by Bill Roberts
“I know, Gunner.” I truly relish maintaining the hoary traditions of the old United States Marine Corps. We called certain Chief Warrant Officers gunners then and I will call certain Chief Warrant Officers gunners now. “It wouldn’t be so bad if Smith was just an asshole, but he’s a stupid asshole.”
Normally, talking about your superiors in such derogatory terms to your subordinates is severely frowned upon in the Marine Corps. But my staff and I have been working together so long we know when to call a spade a spade. Larry snorts with a magnificence brought about by years of experience and replies, “Stupid ain’t good enough a word, sir.” His eyes shift in the display as he looks at another face in the TACNET. “Deuce, you’re the super genius. You got a better word?”
The S-2, Captain Anita Sunari, visibly ponders the question. Her dark South-Indian features grow sharp as she mulls over Larry’s question. She answers: “Fatuous cretin is probably more apt.”
Everyone laughs and Larry says, “Sounds good. I’ve no idea what the hell you just said but it sounds good.”
As much as I would like to continue bitching about Smith the frustration I feel forces me to turn the conversation into something to deal with the situation. I move my eyes to Sunari’s face in my TACNET display. “Deuce, assume we are delayed thirty minutes to an hour. What does that do to enemy intentions and likely courses of action?”
Captain Sunari’s ability to reasonably predict the actions of enemy species, species that often differ substantially from humans, has saved many of my Marines’ lives. “Sir, I don’t believe much is going to change,” she answers. “They are Grotokai pirates. I know they work for the Tangul External Security Apparatus, but they are still just pirates.” Ahh Grotokai. Quite possibly the most useless of the Galaxy’s space faring races. The Grotokai are bipedal, but only vaguely symmetrical. This gives them a hunched and lumpy appearance. To add to their misshapen feel their bodies grow more like a fungus than anything else a human would be familiar with. This makes their bodies look like they are covered in some sort of gray, stringy moss. They are also huge, by human standards. The average Grotokai stands almost six meters tall and weighs two tons. Physically, Grotokai are hideously ugly creatures and essentially alien in every way to humanity. The physical differences are indicative of cultural and social differences as well. Grotokai are the Galaxy’s inveterate criminals. Their whole culture operates on the premise that working for something that you could steal is the height of stupidity. Sunari continues, “Pirates are lazy by nature, couple that to the general laziness inherent to all Grotokai and it isn’t a stretch to say they will still be sorting the goods they got from their raid against the Elowynn on Balthazaar Five for at least another week.”
I am not surprised or really informed by her statements. We have been fighting this crappy little proxy war in support of our Elowynn allies for years now. It has become routine. Oh we still risked our lives and killed people, but it felt more like being an exterminator facing a mildly dangerous pest. Darker, more dangerous things lurk in the not so distant future, but for now we are basically just taking out the Galaxy’s garbage. The delay really does not change anything; something I knew before Anita said anything.
The staff knows this as well as I do and, before I can really comment on Anita’s analysis, the S-3, Major Benedict Jones-Fairly, chimes in. “Sir, you don’t have to do this. We all know this cake and arse party isn’t really going to affect the plan. The Marines are used to this from Commodore Smith. Right now they are simply placing wagers on how long it takes him to come out of his snit.” I look at his overly young face smiling at me from the TACNET. With shaggy brown hair, bushy eyebrows, and warm, brown eyes Bennie’s smiling face is guaranteed to improve one’s mood.
I start smiling myself without even realizing it. I also feel a subtle lifting of the growing anger that was starting to work its way into me. The XO, Major Svetlana Zhukov, just piles onto Bennie’s efforts. “Sadly, sir, most of them are taking odds on sometime next week.” Not terribly funny but from the ever serious XO it is more than enough to lighten the mood even further and get more laughter out of everyone. I love my staff. I truly do. They can accomplish anything, too include cheering up a frustrated commanding officer while subtly getting him to stop wasting their time.
