by Bill Roberts
“I know Dick. I know. I am going to miss him too. Very much. And I am going to miss Kwan and the ferocious way she would fight for more for her scout platoon to do. And Friday nights at the pub are going to be too quiet without Jeremy practicing his guitar in the corner.” I could say more. But this is not the time. We would hold a memorial later and mourn the fallen. Right now we must continue with our duties. After a quiet moment I continue. “Let’s head up to the COC.”
Captain Hiller gives me a quick “Aye Aye, Sir” and we head for the hatch.
We enter the COC and look around. The Stern is a large ship so the room is quite spacious. There are displays and TACNET stations all along the walls. They are filled with Marines doing the thousand and one things necessary to keep the battalion effectively functioning during an operation. Even though the battle is over and all of the Kodiaks have returned to the ship it will take another hour or two to wrap them all up. Dominating the middle of the room, a huge three dimensional display projects a view of the Grotokai compound, or what is left of it. On the other side of the display I see Sergeant Major Sanchez and Master Gunnery Sergeant Franco, arms folded across their chests as they stare at the display. The Sergeant Major’s Marine style jump suit is its usual crisp model of perfection. The Master Guns’ jump suit has a far more faded and comfortable look to it. Some people think that the uniforms we wear take away our individuality. I have always found that it enhances it. The subtle differences in their uniforms speak volumes about their personalities. The two non-commissioned officers are the senior enlisted Marines for the Battalion. The Sergeant Major takes care of all the enlisted Marines of the battalion. He teaches them leadership and professionalism. He also advises me on how best to take care of them. The Master Gunnery Sergeant is the Operations Chief. She makes sure operations run smoothly and keeps the officers from mucking things up with ‘too much officer crap.’
I head over to the display and loudly announce “Great work today Marines. When things went to shit you all kept it together and acted brilliantly.” I do not know what they have actually done. My Kodiak was completely blacked out. But I know my Marines and the fact that I am already aboard and briefed on the casualties and the status of the damaged vehicles means they have done a great job. I see a room full of young faces looking at me. The faces show pride at doing a good job, satisfaction at being recognized for it and relief to see their commander all in one piece.
Sergeant Major Sanchez looks up from the display, his Hispanic face bathed in blue light from the display, and replies for everyone: “Thank you sir. We’re glad to see you’re okay.”
“Thank you Sergeant Major.” As I walk around the display to meet them on the other side the Marines all quietly go back to work and Captain Hiller heads off to one of the stations along the wall. At the same time the FSO, Captain William Hildebrandt, gets up from his station and comes over to join us.
“Are you all getting the debriefing video ready?” I ask.
Franco replies “Yes sir. We should have it done soon.” She reaches towards me with her right hand and I shake it. She squeezes with her customary two tons per square inch and says: “When your Kodiak went down we thought you’d been killed. That would’ve sucked. I’m really glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks Master Guns.” I turn to the FSO. “I guess it was a good idea not to take you along Hildebrandt.”
Hildebrandt looks at me seriously. “Honestly sir that thought never crossed my mind. I just spent the whole time hoping you were okay.”
“Thanks Bill.” I look around and see that Marines are sneaking glances at me. The expressions on those faces look … happy.
One of the Marines gets up from his station and walks over. Lance Corporal Snider. He works for the S-2 and helps track the enemy for the COC. I do not usually work too closely with the junior Marines of the battalion, but Lance Corporal Snider has one of those jobs that brought him in constant contact with the command staff of the Battalion as we prepare for operations. He looks a little nervous and before any of us can say anything he quickly says “Sir, I’m sorry I didn’t spot that ambush.” He fumbles for a bit. “We’re all just glad you’re still alive.”
“Snider you can’t see everything. Don’t worry about it. You did great. Sometimes the enemy gets the drop on you. It happens. You have nothing to apologize for.”
He looks relieved then smiles. “Thank you sir.”
