Star Marine!

by John Bowers

  Over Colombian coffee — difficult to get since the war started — they concluded their official business and Vaughn got to the real reason for wanting to see Davis.

  "General Davis," he began diplomatically, "I want to personally thank you for providin' one of your valuable men to escort my wife upon her return to Sirius. That was most kind of you."

  Davis looked blank for a moment.

  "Oh! You are speakin' of General Wallace's daughter. Yes, certainly. It was my pleasure, Field Marshal."

  Vaughn tried not to grit his teeth.

  "It was most generous of you. However, now that Scarlett and I have wed, I was wonderin' if perhaps Captain Davenport's services might be utilized elsewhere. I have my own security people, and I truly believe my wife is in no danger. I am certain Davenport is a valuable man, and I would hate to see him occupied where he is no longer needed."

  Davis peered at Vaughn for an interminable second.

  "Are you sayin' that Davenport is still there? After all this time?"

  "Why, yes, General. It was my understandin' that he was under orders from your office." Vaughn felt a stir of uneasiness.

  "As you will certainly understand, Field Marshal, I cannot personally keep track of every officer under my command, but … I believe his orders were to meet Miss Wallace at the orbital station and accompany her back home. He was to oversee her return to Sirian life and aid her with any difficulties. I did not anticipate that taking more than a few months at the outside." He frowned. "How long has it been now? Two years? Three?"

  "Almost four years, General."

  Davis scowled. "My gawd! I shall have him recalled at once! I hope his presence has not inconvenienced you?"

  Vaughn smiled. It was good to see Davis squirm, if only slightly.

  "Not at all, General. The good captain has been a perfect gentleman, and I am sure my wife has felt quite secure under his protection. Again, I thank you for providin' his services."

  Twenty minutes later, Major General Andrew Jackson Davis stormed into his office and roared at his aide.

  "What the gawddamn fuckin' hell is Captain Davenport still guardin' Mistress Martin Vaughn for? I want to see a copy of his orders on my desk right now!"

  Without waiting for a reply, he slammed into his private office and dropped heavily into his chair, fishing out a cigar and a flask of Lightning. The luncheon had gone perfectly until Vaughn had trotted out Davenport, which was an oversight on the part of the SE. How in the name of Zeus had that one slipped past?

  The aide hurried into his office and dropped a folder on his desk. Davis leaned forward and ripped it open. The paper copy was at the back, and he pulled it out and looked at it. As he'd expected, the order specifically stated "until no longer needed, term of which not to exceed six (6) months". Davis sucked smoke and let it dribble out his nose as he squinted suspiciously at the order.

  "Pull this up on the computer," he said brusquely.

  The aide whipped out his pocket terminal and placed it on the desk, activated the antenna, and seconds later had the order on screen. He spun it around so Davis could see. The text of the order read exactly as the paper version, until the last sentence:

  " … until recalled personally by Maj. Gen. A.J. Davis."

  "Gawd damn!" Davis whispered. "Who changed this?" He glared up at the aide as if it were his fault. "This was entered incorrectly, Major! Either that, or someone doctored it. Who keyed this order in?"

  "I-I believe I did, sir. I keyed it directly as it was written on the file copy. I swear it, sir!"

  Davis eyed him for a moment, turning the Major's blood cold.

  "Then someone fucked with it later," he said. "Don't say a word about this. Put someone on Davenport immediately, around the clock. If he does anything out of the ordinary — anything at all — take him out."

  Sunday, 29 April, 0232 (PCC) - Lunar Base 4, Luna

  Rico Martinez returned to Luna 4 on a Sunday afternoon, happier than he'd ever been in his life. He already missed Carla, but he'd be seeing her again. Of that he had no doubt.

  He found Second Squad in barracks, most of them performing the million and one chores that were required to keep up with inspections, things there was never enough time to do when on duty. Everyone was there, and when he strode down the center of the barrack, things got noisy. For two hours he lied to them about all the women he'd laid while on leave, but never mentioned Carla once. If word got out that he was seeing an officer, it wouldn't be just his neck on the line.

