Though the Stars Fall (United Humanity Marine Corps Book 1)

by Bill Roberts

  In spite of the gravity of the situation I relax. He had known, or at least strongly suspected, for over a year and had not let anything slip. Svetlana and I are clearly not in any danger of being exposed, and Bennie seems to be fine with our complete disregard for the rules. I look at my watch. We have about two minutes and are essentially already late. However, the debriefing can wait. I need to be thorough, so I ask another question: “What tipped you off?”

  We are approaching the briefing room so Bennie stops and Svetlana and I follow suit. He answers: “Nothing specific. I think it was just a general sense that you two are always so careful around each other. Most people think nothing of it. Most people, however, are not one of your mates, like I am. I imagine they think you two are just being formal to set an example or some such. I, however, know that there had to be a reason why you acted differently around each other than you do with others.” He looks around to make sure we are still alone laughs quietly and continues: “I’m also pretty sure Gloria and Mbiraru,” Lieutenant Colonel Mbiraru Ndiaye, the commander of HMH-461 and the final member of our cabal aboard the Stern, “have figured it out, even though none of us have said anything to each other.”

  The last comment only surprises me for a moment. The five of us had fought together for too long and respected each other too much. If Bennie, Mbiraru, or Gloria have a problem with Svetlana and me they would have said something to us. It is also clear they do not know the whole story. Things might be different then, but I hope not. That does not mean I am going to tell them the whole story. Better if Svetlana and I keep as much of this a secret as possible. They really do not need to know exactly when this started. “Thanks Bennie,” I say.

  “No worries Shawn.” He looks around again and continues: “Just to be clear, I honestly and thoroughly don’t care. You two are my mates, and like I said, you’re always so careful and professional. Just when the inevitable break up occurs I really don’t want to hear about it, and I don’t want it to cock up what we’ve got going on here on the Stern.”

  Svetlana responds to that: “Do not worry Benedict. You will be the last person I would want to cry in my vodka with.”

  Bennie replies: “It’s not you who I’m worrying about. It’s our gallant leader. I am certain he would mope about like some forlorn teenager.” He sniffs with mock disdain. “That would be quite irksome really.” We pause for a moment and smile at each other, then we head the last few feet down the passageway to the briefing room.

  We enter the briefing room. It is a huge amphitheater style room with comfortable built-in chairs and a massive three dimensional display, like the one in the COC, occupies center stage. The room is full with the senior staff and sub commanders of 2nd Heavy Armor, HMH-461, and the Stern. The display shows the ships of Task Group 61.1 in formation floating in space. We would review the fight from beginning to end with the other leadership of the Task Group. A TACNET display shows the key faces of the leadership aboard the other ships. Commodore Smith is talking so his face is enlarged and centered at the bottom of the display. We head to our assigned seats. Mine is next to Gloria near the center of the front row.

  As I sit down Commodore Smith stops in mid-pontification and addresses me: “So glad you could join us Colonel Morris.”

  What a colossal prick. In my youth I had fought across the Earth. Later I had fought across the Galaxy. I am a veteran senior officer, who does not deserve to be treated like some errant second lieutenant by a pompous, idiotic, windbag. I blitz through anger and start building a towering rage in less time than it takes to blink. Gloria grabs my knee and squeezes. A restraint. I reign in my rage and manage to choke out a reasonably neutral: “Sorry, sir.”

  Commodore Smith resumes his pontificating. I loathe debriefings with Smith. He is vitriolic, sarcastic, and stupid. He focuses on pointless minutia that is better handled by the lower level debriefings. He belittles his subordinates. He also has the tactical acumen of an earthworm. He spends ten full minutes on pre-fold maneuvers. Apparently the reason he delayed our attack for almost thirty minutes was because he was not satisfied with the pre-attack brief back and readiness reporting from his ships’ captains. Not satisfied with berating them then, he does so again at the debriefing.

  Mercifully the debriefing reaches the point where the Marines have been dropped and Colonel Rainer takes over. He provides a striking counterpoint to Smith. He is calm, professional, and focuses on salient points. The debriefing picks up speed until we get to the ambush. Here Rainer stops and asks: “Lieutenant Colonel Morris do you have any idea how the Grotokai were able to hide their ambush from you?”

