by Bill Roberts
Suddenly Hildebrandt makes an inarticulate sound of exultation. I have honestly forgotten all about him. I ignore that too and keep firing and running. But, something changes. I see a fresh line of explosions to my front. What the hell? Those did not come from my Kodiaks. Another line of explosions smashes various Deeken elements. I start to come out of my trance.
I hear over the intercom: “Shot target number mike bravo five niner three zero.” A brief pause, then: “Shot target number mike bravo five niner three one. Rounds complete target number mike bravo five niner three zero.”
Behind me Hildebrandt is in his own trance, rolling through an endless litany of fire support jargon as the explosions roll in front of us. The TACNET comes to life and I see Gloria looking at me. She is bleeding from a cut on the side of her face and she has unzipped her coveralls halfway and has her right arm stuck in it like a hasty sling. She says: “The Bugler and the Barnum were lost with all hands, but we finished off those Deeken ships. What’s left of the Stern and the Dunham are now in support with Naval Gunfire. I see Svetlana is down.” Her voice rises and a look of pure murderous rage transforms her face while her blue eyes flash angrily. She looks every bit the Valkyrie from another Wagner play. “Let’s pound these motherfuckers into paste.”
It has been a long time since I have seen Gloria this angry. In fact, the last time might have been on Lothario all those years ago. But, then, as now, it is a source of comfort. I had not known whether or not the amphibious ships could defeat three heavy pirate ships. I had hoped, but ... I should have been more confident. The United Humanity Navy is the finest in the galaxy. And in the United Humanity Navy there is no finer ship’s captain than Commander Gloria Johansen. I have no idea how she defeated those Deeken ships, but I should have expected it none the less.
With the fire support from their big guns we just might pull this off after all. I have work to do. Coming the rest of the way out of my trance I respond to Gloria: “Yes. Let’s.”
Gloria replies a little more calmly: “I know you’re busy. We’ll work it through your FSO,” and cuts the connection.
Colonel Rainer calls me next: “Iron Six, Tarawa Six. You have priority of fires.” This would mean that all of the naval gunfire will be entirely at my disposal. “Take it to these Deeken shits.”
I smash another Deeken vehicle with my main gun and answer: “Looking forward to it, Sir. Give me five minutes and I will give you a Sitrep.” The hope brought about by Gloria’s amazing naval victory is making me a bit giddy.
Rainer replies: “Roger. Out.” He cuts the connection.
I zoom out my tactical display and assess the situation. Like a great puzzle I see jagged pieces on the ground. But I am good at these puzzles and almost instantly I see how best to assemble the pieces. I open a channel on TACNET and begin spitting out rapid fire orders. There is a ways to go yet, but I know, I know, we are going to win.
The medical bay aboard the Stern is full of wounded Sailors and Marines. As I work my way through the bay I think of our “victory.” Using the heavy guns from the Stern and Dunham we had fought our way to the surrounded Marines of Charlie Company and 2nd Battalion 12th Marines. By that time the Quincy had returned. With her massive arsenal in support 2nd Marines now had their own fire support for their offensive from the west. They played the hammer while the remnants of 2nd Heavy Armored and 2nd Battalion 12th Marines played the anvil in the east. The Deeken were tough, brave, bastards, but with fire raining down on them from above, and a truly angry bunch of Marines attacking them they broke. It had taken an hour to hunt them down, but hunt them down we had and none of them had survived. I remember a few images sharply. The Vespines of 222 returning and harrying the fleeing enemy mercilessly. Mbiraru and his Oxes braving enemy fire and swooping in on downed Kodiaks trying to save whoever they could. Colonel Rainer’s face in my TACNET as he hammered in to the Deeken, full of confidence as he told me how we would smash the Deeken together.
As I continue through the medical bay I listen to the beeping medical machines and the silent conversations of the medical staff. The Task Group had paid a terrible price. Sure we had won, but the butcher’s bill had been steeper than anything seen by the Navy - Marine Corps team for many, many years. Two ships lost with all hands. 2nd Battalion 12th Marines gutted to the point of ineffectiveness. And the horrible losses dealt 2nd Heavy Armored. I had dropped with sixty-eight pilots and sixteen back seaters. I now have forty pilots and ten back seaters. While technically we can still fight, in reality we are done. It will take months to recover from this.
