by Marko Kloos
I can tell from the faces of the junior personnel that most of the troopers in the formation aren’t up on their NAC military history, but I know that some of them have been in the service long enough to know the names of the small handful of living Medal of Honor recipients. In any case, those who don’t know her will without a doubt be thoroughly educated by those who do, and some of the half-whispered anecdotes may even have some basis in reality.
“Too much?” I ask in a very low voice when I turn toward her to give her the floor.
“Too much,” she replies in the same low voice. “But good enough.”
“Good morning, platoon,” she addresses the formation.
“Good morning, Master Sergeant!” they shout back.
“The lieutenant is too kind,” she continues. “I’m really rather easy to get along with. You won’t find me policing the head for soap scum or your uniforms for loose threads. I have a super-low tolerance for pedantic bullshit.”
Some of the troops allow themselves a chuckle at this.
“But there are things I won’t let slide even a millimeter. Stuff that matters. You will at all times give everything you have to make the mission succeed. You will not shirk your duty or shift the blame for poor performance to someone else. You will not let others pull your weight. You will not leave a comrade behind on the field in training or in battle, whatever the cost. And you absolutely will not doubt that I will kick you out of the nearest airlock personally if you disobey or disrespect your squad leaders, your senior NCOs, or your platoon leader.
“When we are out there, we are all we have. Backup will be too far away to save us if things go to shit. It’s just going to be us and whatever we bring to the party. Let’s make it so that things don’t go to shit. Use your time wisely. Train with your squad mates, get to know them, and run a few miles together if you have downtime instead of sitting on your cots and griping about Fleet chow or that bitch of a master sergeant. We’re just one platoon, part of one short company. We can’t have anyone slacking off or screwing up. So don’t slack off or screw up. Understood?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant,” the reply comes from the platoon.
“Squad leaders, take over your squads. Gear and kit check at 1130.” Sergeant Fallon nods at the squad leaders standing in front of their charges and steps back to make space for them in the assembly area. The squad leaders step out and take over their respective squads.
“What do you think?” I ask Sergeant Fallon in a low voice.
“Bunch of kids,” she says. “Nobody under the rank of corporal older than twenty, and none of the corporals look like they’ve been in much more than twelve months. I’d feel better with the old crew from Shughart here, I’ll tell you that.”
“At least we have seasoned NCOs,” I say. “Philbrick’s been around the block. And he has two good fire team leaders.”
“Yeah, they’ll do,” Sergeant Fallon says. “They’ll be scared out of their wits, but they’ll get over it. You did, back in the 365th.”
“Just did what I had to,” I say. “Didn’t want to let the rest of the squad down.”
“The universal motivator,” she says. “That has always been what makes a squad function under fire. Not honor or medals or promotions. As long as they make us pick up rifles and go to war together, it’ll always be about the grunt next to you.”
I check my chrono.
“Time to go see the boss,” I say.
“Ready when you are.”
“Gunnery Sergeant Philbrick,” I say in a loud voice, and Gunny Philbrick turns toward me.
“Sir.”
“You have the deck,” I say.
“Aye, sir. I have the deck.” He returns his attention to the squad in front of him.
“Let’s go see the man,” I say to Sergeant Fallon.
Sergeant Fallon and I walk into Portsmouth’s ops center at precisely 0859 hours. The ops center is a large room with an impressively big holotable and situational display in the middle. It’s not precisely a CIC, as Portsmouth isn’t a fighting ship, but even a fleet supply unit needs to have situational awareness. Most of the consoles in the room are unmanned right now. Major Masoud is standing by the holotable and flicking through lists and readouts on the holographic screen in front of him. There’s a Fleet officer in camouflage standing next to him, and as we get closer to the holotable, I see that he’s wearing the rank sleeves of a captain. The gold insignia above his left breast pocket is an eagle clutching a trident in front of a planetary hemisphere. Major Masoud wears the same thing on his smock—the badge of a qualified Space-Air-Land special warfare operator, the Fleet’s very small and highly selective SEAL community.
I salute the major, and he returns the courtesy briskly.
“Lieutenant Grayson reporting as ordered, sir. This is my platoon sergeant, Master Sergeant Fallon.”
“Yes,” Major Masoud says. “I know about you, of course.”
I am briefly curious how this almost unprecedented situation—two Medal of Honor recipients in the same room and command chain—will play out as far as military courtesies are concerned. Technically, neither needs to salute the other regardless of their rank difference, and yet both are obliged to render a salute to a recipient of the NAC’s highest award for valor. Major Masoud chops through this particular Gordian knot by extending a hand to Sergeant Fallon.
“Welcome aboard, Master Sergeant. I’m happy to have someone with your reputation on the team.”
Sergeant Fallon shakes the major’s hand.
“Thank you, sir. Glad to contribute.”
The SEAL captain salutes Sergeant Fallon.
“Captain Hart. Pleasure to meet you, Master Sergeant.”
“And you, sir,” Sergeant Fallon says as she returns the salute.
