field, but the more serious ones had been on shore while the troops had been off duty. A ferry bringing them back from the mainland had capsized in a storm and had unfortunately killed several marines and civilian contractors before rescue arrived. Another group of marines had been critically injured or killed after a night of partying and racing.

  When the survivors got out of the hospital, they were going to wish they'd been numbered among the dead once Schultz got through with them.

  The two accidents …. he pulled up the files before Bast could do so and then his eyes scanned left and right as he read the reports. One had been due to a nasty fall; the other was indeed shitty luck. A widow-maker in the forest had been freaky enough to catch someone off guard.

  He shook his head. Murphy indeed he thought, though he still wanted to look into the training standards to make certain people weren't getting slack or careless. Usually people tightened up after a gory example to remind them to take things seriously … but not always.

  He scanned the recommendations and then nodded. Good, someone was a step ahead of him.

  The accidents in sniper school had forced the trainers to undergo a review and tighten up not only the training but also their entry standards. They had learned a lot after learning hard lessons in combat; applying that knowledge and passing it on to the next generation of marines was therefore critical.

  That was why he was back, even if only briefly. He wasn't certain what he could pass on, especially if he was in admin shuffling paperwork and getting acquainted with the changes to the programs and schedule. He couldn't do anything about it though; those were his orders.

  The accidents did open up some slots in the program. He noted half of them had yet to be filled. Well, he could do something about that he thought.

  <)>^<)>/

  The following morning, he decided to check in with the lead DI of the latest class. The class was out jogging for their morning PT. According to the schedule, they were about to enter Hell Week, the final exam of the boots.

  Finding the class was easy enough. Finding the particular DI in the mess of platoons jogging up and down the beach or playing in the surf was something else again. He had a couple false starts before he finally had Bast send out an IFF inquiry. Staff Sergeant Alfred Featherly's IFF pinged back a moment later. She put the direction up on the map on his HUD with a handy pointer. After that it was easy.

  It might have let his prey know he was coming, but that was fine with him. He had better things to do than to try to find someone and sneak up on them in that mess of troops.

  “You wanted to see me, Master Sergeant?” a familiar DI said as he strode over to him.

  “Indeed I did,” Jethro said with a nod. He sniffed the air and then nodded to himself again. The human had been one of his boots years ago. The corps was getting a bit big, too large to try to remember everyone it seemed. “Good to see you, Featherly; the rockers look good on you.”

  “Thank you, Master Sergeant. It took a while, but I'm getting there.”

  “And a senior DI too. Impressive,” Jethro said with a mild smile.

  “What can I say, you made an impression on me,” Featherly replied with a shrug as he tucked his hands behind his back. His eyes went back to scanning the group for trouble, then snapped back to the Neocat master sergeant.

  Jethro nodded at the implied reminder that the DI was a busy man. “I know you've been earmarking various recruits for advanced training, but you haven't finalized anything since they haven't finished Hell Week yet. But we've had some openings, and the powers that be wanted me to see who you think might be able to handle the fast track.”

  Featherly nodded. “It is a bit early considering Hell Week is next week, but I've had my eye on a couple of recruits, sir. Some seem to be good troop; a few are trouble mainly because they are bored.”

  “You don't keep them busy?” Jethro asked mildly.

  “You'd think I didn't the way they can get up to mischief it seems. Energy to burn. I don't know where they got it, but their antics have singled a few out as leadership material, if they can pass.”

  “Right, Hell Week,” Jethro said. He'd heard it was about the level he and his “legendary platoon” had endured back in their time. With Schultz planning the schedule, he didn't doubt it. Nor did he envy the kids involved.

  Featherly named a few recruits. Most had been marked with demerits for antics, usually pranks or being up and out of the barracks past curfew. “There's one now,” the staff sergeant said, nodding his chin to a blue chimera recruit who was trotting past with his squad.

  “Recruit Jones, front and center,” the DI intoned in a deep commanding voice.

