The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins: The Complete Series: Books 1-5

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  It took five Marines to pull him away from where he was stomping on his tank commander’s head.

  Chapter 35

  Noah sat outside the skipper’s office, staring at the splints on his fingers. He’d broken two of them when he’d hit the staff sergeant, and the pain he’d be feeling as the nanos went to work over the next couple of days would remind him of what he’d done and how he’d destroyed what little was left of his career.

  Still, he’d do it again.

  No one would tell him anything about what had happened. After being pulled off the staff sergeant, he’d been taken to the makeshift holding cell at Alpha Camp only to be pulled back to the Bravo Camp sickbay some four or five hours later to get his hand treated. He’d asked about both Lessa and Staff Sergeant Cain but received no answer. The clear plastic disposal bag in the treatment room, with the bloody swabs inside visible, however, was a pretty good indication that he’d done a number on the staff sergeant.

  A civilian inspector had arrived, looking like he’d been pulled out of bed, and had asked Noah what had happened. He said very little other than whispering comments into his recorder as he took in certain points of Noah’s testimony.

  And it was a testimony, Noah knew. But he was willing to accept the consequences of assaulting another Marine, and he’d refused the offer of an attorney. After another hour, the first sergeant had come and got him from sickbay and escorted him to the company office, never saying a word. Noah didn’t bother to ask her anything, and he felt guilty for letting her down. He’d come to greatly respect the first sergeant, and if he had a regret, it was that she’d think less of him.

  The hatch to the office opened, and the first sergeant stuck her head out and motioned him to enter.

  Noah marched in, centered himself on the small field desk, and said, “Sergeant Lysander, reporting as ordered, sir!”

  “At ease, Sergeant,” the skipper said. “Well, you rather went overboard, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “You do know that you can’t just assault other Marines, right? That there are ways that are accepted to handle situations like this?”

  Noah wanted to blurt out that Lessa was assaulted, and while that might be true, it didn’t excuse his actions, but he said “Yes, sir,” instead.

  “So why, for all that is holy, did you decide to take it upon yourself to fall on Staff Sergeant Cain like an avenging angel?”

  “Sir, Lessa . . . Sergeant Franklin . . . is my friend. When I found out what he did to her, I just lost it.”

  “So, do you have a habit of losing your temper? Your platoon sergeant and commander don’t think so,” he said, tilting his head to where the gunny and lieutenant were sitting on folding chairs.

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “So why did you this time? Just because Sergeant Franklin is your friend?”

  “No, sir. Not just because it was her. I’ve been thinking about it. It’s not just because it was her. It could have been anyone. But sometimes, you have to protect others, Marines, civilians, or whomever. That’s what we do, right sir? I mean when we become Marines. To protect people. I know I screwed up, sir. I should have just let the MP’s and MCIS handle it. But when he admitted it . . .”

  Suddenly he paused. He’d told the MCIS guy that Cain had admitted assaulting Lessa, but he wasn’t sure anyone in the office knew that.

  When none of them commented, he continued, “When he admitted it, I just had to act.”

  He’d considered telling some cock-and-bull story that Cain had thrown the first punch, but he couldn’t bring himself around to lying. He figured he’d just stick with the truth and hope he’d not get court martialed. He didn’t want to lose his Honorable Discharge, but “honor” was right there in the word, and he’d thrown honor out the window when he made himself judge, jury, and executioner.

  “Are you, well, are you back to normal now? Do we need to send you for a psych eval?”

  “No, sir. I’m fine. But if I can ask, how is Sergeant Franklin? No one will tell me anything.”

  “She’ll be fine. She had a slight concussion, a broken nose, and bruising, but she’ll stay here and return with the company.”

  “And . . . I mean, was she . . .”

  “Staff Sergeant Cain is being charged with Class B aggravated assault and Class C sexual assault.”

  Noah tried to digest that, thinking back to classes on the UCMJ. A Class B aggravated assault was a step down from trying to kill someone, but it was still serious. A Class C sexual assault was the least serious type of sexual assault, something a Marine might be charged with for exposing him or herself where it was not welcomed. Then it became clear.

