Drill Instructors were not supposed to alter any recruit’s name, but no one ever complained. Suicide by DI was not something anyone wanted to experience.
“Yes, Drill Instructor Phantawisangtong,” he said, stumbling over the name slightly.
All of the recruits practiced saying his name, afraid of messing it up, but the stress might have gotten to Ryck.
“Recruit Calderón was aware of the inspection. He was told to get his gear ready. This recruit attempted to assist Recruit Calderón, but it was hopeless. This recruit told him to get it done, and it was up to him to pass or fail.”
“You told him to get it done. And he did not do as ordered, is that what you are saying?” King Tong asked.
“Yes, Drill Instructor!”
“Recruit Squad Leader Lysander, in your most expert opinion, does Recruit Calderón have what it takes to be a Marine?” King Tong asked.
This was it. The bottom line. Ryck had to respond truthfully.
“No, Drill Instructor, this recruit does not believe that Recruit Calderón has it in him to be a Marine. He is not Marine material.”
There was silence in the squadbay. Ryck could almost feel the attention of 66 recruits and eight DIs on him.
“Recruit Squad Leader Lysander,” Senior Drill Instructor Despiri’s voice cut through to him. “Are you Recruit Calderón’s squad leader?”
“Yes Senior Drill Instructor!”
“Was it your task to get your squad ready for inspection?”
“Yes, Senior Drill Instructor!”
“If you are going into a fight, are you just going to tell your Marines to have their proper battle load, or are you going to check them?”
“Uh . . .” he started, unable to forego the using the “uh” sound, “No Senior Drill Instructor. This recruit would inspect each Marine.”
This wasn’t going as he expected.
“Yet during this inspection, you decided to let one of your charges sink or swim on his own?”
“Yes, Senior Drill Instructor,” he responded, his heart falling.
“In battle, one unprepared Marine can get his unit killed. Here, one unprepared recruit means your squad has failed the inspection. Drill Instructor Phantawisangtong, at the conclusion of this inspection, take Third Squad out on a run to the Lost Lady, full rucks.”
Ryck grimaced. The squad might be pissed at him, but they should be pissed at Calderón. He was the idiot who couldn’t even prepare for a junk-on-the-bunk.
“Recruit Lysander, hand me your tab,” Despiri said.
Ryck’s heart fell. The tab was a small red piece of fabric that attached to his left collar. It was the only thing that visually identified him as a recruit squad leader. He slowly reached up and took it off, handing it to the senior when the DI walked up to him. Despiri took it without a word, then turned towards King Tong. It wasn’t the heavy hat, though, to whom the senior was facing.
“Recruit Squad Leader Calderón, you will have 10 minutes at the conclusion of this inspection to have your squad, in full kit, mustered on the parade deck. I suggest you make sure everyone is ready to go,” he said, handing Calderón the tab.
Ryck’s plan on keeping his billet until graduation was over, just like that.
Chapter 10
Ryck was excited. This was their first time in the RCET, the Realistic Combat Environment Trainer. He’d played in the vanilla civilian version of the game before back on Prophesy, but wearing a sim-helmet and “walking” around in his bedroom, fighting others online was a far cry from what he expected in the real deal. He’d watched a Discovery show on military training once, so he had an idea of what the RCET was like, and the show had just enhanced his expectations.
The civilian operator was a young guy, not much older than most of the recruits, but Ryck listened intently to the brief. The first evolution would be fire team formations. Nothing this afternoon would be graded, but that would change the next morning. Scores would be tallied for the fire team, squad, and platoon stages, and those scores would reflect on platoon standings. The highest scoring platoon would not only have a big boost to its total running score, but also it would receive a purple “battle streamer” to attach to the guidon through graduation. The RCET streamer and the red marksmanship streamer were the only two such streamers that could be earned by a platoon, and 1044 hadn’t done so well at the range the week before. This was not only the platoon’s last chance to earn a recruit streamer, but it should pull it out of being the consensus company booger platoon.
