Noah's Story: Marine Tanker (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 3)

by Jonathan Brazee

  ITZUKO-2

  Chapter 1

  Ten months earlier . . .

  “Here, let me look at you,” Miriam said, turning Noah around and touching his collar, straightening what was already straight. “OK, give me a kiss, and don’t be late.”

  Noah obediently leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  “Are you going to be OK here today?” he asked.

  “I’m a big girl. I think I can handle being on my own for the day. Now go,” she said, turning him back around and giving him a slap on the ass.

  “OK, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Noah slipped out the door, walked down the hall, and descended the decrepit stairwell. Miriam was putting on a good face, but he worried about her. Camp Ceasare was an unaccompanied tour for students, even if he would have been a sergeant, so there was no base housing. He’d been assigned a shared room in the barracks, but with Miriam with him, he didn’t plan on spending too much time there—even if the conditions were much better in his assigned quarters. As a corporal, without rating a housing allowance, the only apartment they’d found that they could afford was a run-down shithole that catered to transients, drug-heads, and other Marines in his situation. He didn’t feel good about leaving Miriam alone there.

  It would have been better if she’d been able to find a job, any job. It would help with the rent, but more importantly, give her something to do. He had a nagging fear that after a month or so, she’d give up on the situation and run again, and that meant giving up on him. He was confident that she loved him, but her past record of sticking with something when things got rough was not encouraging.

  But there was nothing he could do about that now. Today was the first day of the Marine Corps Armor Operator’s Course. He was going to be starting his journey to become a Marine tanker. The course trained Marines to maintain and fight the two Marine tanks, the Davis and Mamba, and the Aardvark armored personnel carrier, but for Noah, only the Davis would do. Despite his concern about leaving Miriam alone for the day, he was excited as he boarded the maglev to the front gate of the camp, an excitement that only mounted as he got off the train and looked up at the huge Garcia mounted on a pedestal at the gate. The largest land vehicle ever used by the Federation military and FCDC at 120 tons, it almost took his breath away. At 40 tons, any modern Davis could defeat an old Garcia, but even so, the sight of it still filled him with awe.

  He only had to wait a few minutes before the shuttle arrived, taking him and the other 20 or so waiting Marines and civilians into the main base, a good 20 klicks in from the gate. Camp Ceasare was a huge, expansive base leased from Itzuko Daihatsu, the corporate owner of the “Itch,” as the Marines called the planet. A sparsely-populated commercial planet, the company had been happy to lease the 1,350,000 hectares of what had been unused land to the Federation. Most of the built-up area of the base was located at the 40,000-acre far eastern tip of the base. The rest consisted of firing ranges and maneuver areas. While the base population was small, the land area made Camp Ceasare the largest military base in the Federation and the second largest in human space.

  Noah sat quietly in his seat, looking at the other passengers, but not saying anything. He wondered if any of the others were in his class. Camp Ceasare was home to the United Federation Marine Corps Training Command, and there was more going on than just the armor school. Marine pilots received their level two training at the camp, and almost every type of mechanics, technicians, artillery Marines, and engineers also received their training onboard. The vast spaces also provided First, Second, and Third Marine Divisions with their combined arms ranges.

  Noah might have been happy to just sit there in silence, but not everyone was so reticent.

  “You going to armor school?” another corporal asked him, her voice kept low.

  “Yes,” he said. “First day.”

  “Well, yeah. First day for the course for everyone,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  Duh, Noah. Of course, it is. The next class won’t convene for another six months.

  He didn’t know how to respond, but she reached out a hand and said, “Patricia Chopra. They call me ‘Killer.’”

  Noah took the hand, but he couldn’t help but question her nickname, simply asking, “Killer?”

  “That’s me. And you are?”

  “Noah.”

