“You’re right, sir. There are ways. But armor would be very vulnerable trying to get within the battalion lines,” he said, meaning it this time.
“He who will not risk, cannot win, Sergeant Major.”
“John Paul Jones, the United States wet-water navy during its revolution. I recognize the quote.”
“I figured you might. But it’s true, nonetheless.”
“Mind if I sit, sir?” Noah asked.
“Be my guest.”
Noah took a seat on the ramp beside him, taking in the undeniable smell of Marine armor. That took him back. He might be the sergeant major of a Marine battalion at the cutting edge of the spear, but his best time in the Corps was as a tank commander of the Anvil II, and he missed those days.
He and the lieutenant started chatting about inconsequentials, but before long, they were talking about tactics. At one point, Lieutenant Constantine jumped up, and using a stick, started mapping out how he’d attack the battalion. Of course, that assumed a full tank and Aardvark platoon, but Noah had to give the young man credit. He’d come up with several ways that he, with far more experience, hadn’t considered. It’d be awfully difficult for eight vehicles to take on a full rifle battalion, but he’d make it difficult for one. Noah was glad that the lieutenant was on their side. Esther was missing an opportunity here.
Finally, he checked the time, stretched, and stood up, saying, “Well, sir, it’s been a pleasure. I mean that. But I need to get back to the CP. When this is all over, I’d like to pick your brains about it, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure thing, Sergeant Major. I’d be happy to.”
Noah nodded to the Aardvark driver, who’d come out to take a piss, then stayed on to listen to the lieutenant lay out his concept of operations to Noah. As sergeant major, Noah was the senior enlisted advisor, and all the enlisted Marines and sailors were sort of under his wings, so-to-speak. But a SNCO was also a vital cog in the training of the officers, and his 40 minutes with Lieutenant Constantine had an effect on the young officer. For the better, Noah assumed. The lieutenant had gotten up as Noah stood, and as Noah stepped off, he was going to one of the other vehicles to check up on it.
Training officers didn’t exclude the battalion commander, Noah knew, and with renewed determination, he started climbing back up to the CP. Now might not be the time, but he’d be shirking his duty if he didn’t try and show his sister where she was wrong in this case.
Esther was a hot-shit Marine, he knew, and he readily gave her props for grunt and recon stuff. But no one was an expert in everything, and if he could get her to sit down with Lieutenant Constantine, for example, and pick his brain, then he’d be doing his job as her sergeant major.
Corporal Ikimura wasn’t on the lines when he returned. Sergeant Halpin was in the fighting hole, fast asleep. Noah didn’t say anything to wake him. He stopped as in front of the CP, ready to go in and do his job, when a faint whine caught his ears. It took a moment for that to sink in.
The Mamba was an electromag-drive vehicle, powered by an almost silent fusion generator. It made less noise than Noah’s Avo hover back on Last Stop, but it wasn’t silent. A crash of vegetation, then the shout of someone on the battalion perimeter confirmed what his instincts had told him would happen.
The Marines on the perimeter opened fire, but without much effect. They just didn’t have the weaponry. Forcing down his smile, he strode into the CP where most of the staff were looking around at each other, waiting for the shoe to drop.
“Colonel, I think we’ve got a problem,” Noah said in a gross understatement.
There was aloud crack of a smoothbore from outside, and Major Johansson, the head umpire assigned to the battalion, looked at his exercise display and announced, “I’m calling the CP out of action. Cease all comms immediately.”
The war wasn’t over. The XO, with the Bravo Command would take over, and with the line companies at full or almost full strength, the battalion still had a chance to beat 3/11, their opposing battalion. With the rifle companies on the alert now, the Mamba section didn’t stand much of a chance, but they’d performed their mission. Lieutenant Colonel Depepe had taken out her opposing number.
That “opposing number” was fuming now, and Noah thought lightening was about to jump out of her eyes and strike everyone in the CP.
With what he knew to be a herculean effort, she calmly said, “You heard the major. Shut down everything.”