  The chimera faltered, then immediately came about and came up to them at a trot. He stood at parade rest with his rifle held at arms. “Drill Instructor, reporting as ordered, Drill Instructor!”

  Jethro sized him up. He had blue skin; he was bald, with a slight scale-like iridescence to his skin. He had three fingers and a thumb on each hand and was a bit gangly. He had a slight muzzle on his face and almost nonexistent ears.

  “What say you, Jones, you the best shooter in the class?”

  “Not me, Drill Instructor!”

  Something flickered in the DI's eyes at the challenge. “You calling me a liar, Recruit Jones?” he asked dangerously.

  The young chimera's eyes went wide. He shook his head frantically no. “No, Drill Instructor! Gibbs is more qualified than I am, Drill Instructor!”

  “Well, you've got that right,” Featherly said grudgingly. “Get him,” the DI ordered as he stepped away to deal with a problem.

  Recruit Jones turned and opened his mouth. “Jethro!” he barked loudly. The master sergeant looked up and then over to the recruit from where he had been standing nearby. “Um, not you Master Sergeant,” Recruit Jones said. The Neocat stared at the recruit who seemed to wilt a little, then find a spine and turn away as a human came up. Jethro noted the chimera's gulp and hid a smile.

  “Recruit Gibbs reporting,” the young human stated as he came up and went to parade rest.

  “You qualified as expert marksman and showed interest in advanced sniper school. There is an unexpected slot available. Do you want it?” Jethro demanded, sizing the human up. The human was pretty nondescript with a marine buzz cut. But it was in the eyes that told him what he wanted to know. There was grit there, determination. He made a mental checkmark.

  “Yes, Master Sergeant!” the young man said.

  “Good. When you finish up with boot, you'll get your shot. But, unfortunately, the sniper class starts a day after your graduation. You won't get any leave. Still up for it?” Jethro demanded.

  “Hoorah, Master Sergeant!”

  “Good.”

  “You don't want to see your family, Recruit?” DI Featherly asked as he wandered back to them.

  The human recruit's face was expressionless. “Drill Instructor, No, Drill Instructor.”

  “Gibbs just has his dad. No siblings, mom's dead,” Recruit Jones supplied.

  The DI turned a gimlet eye and rounded on the hapless recruit. “If I want more information, I'll access it myself!” he snarled, the brim of his campaign hat pressed into the recruit's forehead. “Are we clear?!?”

  “Clear, Drill Instructor!” the chimera recruit barked back, face suddenly expressionless as he realized how deep he'd stepped into it.

  “Drop and give me twenty! And next time, think before you open your mouth, Recruit!” the DI snarled. Instantly the recruit dropped and started counting off pushups.

  Jethro checked Recruit Gibb's record once more. He was good troop; Featherly wasn't kidding about picking out a candidate. He was in the middle of the class grade wise, but that might be because he sucked at some of the paperwork side. The notes he scanned mentioned he was good at
planning his actions out and had a bit of a devious streak in him, but some of the more cerebral work tended to bore or put him off.

  The anti-geriatric meds might make him look like a pre-pubescent kid, but there was a lot of wiry muscle and grit in him. He flicked his ears in a brief sign of amusement, then nodded to the DI. “He'll do,” he said, indicating Gibbs.

  “Don't frack it up, or I'll have your ass on toast, Marine!” the DI said as he turned to glare at Gibbs.

  “Drill Instructor, No, Drill Instructor!”

  “Good. Go rejoin your platoon. You too, Jones,” the DI snarled as way of dismissal. The recruit popped up, came to attention, and then took off at a run.

  <)>^<)>/

  Jethro studied the platoons as they were put through their paces on the beach sand. The new DIs had them well in hand. Once the junior DIs had the group running through their calisthenics, Featherly took Jethro aside. “That one has a very interesting background,” he said quietly.

  Jethro blinked. He hadn't seen that in the official record. “Oh?”

  “I know I'm stepping on what Recruit Jones said, but if you are interested, not all of it is in his file,” the DI stated.