  Some Marines put a lot of importance on their nicknames. They’d even come into a unit making up a name that they felt fit them better, or at least how they wanted others to see them. That rarely worked as it was pretty easy to check on the undernet, and when caught, the new nicknames were rarely something anyone wanted. If this small Marine, who couldn’t have massed more than 40 kg, said her name was Killer, then so be it. He was sure others would check up on that.

  Killer or not, she seemed to be somewhat of a chatterbox. Noah had heard her life story before the shuttle pulled up in front of the armor school. Even if 50% of what she’d said was was pure BS, then maybe the nickname was deserved. Noah had broken out laughing several times at her stories, and two other Marines had joined them to listen as well. After arriving, the four of them walked up the steps of the school, following the signs to Classroom A in the main building.

  They swiped themselves in at the door, then entered the large classroom, where at least 70 Marines were already in their seats. Coming from an infantry battalion, as were probably all of them, it was different to see that about half of the class were female. He’d expected it—with the size limitations to serve in armor, a higher percentage of enlisted women Marines gravitated towards armor, just as a higher percentage of female officers gravitated toward air.

  He looked at Killer as they entered, half-expecting her to join some of the women, but she seemed happy with her new-found friends, and the four took their places in the back.

  There was a stage in the front of the room—a plaque with the words Si vis pacem, para bellum prominently displayed across the wall behind it. To the side was a simple sign with the capital letters YATYAS. Noah had seen that back at the armor ramp at Wayfarer Station, but he still wasn’t sure of its meaning. Sergeant Phong never explained what it meant.

  Ten minutes after the four Marines had taken their seats, a Marine captain and a master guns entered the classroom, the master guns calling the class to attention. The captain walked up to the lectern, put them at ease, and looked out over the class before speaking.

  “Welcome, Class 42-06. I am Captain Jurveous, your OIC. For the next 34 weeks, you will be learning how to fight in the Davis, the Aardvark, and the Mamba. By the time you graduate, you will know every connection, every plate, every track on the three vehicles. You will be able to fight in them, and you’ll be able to repair them in field conditions. You will live in them, sleep in them, eat it them, shit in them. You will learn to love them and hate them.

  “This is a professional class, and each of you has already proven yourself as a Marine. We will not be babysitting you. It is up to you to do what is necessary to pass the course. If you want to go out in town and down a beer, no one’s going to stop you. However, my military and civilian instructors’ word is the law. I don’t care what your rank is, when you are in your vehicles, you will do what they say.

  “This should be a rewarding course, and you will emerge from it as a tread-head, the noblest job in the Corps. And with that, I’ll turn it over to Master Gunnery Sergeant Andreiko. Master Guns?”

  The master gunnery sergeant called the class to attention, and the captain climbed off the stage and strode up the center aisle. Just before he reached the hatch, he turned and shouted, “YATYAS!” before exiting.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Noah asked.

  “You don’t know?” Brock Eastern asked.

  Noah and the other two Marines looked at him expectantly, but he shook his head.

  “We can’t say it, but you’ll find out later,” he said.

  At least the other two didn’t know either. Noah was
tempted to pull out his PA and look it up, but there was obviously something significant about it, and that seemed almost like cheating.

  “Class 42-06, today is T1. After my orientation, you will remain in this classroom for Dr. Polytermis’ class. But first, we’ve got to get some admin out of the way, so pull up the class app and listen up . . .”

  Noah turned on his PA and pulled up the app. Thirty-four weeks might seem long right now, but he had a feeling that so much would be crammed in that time would be of an essence. If he was going to pass the course, he’d have to pay attention, starting right now.

  Chapter 2

  “I’m Terrance Duval,” the young man told the four of them. “I’ll be your primary instructor for your M1 prac apps. For all intents and purposes, I’ll be the one who teaches you through this rotation.

  “So you know my background, I served two tours as Marine tanker, all on the Davis, and one with the FCDC before coming here as a civilian employee.”

  Two tours with the Marines, three if you count his grunt tour, and one with the FCDC? How old is this guy? Noah wondered.