Finally, the operator was done with his brief. It was time to get going. Third and Fourth squads went to Arena B where several more civilians were handing out the armor inserts. Actual personal armor would not be issued until the start of Phase 3, but as RCET was to be conducted in full combat gear, training armor would be used. As they had discovered in Phase 1, the training armor was not only in bad shape, but the “one size-fits most” philosophy meant that even if the inserts sort of fit a recruit, they never quite matched up with a recruit’s body, especially at the joints. Although the recruits were all assured that their own armor would be tailor-made for each of them, the beat-up training armor inserts were a royal pain in the ass.
The battle helmets were almost as bad. They had been introduced to the helmets during Phase 1, so the recruits knew how to operate them, but these had seen years of use. There was no way to fit nor optimize them for each recruit, so most of the capabilities had simply been disconnected. Each first-person visual would be recorded and would be transmitted in real time to the monitors so the RCET personnel, the DIs, and the other recruits could observe what was happening. Monitors would also show the overall picture as well as what the electronic bad guys would be seeing as the recruits approached them. All of this would be recorded and used to analyze and critique each event.
Ryck had tried on three helmets before finding one that was close to fitting. Despite the antiseptic smell, he could imagine the sweat of hundreds, maybe thousands of recruits who had worn this particular helmet before him. The mere thought made his forehead itch where the brow-pad rested against it.
Geared up, Ryck was ready to go. He checked his weapon out of force of habit. At least, now that the platoon had finished Range Week, the recruits were trusted to handle their weapons and no longer needed the horrid pink safety ties.
When the Arena Chief finally gave the OK, Ryck eagerly stepped forward. As the First Fire Team rifleman, he was the first to get inspected. Pink tie or not, one of the operators gave his weapon a safety check, as professionally as any DI. First, he cleared the weapon. They’d been off the range for four days, and this was probably the 10th time his M99 had been cleared to make sure there were no rounds in the chamber. As the darts were inserted in self-contained magazines, and as none of the recruits had access to any ammo lockers, Ryck wasn’t sure when he was supposed to have found a magazine and gotten a round loaded since the last time his weapon had been checked. After clearing the M99, the operator initiated the SFA. The Simulated Firing Attachment would calculate a dart trajectory and transmit that to the RCET computer where it would be inserted into the simulation enabling the RCET brain to be the high judge and jury as to what would be happening if this was an actual combat mission with Ryck firing real rounds at a real enemy.
Ryck received the OK, and he stepped through the hatch into the Arena.
Copacetic! was all he could think. No, this was beyond copacetic, this was, grubbing “fantasmagorical,” as the Earth recruits say.
With his little commercial sim-helmet back at home, the game was pretty awesome. But now, being in the Arena rendered playing at home as the black-and-white version.
He was not observing the game, he was in it. Intellectually, he knew he was in a huge room, 700 meters long and 200 meters wide, adjoining another just like it with a wall that could be removed, making a single 400-meter wide space. The room was empty except for the equipment needed to run it.
Ryck knew that from the brief and
from what he had seen on the vids, but now, his senses rejected that explanation. At the moment, Ryck was in a partially wooded landscape, standing on dark brown dirt covered with brown leaf-fall. A breeze brushed up against him, and he could smell the dusky aroma of vegetation. He scanned the scene. Small birds flitted from branch to branch. Sunlight filtered through the trees. The detail was amazing.
He was aware of someone joining him. That would be Preston “Wagons” Ho, the team AR man.
“Oh, wow. Fantasmagorical!” Wagons said.
Ryck almost laughed out loud. He called that one right. Ryck didn’t use all the slang used by recruits from other planets, but this time, the Earth phrase fit. Some words, such as “copacetic,” which was the catch phrase of Captain Titan in the Swordbinder series, were more universally popular. Other words, such as “fantasmagorical,” or even Ryck’s own use of “grubbing,” were more regional.