She was pissed, no doubt about it, and inwardly, Noah reveled. Not that he was right and she was wrong, although there could be a hint of that inside of him. He knew, though, that Esther would never be caught like that again, and after all of this was over and he suggested that she sit down with Lieutenant Constantine for his input, she’d do it. Esther had a driving desire, no, a requirement to be right, and if she had to be schooled in that knowledge from others, she would.
Her pride was wounded, and she’d hate to face Colonel Depepe, who was her MCMAP sparring partner, and have this lorded over her. But better pride be wounded during peacetime than lives being lost in war.
The CP was shut down, and command shifted to Major Frazier. No one wanted to meet Esther’s eyes, even if none of them had done anything wrong. Noah didn’t want to look at her either, but for a different reason. She knew him too well, and she’d know he thought this was a good thing. Better that he waited until she cooled down before discussing it.
But he couldn’t help be give her one last glance, and in that moment, she locked eyes with him, eyes that still burned with suppressed fury.
Your bed, Ess. You made it, he thought as he refused to break contact.
And to his surprise, her countenance softened, and with a wry half-smile, she nodded.
He’d expected her to come around, but not this quickly. His sister was maturing in the role, he realized. He smiled and nodded back.
“OK, listen up,” she shouted. “We might be dead, but there’s nothing saying we can’t hash out what went wrong. I want all the principles over to the display in five. Be ready for a long session, Marines.”
Noah had intended to gather the SNCO’s, but he was principle staff as well. He told Gunny Vandervee to start packing up the CP, then walked over to where Esther was already staring at the display, going back in five-minute increments as she gathered her thoughts.
This was a good lesson for her and the battalion, but it was about to get hammered into their heads if he knew his sister. Suddenly, he wished he’d taken a piss break before coming back. This was probably going to be a long, long debrief.
Chapter 6
Esther
“Major Kutzman, Lieutenant Constantine, Captain Peaslee, Lieutenant Poul, and Sergeant Major, if you would stay behind?” Esther said as her staff and commanders filed out of the briefing room.
It had been a long, long day, first with the division wargame staff, then with her own staff. She’d gotten a pretty severe comeuppance in the battle with Carol and 3/9 when she’d lost the battalion CP. Luckily for the battalion, the line companies, led by Major Frazier, and persevered, giving the battalion an overall grade of 76—not great, but passing. They were still on track to be certified for deployment. Still, she’d been heartily embarrassed, and she vowed that wouldn’t happen again.
“Thanks for staying back. To get right to the point, what happened with the CP was inexcusable, and I blame myself for that. But that’s the past. What I want to make sure is that never happens again.
“Lieutenant Constantine, I’ve spoken with Colonel Williams, and he’s cleared it for you to stay attached for another week. As for the rest of you, if you tap your PAs to the nub . . . ”
The five Marines dutifully tapped the conference table feed nubs, then looked at what they’d just downloaded.
“That’s FM1205, Command Posts. We, well, we sort of ignored most of that. If you look right there in the front, Paragraph 1.10.02, Captain Peaslee, as headquarters commandant, you are in charge of selecting CP sites afte
r consulting with the communications officer. And while comms is vital, please note what it says on the second line: security is the prime factor.”
Esther let that sink in for the moment.
She knew that in peacetime exercises, some things tended to slip. The ability to communicate became the major factor for a battalion CP. It had always been that way, and she was guilty as anyone. It took Carol Depepe and her Mamba attack to drive that mistake home. She had a squash date with Carol that evening, and the first thing she was going to do was to thank her. Carol was still going to lord it over her, and that was going to sting big time, but better in training than in a real situation.
“So, what I want now is for the CP SOP to be re-written. Captain Peaslee, this is going to be your baby. You’ve got Lieutenant Constantine for a week, so use his expertise well.”
“Aye-aye, ma’am,” the young captain said, his eyes alight. “I’ve got it.”
