First to Fight (15 page)

“The basic social unit on Elneal is the clan, a unit of a tribe. Over the last three hundred years they have developed along two lines, nomadic warrior clans and the families that dwell in the settlements and make their living by farming. The largest and most powerful tribe is the Siad, who are descended directly from the original North African immigrants. The Bos Kashi is the second-largest group. They came originally from Afghanistan and are responsible for importing the ancestors of the herds of wild horses that roam the grasslands and plateaus. They and the Siad constantly fight each other over grazing lands and water rights. The Muong Song from the Thai-Laos-Burma border region of Southeast Asia were among the third wave of immigrants. They emigrated when the opium trade upon which they depended for their livelihood died out. They eventually settled in the Sharja Islands, about two hundred kilometers off the coast, and took up piracy for a living. Finally there came the English-speaking elements, the Gaels from what was formerly Ireland on Old Earth, and the Sons of Freedom, an extremely militant North American group that arose in the wake of the Second American Civil War. These last two groups settled the temperate regions just across the Honolato Mountains, and for generations they have raided—and been raided—through the passes.

“There has been a lot of interbreeding among these groups—women are valued property and are prime booty of raiding parties—and numerous schisms have arisen over the generations, which have resulted in changing the demographics of the various clans and tribes. For instance, the city dwellers and farmers were originally members of one nomadic group or another who split off on their own over quarrels now long forgotten.

“But one thing all the warrior tribes have in common is love of combat. Every male in the warrior clans—and many of their women as well—goes armed everywhere, all the time. You are not considered a man until you are proficient with a weapon in this society. Until about twenty years ago, when the mining operations began in the Siad and Bos Kashi lands, the weapons the clansmen carried were pretty primitive devices, mostly projectile launchers of various types. Now, thanks to the money the mining consortiums have invested in Elneal,” here the N-2 glanced sharply at Owens, “some of them are almost as well armed as our own Marines. And since the Siad profited most from the mining operations, they are now the ascendant tribe on the planet.

“Also about twenty years ago,” the picture of a fierce-looking bearded man appeared on the viewscreens, “this man, Shabeli the Elder, a very intelligent and charismatic leader, began to get some of the clans to cooperate with his own in raids on New Obbia and the coastal settlements. He was able to craft workable nonaggression pacts with the Gaels, Bos Kashi, and Sons of Freedom that have eliminated the episodic but disastrous interclan wars, while continuing the tradition of individual feuds and vendettas that all these people seem to relish so much. Before Shabeli’s coming, raids on the settlements had been sporadic. Whenever one of the clans or tribes felt like tormenting somebody and doing a little looting, their men would take off for a month and raid a town. Before Shabeli, no one had ever successfully kept the tribes from fighting among themselves. But Shabeli was a genius. When he died six years ago his son, Shabeli the Magnificent, as he styles himself, stepped into his sandals.”

The older man’s picture disappeared, to be replaced by a striking face: It was of a man in his early fifties. His skin was very dark and pulled tightly across high cheekbones. The lips were sensuous and full; his nose long and aquiline. His black eyes burned under shaggy brows. A thick, dark mustache blended smoothly into a short, sharp beard. It was a face of great intelligence and determination.

“How did we get those images?” Admiral Willis asked.

“They were taken by an off-world journalist. Somehow, she got the Shabelis’ confidence and was allowed to make several visits to the rebel stronghold somewhere in the Honolato foothills. She disappeared completely about five years ago. Some think she perished in the desert. Others say Shabeli killed her. But there’s a persistent rumor that she’s now the mistress of Shabeli the Magnificent.” The N-2 shrugged.

“That man is a devil!” President Merka blurted out. “Sorry, Admiral,” he said sheepishly. “I could not control myself.” Merka sank back into his chair, silent and brooding.

“This is a man to be reckoned with,” the N-2 affirmed. “We estimate he has between six and seven thousand heavily armed men under his command. Over the past six months his raids have just about closed down any trace of government on Elneal; the mining operations have totally ceased. About a million people in New Obbia and the villages have died of starvation. Nobody really knows what it is he wants. He inspires his men with an appeal to their ingrained lust for combat and loot, but the big difference now is that he’s convinced them the time has come for a crusade against the non-nomads and everyone else not of the warrior tribes. He preaches a vague messianic mysticism that promises complete restoration of the nomadic independent life their distant ancestors led back on Old Earth. He believes, as evidently do most of his followers, that the original plan has gone astray and now is the time to restore that vision of the past. I think what we have here is an ambitious and politically astute man who’s seen a chance to grab supreme power and is taking it.

“What he’s got is a small army that can do whatever it wants to whomever it wants on Elneal because there’s nobody here who can stop him. And, ladies and gentlemen, make no mistake, this man and his people are not pushovers. If we send forces in to restore government on Elneal, there’ll be fighting.” The N-2 settled back in his chair.

“Thanks, Admiral,” Willis said. “General Curry?”

Immediately the Forces annex of the operations order appeared on the screens. General Larray Curry, Commander, 4th Fleet Marine Force, cleared his throat. “Sir, as you can see, we propose a provisional brigade-size deployment force. It would be composed of the 121st, 62nd, and 34th FISTs. Each will establish a base of operations in one of the three coastal cities. After reestablishing order in the urban areas, they will move units into the outlying countryside and relief operations can begin. If we can feed and protect the people until the next crop gets harvested, about six months from now, then we can devote our full efforts to destroying Shabeli’s forces. We estimate nine months, from start to finish.”