“All right, all right, I get it,” I say. I smile at them and continue, “I’ll call you all when I get anything.” As their faces wink out I feel a bit shameful. I am better than wasting my staff’s time with pointless questions just to make myself feel like I am doing something. I am also generally better than openly bitching about a commanding officer right before he commands us in a combat operation. Commodore Smith must really be getting under my skin. Oh well, the staff and I have worked together for years. They won’t even remember this little lapse come tomorrow.
TACNET comes to life yet again. Gloria. Before she even starts speaking I feel myself tensing. “Iron Six this is Stern. Insertion in one-five minutes.”
“Roger, Stern. Insertion in one-five minutes.”
“Roger, out.” The face disappears.
Tactical call signs. The old invocations of military radio communication. The time for informality of personal communication and banter has ended. The feeling of power tenses and then swells through me more strongly than before. The drop is coming and soon. Soon I will be swinging Death’s scythe. Time to bring the pain.
I punch the buttons on TACNET to transmit on keying only. This way I will not leave open channels when communicating with subordinates. The time may come when I do that in the coming fight, but that time resides in the indeterminate future. I key for the Battalion Tactical Net number 1 (BnTac1). “Guidons, Iron Six. Insertion in one-five minutes.” Their faces show up briefly as I transmit out to them. A chorus of various “Roger Six”s streams in over the next few seconds, their faces flashing in and out on the display.
There is now little to do until the drop actually happens. The tension in me slowly ratchets up. I revel in it. It is a constructive type of tension wrapping me in a cocoon of strength and awareness. I start playing the plan through my mind, using my experience to visualize how it will look, how it will feel. I start mentally inserting likely problems, rehearsing in my mind the actions I will take when things inevitably go wrong. My fingers start dancing along the control sticks mounted at the end of each of the command chair’s armrests. My feet start tapping the control pedals. Practicing, rehearsing, preparing.
The feeling of power slips its leash; hubris starts to rear its ugly head. I have done this thousands of times. I have destroyed enemies across the galaxy. I have personally rendered a sentient species extinct. I am become Death the Destroyer of Worlds. I beat hubris mightily. I form it into a tempered confidence. I am deadly, but I am also capable. I have great Marines, and I have the advantage of surprise. I am ready.
One minute till drop. Despite the artificial gravity generated by the Stern, everyone aboard can feel the ship fold space. It disorients me as usual. No problem. I have dealt with that thousands of times as well.
The disorientation ends. The doors below the feet of my Kodiak begin to open. I see, through my display, the planet below. It doesn’t even have a name, just an alpha-numeric catalogue entry: A-WT-L 52. We had nicknamed it “Awful” and it is a truly awful place. Average surface temperature: one hundred fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit; primary atmospheric gases: nitrogen and methane; surface composition: Granite and Beryl. It looks like a dirty greenish snowball spreading out before me. No wonder the Grotokai are using it. This kind of planet is paradise for them.
I watch the final moments of the pre-drop naval bombardment. The explosions are much too far away to see clearly, but the sensors on my Kodiak coupled to the TACNET generate a detailed image of the bombardment zone in my three dimensional display. The Navy’s guns have doubtlessly done some damage to the enemy’s defenses, but even though Grotokai are lazy they do know how to ent
rench and camouflage defenses. There will be plenty of them the Navy will not even see, let alone affect.
Almost time now.
“Stern to all Marines. Dropping now, now, now.”
I feel the hooks holding the Kodiak to the ship let go. I feel the magnetic piston pushing the Kodiak out feet first. I feel the zero gravity as I plummet through space towards the ground seventy thousand meters below. I feel the smile spread across my face as I drop.
CHAPTER 2
The Great Secret
I can feel the cabin pressure changing. My ears pop as the Gulfstream I am riding in descends slowly through the clouds. I have never ridden on a Gulfstream before. That alone would have made the day interesting. However, it is almost a routine thing compared to other events I had experienced this day. Oh, I had started the day like normal.
The alarm on my phone slowly grows in volume next to me. It plays a pleasant rendition of Mozart’s piano concerto no. 20 in D minor. I have been using that for my alarm for a couple of months now. I am really starting to hate it. I reach over and turn it off. Next to me Liz stirs and mumbles, “I’m really beginning to hate your alarm.” That’s it. I’m picking a new song today.
