Major (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 5)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  Mr. Lamonica had a habit of understating things, even if he tended to be direct and to the point. Ryck knew that the intelligence gathering had just been lowered in importance and showing the flag had just been elevated. Ryck knew what it was like to be a figurehead, and he didn’t like it. But if a Marine was trained to fight, they were also trained to obey orders, and Ryck would salute and march on.

  He hadn’t digested yet what the chargé d’affaires had told him. Another foreign medal? What, if he fought someone, he got a medal from them? First Greater France, and now the Confederation? Were the trinoculars next?

  Ryck didn’t think he was going to enjoy his last year-and-a-half on New Mumbai. But he wanted to finish it, and finish it honorably. He had a two-week leave coming up, two weeks with Hannah, the twins, and Benjamin back on Prosperity. He would rather have stayed on Tarawa, but it was time for Benjamin to meet his relatives. Regardless, he was going to use it to recharge himself before getting back. And if he was going to be a figurehead, he’d just suck it up and be the best grubbing figurehead he could be.

  PROSPERITY

  Chapter 9

  Ryck grabbed a beer and slipped out the back, dodging several of the Hope of Life kids, along with Noah and his nephew Vyctor, as he made his way back to the gazebo alongside the cornfield fence. Barret, his sister’s husband, and Ezekial, Hannah’s brother, were already ensconced there, both with their own drinks.

  “Give up in there?” Jonah asked.

  “Yeah, too much estrogen in there, and way too many kids,” Ryck said, tipping his bottle to clink with those of his two brothers-in-law.

  A screech sounded from the pack of kids weaving crazily around the yard as if in emphasis. Ryck wanted to rush over to see what had happened, to see if someone was hurt, but the other two men seemed to take it in stride, so he pushed down his anxiety.

  Ryck had never seen so many kids since, well, since he was a kid, and so this was his first time as a father, and he tried not to seem over-protective. Benjamin, the two-year-old and the main reason for the gathering, was a fireball, and Ryck was not too concerned about him, but Noah was a little more reclusive, and Ryck had visions of him being bullied. Ryck risked a glance up in time to see it was Noah, though, who was giving Jebediah’s Benjamin a push, not the other way around. Ryck shook his head and turned back to the two men.

  “You’re lucky you’ve only got three,” Barret told him.

  The Torritites tended to large families, but Barret and Lysa were both Rational Methodists, who tended to fewer children. That hadn’t stopped them from having five kids, however, with another on the way.

  It was hard to believe that when Lysa had told him, so many years ago, that she was marrying Barret, he hadn’t thought much of the man. He was 20 years older than Lysa, and he didn’t exude confidence. But looking at him now, Ryck was happy his sister had a good partner. Barret had turned out to be a loving, caring husband and a great father. He’d become quite the businessman, too, but it was his heart that Ryck admired.

  “Well, it’s hard to have kids when you’re always away,” Ryck said as another screech, followed by crying this time, reached them. “But maybe I need to stay away more often if this is what happens. I think three is enough!”

  It was a little stressful, and more than a little noisy, but Ryck felt good with the extended gathering. He knew Hannah was enjoying the visit. She and the kids had arrived two full days before Ryck met them there, and he didn’t think she’d stopped talking with her family since. He would have liked to spend some more alone time together, but Hannah hadn’t seen her mother and sibs for almost three years, since before she was pregnant with Ben. This was a good trip for her.

  And for Ryck, he had to admit. He and Lysa had been raised on a farm without many kids around. Even their school had been small. The concept of a vast extended family was something the two had never had.

  Ryck had married into the Hope of Life family, but Lysa hadn’t. Yet both she and Barret had been welcomed with open arms. It was only slightly ironic that Lysa spent more time with the Hope of Life clan that Ryck did.

  “OK, which one is that?” Ryck asked a red-headed boy of about eight ran by, his left shoe missing.

  “Benjamin,” Zeke said.

  “Another Benjamin? How many are there?”