I make a turn in the bay, almost there. Out of sheer decency Commodore Duquesne and Colonel Rainer had cancelled the normal post operation debriefing. We will get around to it eventually, but it is time to lick our wounds and salvage what we can. This had given me time to talk to my Marines after the fight, not about work, but to see how they were doing. It had also given me time to think. I part a privacy curtain and see her in one of the surgical beds. She is hooked up to various machines and IV’s, and looks like a wreck. I see her blue eyes are open and realize she is awake. It is time to tell her how I really feel about her.
I kneel next to the bed and put my hand on her unbroken left arm. She croaks out: “Shawn, I am so sorry.” Tears start leaking down her face. I have no idea what she is sorry for. She had done everything she possibly could. It was not her fault the fortunes of war had been so cruel this day.
Her arm feels scaly and swollen. When you are on a zero atmosphere planet a crack in your cockpit is extremely dangerous. There is an emergency hood and gloves below your seat. If you get them on in time they, with your pilot suit, can provide rudimentary protection to your skin and keep the zero pressure from killing you outright. If your Biomed unit is working properly, it can help you fight the cold and keep your blood oxygenated. But it is a losing game. If you do not get help soon you will die. Mbiraru himself had dropped to her Kodiak. He had braved heavy fire to get her out. He would have done the same thing for any Marine, but I think the fact that she is one of his best friends did not hurt.
So against all of the odds she had survived. Severely dehydrated, burned from the cold, and with a broken right arm from crashing to the ground as her Kodiak vented, but alive. The IV’s are killing the pain with drugs, feeding her and rehydrating her while her nanites work furiously to repair the damage. She really does look terrible, but at the same time she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
I gently brush the tears from her eyes and say: “Don’t cry my love, all is well.”
Shock crosses her face. We are not alone here. I am not in the least bit worried. In the aftermath of the battle I had several conversations with the survivors as we picked up the pieces. One thing that I had noticed is that almost every one of our Marines had congratulated me on the fact that Svetlana had lived. The women had tended to hug me as they said it, rank be damned. The men had tended to grab or punch me in the shoulder, rank be damned. Let me tell you, getting hugged by Franco was like getting hugged by a hungry python. But that was not the most memorable experience. The craziest one was the Sergeant Major. I always thought that if Juan Sanchez knew he would have been calling the Inspector General as quick as he could. I did not resent him for it, and would not have blamed him a bit. It is part of being a Sergeant Major. But he had grabbed my shoulder with feeling and in a low voice had said: “If anyone asks, I never said this. But I am glad you did not lose another one, Sir. You’re a good man, and the XO is a good woman. We all have been pulling for you for a long time now.” I started to gobble something but Sanchez just squeezed harder and said: “Don’t say anything. It is my job to enforce the rules, but even I know that sometimes rules are meant to be broken.” After that he had walked off while I stared at him mutely. I guess all of our attempts to keep the secret had been a huge waste of time. Well, that is not fair; by trying so hard to be professional and hide it we had probably pleaded our cas
e in the best possible way. Who would have thought?
I kiss Svetlana’s forehead tenderly and stroke her hair. I continue: “Relax. You would not believe the conversations I had today. But, that is for later.” I move my hand to her uninjured one and continue: “I know why you broke it off before we left. I also know that you meant well. But, I don’t accept it. I love you more than anything, and I know you love me. The rest will just have to take care of itself.” I lift her hand to my lips and kiss it.
The tears streak down her face again and she says: “But we cannot do this. With the war coming, it is wrong; it will get in the way.”
I reply calmly: “I realized something down on that rock. Yes, I will do anything for you, but you know what? I love all of my Marines, if not in quite the same way, and would do anything for any of them. I also realized that they will do anything for us. So, I hate to tell you this, but you’re worrying about nothing.”
“It cannot be so simple,” she replies. I notice the tears have stopped. She is starting to look hopeful. My heart sings at seeing her hope.
