Chains of Command

by Marko Kloos

  I look at my wife, at the way even the baggy and unflattering military-issue underwear can’t completely conceal her shapely form underneath, and find that powdered egg and soy sausage patties are not quite the first thing on my list of desires.

  “Or I could get out of these sweaty CDUs, hop into the shower, have my way with you in the cot, and take my chances with lunch later.”

  Halley looks at me and smiles with her lips on the rim of the coffee mug.

  “Plan B it is,” she says. “Go rinse off.”

  A good while later, when we’re back in the sleeping nook, with our limbs all tangled up in the sheets and each other, Halley starts humming a tune with her head resting on my shoulder.

  “You’re in a good mood this morning,” I observe. “Something I did?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” she confirms. “That, too. But I got great news yesterday after morning orders.”

  “And what are those?”

  “I’m handing the keys to the shop to someone else for a while on Wednesday. I got orders for a new assignment.”

  I turn to look at her. “Combat unit?”

  “No clue. Orders say to report to the 160th at Campbell on Wednesday morning.”

  “Down on Earth?”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” she says again. “Don’t know what for, but it’s probably to qualify on a new bird, or to do some snake-eater shit for HD. The 160th has all the top-flight hardware. The important thing is that I’ll be free. I’ve been in that instructor slot for too fucking long. Over two years of classes, simulator, flight lessons, classes, simulator, repeat ad nauseam.”

  “If they have you flying combat drops for HD, things might get a bit hairy,” I say, remembering all too well the night in Detroit seven years ago when a shot-down drop ship cost us half a squad of dead or wounded.

  “You are going out of system on a recon run against God knows what,” Halley says. “Don’t talk to me about hairy. I can handle myself, you know.”

  “Better than anyone else I know,” I concede.

  We lie in silence for a few moments. Outside in the hallway of the residential pod, an announcement interrupts the quiet hum of the environmental system, inconsequential administrative crap.

  “Isn’t it fucked up?” Halley chuckles. “We have a year of married residential bliss, getting laid every other weekend and spending more time together than ever before. And we both can’t wait to get back into combat. What the fuck is wrong with us?”

  “I’m not looking forward to battle,” I say.

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, really. I don’t. But Mars is going down soon. All hands on deck. All bets on one hand. And I don’t want to just sit and wait for that to happen. I don’t want to babysit recruits until we all get orders to file into the drop ships and hope the Orions do the job.”

  “You want to control your fate,” Halley says.

  I hold up my hand, the left one that was shot to ribbons last year by a security police officer on Independence station. It’s impossible to tell by looking at it where the flesh ends and the prosthetics begin, but I can feel the precise fault line between living matter and cosmetic synthetic material without fail.

  “This stopped hurting six months ago,” I say. “But I’m still taking the pills.”

  Halley reaches up with her own hand and runs a finger down the center of my palm.

  “Why?”

  “Feels good. Helps me sleep. Cuts down on the dreams. I take that stuff, I sleep through maybe half the night instead of waking up every other hour.”

  “You talk to the Fleet shrink any?”

  “Sure.” I shrug. “Felt like I was wasting her time. The fuck do I have to complain about, really? Made it through Fomalhaut and Earth last year. Get to live on base with my wife. Low-risk training job. Bunch of new ribbons on the smock. So what if I can’t sleep through the night anymore? I didn’t suffocate on Mars. Or get blown up on Long Beach last year when we all transitioned into the middle of a Lanky battle group.”

  “You shouldn’t feel guilty for making it,” Halley says.

  “I don’t feel guilty for making it,” I reply. “But a lot of people died so I could make it back to Earth. Come back to you. Do something worthwhile. I don’t want to feel like I’m not holding up my end of the deal.”

  Halley doesn’t reply. Instead, she keeps caressing the soft tissue of my palm with her fingertip. Then she takes my hand into hers and puts it onto my chest.

  “So we go do our jobs again,” she says after a while. “Our real ones. And if things go to shit, we’ll kick ourselves for not joining the Lazarus Brigade last year.”

  “If Mars fails, there won’t be a safe place left anywhere. Least of all in the PRCs. Might as well do this thing on our terms.”

