Commandant (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 8)

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  He swept his gaze out over the recruits, trying not to linger on Ben. Montero had prepared a policy speech for him to give, but this was not his day, it was not a time for politics. In front of him stood 689 men who were about to become Marines. This was their day. Ryck was very aware of the horde of holocams recording the event, but he tuned them out. What he had to say was for the recruits.

  “Recruits! Today is the day you become United Federation Marines. Today you begin the rest of your lives. Some of you will serve a tour, then go back to your previous lives. Some of you will fall in battle. And some of you will make a career of the Corps. But no one can change history. Today you will be Marines, and that will never leave you. That will define who you are, what you are.

  “All of you enlisted during the current crises. And all of you could be thrust into battle soon, fighting fellow Federation citizens, maybe even fighting friends and family. But let me make one thing perfectly clear. Those who choose to fight for the old regime are not our enemies. They may be misguided, they may be foolish, but we are fighting for that factory worker in India on Earth just as we are fighting for the shopkeeper here in Tarawa. We are fighting for all citizens, to make the Federation their protector instead of their oppressor.

  “So when you are out there in a week, in a month, in a year, and you have to bring arms against others, remember that. Fight like the devil dogs you are, close in with and kill those on the other side, but after this is over, when they have surrendered their arms, it will be your job to protect them. Our enemies are those who pervert and corrupt power for their own ends, not those enslaved to them.

  “We were formed from 48 different marine corps. Each infantry battalion has a patron unit, one of those 48 corps, and we honor those units and the battles they fought, from Belle Isle to Iwo Jima to Isla Clarión to Mount Derby. Now it’s your turn to create new honors and keep the tradition alive.”

  Ryck turned to look at the bleachers. Not many family members had come to witness the graduation, but given the situation, that was to be expected.

  “Parents, brothers, and sisters. Friends and girlfriends. Wives. I want you to look out over these recruits, these men, and feel the same pride I feel when I look at them. These men are putting themselves on the line for those less able to defend themselves, and that should fill you so full of pride that your heart is about to burst. You gave us boys, and we are giving you back men.”

  He turned back and faced Joab.

  “Colonel, I believe these recruits are waiting for something?”

  Joab stepped forward and faced the formation.

  “Class, atten-HUT!” he called out.

  With four series commanders in a combined class, it was a little awkward, so Joab had decided that he would administer the oath to them en masse. Each recruit had given the oath upon enlistment, but it had been a tradition over the last ten years or so to re-administer the oath during the graduation, marking the transition from recruit to Marine.

  The orders went down the line as the recruits came to attention and then raised their right hands in unison.

  Colonel Ling shouted out the oath, repeated by each recruit:

  I, state your name, do solemnly swear, to support and defend the Articles of Council of the United Federation of Nations, against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same and above all others; and that I will obey the orders of the Chairman of the United Federation and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.

  There had been some concern about the wording of the oath, but the SJA, backed by Ryck, insisted that the oath remain the same. Anything else could invalidate their claim to be the true and legal government of the Federation.

  “Congratulations, Marines!” Joab said.

  There were no cheers or breaking of the ranks as might be expected. The Marines stood tall and silent.

  The lieutenant pressed into duties as the parade adjutant stepped forward and shouted out, “Personnel to be promoted, front and center. . .MARCH!”

  The senior drill instruction for each series turned to take the series guidons, and the four new privates executed a right face and marched to the edge of the formation before conducting two column lefts, coming to a stop in front of Ryck and Joab.

  The adjutant called out:

  To all you shall see these presents, greeting:

  Know ye that reposing special trust and confidence in the abilities of Giovanni Listman Caster, Ivan Stevanivitch, Benjamin Hope-of-Life, and Quincy Stapleton Lee, I do appoint them a Private First Class, meritoriously, in the United Federation Marine Corps, to rank as such from the fourteenth day of August, three-hundred sixty-seven.