“Love is simple,” I return. “I will prove it to you.” I stand and pull the wedding ring off of my left hand. Somewhere I am certain Liz is saying: “About time, you silly man.” I kneel and hold the ring out to her. As evenly and seriously as I can I ask: “Svetlana Zhukov, will you marry me?”
CHAPTER 20
Cataclysm
Paperwork. Nothing in the universe could be more frustrating than paperwork. I sit in my humble office banging out yet another e-mail. As I hammer away at the keys I do my best to keep from snarling. The forming of 2nd Heavy Armored has not gone smoothly. Oh the Kodiaks and the Marines to operate and maintain them have not been a problem. Colonel Langsdorf runs a very tight ship. Everything from Heavy Combat Systems has been easy. The pilots and mechanics trained in Wonderland show up as scheduled in the appropriate numbers. We have already formed three of the four companies and will stand up the fourth in about a month or so. They bring with them the Kodiaks and special tools necessary to do their jobs. Those equipment items are in brand new and fully tested condition. However, Wonderland’s support is the only bright spot in an otherwise dismal tale.
The facilities necessary to support the battalion are still not fully completed. The gantries for parking our Kodiaks exist and function as parking spots, but the finishing work on those gantries is still ongoing. Half of the elevators still do not work, and almost three quarters of the power stations the mechanics need to work on the Kodiaks still have yet to be emplaced. The barracks for the enlisted Marines are done, but the headquarters staff is still working out of temporary trailers. The headquarters building is in contract dispute (the building contractor does not care, because of Department of Defense contracting rules they are virtually guaranteed a profit no matter what) and will probably get done sometime in the next century. I really do not care about having a fancy office. The real problem with the headquarters building revolves around the newly arrived Kodiak and Cougar simulators from Wonderland. They require the headquarters building for their operation. So my most powerful and convenient training tool is completely unavailable.
The other ancillary equipment of the battalion also has problems. Our Table of Equipment (TE) calls for things like trucks and radios in addition to the Kodiaks. I have received almost three quarters of these types of things. Which is pretty good actually, right in line with the Kodiaks arriving from Wonderland. However, the Marine Corps has dredged the gear up from the proverbial bottom of the barrel. A third of the equipment is broken to the point of uselessness. Most of the rest has at least one problem or another that requires fixing. The 1st Marine Division (my higher headquarters) logistics and supply officers are promising me that this situation will change soon, but I do not believe them.
While annoying, my Marines and I can work around the facility and equipment problems. Well we could if we had the personnel necessary to do so. While I have all of the pilots and mechanics I rate I am desperately short on everything else. My battalion’s Table of Organization (TO) calls for twenty-one administration Marines to handle the personnel paperwork. I have three. The TO provides for almost forty logistics Marines, not the ten that I actually have. The list only gets worse from there. Intelligence section? Zero for ten. Communications Marines? Three for thirty. The lack of personnel makes everything infinitely more difficult. All of us are picking up the slack the best we can, but it is grinding us all down. Furthermore, instead of training my pilots or working with my Three to plan operations, or hell just talking to my Marines to get to know them, I spend almost all of my time dealing with 1st Marine Division Headquarters working construction issues, or equipment replacement or simply trying to get the Marines I rate. This would not have been so bad if the Division G-1, personnel officer, and G-4, logistics officer, were not a couple of entrenched bureaucrats of the type I have long learned to despise. I have spent many pleasurable moments picturing myself smashing the 1st Division headquarters building into kindling with my Kodiak.
I finish yet another e-mail to Division and send it off. I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. The bland acoustic ceiling tiles hold no answers, but at least they are inoffensive. That has been just about enough of me doing paperwork for now. The mighty bureaucratic machine otherwise known as the Marine Corps will have to wait until tomorrow to extract its pound of paper flesh from me. Which it will as sure as the Sun rises in the east. I sigh. Only the United States Marine Corps could be so schizophrenic that it could brilliantly support something as complicated as Wonderland while at the same time utterly failing to manage something as simple as making sure a construction company can actually do the job it is contracted to do.
My cellphone rings. I pull it out of my pocket and see that Liz is calling. Excellent. I really need something bright and clean to do. “Hiya Liz,” I say.