  Silently I appreciate Rainer’s courtesy. He could have asked: ‘do you have any idea how you missed the ambush?’ He would not have been wrong to ask it that way, but this way he makes it about the enemy, and not about my Marines. I answer: “Sir, the Grotokai staged in an underground bunker connected by a tunnel to the compound. They then used explosives to blow a hole in the ground and were able to rapidly exit the bunker that way. Judging by the size of the hole the bunker was buried twenty meters below the surface. There is no way any of us could have picked it up.” I pause for a brief moment to make sure I frame the next statement properly, then say: “My bigger concern is how this represents a large departure from standard Grotokai tactics and techniques.”

  “I agree. We will make sure this information gets out to other allied units operating in the area.” He is talking about the huge contingent of Elowynn forces working this contested region of their space. “I will cover this more when we get to the intel portion of this debriefing.”

  Rainer attempts to resume the debriefing, but is interrupted by Smith. “Wait,” he says, “That’s it?”

  Colonel Rainer’s face looks like it was chipped from black ice as he responds with thunderous calm: “Excuse me, Sir?”

  Smith, cloaked in his immense arrogance and stupidity, fails to notice the threat in Rainer’s face and tone. He blunders on: “One of your units is stupid enough to get caught in an ambush and lose a bunch of Marines, who are obviously incompetent, and you just gloss over it? I don’t know what kind of outfit you’re running Rainer, but I would not accept such obvious stupidity in my subordinates, I assure you.”

  Some part of me notices the absolute stillness that settles in Stern’s briefing room. But, it is a very small part. The rest of me does not even bother with rage. Instead hatred fills me. Not a hot passionate hatred. No. No. No. Smith is not good enough for that. Instead it is an icy hatred, glacially pure and crystalline. Perfect serenity accompanies it. I calmly stand up and head for the hatch.

  As I am leaving the room I hear Rainer respond: “Commodore William Tecumseh Smith, I have put up with your arrogance and stupidity throughout this interminable deployment. I have swallowed my tongue and patiently tried to get through this with my honor and dignity intact. You have now made that impossible. I am ending this debriefing. Before I do so let me inform you that you are not to communicate with me again. Let me also inform you that you might as well turn this task group around and return to Earth. I know we have two weeks left on this deployment, but I will be damned before I let myself or my Marines drop underneath your command again.” That small part of me that was noticing things besides my rage marveled at how much anger Rainer could display without raising his voice. I also notice when every Marine face on the TACNET disappears.

  I am moving quickly down the passageway towards the landing bay. The Stern has a small aerospace detachment operating a couple of Colts. The Colt is a smaller lighter version of the Ox and they are used by the Navy for ship to ship transportation. The plan is simple, as all good plans are. I will tell the duty pilot that I need to go to the Quincy to see the Commodore. If I could get there before Gloria got to the bridge, the bridge watch would approve the flight as a matter of course. Once on the flagship it will be easy to find Smith. I am very good at hand to hand combat. I will not kill him
. That is too good for him. I figure I can probably break five or six bones before I am restrained. I can break more, but that will require me to hurt the sailors who will restrain me. My fight is not with them.

  I hear someone running down the passageway behind me. I ignore them and keep walking quickly. A loud voice booms “Jambo!” I stop and turn around slowly. I see Mbiraru running towards me. He grins at me. He has a huge vibrantly white smile in his dark black face. As he approaches me he slows down and in his melodious Maasai accent says: “I am coming with you my friend.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Mbiraru Ndiaye is the final member of my circle of friends. Formally of the Kenyan Air Force he had quickly qualified as an aerospace pilot when United Humanity’s forces were formed. A senior, and immensely qualified, officer he was given command of the brand new HMH-461. With Gloria and me he rounds out the commanders aboard the Stern. Mbiraru makes you feel like the Sun is shining even in the darkest times. He also has this damnable habit of calming down angry people. I do not need that right now. “No. You are not,” I say.