  He looked younger than any of them. Either he had really good genes or the good plastic surgeons had gone to work on him. Noah had hoped for a Marine instructor, but with only two of them and one FCDC instructor teaching the prac apps, he was stuck with a civilian. With the total force numbers limit, more and more civilians were taking over the support and training missions in the Corps.

  “This right here is your training tank, B103.”

  “No name?” Killer asked. “Just B103?”

  “No name. Only combat tanks are named. This is just a training device. I’m sure you’ll give her a name, though, by the time you’re done with her, at least something you call her under your breath when she’s covered with mud that has to be scraped off or she throws a track. She’s been here for a long, long time, and she’s feeling her age.”

  Noah had helped Sergeant Phong clean the Mambas on Dixie once, and that had been bad enough, but that was just sand. Mud had to be much worse.

  “First, some rules. There will be no horseplay on the ramps, as in none. Forty tons of tank will crush you flat in an instant. We’ve got eight trainers here for the class, and as you can see, the school ramp is a little cramped. So, head’s up at all times. You’re all coming from the grunts, and there, if you collide with a fellow Marine, no harm no foul. If you crash your tanks, that can result in lots of damage. If you let one run into you when you’re dismounted, however, we won’t have enough to scrape off the ground to send home to your parents.”

  Brock grimaced at that. He was a crèche baby from Adelaide III, and he’d never known his parents. He could get a little sensitive about it at times. Noah bumped him with his hip. This civilian had control if they graduated or not, so it wouldn’t do any good to antagonize him over some half-assed comment.

  “If you receive three safety down-checks, you’re out of the course and back to the grunts,” Mr. Duval said, his voice dripping with scorn as if that would be the worst thing that could happen to a Marine.

  Noah really wanted to become a tanker, but he took offense to Duval’s tone. He’d enjoyed his time as a grunt, especially being a PICS Marine, and while he looked forward to being a tread-head, they were a support unit, after all, supporting the infantry.

  “You’re lucky that you’ve got Rotation 1 first. Once you’ve mastered the M1, the other two vehicles will be cake.”

  Two weeks into the course, the class had been broken into three training groups. They would still PT together, still attend common classes together, but the specific vehicle training would be done in one six-week rotation, then two five-week. The theory was that as all three vehicles had essentially the same controls, so after mastering driving one, it wouldn’t take as long to become familiar with the other two platforms. Noah, and his three friends had been assigned to the M1s first.

  He risked a quick look at the other three Marines. It hadn’t been coincidence that they were together. Unlike boot camp or even getting assigned to the fleet, the staff didn’t seem to care who joined up with whom. They were simply told to form training groups of four each. Killer, Skeets, Brock, and Noah had immediately come together and locked in their group while most of the rest of the class were just beginning to ask each other if they wanted to hook up. They were the second group to get their names in, and they’d been assigned to Rotation 1, which was the M1 Davis training module, much to their delight. Half of the class would end up going to tanks, with the bulk of them going to M1 units, while the rest would go Aardvarks. Noah knew the Aardvarks were vitally important to the infantry, and the smaller Mamba assault tanks could be lifted to places where the M1 was impractical, but he joined armor to fight in the biggest, baddest piece of gear in the Marine Corps inventory. Being trained on the Davis first was in no way a guarantee that he’d eventually get tanks, but he was still pretty pumped.

  “So, now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s climb up there and get acquainted with the lady,” Mr. Duval said, jumping up on the nose of the tank.

  Noah jumped up, eager to take a look. Duval might not think much of B103, but if she was showing her age, Noah couldn’t tell. She sure looked beautiful to him.

  Chapter 3

  “Corporal Lysander, you’re up. Get in your tank,” the gunny said.

  Noah leapt out of the stands, his legs springs as he rushed to where B103 waited for him. It didn’t have the MGS module on nor the .50 cal attached, so it was somewhat toothless, but she looked sexy as all get-out to him. He’d spent over 40 hours on the simulator, but this would be his first time driving an actual tank.