  The Fearless Fourless were as noisy and vulgar as ever. Maniac wanted all the details of Rico's sexual exploits, and complained about the lack of women around the base. Tiny had fully recovered from his wound and simply wanted another crack at the bastards. Gearloose worried about their next campaign, claiming that what had gone before had been a Sunday picnic in comparison. Texas worried about nothing at all.

  Chavez and White had become best pals, and Roberson was still an outcast. Four new men had joined the squad in Rico's absence to replace those killed on Alpha 2. They were all cherries, none over twenty years old. Their names were Denny Whitmore, Alvin Machado, Lewis Hamilton, and Darrel Grove. When Rico was introduced, they stared at him as if he were a decorated hero.

  Just before lights out, Sgt. Ragsdale strolled into the barrack and looked around. Spotting Rico, he headed toward him.

  "'Bout time you got back," he said. "Been looking for you."

  Rico felt his chest tighten — did Ragsdale know about Carla? Could anyone possibly know? Rags stopped in front of him, glared at him a moment, then called the others to gather around.

  "I don't want to make more of this than necessary," he said, "but I guess it isn't every day a guy gets what's coming to him." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small paper package. He handed it to Rico, who looked at it with disbelieving eyes. "While you were gone, Captain Connor bumped you up a couple of grades. You're now a corporal." He managed a grin and shook Rico's hand. "Congratulations, Martinez."

  Rico was stunned. "Thanks, sergeant."

  "Holy shit!" Maniac moaned.

  "Rags, do we gotta salute this little brown fuck?" Texas demanded.

  "Just so you know," Ragsdale said, as if it were an afterthought, "the Fighter Queen put you in for a medal after you pulled her out of that blizzard. Unfortunately, it didn't go through. Command figured you only did what any other Star Marine would've done. Tough break."

  Rico nodded, even more surprised. He hadn't known about the recommendation, so not getting it didn't hurt. But he was thrilled that she'd recommended him. That was worth more than the medal itself ever could have been.

  "No problem, sergeant."

  "Get those stripes sewed on. Starting tomorrow, you have to work a lot harder."

  Ragsdale turned and left the barrack.

  Orbit of Terra

  "Well?"

  James Carson leaned on one elbow and lifted his glass of wine. A twinkle in his eye betrayed his bemused curiosity. Carla Ferracci's dark eyes lifted to meet his.

  "Well, what?" she asked.

  "Are you going to tell me about it?"

  "I'm going to finish my dinner," she said. "You can talk about whatever you like."

  Carson's smile widened. "I think maybe you had a successful leave," he teased.

  "Is that what you think?"

  "Yes, that's what I think. I haven't seen you this relaxed since the war started."

  Carla took a bite of her steak and chewed slowly, avoiding his eyes as she fought back a smile of her own.

  "What did you do while I was gone?" she asked.

  "Flew circles around the carrier, pretended to be at war. Just like we always do."

  "Was it fun?"

  "It's always fun when nobody's shooting at you." He sipped his wine and watched her eat, waiting. Finally she blushed.

  "What?" she demanded.

  "How'd it go?"

  "What do you want, James? A hump-by-hump description?"

  "Tha
t would be acceptable. But not necessary."

  "It was okay," she said. "Rico and I had a wonderful time. I met his sister and nephew and I got to tour the LincEnt factory where they build the fighters. Did you know that Rico's nephew is Johnny Lincoln's son?"

  Carson blinked in surprise. "Railsplitter? Are you kidding?"

  "I'm not kidding. He's a cute kid, wants to grow up to be a pilot, too. All he wanted to talk about was killing Sirians."

  "How old is he?"

  "Ten or eleven. Looks just like his dad."

  "Well, hopefully this thing will be over before he gets that old."

  "Don't count on it."

  "What about you and Rico? Does it look promising?"

  Carla smiled again and lowered her eyes.