  He laughs heartily and impossibly his smile gets bigger. “I am free to go where I please. And right now I am pleased to go with you.”

  “Are you going to help me?” I ask.

  “Of course I am.” Mbiraru’s grin remains as he continues: “I think it may not be the help you want, but it will be the help you need.”

  Damn it. I reply: “He insulted my dead. He insulted Larry.”

  “Yes he did. And he insulted Rainer. And he insulted every Marine in this Task Group.” Mbiraru pauses briefly then continues: “But, my friend, I must ask, did you notice how he did so publicly during a recorded event?”

  I had noticed, but in my hatred I had not cared. I still do not care. “His insult can only be settled with blood Mbiraru.”

  Mbiraru’s replies: “Perhaps you are right. But I am going to make you wait until he has been forcibly retired.” He laughs happily.

  The gears start turning in my head. “Forcibly retired?” I ask.

  Mbiraru responds: “But of course. There can be no other reaction when we return.” He laughs again. “Colonel Rainer is a most admired and respected officer. The Commandant will support him without question. Furthermore, Gloria, our most glorious and popular ship’s captain, will send that recording to her friends in the Admiralty immediately upon our return. There can be no other result.” He steps up beside me and drapes his arm around my shoulders. He starts gently, but firmly, leading me down the passageway away from the landing bay. “But enough of this pointless frivolity. Who cares about foolish, incompetent, asinine, cretinous Commodores? My friend, it has been a long and thirsty day. I feel a great need for a great amount of beer. And, as we all know, beer is of paramount importance. Fortunately, I hear the Officer’s Pub aboard has been ordered open early today at the request of the excellent Commander Gloria.” He pauses, cocks his head, and continues: “I think that is what I love most about that woman. Smartest person I have ever met.” We are now walking further and further away from the landing bay. Mbiraru continues: “Speaking of smart people, did I ever tell you the story about this genius squadron commander I had back in the Kenyan Air Force? Well it starts the day he took ….”

  I could have resisted Mbiraru. But it was clear he was going to do whatever it took to keep me away from Smith. He continues talking the whole time he leads me through the passageways. I do not really listen, but he knows that. He is just giving me time to let my hatred melt away. Time to step back from the line I was about to cross. My desire for vengeance slowly evaporates. Mbiraru is right. As soon as that recording hits the Admiralty it will be like a bomb going off. For now I decide that being cashiered in disgrace is probably enough punishment for Smith. That is not to say that if I meet him in a dark alley sometime I will not beat him to within an inch of his life.

  The hatch to the Officer’s Pub is covered in real wood and brass. As we approach it Mbiraru finished his story with a: “And so we ended up with a troop of vervet monkeys who would fetch us beers from the cooler. Like I said, he was a genius.” He looks over at me. “This, I think, is where you should have been heading. Do not worry. Sometimes people get lost. As long as there is a friend to help them find the way it is not a problem.”

  I look over at him and match his smile, then say: “I do believe you mentioned something about beer?” I push the hatch open and enter the pub. The place is made almost entirely of wood and brass. The pub smells of smoke and whiskey. The smell has soaked into the very pores of the wood and no amount of air filtration will ever get rid of it. I have spent more happy hours in this place than I can count. That too has soaked into the pores of the wood. I feel myself relax and the tension from the last forty-eight hours leaks out of me. I see Gloria, Bennie, and Svetlana standing at the bar looking at me anxiously.

  Mbiraru booms: “Jambo! Look who I have found!”

  They see the peace in my face and the anxiety leaves theirs. As I reach the bar we greet each other warmly. Nobody mentions Smith. And nobody mentions anything about what they all know I had just tried to do. No need really. The important part is that I am here smiling and not facing criminal charges for publicly beating a Commodore of the United Humanity Navy.

  Gloria reaches behind the bar and pulls out a communicator. She punches a button and announces officially into it: “Now hear this. This is the Captain speaking. The drinking lamp is lighted. I say again the drinking lamp is lighted. That is all.” I hear the message echoed by the ship’s 1MC system. It is Ministry of Defense policy to stop all drinking twenty-four hours before an operation, and to not resume it again till all required post-battle tasks ware complete. The tasks are probably not actually all done, but after the disaster in the debriefing nobody cares. We all know we are going home soon. And that there will be plenty of time to get everything squared away before we get there.