“Good morning to you too, sweetheart,” I reply with plenty of false cheer. Liz groans and pulls the pillow over her head. From underneath I hear her mumble something nasty about morning people. I laugh and pull the pillow up enough to give her a quick peck on the cheek. The important things taken care of I hop out of bed and head for the bathroom to shave.
While I wait for the water to heat up I check my reflection in the mirror. I hate to admit how vain I am, but, hell, all Marines are vain. Comes with the job. They issue it to you with the fancy uniform. The blue eyes are still clear and sharp, even though a few wrinkles spring from their corners. The once black hair is now heavily peppered with white, this too comes with the job. Too many long nights in the cold. Too many hard days in the desert. Too many close calls. Way too many of those. I do not mind the white too much. At least I have hair. The only thing that really bothers me is that I could really stand to lose ten pounds or so. Age is definitely starting to catch up with me. Bah, better than the alternative.
I splash my face with the now warm water and start running the razor over my face. I long ago learned to live without shaving cream, too much of a pain in the butt when you are in the field. Liz pokes her head in through the doorway: “You get Josh, I got Esther,” she says.
I wink at her in the mirror and reply, “No problem. Josh loves it when I wake him up.”
Liz rolls her eyes at me while she says, “You aren’t nearly as charming as you think you are.”
“Of course not,” I reply wholeheartedly. “I am at least twice as charming. Convinced you to marry me didn’t I?” Liz responds with a rather artful snort, but still gives me a smile before disappearing back into the bedroom.
I finish my shave and head for the closet. I break out my Desert Marine Pattern Combat Utility Uniform and get dressed. After nineteen years of being an officer, putting the uniform on just takes moments. That done, I head into the upstairs hallway. Liz has already gone downstairs but my soon-to-be thirteen-year-old daughter, Esther, is shuffling towards the upstairs bathroom. She gets her hair from me. Her long, black tresses form a messy bird’s nest around her head. She gets her eyes from her mother and the bright green orbs look at me grumpily. I greet her with a cheery, “Good morning!”
Esther channels her mother and rolls her eyes at me. “Just peachy,” she replies with the enchanting sarcasm she excels at.
I grin at her and head for Josh’s room. I bang open the door, turn on the lights and announce loudly, “Good morning! Another glorious day awaits!”
Josh’s room exists in a state of barely controlled chaos. There are dirty clothes strewn about the floor, his desk is covered in books and papers and there is even a large textbook on top of his closed laptop. The covers on his bed move slightly and from underneath their folds I hear a voice: “So not cool, Dad.”
I reply, “Nope,” and head for the stairs.
Downstairs I make my way through the house to the kitchen. Liz has ever worked hard to make wherever we live a place of comfort and serenity. Pictures of happy family moments decorate the walls. Bookshelves and draperies add depth and color. The furniture is all solid and eclectic. In the kitchen I find her drinking coffee and checking on various things on her tablet. Her long, blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she is dressed in tight fitting yoga clothes. Damn she looks good. I kiss her on top of her head. She smells good too. Ivory soap mixed with the lavender of her shampoo. She leans into me and says, “Coffee’s ready.”
I give her a quick squeeze and head over to the coffee pot. I pour myself a cup, open up the fridge, grab some yogurt and commence my breakfast. We hang out in companionable silence while I eat. I look out the window of my government provided house on Camp Pendleton. Outside I see the semi-arid scrub of the training areas in this little slice of Southern California paradise. God, I cannot wait to be done with the Marine Corps.
Liz finishes whatever she was reading and looks up at me. “Anything interesting going on at work today?” she asks.
Nothing interesting happens at work anymore. Both the Corps and I are simply awaiting our pending separation. Less than a year and I can retire. This will suit both parties to perfection. “No. Just another day of doing nothing important,” I reply.
Liz looks at me compassionately. She returns, “Less than a year to go, Shawn. I know you hate it, but just remember how important it is for you to retire instead of just quitting.”