I clap him on the shoulder and reply: “No thanks necessary, it’s just the simple truth.” Snider nods respectfully to us and returns to his seat.
Was everybody going to say something? I always thought I was a respected commander. I might have even thought I was a reasonably popular one. I work very hard to be good commander, but I had always been just beyond personable. Professional, yes, approachable, yes, friendly, not so much. Part of it is the fact that I take the awesome responsibility of command seriously, but most of it is the darkness that lived inside of me when I took command all those years ago. The darkness is still a part of me, but has receded a great deal. Especially after the battle on Lada. Well that and the events after Lada. But the darkness has created some habits that make me less than friendly to my Marines and habits are hard to break. I know my Marines have pretty high morale, and had heard from the Sergeant Major that by and large they are happy to be part of 2nd Heavy Armored. But the words my Marines are using and more importantly the looks on their faces tell me that they all are seriously relieved to see me alive. The kind of relief people feel when they find out a loved one is safe and sound. It touches me deeply and I turn quickly to the display to hide my face. After the emotional rollercoaster of the last few hours this is almost too much. I fight back tears and pull myself together. I am the commander I must not lose it in front of the troops.
As I am wrestling with my emotions the hatch to the COC opens and Bennie and Svetlana enter the room. Their jump suits are damp with sweat and their hair is matted from the helmets we wore while piloting our Kodiaks. Bennie’s face is beaming. Svetlana’s face is a rigid mask of tight control. As they cross the COC Bennie’s baritone voice booms in his aristocratically perfect version of the Queen’s English: “Simply smashing to see you without any extra holes in you, Sir.” He opens his arms as he approaches me.
“Bennie I swear to God if you hug me right now I am going to punch you in the face,” I shoot back.
Bennie hugs me anyway. I have about five inches on him but he still manages to pick me up off the ground. As he drops me on my feet he backs up a quick step and says. “I would eminently prefer you don’t hit me too hard. The women of the universe would then sadly be deprived of my dashing good looks.”
Everyone in the COC laughs. Except Svetlana, her face remains a tightly controlled mask. Matching his formality of tone I reply: “You have me there. How can one argue with such astute logic? But if you ever do that again I will be forced to meet you with pistols on the field of honor.”
“As I am, it is well known, a far better shot than you I feel safe in taking my chances, Sir.” Bennie has resumed his huge grin and more laughter rolls across the COC. His smile fades and in a lower voice he continues: “By God, I can’t believe Larry is dead.”
Like Gloria and Larry, Bennie is part of my tight circle of friends. While technically a subordinate, neither of us have cared about that for a long, long time. In front of the troops he is all Yes, Sir, No, Sir. But, when drinking in the pub, it is purely Bennie and Shawn. Like Gloria, Bennie has been with me since the merger of all of humanity’s armed forces. He is a former Royal Marine Commando who eschewed the infantry and went into the Marine heavy armor battalions forming at the time. He had joined the battalion as our S-3 when we merged forces and has held the job ever since. I reply: “It still doesn’t feel real to me either. Later … it’s going to be tough, real tough.”
Svetlana speaks. Her voice is tight and her Russian accent is thicker than usual. “Sir, i
f I could have a moment of your time there is something I need to discuss with you in private.”
That is not a good idea. Being alone together is in fact a terrible idea right now. But I can tell by the look on her face that refusing will not be good for her. So I simply say: “Of course. We can talk in my stateroom.” I look at the rest of our group and say “If you will excuse us.” They reply with a chorus of assent. I take the lead and Svetlana follows as we make our way out of the COC and head down the passageway to my stateroom. Neither of us says a word.
As I am the Battalion Commander my stateroom is not far from the COC. I open my hatch and allow Svetlana to enter the room. I follow her then turn around to close the hatch. As soon as the hatch is closed I face her. Her mask of control is gone and I notice tears in her eyes. She grabs me and pulls my head to hers and presses her mouth hot against my own.