  “Benjamins? It be good solid name. ‘Son of the right hand,’ not that I need to be tellin’ you that, seein’ as how you got your own Ben. But that be Bethany’s Benjamin, and over there, that be Jeb’s Ben. Benjamin Resurrection, I don’t think you met Jeb, but he be in the Navy now, and he be Dinah and Andrew’s boy. You met Andrew, right? And then there be . . . ”

  Ryck’s attention drifted as Zeke eagerly started his begats. He just relaxed, soaking in the company of those around him. He was proud to be a Marine, and he’d have it no other way. But as a Marine, he felt he was always on stage, that all eyes were on him. He knew that his accomplishments in the Corps really didn’t matter to those gathered today. Oh, he knew that Camyle, his niece, was proud that her uncle was the famous Ryck Lysander, that he’d been portrayed in two flicks, even. And some of the other kids were taken in with a touch of hero worship. But the adults, especially his mother-in-law, seemed to accept him, to welcome him, simply for being Hannah’s husband.

  A tiny wave of guilt came over him at that thought. He tried to be a good husband, but being a Marine and being a good husband were not always compatible. Hannah loved her family, yet she had married Ryck and moved away. Not only that, but she was effectively a single parent for much of the time.

  “I gotta go check on the wife,” he said, getting up and taking his leave as Barret and Zeke started casually arguing on what was the most common name among the Torritite community. They could have just queried their PAs and gotten the exact response, but the two friends seemed more interested in the thought process rather than the actual answer.

  A ball came bounding over that Ryck dutifully kicked back, almost spilling the rest of his beer in the process. He entered the mudroom that separated the yard from the rest of the house, surprising young Daniel Hope of Life and his new girlfriend Reiko, who, from their startled expressions, had been sneaking a little lip-time. He acted like he’d seen nothing and entered the house, the smell of fresh-baked bread making him start to salivate.

  Hannah was with several of her sisters and sisters-in-law, cutting the onions for the potshop, a braised stew that was a staple of Torritite gatherings. He came up in back of her, holding one finger over his pursed lips when Vicky, Hannah’s sister-in-law, saw him sneak up.

  He slipped his arms around Hannah from behind and kissed her neck.

  “I love, you, Mrs. Lysander. Did you know that?” he asked quietly.

  Not so quietly, though, that her sisters didn’t hear as they responded with good-natured catcalls.

  “Of course I know that, Mr. Lysander. How could you not?” she asked, turning her head to give him a peck on the cheek.

  The onions started to make his eyes burn. He didn’t want to let go of his wife, but for grubbing sakes, how could they all put up with that?

  He was saved by a shout of “Daddy, here!”

  “Better go see to your son, Ryck,” Hannah told him.

  Ryck gave her once last squeeze and then moved off to where Benjamin, his Benjamin, was proudly waving a toy hammer. When Ryck had left for New Mumbai, Ben had only been five months old, and yesterday had been the first time he seemed to connect Ryck with the concept of “daddy.” Hearing him call out like that filled Ryck with a feeling of love and pride.

  “Gamma give me!” he shouted at Ryck as he used it to hit the couch. “Bam!”

  “Thanks a lot, ‘Gamma,’” he told his mother-in-law who had a smug-looking smile on her face.

  “A grandmother’s job be to spoil her grandchildren, Ryck,” she said. “And since you finally brought him to meet his family, I’ve got a lot of spoilin’ saved up.”

  “You like that, little man?” he a
sked as he knelt next to his son.

  “Bam!” Ben said, bopping Ryck on the forehead.

  “No, no, we don’t hit people,” Ryck told him. “It’s not nice.”

  “Bam?”

  “Not on people.”

  Ryck knew that some of his in-laws were looking forward to hear about his latest adventures—at least that is how they considered them. And he would get to that later. But for now, he was happy just trying to teach one small, but aggressive, boy a lesson in life.

  NEW MUMBAI

  Chapter 10

  “Happy birthday, Titus,” Ryck said as the crowd moved to the refreshments line.

  “Huh?” Titus asked. “Oh, you mean the Army. OK, thanks.”

