“Sure, why not?” Ter said.
“You go ahead,” Esther told them. “I’m going to start on my platoon interviews, see if I can’t get them out of the way when I can.”
“Yeah, I guess it would help if you actually knew who was in your platoon,” Nok said with a laugh.
Marines always took advantage of two things whenever they could: chow and sleep. They never knew when they’d get the opportunity to eat or catch some Z’s in the future. Esther hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning, before formation, and she was starving. But Nok was right. She really needed to know her Marines, starting with Staff Sergeant Fortuna. And with the other lieutenant’s gone to the wardroom, she had the stateroom to herself.
She buzzed her platoon sergeant to come over and popped up seats for both of them. She’d probably have time to do this after planetfall, but things in the Corps had a tendency to escalate quickly.
She just hoped that this time, she’d have the opportunity to snap in before being thrust into action.
Camp Hope, Jordy Enclave, Nouvelle Bretagne
Chapter 6
“Enter!”
Esther pushed open the hatch and entered with trepidation. His office was lined with built-in hardwood bookshelves. This was a far cry from most military camps, but it had been a two-year college in its first life. Now, it housed the task force as well as the local police force.
“Sit,” the captain ordered, indicating a chair to the side of his large desk.
Esther sat into the over-stuffed chair, running her fingers over the padded armrest. The chair was soft, and she sunk low. She’d rather be on something a little firmer, a little more military. She scooted her butt up until she was sitting over the front edge of the chair, giving her more support.
“Thanks for coming in,” the captain said as if Esther had a choice in the matter.
Esther was nervous. She’d taken her platoon out on a patrol for the first time and had lost five KIA and six WIA. Two of the KIA were declared dead, and the other three had long bouts of regen ahead of them, as did two of the WIA. Four other wounded were being treated at the local hospital and would return to full duty within a couple of weeks. In three years on Wayfarer Station, she’d hadn’t seen that many casualties for the entire battalion.
For the last two hours since returning, she’d been going over in her mind what she could have done differently, but except for refusing the mission—which wasn’t really an option—nothing she could think of would have made much difference.
Still, she had placed her squads in the most logical position, something the legionnaires had obviously foreseen. But switching things up should be to something that was an improvement, and she just couldn’t see that. But Captain Hoffman probably could.
“I’ve had a chance to go over your report and recordings with the CO,” he started.
The CO? Esther wondered for a second before realizing it had to have been a conference call.
“First, we jumped the gun. The administrator wanted a visible presence to announce our arrival, and that is why the six patrols were sent out even before arty was able to get online.”
Ter had told Esther that the arty firing AI was down, whether from hacking or a simply failure wasn’t known yet.
“Second, you were the wrong choice to send out.”
Esther’s heart fell. No one wanted to hear that.
“I looked at your logs, and you’ve only interviewed half of your platoon so far. We . . . I . . . should have realized that before assigning your patrol the mission. I thought an orientation patrol, which Intel thought had little chance of contact, would be a good way to snap you in. I was wrong.”
What? Is he taking responsibility?
Esther hadn’t been high enough on the food chain before to be part of the internecine warfare that sometimes took place over the blame game, but being the daughter of a general officer, she’d been exposed to it. She hadn’t seen too many people willingly accept blame before.
“But I was the one who put my squads where they thought I would,” she blurted out.
“True, but sometimes, that’s the only logical choice. What you did do, however, was react to the situation.”
Esther wasn’t so sure as to that. In her mind, she’d been paralyzed for long stretches of time, wanting to do something, anything, but sitting back to let things develop.
“It worked out, but I’ve run over various situations in the battle gamer, and I’m not so sure sending Sergeant Ngcobo up the hill was the best move. It worked, but the risk, well . . .
“XO, bring in the others,” he said into his PA, stopping that train of thought.
“We’re going to dissect the fight. This is not a kangaroo court,” he said as Esther looked up in surprise. “I want all of us to learn from it, myself included. You did well, Esther. You reacted, and you took it to the enemy. That’s the bottom line. But we all can improve, and if we don’t learn from history, we’ll never get any better in our line of work.”
Esther wasn’t sure how to take his words. She was somewhat mollified that he’d said she’d done fine, but she wasn’t looking forward to him and her peers tearing her decisions apart, seeking for better ways to have fought the battle. She began to feel exposed.
“It’s your call, but if you think anyone is worthy of a commendation, I’d like that on my desk by COB tomorrow.”
Esther had been thinking about that. In her mind, Charlie Ngcobo deserved something. He’d charged up the hill without hesitation, driven back a larger force, and used the enemy’s own chat-chat to suppress the other Legion platoon. But now the skipper had said he wasn’t sure that task had been the best option.
Still, if it wasn’t, that was on her, not on the sergeant.
“Sergeant Ngcobo, sir. I’d like to write him up.”
She thought she saw the slightest glint of approval in his eyes as he nodded and said, “Do it. I’ll give my endorsement.”
She was so worried about her own reception that she hadn’t immediately pushed for Ngcobo. She’d already considered it, but had not given it much more thought at the moment. Captain Hoffman had, though, but he’d given her the chance to make the suggestion. She was sure that if she hadn’t, he’d have done it on his own.