  Halley rolls over onto her side and props up her head with her arm. I’m expecting one of her usual wry jokes, but her expression isn’t humorous at all.

  “Whatever happens, Andrew—know that I’m glad for the time we’ve had. Every minute of it. I’d teach mind-numbing classes for the next fifty years in exchange if I had to.”

  “Best years of my life,” I say. “Despite it all. Don’t ever doubt it.”

  Halley smiles. Then she leans in and kisses me.

  When we separate again, she moves in closer and drapes her leg over my body with a contented sigh.

  “Well,” she says. “You’ll go off into the black again on Monday. I go dirtside on Thursday. But until then, let’s make the best of the time we have.”

  “Affirmative,” I say, and pull her against me.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Of all the shit I’ve had to tolerate, this ranks right up there with the worst, Lieutenant.”

  Master Sergeant Fallon puts a little bit of acid into the last word as she tugs on the bottom of her fatigue tunic to straighten it out.

  “I told you there’ll be less friction if you wear Fleet CDUs for this run,” I say. “Besides, the Fleet camo isn’t so bad.”

  “I don’t have a problem with the camo,” she grumbles. “I have a problem with the fact that this thing just came from Supply. It still has starch in it. It’s like wearing sheets of cardboard.”

  We are walking on the main passageway along the central spine of Gateway station. Sergeant Fallon is wearing brand-new Fleet-issue CDU fatigues with the rank insignia of a master sergeant. She looks very out of place in the Fleet’s digital black-blue-gray pattern instead of HD’s distinctive urban camouflage or even the solid olive green of the Lazarus Brigade uniforms. Her smock is almost sterile—there’s only a name tape, the rank sleeves, and her gold combat drop badge, but no unit or specialty patches.

  “Well, you can’t be running around in your Brigade uniform up here,” I tell her. “You’ll be fine once it wears in.”

  “By the time this thing gets soft enough to not creak when I fold it, we’ll both be twenty-star generals.”

  Gateway is busy as always, and the concourse is pretty packed with transitioning personnel, but most junior enlisted and NCOs give us a bit of a berth when they see our rank sleeves or the less-than-happy expression on Master Sergeant Fallon’s face. We are both dragging our personal kit boxes, which follow us on wheels like obedient puppies.

  “What kind of ship is it?” Sergeant Fallon asks.

  “Not a clue. All I have on our orders is the docking collar number. Echo Five.”

  “Echo Five better have something big and comfy docked on the other side.”

  “Doubtful,” I say. Sergeant Fallon hates the idea of space travel, and the ship large enough to qualify as “big and comfy” in her book would have to have the interior volume of a small planet.

  Docking collar E5 is in the section of Gateway reserved for capital ships, ten thousand tons or more, which bodes well for the size of our assigned ride.

  E5 is guarded by two SI troopers in light armor. They check our credentials carefully. While they decide whether we have any legitimate business on board, I look at the OLED display ab
ove the docking collar that usually shows the name and hull number of the ship that’s docked on the far side of the collar. This one only reads “CLASSIFIED.”

  “Strangest name for a ship I’ve ever heard of,” Sergeant Fallon comments dryly. “Welcome aboard the Classified. Lead ship of her class. Sister units are the None of Your Business and the Piss Off.”

  We walk down the docking collar and onto the ship. The entrance corridor behind the main hatch is wide and spacious. The ship’s seal is painted on the bulkhead, and her name and motto are stenciled underneath: NACS PORTSMOUTH AOE-1: BEANS AND BULLETS.

  “Portsmouth,” I say to Sergeant Fallon. “Remember her?”

  “All those Fleet cans look alike to me. But I recall the hull number. Been seeing it often enough on the tactical screen down in the ops center in New Svalbard. She was part of the Midway task group.”

  “The task group’s main supply ship.”

  “We’re riding into battle on a fleet oiler?”

  “Hey, you wanted room to stretch out,” I say.