  This appointee will therefore well and diligently discharge the duties of the grade to which appointed by doing and performing all manner of things thereunto pertaining. And I do strictly charge and require all personnel of lesser grades to render obedience to appropriate orders. And this appointee is to observe and follow such orders and directions as may be given from time to time by seniors acting according to the rules and articles governing the discipline of the Armed Forces of the United Federation.

  Given under my hand this fourteenth day of August, three hundred sixty-seven.

  Ryck Lysander, General, Commandant of the Marine Corps.

  As the adjutant finished with Ryck’s name, the depot sergeant major, Joab, and Ryck stepped forward to the first honor graduation.

  “Private First Class Caster, congratulations,” Ryck said as he took the stripe from the sergeant major and pinned to the Marine’s left arm as Joab pinned the other to his right.

  It was a very temporary fix, good enough for the Marine to march off, but not permanent. But with dress blues, it was about as good as they could get.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Daxby, sir!”

  “Daxby? Good people there. I know they’re proud of you. I’m proud.”

  Ryck thought PFC Caster was going to bust right out of his blues he was puffing up his chest so much as Ryck shook his hand.

  The three senior Marines did a right face and moved to the next Marine.

  “Private First Class Stevanivitch is the Class honor grad with a score of 99.2,” Joab said as Ryck faced the Marine.

  Hell, I never came close to that!

  “That’s simply outstanding, Marine. Really outstanding,” Ryck told the beaming Marine. “Your promotion is well deserved. How did you manage to do so well, if I can ask?”

  “Just never gave up, sir. A Marine never quits!”

  Ryck shook Stevanivitch’s hand and stepped off to stand in front of Ben.

  “And’s what’s your name, Marine? Ryck asked, his voice almost catching.

  “Private First Class Benjamin Hope-of-Life, General!”

  Ryck nodded as he took the chevrons and attached them to Ben’s arm.

  Some bicep he’s got building there, he noted.

  “And, uh. . .”

  Ryck had rehearsed something say, to let Ben know how proud he was, how much he loved him, but his thoughts were jumbled. He wished Hannah was there to share the moment, and that choked him up.

  “How did you find Mount Motherfucker?” he spit out.

  What the hell am I saying?

  Ben seemed to think about the same thing as he wrinkled up his brow and said, “Uh, it was tough, General. But as Recruit Stevan. . .I mean Private First Class Stevanivitch said, a Marine never gives up. My father taught me that.”

  “Your father must be a remarkable man,” Joab said from beside Ryck.

  “Yes, sir, the best!” Ben almost shouted.

  Ryck couldn’t say anything. Nothing would come out. He shook his son’s hand, then stopped off to the last Marine to be promoted.

  He didn’t quite remember what he said to PFC Lee, but he hoped it was memorable for the Marine’s sake. He didn’t quite remember getting back in front of the formation as the f
our marched back to their positions. He didn’t quite remember Joab Ling ordering the series commanders to dismiss their Marines.

  What he did remember, and always would, was the cheer that erupted from the throats of 689 Marines, and the look of unadulterated joy on his son’s face as he flung his cover high into the air.

  Chapter 19

  Two days later, Ryck was in the MCCC, following Operation First Strike. First Battalion, Tenth Marines, under Lieutenant Colonel Case Twelvetrees, landed on Wrym, the terraformed moon of Demeter VII.

  The moon had little strategic value. It had been an experiment some 200 years earlier as the first attempt to terraform a moon of a gas giant. Titan in the home system had been colonized and mined, but no gas giant’s moon had been completely terraformed to allow for humans to live unprotected on its surface. The attempt on Wyrm was a success—in theory. Demeter VII exerted such a huge gravitational pull on the moon that building there was problematic, however, so while the moon had an atmosphere and a somewhat diverse biology, any attempt to develop the moon was abandoned within a couple of decades. Now, the moon was both a scientific waystation and the closest outpost of the FCDC to the void.

  Invading and taking Wrym was more of a statement than anything else. It shouted out to the rest of humanity that the provisional government was ready to assume its duties to defend humanity from the unknown, and it was a message to the Council that the provisional government was coming.