  The grubbing fucker bragged about something he hadn’t even done! This was just a beat down on Lessa for revenge, and he’d said the rest of that shit to mess with me.

  It didn’t make Noah any more sorry he’d taken down the staff sergeant. The bastard was more than twice the size of her.

  “Thank you, sir, for letting me know.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “What about the staff sergeant? I mean, was he hurt bad?”

  There was snort from behind him, and in front, the captain smiled and said, “Multiple facial fractures and a broken rib. As I said, you went rather overboard on him.”

  “Yes, sir. I realize that, and I’m ready to accept the consequences of my actions.”

  “You are, are you?” the captain asked. “OK, then I guess you better get going, then. You’re back to being the temporary commander of the Hombre, and you’ve got to be ready to go if we get a third reset.”

  “What?” Noah asked, stunned.

  “Lieutenant Durand, I thought you told me Sergeant Lysander was a bright young man. He doesn’t understand Standard?”

  “Sergeant Lysander, you do speak Standard, right? The skipper told you to get back to the Hombre, and that sounded like an order to me,” the lieutenant said.

  “Yes, sir, and thank you sir. Thank you!” Noah said, wheeling about and rushing out of the office as if he thought the skipper would change his mind. He ran outside, where the morning sun was just rising over the horizon.

  He’d never expected this outcome. It shouldn’t have played out this way, not that he was complaining. The gunny, the first sergeant, and the lieutenant really must have gone to bat for him.

  With the huge weight off his shoulders, he ran back to billeting, changed into overalls without bothering to shower, and rushed to the ramp.

  “Oh, Noah!” Llanzo said as he reached the Hombre. “You’re back.”

  “Yeah, surprised the hell out of me, too.”

  “So, I mean, you’re really back? Here on the Hombre?”

  “No, Llanzo, I’m not.”

  “No? Oh, yeah, I guess not. It’s just when I saw you here . . .” he trailed off as Noah started rummaging around in the parts box.

  Noah found what he was looking for, a can of Ferroshield. A small number of parts on a Davis were made from ferrous metals, and even when treated, they could be subject to rust. He took the can to the front of the Hombre and shook it, then wielding it like a handgun, sprayed over the word “Hombre,” covering it with a dark yellow patch.

  He shook the can one more time, then underneath the patch and in large, clumsy letters, sprayed A-N-V-I-L.

  He stepped back, admiring it for a moment. He’d get Pop to tidy it up later.

  “I’m back with the Anvil, Llanz, not the Hombre. It’s you and me again.”

  Chapter 36

  “Where you at, Llanz?” Noah asked as he tightened the lock-down.

  “Just starting on the D series now.”

  “Push it. Load-out’s in less than two hours.”

  “Roger that.”

  Noah looked at the manual, swiping to the next page. Each and every lock-down had to be done in order, and now that he’d finished the MGS mount, he needed to make sure of what was next.

  Rampant Force, with a day lef
t in the Armor War, had been cancelled. A contingency, in-system, had arisen, and the three Marine companies, along with the battalion of FCDC stationed on Lowe’s Retreat, were being ordered to Saint Gallen. Half of the Aardvarks had already been lifted off the Itch aboard shuttles that would take them across the system.

  Trappist 1 was an ultra-cool dwarf sun with three planets in the Goldilocks zone. Lowe’s Retreat already had a habitable atmosphere and its own fairly advanced life forms. St. Gallen was a Class 2 world, requiring minimal terraforming, while the Itch had required more aggressive terraforming. There was even talk of terraforming Lowe’s Retreat’s moon, a mineral-rich planetoid, and with four habitable planetary bodies in the system, that would break the current record.

  All three planets were members of the Federation, with St. Gallen maintaining a degree of autonomy. One of the oldest systems settled since the Age of Expansion and fairly close to the homeworld, Noah would never have imagined a contingency on any of the planets, much less on St. Gallen. But the bad guys rare cared for such logic and niceties.