Her instructors at NOTC had stressed that a leader has to make the tough decisions in battle, even sending men to their certain death. They couldn’t get emotionally involved. But they also were there to take care of their Marines. She shouldn’t have had to wait for the captain to prompt her.
She’d been withholding judgment on the skipper until she got to know him better. Captain Michael Hoffman seemed to know his military science, from what she could pull up on the undernet, with more than a few well-written articles covering a range of military issues. Writing articles wasn’t the same thing as being a good leader, though. However, his admitting he made a mistake and his concern that Charlie Ngcobo be recognize were pretty good signs that he was more than an academic. She still didn’t know how good he was as a combat leader, but if he thought holding a dissection of the battle was a good idea, she’d give him the benefit of the doubt.
There was a knock on the hatch, and the other lieutenants filed in.
“Please, take your seats,” he said as he turned on the flat screen.
An overhead image appeared with the platoon making its way up the dirt road. A green triangle overlay identified Esther, yellow triangles her squad leader, and a lilac Staff Sergeant Fortuna.
“We’re starting here, at 1403. The lead element of the patrol is 700 meters from the objective. Lieutenant Lysander, as we go through, please interject your thought process as appropriate.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Esther said, leaning forward as if she could get closer to the scene.
Despite her initial misgivings, she was getting into it, her interest piqued. If she could learn something from the dissection, that would make her a better Marine.
Chapter 7
“Didn’t see
you at the Roost,” Karl Hampshire, one of the Echo Company’s lieutenants said as Esther slid her tray up next to his.
She turned so he could see the Officer of the Day brassard around her left upper arm.
“Oh, sucks to be you. It was a great fight. That’s two for Iron Shot.”
“Iron Shot” was Chief Warrant Officer 2 Tamara Veal, one of mankind’s gladiators, and more pertinent to the task force, a Federation Marine, one of only five in the gladiator corps. Like most people, she tried to watch the duels against the Klethos, but she’d especially wanted to watch CWO2 Veal fight. She’d watched the gladiator’s first fight on Halcon, but bad luck had it that for this fight, which took place at zero-dark-thirty local time, she’d been in the task force office, along with Staff Sergeant Fillipo and Corporal Gant-Jessup, manning the headquarters. It wasn’t as if anyone expected any trouble. Gladiator fights were not holidays, but most of humanity tuned in to watch. Over at their camps, the legionnaires would be watching, as would be most of the civilian population.
Most of the Marines had watched in the old student center, now taken over as a general club. The “Roost” was the “Chicken’s Roost,” the name given to one of the small dining rooms that had been commandeered by the lieutenants and CWO Koricle. It wasn’t much, but it had a top-of-the-line holo projector, and Echo’s gunny had hooked them up with a chiller. The four captains and the major had taken over the old facility manager’s office, and the other ranks had claimed the larger rooms.
“It was freaking frigid, Lysander. I mean, she’d just finished some twirling sword dance and the d’relle launched, no pause, and Iron Shot, she just skewers her, like a shish-kabob. Chicken-on-a-stick,” Karl said, laughing at his own wit.
Esther rolled her eyes. She didn’t need the reminder. She had contemplated pulling out her PA to watch the fight, Fillipo and Gant-Jessup watching her eagerly. But regs were regs, and she had to follow them. She didn’t know who’d been more disappointed with her decision: the other two or her.
One of the fabricators became free, so she left Karl and walked up to it, inputting Eggs Benedict. Twenty seconds later, the dish, hot and steamy, appeared in the chute. Noah had turned her on to the old dish, making it from scratch at home when they’d both been in secondary. Esther knew her twin would turn up his nose at the fab version, but she couldn’t tell the difference. No one had ever accused her of having a refined palate.
She made her way to join the Ter, Steel, and Nok, who’d already staked out their table. The task force mess served all ranks in the school cafeteria, but the tables ended up segregated—whether by design or happenstance, Esther didn’t know. What she did know was the far left table at the cafeteria’s north side “belonged” to the Golf Company lieutenants. And now, all four of the other lieutenants looked a little worse for wear having been up most of the night for the fight.
“Hey, you should have seen—” Ter started.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know.” Esther said, cutting off the XO. “I’ve already heard all about it from Karl. I don’t need you to rub it in.”
“Sucks to be you. It was max copacetic,” Steel said.
Esther rolled her eyes again and took a bite of her breakfast.
“You ready for tomorrow?” Ter asked, switching the subject.
First Platoon hadn’t been outside the wire since the battle at Watson’s Farm, as they were now referring to it. That was six days ago. Two of her WIA had returned to duty the day before, but she was still down seven Marines. Everyone else had gone out at least once since then, either on standard show-the-flag-patrols or to provide security for meetings between the major and civilian heads.
“Sure am. We’re getting cabin fever here,” she said, with a little more bravado than she’d intended.
Going out down seven did not thrill her, but when Captain Hoffman had broached the subject of some inter-company transfers to beef up her numbers, she had said the platoon was fine.
It’s not like its much of a mission, and next week, I get Das Salaam and Eire back.