  Ryck had to remember that of all armed forces in the known universe (maybe the trinoculars excluded as no one knew how they thought, much less if they celebrated anything), only the Federation Marines elevated their birthdays to such a high level. For other militaries, there might or might not be some sort of ceremony, and if there was, it was generally low-key.

  The anniversary of the founding of the Army of the Confederation of Free States was one such example. Various dignitaries, including the foreign military delegations, had been invited to the Slab where a brief ceremony had taken place in the rotunda. General of the Army Chaudhry, who had the additional rank of Imperator, the only old Roman rank the Confeds conferred, gave a five minute speech listing the historical accomplishments of the Army (which included the Trinocular War but made no mention of the Cyngi B incident) before giving over to the Second Secretary of the Confederation of Free States, who stressed the importance of a strong Army to protect the very existence of the state. Compared to even a Marine battalion’s celebration of its patron’s old birthday, it was pretty lame, Ryck thought.

  Still, he felt he should make some sort of effort by congratulating Titus, who seemed more interested in the snacks and drinks laid out on tables in the back of the rotunda. He shrugged and followed the Confed major to where a sorry selection of finger foods and a red punch were waiting for them.

  It’s just as well, Ryck thought as he ran a finger under the edge of his dress blues collar.

  There was no getting around it. Ryck was gaining weight. He promised himself that he’d make an early exit and get to the gym. Dinner would be the papaya and strawberry salad that he’d discovered in his room fabricator’s recipe bank: 450 calories and chock full of added nutrients.

  He took a quick glance at his trouser pocket, but he couldn’t make much out of the small bulge that his Bianchi made. There’d been no further intel that anyone was still gunning for him, and Ryck hoped that if anything, the very public and well-covered ceremony two months ago where he was awarded the Corona Navalis had taken some of the heat off of him. Still, he never went anywhere without the comforting presence of the small handgun if he could help it, and his trou were still not tight enough to show that he was carrying.

  “You’d think they could give us some decent food,” Titus grumbled in line in front of Ryck.

  Titus’ trou were beginning to show some strain across the butt as well, Ryck noticed. Major Titus Pohlmeyer had originally been a combat engineer, but as he switched to whatever Intel branch he was really in, the lifestyle was getting to him, too. It shouldn’t matter to him, but Ryck felt slightly better, almost as a sense of schadenfreude that he wasn’t the only one battling the bulge. It wasn’t professional, and it wasn’t compassionate, but there it was.

  Ryck decided to forego the refreshments completely and get out of there when Captain Franks called his name. Ryck dutifully went forward to be introduced to the new Federation Chief Security Assistance Officer at the consulate on Godavari. Commander Nurislam was undergoing his in-brief at the embassy before heading out to his posting, and Captain Franks had dragged him to the ceremony.

  Before Ryck could get away, Rainer Kopf grabbed him to make sure he was going to his farewell party that Friday evening. Ryck promised he would, and then some Confed one-star who Ryck didn’t know came up and congratulated him on his Corona Navali. Ryck wondered how he’d thought he could pull chocks early as the regular political dance was in full swing. It was more than an hour before he was able to break away and leave the Slab.

  Ryck was not senior enough to rate a vehicle to take him back, and autocabs were not allowed to approach the Slab, so Ryck walked the 300 meters to the front security gate. Several cabs were lined up, but Ryck decided to skip them. The temperature had cooled down nicely, and it was only another 600 meters or so to his condo. Even in his dress blues, it should be a nice walk through the restaurant district.

  A kabob café was doing a brisk business, the smell of grilled lamb and other delectables wafted across the street as Ryck began to walk. It took a concerted effort to steel himself and ignore the place. He’d eaten there several times before, and the food was top-shelf.

  The street was not very crowded, even for a Tuesday evening. He quickly covered the 200 meters to Robinson and turned right. As he passed his gym, he looked in, trying to gauge how busy it was. There were only half-a-dozen or so people working out in the first floor where the cardio and simulators were, so Ryck figured there were probably fewer than that upstairs in the weight room. There would probably be fewer still when he returned in about 15 or 20 minutes.