With so much military acumen in the room, I feel thoroughly superfluous, like I’m a kid pretending to be a soldier surrounded by real soldiers who are indulging my play.
Behind us, more troopers enter the room. They’re all in SI camo, two officers and two senior NCOs. They join our little group clustered around the holotable, and the brief but time-consuming ritual of formal greetings and reciting of courtesy formulas begins anew.
We exchange courtesies and size each other up as we do. Every one of the officers and senior NCOs in the company is an experienced and drop-qualified combat soldier. I may be the most junior officer in rank seniority, having worn stars for just a little over a week, but the second lieutenant in charge of Second Platoon looks like I have a few years on him chronologically.
“Now that we’re all here, let’s get to it,” Major Masoud says. “We are on the clock, and time’s running short. We clear moorings at 1400 and proceed to the assembly point, where we will meet up with our escort and wait for some assets that are still in transit right now. Then we will proceed to the transition point at maximum burn and make our way to the target system. You won’t have much time to get to know each other, I’m afraid.”
“Sir—we are going to battle in a supply ship?” I ask.
“That’s affirmative,” Major Masoud says. “I couldn’t get much hardware out of Command for this one, but they did give us Portsmouth. We’ll also bring along a combat escort.”
“If this ends up being a fight, this ship won’t last long. Not against what they can put on the board.”
Major Masoud smiles at me, and it’s the same humorless smile I’ve seen on his face a few times before.
“She’s not a heavy cruiser, but she has a few tricks up her sleeve, Lieutenant Grayson. And where we are going, we’ll be happy for all the extra supplies an AOE can haul along.”
“And where is that, sir?” Lieutenant Wolfe, Second Platoon’s commanding officer, asks.
“Later,” Major Masoud answers. “Operational briefing will commence once we are on our way to the transition point. Report readiness to the ops center by 1300 and tell your platoons to take care of any comms business while we’re still docked. Once that collar comes
loose and we’re underway, we are off the network and running under blackout protocol. Any questions?”
“Who’s going to ride shotgun?” I ask.
“Operational briefing,” Major Masoud says.
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything else?” he asks, in a tone that leaves no doubt that he’s not terribly interested in answering anything else in detail. When none of us speak up, he nods.
“Readiness report by 1300,” he repeats. “Until then, prepare for departure and see to your platoons. Dismissed.”
“Major Khaled Masoud,” Sergeant Fallon says when we walk back along the topside spinal passageway toward the modular cargo section of the ship.
“You know the man?” I ask.
“Not personally. Not until today, anyway. But I’ve heard stories.”
“He has probably heard stories about you as well.”
“Not those kinds of stories.” She looks around to check this section of the passageway, which is empty except for us right now.
“How much do you trust your platoon, Andrew?”
“I trust you,” I reply. “I don’t know the other squad leaders yet, but I know I can count on Philbrick and his two. Why?”
“If shit goes down, keep them close at hand,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Because I trust Major Masoud about as far as I can throw a drop ship.”
“Why? You don’t know the guy. You’ve been TA and HD all your life. Don’t tell me you served with him before.”
“No, I haven’t,” she acknowledges. “But I’ve heard things.”
“You’ve heard things,” I repeat.
“Read up on his Medal of Honor citation if you haven’t already. You know those mission reports where things go to shit, and there’s only a handful of survivors making it back to the drop ship?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,” she says. “He seems to be a magnet for those kinds of drops. He gets off on doing suicide runs, I think.”
She sighs and scratches the back of her head.
“Well, however this mission goes down, I feel pretty safe predicting that boredom isn’t going to be one of our problems,” she says. “Shoulda stayed in my safe and cozy welfare city.”
CHAPTER 16
A few hours later, we meet up with our combat escort.
“Now hear this: replenishment personnel, stand by for transfer operations. NACS Berlin is now coming alongside to port. I repeat, stand by for transfer operations on port stations.”
As platoon leader, I have limited access to the tactical feed from the ops center. When I hear the announcement from the 1MC back in my office, I switch on the display of my terminal and check the situational plot. The center of the display shows a representation of Portsmouth. Nearby, in close formation, two ships are taking up position alongside Portsmouth: NACS Berlin and NACS Burlington. I consult the database on Burlington and see that she’s an older Fleet supply ship. I tap into the audio feed from the ops channel and listen to the strangely soothing comms traffic between Portsmouth and Berlin as the frigate is taking up position alongside the much larger supply ship.
“Berlin, decrease bow angle by one-half degree. Reduce speed by three meters per second.”
“Portsmouth, copy. Negative one-half on bow thrusters. Reducing speed to fifty meters per. Separation rate negative three meters per.”
“Burn lateral for positive three on my mark.”
“Burning lateral for positive three, copy.”
“Three, two, one, mark.”
I watch the slow ballet unfolding, a five-thousand-ton frigate maneuvering itself into parallel formation next to a fifty-thousand-ton supply ship in zero gravity with no external reference points, using only short bursts from the propulsion system’s thrusters to get into position. It amazes me every time I get to witness such a feat of engineering and training. We are so incredibly skilled at adapting to even the most hostile of environments, and so often we use those skills to be more efficient at killing each other.