Within a few more minutes, Hodges and Calderón had joined them. Calderón had lasted as squad leader for less than 24 hours before being fired. Hodges, of all people, was now the fire team leader. Hodges still seemed lost at times, but he had raised a few eyebrows on the range. The guy could shoot.
Ryck and Wagons had already discussed their situation. With the two weaker recruits in the team, it would be up to them to pull the team through, even if Hodges was the leader.
The four of them quickly moved into a wedge. Ryck had the point, Hodges was behind him and to his right, Calderón was even with Hodges and to Ryck’s left, while Wagons was in trace of Ryck and behind the other two. Their first mission would be a simple movement to contact.
“Fire team, you may begin,” a voice told them over their comms.
Ryck didn’t wait for Hodges; he simply stepped off, senses on high alert.
He scanned the area in front of him, trying to see any movement, any trip wires, any sign of danger. He knew that this could be a simple movement, just to let them get used to the simulation, but somehow, he doubted it. There would be bad guys out there.
He had been intensely aware that what he was seeing would be on a monitor outside, but he quickly forgot about that. He had immersed himself in the scenario.
What is that? he asked himself.
He held up one fist, the ancient hand-and-arm signal to stop, and edged over to look at the ground in front of him. Something had caught his eye. It was a stick, but it looked out of place. Carefully, he pulled back the grass from around it, the front of his mind reveling in the tactile feel of the grass despite the back of his mind knowing there was nothing actually there.
“What is it, Lysander?” Hodges asked.
“Maybe a booby trap, over,” Ryck responded.
Ryck examined it from every angle possible, wishing his helmet had full capabilities so he could do one of the several scans an operational helmet could make. Finally, he decided it was just a stick.
He started moving the team forward again. The terrain seemed to rise as if they were walking up a hill. Once again, Ryck knew the room was level, but his senses warred with that knowledge. He wondered at the technology that made all of this possible. This was head and shoulders above what he’d ever experienced in any game before.
Focus! he reminded himself. Think about how amazing this is after the exercise!
They continued forward, tension building. If they were going to be hit, it would have to be soon. Simple logistics told them that with seven fire teams—four from Fourth Squad and only three now from Third Squad—and the number of runs each team was scheduled for the day, each go-through could only take up so much time.
Ryck just happened to be looking right at a jumble of logs ahead when the enemy rose and fired. Instinctively, Ryck pulled the trigger, lifting his M99 from low and left to high and right, stitching a line across his target. This was a technique taught during the last two days of Range Week, after initial qualification, and Ryck was surprised that it worked just as well in this scenario as on an open rifle range. The enemy disappeared, whether hit or merely taking cover, Ryck would find out during the debrief.
He half-waited for Hodges to shout out an order, and when nothing was forthcoming, he did what Wagons and he had decided earlier. Charge the bastards. They had practiced this during Immediate Action Drills, so Wagons and he thought that would be a good excuse if reacting without orders was considered a no-no.
He saw movement to his front left, so he went right at it, weapon blazing. A line of fire reached back out to him. The helmets didn’t have many of the capabilities of an actual combat helmet, but due to the nature of the training, the ballistic indictor was enabled. A trace appeared on the visor showing the trajectory of the incoming rounds. The trace started from Ryck’s right, then began to sweep towards him. Ryck dove to the deck untouched. He tried to peer ahead and see who had fired at him. He had a general idea about from where the rounds had come, but he couldn’t see anything. An explosion sounded to the front, and dirt and debris fell around him. Ryck could actually feel the clods hit his body.
By now, Hodges was yammering over the comms, asking for an update. He sounded excited, but not in a good way. There was a hint of panic to his voice. At the fire team level, the recruits could communicate directly with each other. The fire team comms circuit was open between the four of them.
“We’ve got at least three hostiles to my eleven o’clock. I’m gonna shift to the right, so cover me,” Ryck transmitted.
“Roger that,” Wagons’ voice came over the circuit. “Give me a count, then move.”
“Roger. I am moving in three . . . two . . . one!”
At “one,” Ryck jumped to his feet and darted to his 2 o’clock—and his helmet siren went off.