She’s right. Oh, we do not need the money from the retirement check. Money is something we do not have to worry about at all really. But I want to carry the title with me after I am done. I want to be able to put USMC (Retired) on my business cards for the rest of my life. I also still hold out hope. Hope that … I do not know … hope that something interesting could still happen. Yeah right. The Marine Corps has done nothing but disappoint me. No reason for that to change now.
Josh and Esther bang their way downstairs. I look over at them as they enter the kitchen. They wish us good morning then Josh adds, “I’m going to Eric’s after soccer practice to work on my science project.” Josh has been fourteen for a while now, and he is starting to push boundaries. It does not bother me a bit. Perfectly natural, but I am trying to raise a good kid so I arch my eyebrow at him. He adds, “If that’s cool.” Perfect.
I look over at Liz she gives me a very subtle nod. I look back at Joshua and reply, “Not a problem, but I want to see some of whatever you get done.”
Joshua looks like the opposite of his sister, blonde hair from his mom, and blue eyes from his dad. He wears his hair long like a surfer, which he is, in addition to everything else he does. He looks a little grumpy, but replies with a reasonably neutral, “Okay, Dad.” Dang, he is a good kid. Being a teenager is just not easy, but he seems to be handling it as well as anybody could.
The kids begin foraging for breakfast. It is time to go. I give Esther a kiss on her head, squeeze Josh’s shoulder and kiss Liz. We wish each other a good day, more or less, and I head out to my car.
I crawl into my Mustang and fire it up. It is a 2014 Mustang Shelby GT500, blue with white of course, and the rumble from the V8 sends a visceral thrill through me. The car is a bit ostentatious, a bit expensive, and gets crap gas mileage, but life is too short to drive something boring.
After a few minutes I pull up to my parking spot in front of the unimpressive office building where I while away my work day. Odd. Someone is waiting for me whom I do not expect. Looks like Corporal Robins. She is an intel Marine who works in the vault. Why the heck is she waiting for me?
As soon as I stand up next to my car she hails me: “Sir, General Stevens would like to see you in the vault immediately.” General Stevens is the assistant commandant, the numb
er two guy in the whole Marine Corps. What in the world would he want to see me for? In some other officer this would elicit excitement or, perhaps, trepidation. For me? Meh, I really just feel put out. However, I am a Marine Officer so there is really only one thing to do. Go to the vault and see General Stevens.
“Very well, Corporal, lead the way,” I return good naturedly. Not her fault the General wants to see me. I follow the corporal into the building and through the government beige passages to the vault. As a Marine you often have to deal with classified material. For obvious reasons classified material is not the kind of stuff you want just lying around. Consequently, most Marine buildings have a large vault where you can store and work on this material. In the Corps we do nothing halfway. These vaults have huge metal doors with fancy locks and a vast array of stickers warning of the great peril associated with the information located within. In my nearly nineteen years as a Marine Corps officer I had long ago realized that most of the stuff within is either inane or arcane. The large metal door is open as I arrive and the corporal gestures for me to enter. As I walk in, the corporal quietly seals the Vault behind me. I am now alone in the most secure room in my office building with General Stevens, the second most important guy in the Corps. Despite my annoyance I am growing curious. Quite curious actually. There is no good reason on Earth I should be alone in a vault with this guy. What in the name of God is going on? I don’t voice this question of course. I simply greet him in standard Marine Corps patois: “Good morning, sir, how may I be of assistance?”
Tall, distinguished, face creased and sunburned from his long years as a Marine, General Joshua Stevens looks so much like a general he could play one on T.V. He simply studies me quietly. Odd that. Generals are busy, important people. They do not spend time in run of the mill security vaults simply studying a major verging on retirement whose most important function relates to the forwarding of generally mindless e-mails. Even a few years ago this silence would have caused me tension. However, today I am comfortably approaching a happy middle age and retirement. I have fought in war. I have led Marines. I have worked across the length and breadth of the Marine Corps. I know exactly who and what I am. I have nothing to be tense about. Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do. So I patiently return his gaze.