CHAPTER 6
Immortality
I wake up. I have vague memories from the nightmare that plagued my sleep. Burning cities. Hopeless battles against a monstrous foe. ‘The Synti are coming. You must be prepared.’ Anyone in my line of work will have nightmares. I long ago learned how to sleep through them. I know from experience the only way to shake the mental anguish of nightmares is to get going with your day. I get out of my simple government-issue bed and pad over to the light switch for my room and flick on the fluorescent overhead lights.
I look around my colorless room. A bed with the timeless white sheets and green woolen blanket of Marine Corps service runs along the left wall. In the back right corner of the room rests a metal desk and chair. There is a laptop wired into Wonderland’s local network on the desk. Behind the bed a wall locker holds my collection of flight suits and the green t-shirts, underwear, and socks to go with them. As depressing a place to live as I can possibly imagine. I check the analog clock on the wall, zero seven twenty. I have forty minutes before I am to meet Lance and Langsdorf to start the day’s work.
I make the bed, still colloquially known as a ‘rack,’ shave in the little bathroom attached to the room, and get dressed in the new flight suit and fore and aft cover I had been issued last night. While doing this I think of many things. I think about Liz and the kids. I already miss them terribly. Liz is the greatest thing that ever happened to me. Her absence always makes things a bit duller, a bit less complete. But this is not the first time I have had to leave them so I put those thoughts behind me and start thinking of other things. I think of how massively my life had changed yesterday. I think a little about the terrible secret I had learned. However, worry gets one nothing but more worry. So I think about what I am here to do. I think about the Kodiaks outside that I am going to learn how to use. Already, vague tactical ideas are forming on how best to use them. I look at the clock, zero seven thirty-five, time to go.
I step out into the hallway. It is quiet. It is a long hallway, beige of course, with faux wood doors on either side. The doors lead to rooms like mine where the people of Heavy Combat Systems live. I turn right and head to the stairway at that end of the hall. As I do so one of the doors on the left opens and Lance steps into the hallway in front of me. I smile and say: “You, Sir, have impeccable timing.”
He replies: “Of course I do.” He arches a sandy blonde eyebrow. “Breakfast?”
“Outstanding idea. I’m starving,” I shoot back. I hold my hand out to indicate for him to lead the way. We fall in to step together and proceed down the hall. “How did you sleep?” I ask.
Lance responds quietly: “Not too bad considering. You?”
“Same,” I reply.
As we hit the stairs, our boots bang out on the metal steps. Lance raises his voice above the clangs and asks another question: “What’s the plan?” Although Lance is a fellow major and therefore the same rank, I am not surprised that he is deferring to me. I was, after all, his commander in Iraq where, I like to think, I did a good job. He doubtlessly has his own ideas but he wants to see what his old Commanding Officer thinks first.
I had given this subject more than a little thought last night so I give an answer after a brief pause: “We play this as partners to the hilt. We run over anybody that gets in our way besides Langsdorf. He didn’t bring us here because whoever else is in on this is doing what he wants. Other than that we just take things as they come.”
Lance smirks. “Good plan. Who’s Good Cop and who’s Bad Cop?”
“Bad Cop, Bad Cop. Like I said if they were doing what Langsdorf wanted we wouldn’t be here. And honestly I don’t think we have the time to worry about stepping on some self-important jackasses’ toes.” My voice grows firm at the end. Very firm. I long ago learned to loathe the petty politics that seem to define the actions of senior officers in the Marine Corps. It often seemed like it was more important for people to look good than be good. One thing I always liked about Langsdorf was that he never played that game. Underneath the banter and sarcasm lurked an iron hard, practical core. He will cover us if we offend somebody.
We arrive on the ground floor and walk side by side as we follow the signs to the chow hall. Lance resumes our conversation: “I was just going to play it quiet and get the lay of the land first. But, you’re right we don’t have time to mess around. Bad Cop, Bad Cop it is. Besides I am pretty sure as long as we produce good results Langsdorf will back us all the way.”
“Absolutely,” I reply.