“Mother grubber!” he shouted as he stopped and dutifully got back down on the ground. He was “dead” and so could not participate in any more action—not that he could even if he wanted to. Getting killed also disabled his SFA, keeping him from firing any more simulated rounds.
He’d been looking forward when he’d been hit, and he’d seen no trace coming at him. Still sitting, he looked back. Hodges was in back of him, looking guilty.
That fucking idiot shot me! Ryck thought. I’m gonna kick his grubbing ass!
The rest of the engagement didn’t take long. Wagons lasted the longest at another two minutes. Once he went down, the simulation faded. They were sitting in an empty space. The trees, dirt, smells, enemy: all were gone.
Ryck had been killed, and by friendly fire, of all things. The fire team had gotten wiped out. But damn it all, it had been a perking blast! He couldn’t wait for their next turn in the breach.
“Fire team, return to the front hatch,” came over the helmet comms.
Looking back, an innocuous red “EXIT” sign showed them the way.
Chapter 11
Ryck watched the server plop the shit-on-a-shingle on his plate. He actually liked the gloppy mess, but he had to wonder just how many millions of soldiers had been fed it over the centuries. He was pretty sure Roman legionnaires had fueled their marches into Gaul with it. Hadn’t Dr. Berber said they’d been fed some sort of gruel? Wasn’t gruel kind of like shit-on-a-shingle?
He moved on down the line, grabbing a panderfruit. The Roman’s hadn’t eaten those, though. The hybrid fruit had only been introduced about ten years before. Their ability to withstand rough handling and their long shelf life had made them an instant hit with industrial food service. They were pretty damn delicious, too. Ryck had never actually tried one before getting to Camp Charles, and now he was hooked on them.
He squirted some ketchup and polly sauce on his breakfast, a combination that some of the other recruits thought was vile, grabbed a cup of coffee, and looked around for a seat. Platoon 1045 had preceded them in the chow line, and he saw Joshua had taken a seat at the far end of his platoon area. He waved Ryck over.
There were no rules about where a recruit sat to eat, but common practice was to eat with the others in the unit. Joshua had seen Ryck and ha
d taken a seat at the edge of 1045’s grouping. The empty seats next to him were being taken up by 1044 recruits, so Ryck could sit there and still catch up with Joshua. They’d only known each other for a few days back home before shipping and then while en route, but still, it was good to see someone from home. Without time the opportunity to socialize, even if Joshua was only in the next squadbay, he might as well have been on another planet most of the time.
“Take a load off, brother-boy,” Joshua said as Ryck walked over. “Oh, man, what you doin’ to that grubbing food, there?” he added, pointing at the ketchup-and-polly-sauce mix.
“What you grubbing doing to that grubbing food?” one of the recruits next to Joshua mimicked.
“You grubbing mother grubber, grub off,” another said, drawing a laugh from those around Joshua.
“Not only is he from the booger platoon, but he’s one of Josh’s homeys,” chimed in a third recruit. “Are you another farmer boy? Josh here’s a right solid recruit, even if he talks like shit. And he still can’t tell us what ‘grubbing’ means.”
“Well, please allow me the opportunity to introduce you to my planetary compatriot, Mr. Ryck Lysander. To respond to your enquiry, affirmative, Mr. Lysander was an agricultural engineer at his former abode. Currently, in the present time continuum, he occupies the position of Marine Corps recruit,” Joshua said with an affected accent, one hand raised, little finger extended. “Even if he be from the booger platoon,” he added, back to his Tortillite accent.
Ryck extended his middle finger before picking up his fork. “Good to see you, too. And great to meet all of you grubbing freaks,” he added to the others.
Recruit culture had a decided aggressive nature with smack-talk rampant. He didn’t take the planetary comments seriously. Heck, he had given out worse. The “booger platoon” comment cut though, not that he was going to let anyone know that. More of 1044’s recruits took their seats, but this was a chance to talk to Joshua.
Recruit Page 8