There’s a knock on the hatch of my quarters, and I get up and walk over to unlatch it. Outside, Sergeant Fallon is leaning against the frame of the hatch.
“Sent the squaddies off to chow,” she says. “I’m going to take the NCOs over to the noncom mess and make sure we’re all on the same frequency.”
“I’ll be right along,” I say.
“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head with a little smile. “You, sir, are an officer. You get to dine in the officers’ mess with the other platoon leaders. Lieutenants have no business in the NCO mess. You know the rules.”
I want to protest, but then I close my mouth again. She’s right, of course—it’s a breach of unwritten protocol and courtesy for an officer to intrude into NCO space like that—but I can’t help feeling a little wounded. I’ve eaten in the NCO mess or at the noncom club for years now because that was my crowd. And now the stars on my rank sleeves lock me out of my usual places of refuge and socialization while on duty.
“You’re the boss now,” Sergeant Fallon says. “You have to keep your distance. Not just to the privates. To the NCOs as well.”
“Is that your advice as my platoon sergeant?”
“As your platoon sergeant and as your friend,” she says. “You don’t want the junior ranks to get too friendly with you. It’ll make your job much harder when you have to send them into harm’s way later.”
What she says makes perfect sense, but I still feel like I’ve just been locked out of my old clubhouse. I sigh and nod toward the module’s exit hatch.
“Go calibrate the squad leaders, Master Sergeant,” I say. “I’ll go check out the luxuries in the officers’ mess.”
The officers’ mess is not a bad consolation prize. Because Portsmouth is designed to accommodate mission personnel in addition to her regular crew, the mess halls are much bigger than I would have expected even from a ship of her size. And the chow is decent—not the fare we used to eat before everything went to shit last year, but not the almost-welfare food they’re doling out in the enlisted mess these days. There’s not even a line at the chow counter, so I grab a tray and choose from the small variety available: rice, chicken, and some leafy greens. At least the rank comes with a few perks.
Two of the other platoon leaders from my new company are sitting at a table in a corner of the room. I take my tray and walk over to them.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask.
“Not at all,” Lieutenant Wolfe says. “Plenty of space.”
“Yeah, this chow hall is something else.”
“Where’s the other Fleet guy?” Lieutenant Hanscom asks. “He too good to eat with us or something?”
“I have no idea,” I reply. “Haven’t swapped ten words with him since we came aboard.”
“Same here. If he’s out of SEAL country, he’s trailing the major.”
“I wouldn’t take it personally. SOCOM folks are a little weird. You think the branches are tribal, you don’t know how insular the podheads are.”
“You’re a podhead,” Lieutenant Wolfe points out. She nods at the beret tucked under the rank sleeve on my left shoulder. “And you’re slumming here with us.”
“Yeah, but I’m a combat controller. Most of my job is running around dirtside with SI teams. Slumming,” I add, and she grins.
“Spaceborne Infantry. Fleet SEALs. Combat controllers. And a mixed command crew. This is one strange company they’ve cobbled together,” Lieutenant Hanscom says.
“Here come some more of your Fleet guys,” Lieutenant Wolfe says and points over to the entrance hatch. I have my back turned to the hatch, so I have to turn around in my chair to see what she’s pointing at. A group of Fleet officers in flight suits are entering the officers’ mess. One of them is a woman with short, dark hair and captain’s insignia on her rank sleeves. I drop my fork as if someone suddenly electrified it.
“Son of a bitch,” I exclaim.
“What is it, Grayson?”
“That’s my wife,” I say and get out
of my chair. Halley looks around the mess hall to get her bearings, and her eyes widen ever so slightly when she spots me. By the time she does, I’ve already covered most of the distance between us.
“Huh,” she says and grins at me.
For a brief moment, three conflicting emotions struggle for dominance in my head: joy at seeing my wife unexpectedly, anxiety at the thought of both of us being on the same dangerous mission, and anger at the fact that she didn’t tell me the exact nature of her assignment. Then the joy wins out. But kissing a fellow officer in the middle of the mess wouldn’t be appropriate or professional, so I just return her grin and shake my head at her.
“What the fuck,” I say. “What are you doing on this ship?”
The pilots who came in with Halley just sort of stream around us like the tide around a rock in the surf, but not without some of them shooting us curious looks.
“Flying a drop ship, silly,” she says. “It’s what I do, remember?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were assigned to the recon mission?”
“I swear I didn’t know, Andrew. I went down to Fort Campbell this morning, and they briefed us and gave us new ships to take into orbit not two hours later.”
“Tell me you’re just ferrying.”
She gives me an incredulous look.
“They don’t use experienced senior flight instructors for ferry flights. Any flight cadet with brand-new wings can do that.” She smiles. “I’m along for the ride.”
“So what did you bring?” I ask. “Wasp-A out of mothballs?”
Her smile morphs into a wicked little lopsided grin.
“Oh, no,” she says. “Something with a little more punch than that.” She looks over to the rest of her pilot group, now standing in line at the chow counter.