  First time driving a Davis, he corrected himself.

  He’d driven the Mamba back on Dixie when Sergeant Phong had given him the opportunity, but the Mamba assault tank, as excited as he’d been back then, was not a Davis, and with 40 hours of sim time behind him, he knew he’d be allowed, no, expected, to put 103 through her paces.

  “Show us how Marine does it!” Killer shouted out from where she was sitting with Brock and Pie, his three closest friends at the school.

  Noah knew they were all aching to get their chances, but with the second highest sim scores, Noah was the second student in the class to get his chance. Killer’s comment referenced the fact that Sergeant Opania Bester, FCDC, had come out of the sims with the highest score, and for a “fuckdick” (not that Noah used the term himself, especially within earshot of the other eight FCDC troopers in the class) to be at the top of a Marine Corps class was simply unacceptable.

  “Corporal Lysander, let’s see what you can do today. Just remember, this is for real, not like the sim,” Mr. Duval said from the TC’s cupula as Noah ran up. “Listen up to what I have to say. You’ll be in control, but if I say ‘Stop,’ you stop, understand?”

  He wasn’t going to be totally in control, Noah knew. Duval might be the one to tell Noah what to do for the next twenty minutes, but he also had mirror controls in the commander’s seat, and his controls were primary. He could stop or steer the tank out of trouble if he needed to, and from the holos they’d been shown during the class that morning, the instructors evidently had to inject themselves into the training quite often. The Davis had 2,500 horses under her skirt, all raring to break free, and more than a few new students had unleashed them and then panicked, not knowing what to do.

  Not me, Noah vowed as Mr. Duval went through the rest of his brief. Just get it over with. I read everything you’re saying already.

  “So, if you don’t have any questions, why don’t you get into the driver’s hole?”

  Noah didn’t have to be asked twice. He vaulted over 103’s prow and in through the open hatch. Many of the shorter Marines could jump in, turning as they entered, and land sitting on the seat. Noah had tried that, time and time again, and all he ended up doing was to almost knock himself silly. As tall as he was, he had to land standing on the seat, turn, and sort of slide down, his feet moving into pos
ition.

  It might have taken him a split second longer than it would most of the class, but he was sitting in the driver’s hole, ready to go. His gaming background probably helped him in getting a leg up in the simulators, but this was the real thing. If he wanted to get Davises for his first assignment, he had to kick butt starting now. He sat in the driver’s hole, hatch open, waiting for his next order.

  “Comms check,” Mr. Duval said over the net, his voice relayed out of the speakers in Noah’s helmet.

  “Roger.”

  “You may start the motor.”

  A Davis’ fusion generator is always on, but dampened. The moment Noah reached down and flipped the switch to turn on the motor, the generator surged, sending power to meet the demand. There was no noise, no roar of engines, but there was a slight vibration as the tank’s systems came alive. To Noah, it seemed as if the 103 was a race horse, snorting at the starting gate, ready to bolt as soon as she was released.

  “How are your readings?”

  Noah had forgotten to check them, so hyped was he to get moving. He gave them a rapid eye-over, then told the instructor that all were within the green.

  “I’ve got a 5 KPH limit on, so use the manual and get us to 13B.”

  “Roger that,” Noah said as he pushed the two thumb paddles forward.

  With a jerk, the 103 jumped into motion, only to steady out at the glacial 5 KPH. He understood it, though. There were eight training tanks and eight training ranges. There would be tanks travelling back and forth between those eight ranges, and the instructors didn’t want newbie drivers crossing paths at speed. At 5 KPH, they could stop the tanks if it looked like a collision was imminent.

  Noah tried to ignore his impatience as he trundled 103 behind the ranges to get to 13B. He turned into his range, brought the 103 to the raised starting platform, and stopped her.

  “Still green,” he told Mr. Duval, remembering to check his readouts.