Major Postern was going to the city administration center to meet with the mayor, a representative of the Frères Dans L’ègalitè, a Greater France-leaning civil group, formed barely six months prior, and a Federation rep. The Francophiles were a decided minority in Corky’s Waystop, but the Federation Administrator in Charleston, which was leaning much more toward Greater France, wanted to keep a lid on any violence leading up to the elections, and Esther’s fight at Watson’s Farm had not been received well. The administrator had demanded the withdrawal of legionnaires, but the governor had resisted, stating she had a contract with the Legion for the “training” of the local militia, and she couldn’t break that.
The administrator had holed up in Charleston, the planet’s main city, but he was sending his vice administrator, who would be protected by an FCDC security team. First Platoon would provide security for the major.
“Your mission brief’s still at 1400,” Ter told her. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do,” she said as she took the last piece of English muffin and mopped up the gooey mixture of egg yolk and hollandaise.
She popped it into her mouth, licked her fingers clean, and stood up. Ter reached out and gave her forearm a squeeze before Esther left to return her tray.
She returned to the task force office, waiting for her relief. First Sergeant Caneletti, Echos’s first sergeant and the task force’s senior enlisted Marine came in to take care of some admin, soon followed by most of the headquarters staff. Major Postern arrived, and instead of waiting for the formal turnover, took Esther’s report, which was basically a “nothing to report.”
And she waited—and waited. The clock hit 0800 Greenwich, which for the moment was close to local time, and more importantly, was when she was supposed to get relieved. At 0815, she was still sitting there at the small OOD desk, waiting. Finally, at 0824, First Lieutenant Boron Wiesapp came into the office.
Esther stood there steaming as the pilot looked over the log, swiping through her routine entries.
He seemed satisfied, and said, “I’m assuming the duty as Task Force Mandrake Officer of the Day.”
Esther stood there for a moment, expecting an apology, but none was forthcoming, she said, “I stand relieved.”
She handed him her brassard, and started to leave, but she couldn’t let it go.
“You know you were almost half an hour late.”
“Couldn’t be helped. Had things to do.”
“So do I, but you kept me from that. Next time you have the duty, be on time,” she said before turning and stalking out of the office.
Corporal Sandoval dropped her eyes and refused to look up as Esther stormed past. Esther knew she shouldn’t have berated the pilot in front of the Marines in the office, but she couldn’t help it. It didn’t matter what he had to do. He was supposed to be there for the relief on time. Until evening, he didn’t even have to stay in the CP. He could be out on the flight line or wherever the flyboys spent their days, so “things to do” was bullshit.
Esther held all Marines to a pretty high standard, but officers had to be held to even higher standards. Her father had always been clear on that. There were benefits to being an officer, but there was a price to pay for that.
Esther went to Danielson Dorm, which was serving as the officer and SNCO quarters. Esther thought it a little risky to have all the leadership in one building, but the overall alert status was only 2, and Intel was sure the Legion wouldn’t launch an attack on their base. Evidently, there were “rules’ to these quasi-wars.
Alert Status 2 or not, that didn’t do Portis or Lorne much good. They were just as dead as had this been one of the big full-scale battles during the Evolution.
Esther entered her room. The walls had been painted a horrendous shade of magenta, but the color somehow struck a chord with her. It was so un-military, so unlike her. Normally, that would make her shy away, but she was getting rather fond of
her little retreat.
She sat on her rack, and almost immediately, its siren song began to call to her. She knew if she lay back, she’d be asleep in seconds. Esther didn’t like to take stim-tabs, much less a brain flush. She only had one body, and she didn’t want to abuse it. She had to do something to stay awake until after the mission brief, however, and that left one thing in her bag of tricks.
Esther stripped off her clothes and neatly hung them up. She grabbed her PT gear from where it hung in the tiny shower and laid the shorts and shirt out on her rack. She caught her reflection in the vanity mirror over the small desk and stopped to look.
Esther wasn’t vain—well, not too vain, she amended her thought. It was true she liked clothes, even if the Corps limited her in when she could engage in dressing up. But she wasn’t that concerned with her face, and she had never gone for some of the more flamboyant make-up and nanoskins. She was, however, proud of her body. She worked hard to keep it in shape, and she turned back and forth slowly, looking at her reflection. Slim but not skinny, she had the taut muscles of an athlete. Satisfied that nothing on her had slumped, she put on her shorts, then the Boudica shirt, feeling the “hugging” as the upper support settled around her breasts, giving the support needed for athletic activity.
She snagged her bag and left, heading to the gym across the quad. The college actually had two gyms. One had courts and the pool, and both Marines and the local police made use of it regularly, with pick-up basketball, etherball, and volleyball, the regular bill of fare. Esther, though was heading for the smaller training gym.
She sniffed the air as she pushed through the front hatch. It was a habit she’d developed over the years after going into countless gyms for matches. While the muggy, overripe scent of bodies might give some people pause, to Esther, they touched synapses deep within her insula that resonated with memories—in her case, memories of a home, of belonging. No matter where they moved as children, following their father’s orders, the gyms were always the same.
Esther's Story: Recon Marine (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 2) Page 6