The signs point us to a set of double doors and we walk through them to the chow hall and look around. It looks like every other expeditionary chow hall I have ever been in. Desk to sign in next to the doors, a cafeteria style row of food on one side with servers in cook whites behind it, and rows of tables with bench seats. It also smells like every other expeditionary chow hall I have been in, an aroma of cheap, mass produced food and cleaner. It is filled with people in camouflaged uniforms and flight suits of every branch of service. They all look young, even the majors and master sergeants. Whatever Langsdorf has is apparently the norm around here.
Some of them look up at us. I see expressions ranging from curious to calculating. I hate being the new guy, but there is no helping it. Lance and I keep silent as we sign in and grab our food. I grab some scrambled eggs and some fruit. Sadly, I have to skip the fried potatoes. Not as young as I once was. We find an empty table in back and sit down on benches across from each other. In a low voice I say “Remember, Bad Cop, Bad Cop. Ignore them.” I take a bite, swallow and continue: “Mystery will work in our favor at this point.”
We eat in silence focusing on our food. Breakfast is my favorite meal in the chow hall. It is sort of impossible to screw up scrambled eggs. It is the only thing that tastes remotely like something I would eat at home. As I chew through them I idly wonder if somebody will come over. Sure enough a couple of Marine Lieutenant Colonels wearing flight suits get up from their seats and join us at our table. This should be interesting.
One sits next to me on my right. The other sits on Lance’s right. Boxing us in. So it is going to be like that. I figured as much. The one sitting next to me speaks. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Harkins.” He holds out his hand.
Tall and well-built he looks like the prototypical Marine officer. His dark hair is cut far too short and his brown eyes look far too calculating for my liking. You always have to watch out for officers who have short hair. They drink too much of the Kool-Aid. I notice Harkins is wearing the same funny looking wings on his breast patch that I saw Langsdorf wearing yesterday. As I shake his hand I reply “Major Morris, Sir.” Bad Cop is one thing, but it is not time for outright rudeness … yet.
Harkins holds his hand out to Lance. Lance gives it a perfunctory shake and states: “Major Benson, Sir.”
“Lieutenant Colonel Dvoracek. Nice to meet you both,” the other lieutenant colonel says. He is shorter than his partner, but still exudes the same kind of aura.
Lance and I return to silence and simply nod our heads to Dvoracek. The t
wo lieutenant colonels exchange a quick glance. Our silence and, more so, our indifference are apparently not what they were expecting. Harkins decides to try another approach. “Where did you guys come in from?”
I simply reply “Pendleton Sir.” I say it cheerfully to make it seem like I am simply a man of few words instead of blowing them off. They probably see right through it, but that is how the game is played. I take another bite of food. I am not going to give these guys anything. Lance, the good partner that he is, follows suit, parrots me and continues eating quietly. I wonder what they will say next. Would they keep going with questions or try telling us what they do here? As if I cannot tell by their wings and young faces. Maybe they will try for camaraderie, but I doubt it. They are exalted Lieutenant Colonels. My bet is some sort of trite alpha male bullshit.
Harkins again: “Well welcome to our little project here in Wonderland. Lieutenant Colonel Dvoracek and I are the lead Marine test pilots here.” As Harkins gives us a false almost patronizing smile I can practically here the implied You may bow and scrape now. Ha. I was right. Trite alpha male bullshit.
“Oohrah sir,” I reply with the just the proper amount of motivation. I love that guttural Marine specific word. It has a million and one uses. It can be used for everything from greeting to cheering. In this case it allows me to acknowledge his statement without really saying anything. So far Lance and I have toed the line. We have blown them off, but done it in a way that gives them no ammunition to use against us. They are certainly wondering what gives with us. We might just be cautious, or we might be something else. Time to step up the heat and establish how important I thought they were: “Sir, Major Benson and I have a meeting with Colonel Langsdorf.” Without further ado I stand, pick up my tray, and head toward the exit. Lance quietly follows suit.