  The Fleet’s fast supply ships aren’t defenseless, but they’re designed to resupply warships, not take their place in the line of battle. I know that Portsmouth has self-defense armament, but I also know that she has next to no armor, and that even an old frigate could soundly beat the shit out of her in a one-on-one engagement. The AOEs are also not terribly stealthy, and nowhere near fast enough to outrun a destroyer or a space-control cruiser. As we walk down the corridor to our assigned report point, I find myself hoping that this unit is just a staging point for now instead of an integral part of the mission.

  “Lieutenant Grayson,” the Fleet sergeant guarding the main passageway intersection says when he checks my orders. “First platoon. Your guys and girls are in Module One. Down the topside spinal, and it’s the first hatch on your right.”

  “It’s got room to stretch out, all right,” Sergeant Fallon says when we step through the hatch of Module One. The Portsmouth-class supply ships are completely modular, with space for sixteen mission modules that can be swapped out according to the needs of the task force. I’ve never set foot into a crew quarters module before, and for sheer space, it beats any crew berthing system I’ve seen.

  We step into an entrance area that’s easily ten meters square. Beyond, there’s a gangway leading further into the quarters module, and hatches for individual berthing spaces on each side of the gangway. Four of the individual berths are separated from the rest and set on the entrance side of the module. Three SI troopers in fatigues are already here, sitting around a low table in a corner of the entrance area. I recognize all three at once.

  “Ten-hut!”

  Gunnery Sergeant Philbrick gets up from his chair and snaps to attention, and the two troopers with him follow his lead.

  “As you were,” I say, after my customary half-second delay in which my brain processes that they’re standing at attention for me. The three SI troopers relax their postures.

  “Gunny Philbrick,” I say. “How are the new digs?”

  “Palatial,” he says. “The AOE containers are all right.”

  “Gunny Philbrick, Master Sergeant Fallon,” I introduce them. “She’s your platoon sergeant for this run.”

  “Yes, sir.” He nods at Sergeant Fallon. “Ma’am.”

  The two troopers with Gunny Philbrick are Humphrey and Nez. Humphrey was a sergeant last year, and now she wears the rank sleeves of a staff sergeant. Nez, now a sergeant, was a corporal when we served together on Indy. I introduce everyone to Sergeant Fallon, who is the only newcomer to the group.

  “You’ll be leading my First Squad,” I tell Philbrick. “Normally I’d slot you into platoon sergeant with your new rank, but I need Master Sergeant Fallon in that spot. We’ll just have to be a little rank-heavy in the platoon leadership.” Except for me, I don’t add. “I’ve never been in one of these. Care to give me the tour?” I ask Philbrick.

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  We follow him back to the passageway on the opposite side of the entrance hatch.

  “Squad berths,” he says, and points to the individual hatches all along the passageway. “One to a fire team, four troopers per berth. Squad leaders get their own. And no hot-bunking.”

  “Excellent,” I say. Hot-bunking—the sharing of one bunk by more than one trooper and sleeping in shifts—is a necessity on smaller ships, but wildly unpopular among the Fleet for obvious reasons.

  “Head and shower are in the back. The open area up front is for assembly and downtime. And your berths are on the other side. Away from the riffraff.” He smiles.

  The four individual berths in the front of the crew quarters module are already labeled on the hatches—by job title, if not by name. One says PLT MEDIC, the one across the passageway from it PLT GUIDE. The two adjacent ones closest to the entrance hatch are marked PLT SGT and PLT CO.

  As far as accommodations go, my new berthing space is downright luxurious compared to what I’ve had on most other ships in the Fleet. The Platoon CO berth is the biggest of the spaces in the crew quarters module. I have a sleeping nook, a private shower and toilet that are little clamshell capsules in the corners of the berth, and a small office space right in front of the entrance hatch. The crew quarters module seems to be brand new. I can’t see any wear or dirt anywhere, and the mattress on the cot still has a protective plastic wrap covering it. I open my personal gear container and sort what little stuff I brought along into the personal locker next to the sleeping nook.

  The wired comms handset on the wall of the office space lets out a muted buzz. I walk over to it and pick up the receiver.

  “Lieutenant Grayson.”