Too often, the H&S Company commander was treated as a holding pattern while waiting for a line company. They seemed to be more staff than commander, and Esther could see Jeff rise to the challenge. This was his time to make an impact on the battalion.
She didn’t know if the captain was up to it. Maybe he was. But she was going to make sure by having Major Kutzman supervise him. And then there was Noah.
“Sergeant Major, I’d like you to assist Captain Peaslee with the SOP.”
Noah nodded.
You warned me, Noah, true that. Now prove that wasn’t a fluke and you really know what you were doing.
“Between the two of you, I’d like this done within two weeks,” she said.
She waited a moment to see if there was any reaction before saying, “Two weeks as in right before our ACD evals. Next time the battalion takes the field, I want the SOP to be in place.
“Any questions?”
There were none.
“OK, then. I look forward to seeing the end product. Let’s get to work.”
Esther watched them file out of the conference room. She’d been embarrassed by having her CP wiped out, and while she was tasking Peaslee and Noah to craft a new SOP, she knew it was still up to her. She was the commanding officer, and it all fell on her shoulders. Not Peaslee’s. Not Noah’s. Hers.
Chapter 7
Noah
“Where the hell is PFC Islington?” Noah shouted down the passage.
A head poked out of the chaplain’s office, some 30 meters past the duty desk.
“I’ve got him here, Sergeant Major,” Second Lieutenant Eickbush said tentatively.
“Shit, Lieutenant, are you going to keep the CO waiting? Think she has nothing better to do that sit around until you’re good and ready?” Noah shouted back. “How about getting your ass and your PFC up here now!”
The day had gotten off to a bad start and gone downhill from there. With only six days before embarkation, the battalion was at 78% of its Class V load-out, but the PICS maintenance pack was at 42% with no word on when the rest would arrive. The CO had called a 0530 meeting with Captain Tranh and First Lieutenant Hortense (the supply officer) to discuss it, and as Noah was already onboard for the morning, he had joined them. After chewing out the Sup-O for letting it get this far, she called up Division and unloaded on the Division G-4 Maintenance Supply Officer, a fellow lieutenant colonel, just about burning up the line. Noah and the other two listened in, grateful that they weren’t on the receiving end of that tirade.
Noah’s relief had been short-lived, though. As soon as she got off her PA, the Duty Officer, Lieutenant Kaddioui, stuck his head in the office and told them that Corporal Jeh Frump from Charlie had just been in a hover accident coming in back to base.
“Sergeant Major! We’re at six days, right?” his sister asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Noah said, his heart falling, knowing what would come next.
From seven days on in, all unmarried Marines and sailors were on Cinderella liberty.
“And if I’m not mistaken, Corporal Frump is not married.”
Of course, you aren’t mistaken, and you know it.
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“Then how in God’s little green acre was Frump ‘coming back to base?’”
“I’ll find out, ma’am.”
“Do that,” she said with steel in her voice. “And find out if Frump is still deployable.”
Noah beat a hasty retreat to his office, calling First Sergeant Quisenberry to get his ass down to the CP. Corporal Frump was in big trouble, but the First Sergeant had some explaining to do. How was Frump out in town and either no one knew about it or had simply ignored it?
A quick call to the Naval hospital gave him nothing. Frump had just arrived in the ER, but charge nurse promised to call back as soon as he found out anything.
A red-faced Cory Quisenberry knocked on his hatch.
The Charlie Company first sergeant held up his hand in surrender before Noah lit into him and said, “Before you begin, I’m looking into it now. And I have to tell you, I’ve probably got another 12 Marines in the same position.
“Not in the hospital,” he quickly said when Noah started to stand up, mouth dropping open. “I mean, out in the ville. I . . . I just found out. I . . . ”
“You what, First Sergeant?” Noah asked in an icy voice.
Noah had been treading somewhat lightly around Cory, who had the same date of rank as he did. He’d tried not to come down overly bearing, but he was pissed. Thirteen Marines were UA?[5] Because that was what it was. If they were not on the base, they were UA.