  St. Gallen was one of the few refugee worlds for the Capys, who’d been driven from their planets by the Klethos. Noah’s father had fought the Capys until their situation had become clear. Now, only a few million of them survived, with about 300,000 of them, according to the brief they’d received the day before, on St. Gallen in seven different enclaves.

  Enter the bad guys, in this case, a group affiliated with the Human First movement, a loose political party that stretched across humanity and that advocated total human withdrawal from the current agreement with the Klethos. Based out of Brotherhood space, one of their basic tenets was that the Klethos had attacked only because humanity had sided with the Capys against them.

  This was just as ridiculous as the Children of the Dragons, who worshiped the Klethos as gods. The Klethos’ history was one of expansion, and whether humans sheltered the few remaining Capys or not had zero effect with regards to the Klethos and their gladiatorial combat.

  A group of armed fighters had taken over the old walled city of Wallenstadt. Most of the 40,000 Capys in the adjoining refuge had been killed, and about 15,000 humans within the walls were being held hostage. The terrorists threatened to kill them all unless the remaining Capys on the planet were put to death.

  The FCDC battalion would be the point of main effort in the hostage negotiation and/or rescue, but being so close to the home system, it was a light battalion, organized for normal policing but with little in the way of heavy equipment. The Marines were going to provide that heavy punch, either to simply help cow the terrorists, or if it came to it, to support the FCDC troopers in a hostage rescue.

  Noah wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t excited. He’d accepted that Rampant Force was to be his last hurrah, and he’d told Miriam that. But this was beyond his control. He knew Miriam would be royally pissed if the mission lasted longer than a week or so, but he didn’t feel guilty about the mission itself, only that he welcomed it.

  “Sergeant Lysander, you in there?” a voice called from outside the Anvil.

  He twisted his body around and stood, sticking his head out of the gunner’s hatch. Vikky Wallace, the company supply sergeant, stood there with an unfamiliar corporal standing beside her.

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  “You’re short a body, and the skipper wants to know if you want him,” she answered, hooking a thumb at the corporal.

  “What? Who the heck is he?”

  “‘He’ is Corporal Diego White Bear. Just about to graduate from Armor School. The first sergeant found out who out of the class was coming to the company, and it was either him or another guy. The skipper said grab him now if you wanted him.”

  “He’s not even graduated,” Noah said, ignoring the corporal like he wasn’t even there.

  “I will be in four more days, Sergeant,” the corporal said.

  “Hell, there’s no time to get locked in, and in a combat zone, that’s not so good.”

  “The skipper says it’s your call,” Vikky told him.

  Noah was about to dismiss the idea, but something in the eager, almost pleading look in the corporal’s eyes stopped him.

  “You, Corporal. You can drive a Davis?”

  “Yes, Sergeant, I can,” he answered.

  “What was your qual score?”

  “Ninety-six,” he said, pride evident in his voice.

  Grubbing hell, that’s better than my score was.

  Llanzo had stuck his head out of the driver’s hatch when he heard the talking. He wasn’t saying anything, but Noah knew his decision would affect him as well.

  “What do you think?” he asked his driver. “You ready to move up to the gunner’s turret?”

  “I’m ready, but it’s up to you.”

  Noah looked back to the corporal, who was waiting anxiously for his decision. He wanted to go, that much was evident.

  Hoping he wasn’t making a mistake, he said, “OK, get your butt over here. We’ve got load-out in less than two hours.”

  Noah thought the corporal was going to start jumping up and down in excitement.

  “This is only temporary, Corporal, so don’t piss yourself. I’m only the temporary tank commander, so when we get a new one, I’m back to gunner, Sergeant Shearer’s back to driver, and that means you’re out on your ass, understand?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the corporal shouted, throwing his pack on the ground and jumping on the Anvil. “What do you want me to do now?”

  Noah swiped the next checklist to the corporal’s PA and said, “Get working on that. Like I said, we’ve got less than two hours to be ready.”

  SAINT GALLEN

  Chapter 37

  “Please, folks. Keep behind the yellow tape,” Noah said for the hundredth time today.