  “Lay on,” Jethro said. “I've got a free moment.”

  The DI nodded and then went on to tell him Gibb's father was a sleeper. That perked the Neocat's ears. “According to the scuttlebutt, Gibbs senior is a retired fighter pilot who had been reactivated during the Xeno war but hadn't gotten anti-geriatric treatments. He served faithfully in this part of the galaxy and was decorated several times before the carrier he had been serving on had been destroyed. He'd been in stasis in a life boat for centuries before awaking over a century ago.”

  Jethro nodded.

  “His dad kicked around Tau sector for a while before he settled down like I heard Captain Logan did. He was a shuttle pilot on a freighter for a while, but then fell for a planet-side girl when the ship visited Seti Alpha 4,” he said. He shook his head. “Love at first sight.”

  Jethro nodded. He could understand that.

  “The girl refused to leave her family so he stayed when his ship left,” the DI rolled on.

  Jethro flicked his ears as his eyes strayed to the recruit. The young man's father had a bit in common with the Neocat it seemed.

  “Anyway, he set up a general store in a Podunk town on the planet. His mom died, cancer. His dad's still there running it last I heard.” the DI grimaced. “He's well past his prime and refuses to re-up.”

  “And you got all this out of Gibbs?”

  “Oh, hell no!” Featherly said with a shake of his head. “Are you shitting me? Trying to get much out of Gibbs is like pulling hens’ teeth it seems! Damn good at SPECOPS I think. I was going to recommend him anyway. He's taken a couple classes in criminal investigation too, so I wasn't certain which way he'd jump. I'm glad he's going the sniper route. He's good troop. Noncom material for sure, not just a spear carrier. He's squared away and at the top of his class.”

  “Good,” Jethro said with a flick of his ears. “So, how did you learn his life history?”

  “His record said he had a bit of a tiff with the local sheriff and mayor. The mayor also owns one of the mines in the area his family lives at and has been trying to buy his dad out and turn the store into a company store for years. Apparently they barely get along,” the DI said. “I caught part of that from a couple of the other recruits. Some of it was in a letter from his recruiter; I scanned it and then deleted it. The rest I got from Sergeant Danford. He's from Seti and apparently Gibbs was something of a celebrity at one point so he kept tabs. Apparently Gibbs' saved his parent's life. The father asked him to look after the young sprout. He decided tact was better so he passed on the platoon DI slot but briefed me.”

  “Ah,” Jethro replied with a nod. “Pity the father won't re-up. We could use him with his experience. If he's got half the grit his son has …”

  “I know. I've found out that blood tells. This Gibbs,” Featherly nodded his chin to the recruit going in and out of the surf with his platoon with their rifles held over their heads, “is a bastard.” He grinned. “Apparently that's what the other B means. He's stubborn but flexible, acceptable to authority but has initiative, squared away as I mentioned, and a junior platoon leader. He's damn good in hand-to-hand. He has a few rough spots, but I know he'll be a star someday, if he doesn't get his ass killed in something stupid like a shuttle or ship.”

  “Yeah, there is that,” Jethro replied with a wince. “Carry on.”

  “Thank you, Master Sergeant,” the DI stated.

  <)>^<)>/

  Bast observed Jethro's cardio and brain rhythms as they settled into normal sleep patterns for the evening. Now was her time, the time for her to do things for herself while also watching over her host.

  She set up her usual watchdog programs and then sat back to think. She took her avatar and personality modules offline to give her a little bit more processing power to do so. It wasn't much, however, barely a few extra million bytes of processing power.

  What she really wanted to do was to hook into the armor, but she couldn't justify the risk of going through the military network to do so. Also, the armory was secluded in the network, so breaking in would technically be a security breech.

  There wasn't much for her to think about, however; her workload like Jethro's was relatively light. Since she was classified, she didn't get much correspondence, and what she did get was from Commander Sprite and other A.I. requesting her files on fighting the Xeno viruses.