  Despite the lack of anything concrete in as far as a threat against him, Ryck still kept his senses alert wherever he went. When his condo came into sight a few blocks ahead of him, he started to relax.

  He looked back to check the traffic to cross the street when his nerves went on high alert, snapping him back to warrior mode. He almost stopped dead, but the training he’d received had sunk in enough that he kept walking, scanning the area to see what had caused his reaction. A woman was across the street, looking in a shop window. A man was striding along near her, his head down in the manner of someone who had someplace to be. Above, several of the ubiquitous drones made their rounds up and down the street.

  He’d begun to think his instincts had false-reacted when two men in standard workman overalls came out of the small recessed area across the street from him. They looked like any other workmen, but Ryck instantly alerted on them like a police dog on drugs. It took him a moment to figure out why: they were moving just too purposefully.

  Ryck slid his hand into his pocket, wrapping it around his Bianchi as he stopped attempting to cross the street and continued along on the near side. The Bianchi was small and powerful for its size, but it was designed for close-in self-defense. Even at 20 meters across the street, it was not that accurate.

  Ryck decided that as he reached the open door of a music store a few meters ahead, he was going to enter it and rush to a back entrance, but the men never gave him a chance. One of them raised his handgun and fired while his companion started to pull a rifle up from behind him.

  Ryck was moving before most of this could register. He lunged forward as he pulled out his Bianchi and fired at the man with the handgun. His opponent missed Ryck—Ryck did not miss him, his relatively slow, but powerful boost-assist round smashing through the man’s chest.

  Ryck didn’t give him another thought as the second man, the one with the rifle leveled his weapon at him and began to fire, undoubtedly intending to swing a line of hypervelocity darts from above and through Ryck. As a Marine, Ryck had been taught to target each round, but other services taught gunners use their automatic weapons to sweep lines of rounds across a target.

  The rifleman opened up, his initial rounds impacting above Ryck and to his right as Ryck swung his Bianchi to aim at him and broke into a run, yelling at the top of his voice. He fired once and missed, but with the round impacting on the wall beside of rifleman, coupled with Ryck’s madman rush, the man flinched, sending his line of darts into the ground, missing Ryck by centimeters. Panic took over his face as he tried to bring his rifle back up for another swipe, but it was too late. Ryck was already halfway across the road, and his next measured shot t
ook the man high in the chest, almost severing his neck from his torso.

  Ryck ran the last few steps to the two men, his eyes scanning for any more attackers. He heard a scream from the woman who had been window-shopping and the general rumble as people came out of shops and restaurants to see what had happened.

  Above him, a holo drone hovered over the street, its recording light steadily flashing. From start to finish, less than ten seconds had elapsed, and all of it had been recorded.

  With his heart pounding, he stepped over the dead rifleman, trying unsuccessfully to keep his shoes out of the pooling blood. He backed up against the wall there where he was protected from at least that one direction.

  He didn’t bother to put the Bianchi in his pocket as the sirens of a police sled sounded from down the street.

  The woman who had screamed had stopped, but she was obviously in shock at what she had witnessed. Ryck reached up to the brim of his cover and tipped it to the woman and then gave her a nod as if nothing had happened.

  Then he simply waited for the police to arrive.

  Chapter 11

  Ryck watched the recording one more time. He was surprisingly detached as he watched with a critical eye both his and his assailants’ actions. The News 5 drone provided a good vantage and a pretty clear view of what had happened, better than the security drones or building-mounted cams. A tiny tickle in the recesses of his mind wondered if the News 5 drone had just happened to be in the right spot at the right time, or if the station had some prior knowledge of what was going to happen.

  The two would-be assassins had messed up pretty badly. They’d had Ryck in their sights for a good twenty seconds before Ryck got close enough to realize something was wrong. The rifleman should have engaged Ryck then instead of waiting. The two men compounded the situation by moving forward to get a closer shot.