  "Not as long as I'm a captain and he's a private."

  "Maybe it's time for you to get out."

  She stared at him thoughtfully, her eyes glazing for a moment.

  "I thought about that," she confessed. "But I think I'll stay in until he gets out. We could get out together."

  "And then what?"

  "Who knows? We'll figure something."

  "Did he propose to you?"

  "No, thank God. I'm not ready for that yet. I have a long way to go, James. But with Rico, I think I might make it. As long as he's willing to be patient with me."

  They finished their dinner and he walked her back to quarters.

  "We're shipping out in the morning," he told her.

  "Already? Where to this time?"

  "Back to Alpha Centauri. We took it, now we got to occupy it. You can expect some action, I think. The enemy is going to be probing us for awhile."

  "When is the next invasion?"

  "Nobody tells me those things. Are you in a hurry?"

  "God, no! I was just wondering. I hope Rico doesn't get sent in again. He just re-upped, so he's going to be in another six years."

  "Jesus Christ! You'll be forty years old!"

  She slapped his arm playfully.

  "I will not! I'll only be thirty-eight."

  "Talk him out of it, Carla. The next invasion will be against one of their home worlds. The enemy is going to fight like they've never fought before. Get him to quit, and you quit with him. Finish medical school and take Rico off to Italy, or wherever. Before it's too late."

  She just shook her head.

  "I tried," she said. "It's already too late."

  Chapter 49

  May - September 0232 (PCC) - Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  The next four months were almost torture for Wade Palmer. He sweated over the details of Periscope Harbor as if the entire burden rested on his shoulders alone. Hundreds of other planners also labored, but as more and more details were ironed out, Wade became daily more convinced the plan would fail.

  The operation was scheduled for 1 November, 0232. That wasn't enough time to get all the components ready, but he was overruled on that point — Willard believed it necessary to strike before the Sirians thought it possible.

  The Plan called for a diversionary strike against eleven major military bases on Vega, to be carried out by thirty-two squadrons from four carriers. Wade felt that was unwise — Vega was at least as heavily armed as Beta Centauri. Any fighter crews disabled over Vega would be lost, as the carriers would have to warp out to safety the minute their squadrons were recovered.

  He was overruled.

  The Plan called for the landing to be made without any target prep. The attack would kick off during Beta's annual Periscope Festival, a week-long carnival that began on 28 October and ended on 4 November. Willard believed that would distract the enemy. Wade disagreed — FIA had reported that the mountains around the landing zone were bristling with ASC defenses; anything approaching Periscope Harbor would present a nice fat target.

  He was overruled.

  The Plan called for the troop transports to arrive in orbital space at warp drive, then plunge directly through the atmosphere and deliver the landers before enemy space power could react. Fighter squadrons would arrive at the same time, engage enemy fighters, and keep the heat off the transports. Wade felt that was terribly risky.

  He was overruled.

  Supply would be a major problem. Establishing a supply line depended on a successful fighter interdiction in Beta's orbital space. Beta Centauri boasted no fewer than sixty fighter bases, most situated on unpopulated islands. That didn't count the estimated ten carriers reportedly cruising the Beta system, each of which could launch from six to twelve squadrons. And, of course, the Confederacy could send more from both Sirius and Vega. Wade wasn't confident that Federation fighters could overcome those odds, even with squadrons arriving hourly from Alpha 2 — especially with four carriers diverted to Vega.

  He was overruled.

  The Plan discarded essential equipment in the interest of packing the transports with additional troops. Periscope Harbor covered a small land area and would be heavily defended. The landing zone would be the city airport, the only place with enough open ground. A finite number of landing craft could arrive at any one time, so it was imperative to land as many troops as possible with each arrival. But Willard's plan called for holding back such items as armor, heavy weapons, and extra ammunition until day two of the battle. Wade found that outrageous.

  He was overruled.