  The pub will soon fill up with the officers aboard ship. Bennie hands me a beer and says: “Come on Mate, our table is waiting.” We grab our beers and head to our usual table in the most secluded corner of the place. We sit down look at each other and begin to talk about our day. Along the way we begin the grieving process for our missing friend. There will be a memorial tomorrow with the Chaplain and remarks and prayers. But, we have all come to loathe those things. They have their purpose, and they are important, but real warriors say goodbye over beer and stories. Gloria starts first with a: “Remember the time Larry lost a bet to the bosun over the Cowboy-Steelers game?”

  As I listen and laugh I wonder what people would see if they looked over at this table. They would see two women and three men. They would see two Americans, a Brit, a Russian, and a Kenyan. They would see an aerospace pilot, some Kodiak drivers, and a ship’s captain. They would see a sailor and four Marines. All of those things would be true, but in reality all of that is meaningless. At this moment with bottles in our hands in a ship’s pub in some dark empty quarter of space, we are nothing but five old and dear friends, doing what old and dear friends do.

  As I raise my beer to my lips I think of Yeats: Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends. War with the Tangul looms on the horizon like the leading edge of a hurricane. It will make these tours on the Elowynn border seem like a sunny day in the park. Humanity needs me to fight this war, but I guess it turns out I need Humanity too. I need my friends. I may very well not survive this coming war. Someday it might be my body being shipped home for honors and burial, just like Larry’s. But, until that day comes, I will revel in the glory of the finest friends a man could ever wish for.

  CHAPTER 8

  A New Day

  I wake up. I notice that I feel vaguely awful. I feel a nagging pain in every corner of my body. Oddly I am not hungry, but my stomach still feels empty. I see that another IV bag has been hooked up to me. This one is clear. Probably glucose and water to keep me hydrated and fed while th
e nanites do their work. I look at the clock on the wall. I have slept for eight hours. I hear a beeping noise and notice that some sort of monitoring device watches me from the cart.

  The door opens and Roberts comes in. She looks at me and says: “You woke up pretty quick. How do you feel?”

  “I feel awful.” I reply.

  She asks: “Awful how?”

  “I have this low-grade pain just about everywhere.”

  She smiles. “That is normal. You need to sleep for another twelve hours or so.” She fiddles around with the cart and produces a syringe. “I have some more sedative here. It will knock you back out.” She fidgets with the syringe but makes no move to inject it into my IV. She looks pensive. Before I can ask her what is going on she asks: “Where are you from?”

  Odd that. The question is perfectly normal but I sense that this is not part of the normal routine. “Detroit.”

  “Really?” Her voice rises slightly.

  “Well, actually I am from Grosse Pointe.” I do not like to admit this. I have no problem with the fact that I had a relatively pampered childhood, but I do not like to talk about it. Most people in the military come from humbler beginnings. Sometimes, wealth can make people without wealth feel uncomfortable. She looks at me searchingly, so I elaborate a bit. “My father was a high muckety-muck with Ford. He is retired now and does some consulting when he isn’t hanging out at the country club.”

  She does not respond to this directly. Instead she asks another question: “Where did you go to school?”

  The low-grade pain shortens my patience a bit. I really want that sedative so I can go back to sleep. So I start lecturing: “I graduated from Wayne State University in 1998 with a BA in History and Peace and Conflict Studies. I graduated from San Diego State University with a Masters in Liberal Arts and Sciences in 2002. My hobbies include classical-history, Judo, and my wife and kids. I have been married for eighteen years, I have been in the Marine Corps for nineteen years. I drive a Mustang Shelby GT500 with a manual transmission, because automatics are for losers, I think the internet is the greatest invention ever, and on occasion I have been known to drink copious quantities of beer.” I look at her sharply. “Is there anything else you would like to know or have I covered all of the relevant bases?”