  The FCDC garrison numbered more than 1,000, but with some 2,500 Marines landed and now advancing on their main post, it was only a matter of time before they fell. They were putting up somewhat a fight, though, which surprised Ryck, but was in line with Jorge’s predictions.

  “Another WIA,” Sergeant Major Ito said as the display counter clicked up one.

  The Marines had landed over five hours ago, and the supply depot had been secured at the cost of two Marines KIA and one WIA. As with most PICS operations, KIAs outnumbered WIAs. Now, two more Marines had joined the WIA count and two to the KIA. These were small numbers compared to the scope of the operation, but each one hit Ryck in the gut.

  Ryck knew that he was a good warrior, able to think on his feet and improvise. He knew he had a knack for outmaneuvering his foe. But he’d never learned to slough off casualties, something the great leaders had to be able to do. Leaders had to fight with big arrows on the battleplans, not down to the individual Marines.

  Twelvetrees was moving his battalion methodically, too slow for Ryck’s mind. He kept looking at his comms, set up with a direct link to both Twelvetrees as well as Colonel Warner, the overall operational commander. But he restrained himself. Too many cooks spoiled the soup, and too many commanders just got people killed.

  “Top? Do you have anything to drink?” Ryck asked Marten Ekema, his throat dry.

  “Right here, sir,” the top said, handing Ryck some frothy, citrusy concoction.

  Ryck didn’t know what it was, but it cut through the dryness of this throat while calming him down.

  “This is so much harder than leading men into battle,” he remarked quietly to Jorge.

  “True, but don’t worry. Twelvetrees and Warner have this in hand. It’s only a matter of time. And this is just the first salvo, the slapping of the glove across the Council’s face. They’ll probably be a lot more fights, and we don’t need you tied up in knots during each engagement. Look, they’ve breached the outer walls of the fort.”

  Ryck had been facing Jorge, and now he swung around to the command display. Marines in PICS were pouring into the fort to minimal resistance. Within two minutes, the FCDC commander surrendered.

  “Acta est fibula, plaudit,” Jorge said.

  Ryck just looked at his chief of staff expectantly.

  “The drama has been acted out. Applaud.”

  As is on cue, the MCCC broke into applause. Marines and sailors stood up and congratulated each other.

  It wasn’t us, Ryck thought. It was them out there.

  But he accepted Admiral Mendez’ congratulations.

  This was just a dress rehearsal, though, against an overwhelmed FCDC force. When they faced fellow Marines, as Ryck was sure would happen, it wouldn’t be such a cakewalk.

  Chapter 20

  “Look, I don’t care if you have to shit them, just take care of it,” Ryck almost snarled at Lieutenant General Marv Oppenheimer, his chief of logistics.

  God I’m beginning to hate him, Ryck thought as the general wearily sat back down in his seat.

  He wasn’t being fair, he knew. The general was working 20 hours a day trying to make sure Marines had what they needed when they needed. And with Ryck’s plan of light engagements, the Marines were very dispersed. Ryck’s wasn’t too concerned about any ground forces, but he didn’t want to be concentrated enough to tempt the loyalist Navy into a strike against him.

  Besides, the issue with the PICS coldpacks was not Marv’s fault. The manufacturer and the main depot for the coldpacks, which were vital to the operation of a PICS, were on First Step, which was firmly in loyalist control. And when General Nottingham had led the defectors to Alexander, he’d managed to raid several of the remaining depots, right under the Marines’ noses, of a number of vital components, the coldpacks being one of them. Now, Marv had just informed him that they had only enough of them for six days of total combat. It pissed Ryck off to no end that his mighty force of PICS Marines could be sidelined for want of a 128 credit part. What hit doubly hard was that the theft was done under his watch. He’d already been sworn in as commandant.

  Ryck had already canceled one operation by Fourth Division, and he’d delayed another because of the shortage. That galled him bitterly. But better to use the PICS where and when they could do the most good.