  There was no way she was going to send them over the ansible network, no matter how secure they thought it was. After all, the Xeno virus had propagated itself through that same network! No, if they wanted her help, they would have to get it in person. She judged that was what was going to happen, eventually.

  Keeping her host as a moving target was a concern. She judged that he would most likely look up old friends and acquaintances soon. The more bored he got with the routine and lack of a challenge, the more likely he would do so.

  She weighed the risks of Jethro visiting his old friends against the threat of the assassin Guild laying a trap for him. It was likely that one or more of them were being monitored, especially those who had served with him the most. How though, that was an interesting question she would have to leave to any ONI people tasked with monitoring the master sergeant and herself. She knew they were out there, she'd noted a few check-ins, but they hadn't called to talk to her or to the master sergeant.

  It was just as well; they needed to remain on their own toes and not rely on others to monitor their own safety.

  The problem was Jethro was in what he considered a safe place—a place where his friends and colleagues were, a non-combat zone. His subconscious would eventually lower its guard.

  Perhaps it was a good thing that they wouldn't be on the planet long, she judged. ONI might want them to be dangled out as bait to smoke out any assassins or spies … but she would much rather be off with her host in a combat zone. At least then they knew who the enemy was.

  She paused her thought processes as she analyzed that meme. It was incorrect she finally concluded after she ran a SIM. Again, in a combat environment, the tendency to lower your guard among colleagues, to trust your own, was overwhelming. Perhaps that was the most dangerous situation? She now wasn't certain. Nor did she have the processing power to game the situation out.

  She judged that it would be beneficial to the master sergeant's mental health to visit his friends … as long as they kept the timing random and brief. He had an instinctive need to do so, one he would eventually attempt to act on she knew. It was a method for him to decompress from the stresses they had recently endured.

  She ran several SIMS. She came to the conclusion that the rewards outweighed the risks and were therefore worth it as long as they were mostly random. She wrote a script bot to make certain they would be before she shut down her own higher functions to sleep and finish processing her
own new experiences.

  <)>^<)>/

  When he had the time, he looked up some of his old friends. F Platoon had been scattered to the far corners of the Corps; they were fast risers, which didn't surprise him. Nearly half the platoon had mustanged to warrants or officer status.

  He focused on his squad. Valenko was a major with his own division somewhere on Agnosta. He vowed to look him up as soon as possible. Apparently the bear had hung onto Asazi though the heavy-worlder was now a staff sergeant. Pinash was also a staff and also with Valenko. He nodded at that. That meant he definitely had to look them up.

  Ox was a gunny in Antigua, but there was little more on the Tauren other than that.

  Sergei, the white liger, was a staff sergeant still in Pendeckle's Second Division and was still deployed in Protodon, though his unit was due for rotation out of the combat zone shortly.

  Gusterson, the NeoGreyhound Navy medic who had run with them for a short time, had put in to get further training. According to his SITREP, he was in Antigua training to become a full doctor and most likely trading in his enlisted rank for officer tags.

  Kovu …. he scanned the line and then nodded. Kovu had survived Antigua Prime but had been in stasis for a while before he'd been rebuilt by the Navy medics. His career had been stalled during that time period and the lengthy time in rehab afterward. He was a corporal in Division 1. Good to know, Jethro thought with a nod.

  Kiara, the Neolioness love interest of Kovu—out of perverse curiosity, he checked. The two weren't an item apparently, at least not from what he could gather from her bio. She was a lance corporal in Colonel Harley's Third Division. First Brigade, he noted with a short nod. Good for her.

  Clive Bret had not re-upped when his contract had come due. He noted that with an air of disappointment. He'd have to see where the human had ended up. In a way, he couldn't blame him; after all, Clive had married and become a father. Being a parent sort of changed your whole perspective on life he thought.

  Anastasia, one of Valenko's daughters, had risen through the ranks to become a gunnery sergeant. She was in Harley's Third Division but in the Second Brigade. Her sister Netia was a staff sergeant in General Forth's First Division. Good for them he thought with a nod.