The Cinderella liberty for deploying units was chickenshit, Noah knew. It was an overreaction to a number of Marines doing stupid things over the past year or so and becoming non-deployable. Noah had begged Esther to take it up to the CG, which she’d done only to be shot down. And now Frump had justified the restriction.
Noah sent Cory off to make sure all his missing sheep were back in the fold—and to initiate charges. Then he called the other first sergeants and asked for a full accounting of all battalion personnel; not now, twenty minutes before morning formation, but as of 0001 that morning.
A half an hour later, Noah had to inform Esther that of the 33 Marines and two sailors who were subject to Cinderella Liberty and who were not in the battalion area at 0001, only six had been entered into the system as UA. Ten had arrived within 15 minutes of midnight, which normally could be taken care of by non-disciplinary action at the platoon or company level. The rest? Noah didn’t have an answer for that yet, and Esther—his Commanding Officer—had blistered his hide, the first time that had happened since they were kids.
Noah didn’t like getting his hide blistered, and he blamed his company first sergeants. He set up a meeting at 1500, and he expected answers. Nothing was going to take away the sting of his sister’s rebuke, but he was going to make sure that she wasn’t going to get the same opportunity again. This issue was going to be fixed if he had to get Esther to restrict the entire battalion to the barracks until they embarked.
At 0900, the first of five Battalion Commander NJP’s was scheduled. The intent had been to clear the CO’s outstanding cases before embarking. With all the new UA’s, however, that wasn’t going to happen.
The first four NJPs went smoothly. One was dismissed, one was referred to a summary court martial, and two Marines were busted a rank each, fined half a month’s pay for three months, and restricted to the battalion for three months. They’d be staying on the ship for at least one liberty port, possibly more. And now, with his to-do list getting longer by the minute, Second Lieutenant Eickbush was playing hide-and-seek with his PFC.
“Sergeant Major, where’s my next case?” Esther called out over the office intercoms.
“Just a moment, ma’am. I’ll have her right in.”
“Here’s PFC Islington,” Lieutenant Eickbush said at his open hatch.
“About time, Lieutenant,” he said. “You go report in to the CO. She’ll ask you for some background,” he ad
ded before turning to the nervous-looking private first class.
“And you, get your ass in here,” he said, grabbing the Marine by her upper arm and almost dragging her to his desk. “Read this.”
PFC Islington picked up the docutab, then dropped it on the deck.
“Son-of-a-bitch, Islington, can’t you hold onto it? You sure seemed pretty capable out at the Foxy Moxie.”
“Sorry, Sergeant Major,” the PFC said, her voice cracking, as she picked the docutab back up and started to read it.
“Any day, now, Islington, or do you intend on keeping the CO waiting?”
“Uh, no, Sergeant Major.”
“Are you Private First Class Isadora Islington? Do you realize you are being charged with Article Nine-Oh-Two of the UCMJ, Disorderly Conduct?”
“Ye . . . yes, Sergeant Major.”
“Then scan the damned thing and let’s get going. You don’t need to read every grubbing word.”
The PFC raised the tablet, stared at the lens, and scanned her acknowledgement.
“About grubbing time. OK, let’s get going.”
He led the now shaking PFC out into the passage and to the CO’s hatch.
Knocking loudly, he said, “Private First Class Isadora Islington, reporting for the battalion commander’s non-judicial punishment.”
“Send her in.”
“Center yourself on her desk and report in,” he told Islington.
He slipped in behind her while the PFC marched up to Esther’s desk, and in a soft voice, reported in.
“Speak up, Islington,” Noah told her.
At least this case was pretty cut-and-dried. Islington, out with three other Marines, got into a confrontation with a group of five civilians. There was an argument of some mundane matter, some back-and-forth, and one civilian either shoved or didn’t shove Lance Corporal Quince Ianconto. No one knew exactly because the owner of the Foxy Moxie refused to provide tapes of the incident. What was sure was that Islington decided to take matters into her own hands and break a chair over the civilian’s back.
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