  “Welcome aboard Portsmouth, Lieutenant,” Major Masoud’s voice comes over the hard wire. “Stow your kit and report to me in Portsmouth’s ops center at 0900. Bring your platoon sergeant, too.”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  I check the chrono on my wrist and synchronize it with the one on the bulkhead above the entry hatch, which shows 0757 hours.

  On the other side of the hatch, there’s a small commotion as more troops arrive in the quarters module. I can hear Gunny Philbrick’s voice greeting them. Whatever the composition of the rest of the platoon will turn out to be, I know that Philbrick will be my de facto third in command as the leader of the platoon’s First Squad.

  I pick up the comms receiver and punch up Sergeant Fallon on the little screen next to the wall mount.

  “Fallon,” she answers curtly.

  “Grayson,” I reply. “Gunny Philbrick is herding the new squaddies right now. Keep an eye on things. Have them assemble and come get me when the platoon is accounted for.”

  “Affirmative,” she says. Then she pauses for a moment. “Weird, isn’t it? Me reporting to you all of a sudden.”

  “It is weird,” I say. “I’m still worried you’ll jump my ship if I fuck up, like I’m your junior squaddie.”

  “Oh, have no fear, Lieutenant,” she says. “That’ll definitely still happen if the situation calls for it.”

  At 0830, there’s a knock on my hatch. I open it to see Sergeant Fallon outside in the passageway.

  “Platoon assembled and in formation, sir.”

  “Thank you, Master Sergeant,” I reply. Then I check myself in the stainless steel mirror next to the hatch and step out into the passageway with her. Everything about this seems incorrect—the lieutenant’s stars on my rank sleeves, my old squad leader calling me “sir” and deferring to me, the sudden weight I feel resting on my shoulders at the thought of being in charge of forty lives. But reality is what it is, so I nod at my friend and platoon sergeant, and walk out into the common area with her.

  The platoon is lined up in three rows, with Gunny Philbrick and the other three squad leaders front and center.

  “Atten-hut,” Gunny Philbrick rasps when Sergeant Fallon and I step into the room, and thirty-odd troopers snap to attention. Gunny Philbrick comes to attention in front of me and salutes.<
br />
  “I report the platoon ready and in formation, and all personnel present and accounted for,” Gunny Philbrick recites.

  “Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant.” I return the salute, and Gunny Philbrick joins the formation with the rest of the squad leaders.

  I step in front of the assembled platoon, and thirty-eight pairs of eyes rest on me.

  “Good morning, platoon,” I say.

  “Good morning, sir,” they not-quite-shout back at me.

  I look at the faces in front of me. Other than Philbrick, Nez, and Humphrey, I don’t know a single one of them. Most look terribly young, privates and PFCs not too long out of SOI.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I say, and lift one of the lapels of my camouflage smock. “Wrong camo pattern. Holy shit, a Fleet puke.”

  Some of the junior enlisted in the back of the ranks laugh.

  “I’m Second Lieutenant Grayson. And yes, I am Fleet. I am not, however, a console jockey. I’m a combat controller by trade, and I’ve done over two hundred combat drops. So if you have doubts about your new Fleet lieutenant, rest assured that he knows what he’s talking about when it comes to the stuff we’re here to do.”

  I know I’m probably just imagining the barely concealed relief on the faces of the other squad leaders. The speech I’m giving is a little bit chest-thumping, but it’s the sort of thing I’d want to know if it were me standing in formation as a junior NCO. Inexperienced officers can get you killed anywhere, but the infantry platoon is an especially unforgiving learning environment.

  “I will share the specifics of our mission with you as soon as I have authorization,” I continue. “All I can tell you right now is that we are going out of system, and that this is important, with a capital I. Until I get to brief you in detail, square your gear away and take care of any business you may have on the network. It may be a good while before you get to catch up on mail again.”

  Sergeant Fallon is standing behind and to the right of me. She’s at perfect parade rest, like a drill instructor at boot camp.

  “I will now turn you over to your new platoon sergeant. You have the luck to serve under Master Sergeant Fallon for this mission. And I mean that without irony. Those of you up on your NAC military history may remember the name, and yes—she is that Sergeant Fallon. When she tells you to jump, I highly suggest you are in the air before you even ask for an altitude parameter.”