Rear Echelon

by Darryl S Ellrott

  Thousands of delinquents had tried to manipulate Hiram Stovall over the years. He was familiar with all forms of groveling and pleading, and was not swayed by lies.

  “You regret that you’re caught? That you’ll be held responsible for your actions?” His tone was now imperious.

  “No! I mean, no, sir!”

  “Then, what?”

  Travis raised his head and looked Judge Stovall in the eye. Travis Buckley was experiencing one of those true moments of clarity adolescents have when they leap to the next level of maturity. Anger welled through the tears.

  “That I’m becoming more like him!”

  “Him?”

  “My stepfather. I lost my temper and used my fists on that man, just like my stepdad would have. Like he did with my mom and me. Judge, I’m scared to death I’m gonna grow up to be just like him.”

  Stovall said nothing. He tented his fingers and pursed his lips for a moment, trying to peer into Travis’s eyes.

  “Sir, I’m awful scared of prison,” said Travis, “and I guess I got it coming. But I’d rather die than be like my stepdad. I’d do anything to avoid it. Anything.”

  “I believe you would.” the judge breathed. He squared himself away, all business. “Travis, the criminal statutes of our state say that I may sentence you up to five years in prison for the crime of first degree felony assault, to which you have pled guilty. You have previously been given probation for misdemeanor assault on another juvenile, and a suspended sentence for a second offense involving petty theft.” Travis paled, but his bottom lip stayed firm. This was it, he thought. The judge was about to drop the hammer on him for sure.

  “The next step would be for me to sentence you to the Hutchinson Correctional Facility for no less than eighteen months.” Travis hitched in his breath at that, but stayed composed.

  “However, “ Stovall continued, “you have expressed what I believe to be genuine remorse, and you have thrown yourself on the mercy of the court. In such cases, the law allows me a bit of discretion in sentencing.”

  The judge reached into a drawer and pulled out a different sheaf of papers. “I can offer you an alternative to prison.”

  Travis’s eyes brightened. Then he just looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “I am sentencing you to five years,” said the judge, “but you may wish I had just sent you to Hutchinson.” His eyes twinkled. “Bailiff!” he called, “get the clerk in here. And the boy’s parents. And that damned lawyer!”

  “Move fast! Right now!” The drill instructor’s bellow was immediate, sharp, and brooked no delay. As Travis moved to obey, he noticed the yellow footprints that had been painted onto the deck. He joined the other forty men in the ranks and stared blankly into the night. He tried hard to steady his breathing and slow his heartbeat, but the rapid fire barking of the instructor was rattling. Travis Buckley had been in a state of unrelenting, sleepless terror for three days. He wanted nothing more in this world than to satisfy the demands of the terrifying, merciless man who stood before him.

  The last good sleep he had gotten had been in his cell the evening after his enlistment. He came awake with a shock as his bed was overturned and someone had shouted, “Get the hell out of my rack!” in his ear. As Travis scrambled to feet, two drill instructors had barked simultaneous commands in his ears so loudly he could barely understand them. They stood him at attention, braced him, then told him what he would do.

  “You’re gonna stand up straight! Do you understand?!”

  “Yes sir!”

  “You gonna speak when spoken to, do you understand?!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “The first and last words you use in every sentence will be sir, do you understand?!”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  “When told to do so, you will follow your instructor down the hall, out the door, and onto the bus, do you understand?”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  “You will not speak to anybody on that bus, do you understand?”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  So it had gone for the next two days. At the spaceport they were allowed a three-minute bathroom break. The drill instructors had followed them into the bathroom, yelling. Travis could barely squeeze out a drop. Now, he was sure, it would really begin.

  “You are now aboard the SAS Puller, Armada Marine Recruit Training Ship. This will be your home for the next two weeks until we reach the Recruit Training Depot on Belos IV.” The drill instructor’s speech was obviously well-rehearsed and had the same rapid-fire, leather-lunged delivery as all the other instructions Travis had received.