  “When are you going to do something,” someone yelled from the crowd.

  What do you want me to do? Fire on the city? Jeesh!

  Noah had been pretty excited to get a last, actual mission. Now he almost regretted it. This was far from what he’d expected or in what he and his crew were trained. They’d been on the ground for ten days now, simply sitting and watching while throngs of family, gawkers, and newsies had invaded the city proper. The gawkers were there to witness, the newsies to record, but the families ate at Noah, and there was nothing he could do to help them.

  The terrorists held the old walled city. Noah still didn’t quite understand why the walls had even been built. They might have been a tourist draw over the last few centuries, but at the moment, they provided pretty good protection for the terrorists and a pretty good jail cell for the hostages.

  With a population of 250,000, Wallenstadt was much larger than just the walled city and sprawled along the Rhein where it flowed into the Lake Bodensee. The city, the lake, and the river, framed by snow-capped mountains, was truly beautiful, but it had lost its allure earlier on as the platoon essentially parked and watched, 200 meters from the walls. Noah had felt a little exposed at first, but the terrorists hadn’t shown any anti-tank capability so far—in fact, they had shown no aggression so far. Their demands were simple: kill the Capys on the planet, and they would release the hostages and surrender.

  Judging from the placards and augmented chants from the crowd, it sounded like most of the people thought that was a reasonable price. Just this morning, effigies of Capys appeared, hanging from handmade gallows.

  “Hey, Marine! You in the tank. I want you to talk to my sister,” a middle-aged man shouted, stepping under the yellow tape and holding out his PA.

  “Please, sir, you need to step back,” Noah answered as one of the FCDC troopers came over to manage the situation.

  “My sister! She’s in there!” the man shouted.

  Somewhat to Noah’s surprise, the Homo Primes, as the terrorists referred to themselves, allowed for full communications with the outside. No PA’s had been confiscated. That’s how he knew that just over that wall, not 30 meters in, over 2,000
of them were being held in a church. He knew that there were fewer than 30 guards on them. If it weren’t for the walls, the 30 guards couldn’t hold back their captives should they make a break for it. But the damned wall, 19 meters of unbroken plasticrete, stamped to look like stone, was as good as a jail cell’s bars.

  There were two ships in geosynchronous orbit over the city, scanners peeling back the inner city, layer by layer. Thousands, probably millions of nanodrones had been sent over the walls. The FCDC commander, a full two-star general who’d arrived to take over the operation, had an excellent picture of what was going on inside the city. What he didn’t have was a way to rescue the hostages without thousands of them being killed. So, the negotiators negotiated, but for show, not with the expectation of a breakthrough. This was turning into a major clusterfuck and huge public relations disaster—not to mention the 15,000 lives at stake.

  “I’m coming in,” Gunny Chimond passed on the net.

  With the mass of people, it took them more than a few minutes to move to the sides and let the Boudicca II through. A trooper cut the tape, then waved the gunny forward. Corporal Giscard-Suez, the driver, neatly brought the Boudicca II alongside the Anvil.

  The crowd was chanting again, so Noah passed on the net, “Nothing much new, except for the Capy effigies.”

  “Saw them coming in. Tension is rising. No aggression towards us, though?”

  “Nothing. Just the usual, I mean. They want us to do something.”

  “I want us to do something, Noah. I understand them. But if that’s all, consider yourself relieved.”

  “Roger that, and see you in twelve,” he passed, then to WB, “Let’s take her back—and we’re going through Whoville.”

  “Shit,” Llanzo muttered.

  Noah let it slide. They weren’t physically doing much, but the mental stress was taking its toll. He knew Llanzo just wanted to get back and out of the Anvil, and the direct route to the stadium was Victory Boulevard. “Whoville” was the name the Marines had anointed on the area to the north of Victory, a warren of small, winding streets and alleys. Noah would never want to enter a maze like that under combat conditions, but this wasn’t exactly combat, and WB, as he and Llanzo had taken to calling Corporal White Bear, was still an untested variable, and while he’d performed fine so far, Noah wanted to fit in all the driving time he could for the corporal.