  Ryck was fed up to his neck in the seemingly innocuous problems that seemed to be able to bring the government to a halt. Ryck wanted to focus on the fight, to bring others to his cause, and crush the old regime. But he couldn’t. Life went on. Couples were getting married. Babies were being born. Kids were going to school. People were aging and dying. Nothing stopped just because a full-out war was just waiting to break out. And all those people, all those babies, all those in ill health demanded attention. Ryck tried to push as much of that off to the CAC, but some things just had to be done by him, it seemed. This morning, before his staff brief, he’d spent almost 45 minutes with two different heads of state who demanded Ryck’s attention. It just never ended.

  “What’s next,” he sourly asked Jorge.

  “This one,” his chief of staff said, punching up an Immediate Action Issue on everyone’s PA. “Weyerhaeuser is demanding that they receive transport for their wheat crop.”

  “But Weyerhaeuser declared for the loyalists,” Ryck protested.

  “That was their headquarters in Seattle. This is Weyerhaeuser 4, and their wheat is needed by our own people.”

  “So Weyerhaeuser 4 is with us?” Ryck asked.

  “And more than a few others,” Sams said. “It sort of depends on where they’re located. Can’t rightly up and move their superfarms.”

  “And why can’t they ship their own crops?”

  “Because WSC, the Weyerhaeuser shipping company, is with the loyalists,” Jorge said.

  “So let me get this straight. Our Weyerhaeuser, the good guys, their headquarters are with the bad guys, but the company’s ships, which go where they want, can’t take their grain because they’re with the bad guys.”

  “Yes, that’s about right, sir,” Jorge said.

  Ryck shook his head and simply looked up at the ceiling.

  Un-grubbing believable. I’ve got Marines about to go into battle in five hours, and I have to deal with this?

  “Admiral Mendez,” he said as he sat back up. “Does the Navy have that kind of lift?”

  “Well, technically, yes, but the CNO

  [11] won’t release them for that. It would tie them up.”

  Ryck as tempted to call up the admiral and make
a demand, but he knew his liaison was right. They couldn’t tie up warships because some company’s wheat would spoil. Let them stick it in stasis until the war was over, and screw the cost.

  “General Simone, I want you to get a hold of Major Pohlmeyer when we’re done here. Offer him licensing concessions, whatever, but convince him that some this would be a windfall for some Confed shipping firm. See if he’ll bite.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Jorge said.

  “Look, gentlemen, I’ve got to get to an operational brief, so let’s wrap up this mundane garbage in record time. What’s next?”

  God save us from ourselves, he thought, his eyes glazing over as Jorge brought up the next issue.

  Chapter 21

  “Fourteen ships lost,” Vice Admiral Jeremy Mendez said, his voice low and in shock.

  The two men were alone in Ryck’s office as his Navy liaison broke the news.

  “My old ship, the Marseilles, was one of them,” the admiral continued.

  The Marines were on a clean sweep. Five operations with unqualified success. The Navy had not been so fortunate. First, there was their lack of ability to protect the GT-3 hub. Now, fourteen ships had been lost in a devastating ambush.

  This is one fucked up war, Ryck thought, putting a hand on the admiral’s shoulder.

  With the UAM, spearheaded by the Brotherhood, demanding that neither Navy use weapons of mass destruction on any planet, the loyalist and evolutionary Navies were somewhat hamstrung. With all their massive power, they couldn’t do much, and that had relegated this “war” to a handful of small Marine raids that while successful, did nothing to swing the tides between the two governments. The Navy was left more in a protective mode.

  Navies are led by fighting men, though, men who don’t shirk from battle and even seek it out. And when a 20-ship task force from Third Fleet started aggressively patrolling near the Corinthia, a loyalist planet in an otherwise evolutionary sector of space, the task force was ambushed, losing 14 ships. The loyalists lost five ships in one of the fiercest naval battles in recent years. Twenty-five thousand men lost. All for what was simple posturing.