  “You are taking the first steps to becoming a member of the galaxy’s finest fighting force, the Stellar Confederation Armada Marine Corps. The Armada’s success depends upon teamwork. Therefore, teamwork will be an essential part of your training on the Puller. You will live! eat! sleep! and train as a team. The words ‘I!,’ ‘me!,’ or ‘my!’ will no longer be part of your vocabulary. You will use words such as, ‘this recruit!,’ ‘that recruit!,’ and ‘these recruits!’ Do you understand?”

  “Sir, yes sir!” they shouted as one.

  “Tens of thousands of soldiers have begun outstanding service to our Federation at the very foot prints on which you stand today. You will carry on that proud tradition! Do you understand?”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  The recruits were ushered to a small vestibule. Before them were two great, shining doors emblazoned with the seal of the Armada on each one. The instructor continued.

  “Passing through these hatches symbolizes your transformation from a civilian to an Armada Marine. You will pass through these hatches one time, and one time only. Do you understand?”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  They passed through the shining doorway, and were given more instructions. They were issued gear bags and equipment. They were sent down another long hallway to a room with rows of double cubicles where they were taught how to pack those gear bags. Travis said goodbye to his civilian clothes and stood in his boxers, waiting. At the head of the line he could see fluorescent lights and heard the buzzing of clippers. He took his place in the barber chair and his head was shorn to the scalp in a matter of seconds. He barely noticed. He was fitted with his training clothes and taken to a classroom.

  Another officer in fatigues, but no instructor’s hat, delivered a pep talk about what it took to be an Armada Marine while other instructors passed out papers. More instructions on how to fill out these papers.

  Travis had to fight the fatigue that washed over him now that his adrenaline reserves were exhausted. A man near him – a tall drink of water with a big nose and a weak chin – closed his eyes. A drill instructor woke him up with a backhand across the mouth that knocked the recruit halfway out of his chair. Two other instructors escorted the recruit outside for PT. From that point on, Travis paid close attention and filled out his papers exactly as he was told.

  It was well into the wee hours before Travis and his mates were allowed to stop filling out meaningless papers and marched to the squad bay that would be their home for the next two weeks. Weak Chin was back from his P.T. Rather than taking the starch out of him, the humiliation of the punishment seemed to have made him even angrier. When he screwed up packing his foot locker, a little bantam rooster of an instructor with “Rycheck” above his top breast pocket dumped the whole thing onto the bay floor and asked Weak Chin why his parents had not had the good sense to have had a stupid son of a bitch like him drowned at birth. Weak Chin, nearly purple with rage, glared back at Rycheck.

  “Screw you, Senior Drill Instructor, s—“ he bawled.

  Weak Chin never got a chance to finish. Rycheck hit him so fast the angry recruit never even saw the punch. In fact, he saw nothing at all as he fell on his face on the squad bay floor. There was an audible crunch as his nose broke against the concrete.

  “Get this dumb bastard over to the infirmary,” Rycheck barked. “After that, we are gonna show you
how to properly make up your racks, do you understand?”

  “Sir, yes sir!” the bay echoed.

  Travis was completely exhausted and sick with terror. This was worse than any movie he had ever seen. He was in the power of men who seemed more than human and completely without mercy. His captors had shown no consideration for giving him any sleep time. It was all he could do to keep his face from twisting into a sob. He wanted his mother, but all he could do was make his bed.

  Chapter 3

  Travis woke up because something was tapping him gently on the chin. He was just glad to have finished his watch and finally been allowed a few hours of shut eye. It’s a bad idea to sleep on the ground in a jungle. There was a snake curled up on his chest. The gentle tapping had been the nose of an Askuran pit viper poking his chin as it sized him up. He froze, his eyes bugging out as he stared into the remorseless reptilian gaze only inches from his own.

  Then the snake was ripped off him with incredible speed. A huge hand had hurled it out of harm’s way. Travis exhaled explosively and sat up, almost knocking heads with the man who had saved him.