I can hear road noise in the background as Liz replies: “Hi Shawn. We’re almost to the SDSU campus.” Josh has been leaning more and more heavily to going to college in San Diego. Liz is taking him and Esther down to check it out today. “I know you probably won’t get home till late tonight.” Liz sighs and continues: “Again. But you should beat us home. Can you pick up some milk and bananas from the store on your way home?”
“Sure,” I return. “Standard fee applies.” The standard fee involved things done only when the kids were asleep or gone.
I hear pleasant heat in Liz’s voice as she accepts my terms with a: “Deal. I was hoping you’d say that.”
I reply with some pleasant heat of my own: “You know I could pick something up on the way home every day.”
Liz laughs and says: “I’m sure you could. Thanks Shawn. See you later tonight.”
“No problem Liz. See you,” I say and hang up the phone.
God I needed that. I get up from my desk and thump my way through my prefabricated office, the floor echoing hollowly under the tread of my boots. I open the thin metal door and enter the rest of the trailer. It is a small collection of cubicles that contain my XO, Major Barnes, the Sergeant Major and my three horribly overworked administration Marines. The XO looks up at me, but the other Marines keep their heads down and continue pounding on their keyboards. I made it clear to them all that I understand they have too much to do and not enough time to do it in. No need for the normal pomp and ceremony a battalion commander normally receives when he enters a room. I look at the XO. He looks like a prototypical Marine Officer. Tall and well built, dark hair cut ridiculously short, serious eyes. I say: “I’ve had enough paperwork for today. I’m heading down to the Kodiak Ramp to see what the Marines down there are up to.”
Barnes was one of my students in the last group of pilots I trained in Wonderland. A tanker by trade, surprisingly it had been the first time we ever met. He performed reasonably well in pilot training, but nothing spectacular. That being said, as an executive officer he is fantastic. He is tireless
, savvy, and has an excellent eye for detail. He gives me a wan smile and replies: “Have fun, Sir. We’ll hold down the fort in case Division miraculously makes something good happen.”
I snort and head for the door leading outside. While I walk I respond: “I won’t hold my breath. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
Outside the sun shines brightly. It is now late winter, but even early March in Southern California is pretty nice. Nestled in the hills of Camp Pendleton, 2nd Heavy Armored’s facilities lie near those of 11th Marines in the Los Pulgas area of this massive Marine Corps installation. Around me the first signs of spring show in budding plants and buzzing insects. And the hills to my south are beginning to take on a green hue. The growing scrub gives off a faintly licorice smell.
The Kodiak Ramp is only about a hundred yards away from my office. I stroll along the asphalt road connecting the headquarters to the ramp whistling to myself. John Williams. Ahead of me the Kodiaks in their gantries loom above me and I begin to pick out individual Marines bustling about conducting the myriad of tasks necessary to keep the battalion operational.
I see a group of Marines at the foot of one of the Kodiaks and head over to them. Their pilot suits give them away as members of Alpha Company. Normally we wear the Marine Pattern Combat Uniform or MARPATs. We only get to wear the pilot suites on days we are supposed to actually pilot the Kodiaks. Alpha has a small training mission scheduled for later in the day. As I reach them I hear their company commander, Captain Sutherland, outlining the plan for their training mission. As he sees me approach the last few feet he calls the group of pilots to attention and salutes me with a “Good Morning, Sir.”
I return the salute crisply and reply: “Good Morning, gents. Don’t let me interrupt. Please carry on.”
Sutherland nods in response and continues his briefing. While he speaks I observe the fourteen pilots of Alpha Company. Langsdorf had prevailed upon the Marine Corps to not limit Kodiak pilots to just commissioned officers. However, the Corps had balked at the idea of enlisted men piloting such expensive and complicated machines. In response the Corps settled on a system similar to U.S. Army Aviation. While commissioned officers would provide the leadership the bulk of the pilots will be Warrant Officers. The best non-commissioned officers of the Marine Corps have been selected for the Kodiak training program. With successful completion they are promoted to Warrant Officer and assigned to the newly forming heavy armored battalions. Consequently, most of the people in the briefing are warrant officers or chief warrant officers. Having trained some of them I can, without hesitation, say the system is working quite well.