  General Willard's favorite phrases kept running through his mind — "when the going gets tough … ", and "necessity is the mother of invention". Prior to Operation Gang-Bang Wade had managed to eke out an idea that saved the day, and he wondered if he was being too negative about this one. Perhaps there was a saving grace somewhere that he'd overlooked, some hidden strategy so obvious that he couldn't see it.

  But, try as he might, he couldn't find it.

  Thursday, 4 October, 0232 (PCC) - Polygon, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  On 4 October, Wade Palmer requested a personal meeting with General Willard. He had to wait an hour, then was shown into Willard's office. Mournful music from hidden speakers reached his ears, a sad song about some soldier who was very lonely. Willard turned it off and looked up expectantly at his junior planner.

  "Good morning, Palmer," he said. "Got it figured out already? Going to tell me how to pull this off?"

  Wade swallowed unhappily and stared back at the grizzled old man.

  "No, sir."

  "Too bad. What's on your mind?"

  "General Willard … I'm requesting a transfer to a combat assignment."

  Willard looked as if he'd been lasered. Shock sprang over his time-worn features and his eyes widened a little. He dropped back into his chair, at a loss for words. Wade stood silently while Willard collected his thoughts.

  "Son," the general said quietly, "you don't need my permission. Admiral Boucher is your commanding officer."

  "Yes, sir. But I wanted you to know, General."

  "This has something to do with Periscope Harbor?"

  "Yes, sir. The operation is scheduled to begin in four weeks, sir, and if at all possible, I want to be there."

  "May I ask why?"

  "Yes, sir. Because going in with the troops is the only way I can see to improve the odds for their survival."

  Willard bit his lip and frowned. His cheeks slowly turned crimson.

  "If you're being melodramatic just to illustrate how strongly you oppose this plan, Lieutenant, I'm not impressed."

  "No, sir, that's not my intention. I've been thinking about combat for several months now. And there's nothing more I can do here. I can't pull this one out of the fire, sir, and neither can anyone else. No one has figured out a way to make this work."

  "It's going to work, Palmer. The Marines will go in, we'll give them full space support, and we'll win the day."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I disagree. Even if everything works according to plan, I don't believe we can hold the harbor. We're going to lose those divisions, sir."

  "If you feel that strongly, you've still got four wee
ks to …"

  "No, sir. I've been on it for six months. Four more weeks isn't going to make any difference. Not even the computer virus is going to save this one. It's doomed, General, and I will not accept even the slightest responsibility for it. I don't want my name attached to any of the documentation. That's why I'm requesting a transfer."

  "So this is a protest. Is that it?"

  "You might interpret it that way, sir. I call it standing on principle. My career isn't as important to me as the lives of the men who'll ride down in those landers. As an officer in the Space Force, I'll not be a party to it, even if it means a star-court."

  "I'm not going to cancel this operation just because you want to quit," Willard said.

  "No, sir, I know that."

  "And I'm not going to beg you to reconsider."

  "I don't expect you to, sir."

  Willard compressed his lips, clearly unhappy. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  "Well, Palmer, I will admit that I'm sorry to see you go. You had a hell of a run here, and you could've had a great future. I just hope you don't get yourself killed out there."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Willard stood up as if to shake hands, but Wade saluted him smartly. Without another word, he wheeled and walked out of the office.

  Monday, 8 October, 0232 (PCC) - Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  Wade got his orders four days later. He would take a military transport to Alpha Centauri, where he would transfer to UFF Anwar Sadat and join the crew as a strategy officer. It wasn't combat in the true sense of the word, but it was a fighting ship, and he'd be near the action. Anything might happen.

  Kamada and Boucher were saddened to see him go, and the office threw him a party. He'd cleaned out his desk and when the shift ended that day, he left the Polygon for the last time.

  * * *

  Until his request was granted and he received new orders, Wade had said nothing to Dianne Love. He knew how she felt about his transferring closer to combat and saw no reason to upset her needlessly. When he reached his apartment on this day, however, he had to tell her the news. She reacted pretty much as he expected.