  It was Numbnuts. “That was a close one, huh Travis?”

  “Thanks for saving my ass, Tommy,” He shook his head in wonder. Who could guess Numbnuts had reflexes like that?

  Jenna Jones came walking up, still half asleep and puffy-eyed from a night under the stars. “God, I am so thirsty,” she mumbled. “Anyone got any water?”

  “Just out there.” Travis pointed towards the beach.

  “That’s right, sweethearts!” cried Hardesty, striding up. “Fall in on the beach, everyone. On the double!”

  An hour later Travis was back in the black rubber life raft peering down at the roof of the shuttle, which was clearly visible on the sandy bottom below. Derek Driveway sat next to him, stripped to his boxers and preparing to dive. He was huffing rapidly, supercharging his lungs with oxygen.

  “The emergency air is in a wall cabinet right inside the bay doors,” said Bainbridge. “It should be good for five to ten minutes. There should be a crew locker with some other equipment inside, including some line and an unlocking tool you can use for the cargo containers. Push a few out and they should float to the surface. Then go back for the other reserve air canisters. Don’t try to stay down too long or do too much.” Driveway nodded, then launched himself over the side of the raft.

  He descended rapidly, using long, powerful strokes. He could hold his breath for three minutes easily, four in a pinch, and twenty feet was not a serious challenge for him. He paused only once on the descent, to blow out his ears and equalize the pressure. Then he made straight for the back of the shuttle and disappeared inside.

  It was about that time that Andy Hasinski spotted the dark shape moving in the water. The great fish was about twenty yards out, sinuous and cigar shaped, the tail moving languidly back and forth as it descended towards the shuttle. “Holy crow, look at that,” he cried. “It’s going for Driveway!”

  “Use the paddles,” said Bainbridge. “See if we can get its attention.” All the Bandits began pounding the water and yelling to see if they could distract the predator, but to no avail.

  Twenty feet below, Derek Driveway had snatched the emergency air from its hiding place and had cinched it tight to his face. A twist of a nozzle and the pressure drove the water from the mask and cleared his vision. That was when he noticed there was something else in the hold with him. The fish, about twelve feet from nose to tail, peered around in the darkness of the hold as if curious. As it spotted Driveway in the dim light, it closed in, the underslung mouth revealing rows of scissor-sharp teeth.

  Without a knife or spear gun to defend himself with, Driveway went to his second option. He snatched off his mask and thrust it straight into the big fish’s face, twisting the canister nozzle wide open to release a torrent of bubbles. The fish was big, but not smart. Confused by the cloud enveloping its face, it shied away. Doubling itself in an effort to get out, it left the shuttle bay in search of easier prey. Driveway was struck by the massive tail, but was able to get his mask back in place and cleared quickly. He had to move fast, as the canister was sure to be almost empty.

  In a moment he found the locker Bainbridge had told him about. Inside was a plastic bulb with a short spout and a wind-up reel counter-sunk into the side. When exposed to the air, the liquid compound inside would extrude and harden into a thousand feet of stout monofilament line. The key-like tool he would use for unlocking the cargo containers near the bottom. A quick insert and a counter-clockwise turn freed over a dozen of the big containers. They began to slowly float out the bay doors. Then he was off to collect the rest of the spare air.

  The Bandits cheered when they saw the cargo containers floating to the surface instead of Driveway’s mangled body. A moment later Driveway himself popped up next to the lead raft and removed his mask. “If we were on Earth, I’d say that was a big tiger shark, sir,” he mused. “But we’re not on Earth.”

  “Whatever it was, keep a sharp eye out for more,” agreed Bainbridge. “We don’t have our weapons yet.” More of the containers were breaking the surface. “Into the water, boys!” cried the captain. “Don’t let ‘em get away!” That was the cue Travis and his buddies had been waiting for. They were also stripped to their underwear, and until now had been getting burned under the tropical sun. With a whoop, they were into the water and racing to see who could collect the most containers. Dragged back to the rafts, they were swiftly linked together by the monofilament line for towing. Next to dive would be Alonzo Guererro, then Otto, and Michael Franks.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” said Bainbridge, “but I guarantee you better accommodations tonight.”

  Chapter 4

  Travis peered over his rifle sights deep into the forest. The morning light had found holes in the jungle canopy and sent down golden shafts to light the primordial scene. Even though the morning heat was stifling, he didn’t remove his boonie hat. Wouldn’t do to have some creepy crawlie drop down the back of his shirt, now would it? He’d brought his M1B up quickly when he thought he’d heard something, but it had turned out to be Otto Spielman crashing around somewhere off to his right. Travis came out of his crouch and dropped the barrel.

  Their mission was to look for a source of fresh water. The skies had opened and drenched everyone yesterday, but the Bandits hadn’t set up catch barrels yet. Though they had some water with their supplies, it wouldn’t last long, and there was no telling when a recue party would arrive for extraction. Travis and Otto were part of three two-man search teams sent out to look for other sources.

  Travis stepped carefully over a fallen tree and brushed aside the thick vegetation to make for the sound he still heard ahead of him. The going had been a little too easy as far as he was concerned. Didn’t people have to literally hack their way through jungles in movies? He and all the other search members had been issued machetes, but Travis hadn’t needed his yet. There were paths through the undergrowth, probably created by animals. The rushing sound was louder now, almost like…

  His eyes grew wide as he parted the fronds before him. The sound had been falling water, part of the waterfall now revealed. If fell roughly thirty feet from the riverbed above into a small lagoon ringed by rocks and a tiny sand beach. Jackpot! Travis raised his fingers to whistle for Otto, when he saw he wasn’t alone.

  A girl stood naked under the rushing waters, smoothing her dark, lustrous hair, which fell almost to her waist, in the flow. Her eyes were closed against the cascading water, which flowed around her ample breasts and down across generous hips and long, supple thighs. It was suddenly hard for Travis to breathe.

  He was startled out of his reverie by a piercing scream. There was a second girl on the beach, taller and dressed, and she was in full retreat. Two man sized reptilian forms came at her out of the brush, hissing. Travis could see their mottled green and black coloring as it ran down their spiny backs to the tails behind. More disconcerting were t
he four-fingered claws that reached, and the fork-tongued maws that hissed. The auburn-haired second girl, dressed in a peasant blouse, simple skirt, and sandals, screamed another warning to her bathing friend. The lizard men crept forward, crouching on three-toed saurian feet.

  Travis sprang onto a rock and brought his weapon to bear, but cursed as he didn’t have a clear shot. He waved his arm in a warding gesture.

  “Get out of the way!” he shouted. The second girl whirled, saw him, and screeched again. Travis repeated his wave. She finally got the message and dived to the side. That was all he needed. Three jacketless rounds from his M1B punched the first lizard man in the chest dead center, dropping him to the ground motionless. He saved a head shot for the second saurian, spinning him around in his tracks.

  Travis checked his rifle and dropped off his perch to the sand below. The first girl had left the waterfall to join the second. The second girl immediately backed away from Travis, her arms held wide to shield her friend. The first girl peered at the stranger curiously under long lashes, and Travis thought he would drown in those big, dark eyes.

  “Atrás!” cried the second girl.

  “Easy,” Travis soothed. “I won’t hurt you.” He backed up a step with his hands up. He made a show of laying down his weapon. He even dropped to one knee in a effort to appear non-threatening. “I’m harmless, okay?” The second girl relaxed a little and dropped her arms. She kept looking at something to the side, but was afraid to advance. “Oh, I see,” he said. To his left lay the other girl’s clothes in a tidy pile. Surely this would convince them of his good intentions. He held them out, smiling. The second girl wasn’t buying it. She took a tentative step then snatched them from him, frowning. The first girl dressed hastily, her hair still dripping.