“How soon can we have forces on the ground in Elneal?” Willis asked.

“Sir, the closest unit is the 34th FIST on Thorsfinni’s World, about two standard weeks away. The 121st and 62nd can be here in a month standard. Until the 34th gets here, we propose forming a provisional FIST from the Marines in the ships’ complements in the fleet to secure a base for the 34th FIST in the capital city. The outlying settlements, I’m afraid, will have to make do on their own until our people can get here in force.”

“The 34th FIST? Fine combat record.” Willis then turned to the rest of his staff. “I want you to study this plan thoroughly for the next hour, people. Be back here and in your seats then.”

Admiral Willis let his staff debate the operations order for another hour after they reconvened. Technical details concerning logistics, ordnance, quartermaster, transportation, communications, and medical support matters were adjusted. During that time Owens and the other civilians sat quietly, if impatiently, on the sidelines.

“All right,” Admiral Willis announced at last, “that’s it. The plan is hereby approved and ready to be executed. Captain,” he turned to his chief communications officer, “dispatch hyperspace drones immediately to the President of the Confederation Council and Commander, Combined Forces Headquarters, the commanders of the deploying units, and all other commanders in the Fleet. Encode the standard deployment message to include the final version of the operation order. Fleet staff and Consul Dozois will prepare updates every seventy-two hours.

“Oh, one more thing. Mr. Owens?”

The Consolidated Enterprises executive looked up expectantly from a hushed conversation he was having with President Merka.

“Mr. Locklear Owens, you are under arrest.”

Owens gaped at the Admiral as two Marines stepped up to his side and grabbed his arms. “You can’t be serious!” he managed to blurt out.

“Oh, yes, I am,” Willis answered. “Never more serious, sir. Naval investigators have dug up enough dirt on your operations on Elneal to earn you a death sentence, Mr. Owens.”

“What charges?” Owens demanded.

“Violation of the Intra-Confederation Arms Control Act of 2368, selling military weapons to civilians without a license.”

“You’ll hear about this, you certainly will hear about this! My company will not stand by and let you—”

Admiral Willis stopped the executive with an upraised hand. The conference room had fallen completely silent. “Sir, under the constitution of our Confederation, you have the right to a fair and speedy trial. As the supreme judicial power in this quadrant of Human Space, I guarantee you will get one. It will be over and sentence passed before your company even knows you’ve been charged. The Fleet Judge Advocate will assist you in finding counsel, and you will be given adequate time to prepare your defense.’’ For the first time Admiral Willis displayed emotion. His face turned red with anger as he almost shouted at Owens: “I have asked the Judge Advocate to seek the death penalty for you, mister. Now get this piece of shit out of here,” he said to the Marines, and turned his back on the prisoner.

Owens had gone white and his mouth worked silently as he tried to form words of protest. Nothing came out of his throat but a high-pitched wheezing noise. Stiffly, holding the quivering executive as if he might rub off on them, the Marines escorted him toward the door.

“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Owens.” Admiral Willis whirled around in his captain’s chair. “A complete copy of my investigative report will be in the drone to the Confederation Council. Before your superiors even know you’re on trial, they’ll be in court themselves. Take comfort in the coming weeks that misery loves company, Mr. Owens, and you are in very bad company.”

Admiral Willis sighed and forced his breathing to return to normal. “Now, Bernie,” he said, turning back to his communications officer, “get a drone off to the 34th FIST on Thorsfinni’s World. I need those men out here yesterday.”

CHAPTER

TWELVE

During the next month and a half the days and weeks passed in a whirlwind of activity. Dean, McNeal, and Chan were fully processed-in—including back pay—and the loans they’d received their first night were promptly repaid.

There was much to do: equipment issue; learning the names of everyone in the platoon and their chain of command; and learning how the infantry squad, platoon, and company really functioned in the Fleet. They learned that during the times they spent in the field—a minimum of two days a week, once for more than a week. In garrison, they cleaned the barracks—even when it didn’t need cleaning—stood daily inspections, managed to stay awake during seemingly endless classroom lectures, and between running, calisthenics, and weight training, the newer men blossomed into the best physical shape any of them had ever experienced, surpassing even the conditioning they’d achieved in Boot Camp.

And then on Friday nights and Saturdays when they weren’t in the field, it was the Weekend Ritual. Promptly after chow call on Friday night those men not on duty details and with kroner in their pockets headed for Bronny. Between 17 and 1715 hours every Friday when the 34th was not training in the field or on a deployment, the spotless barracks degraded into a trash dump, staying that way until Reveille Monday morning. Inevitably, their weekends began at either Helga’s or Big Barb’s, but gradually the new men were introduced to the other attractions of Bronny, which included fishing in the fjord, learning to operate the primitive vehicles the ’Finnis used for transportation, and impromptu midnight “picnics” along the Bothnia with as many local girls as were daring enough to go out with the Marines—and all of them, it seemed, were game. Inevitably, these outings ended with all parties swimming nude in the frigid waters and then warming up in intimate togetherness on the shore afterward.

Over the course of a week or so, members of the platoon gradually stopped calling Claypoole “New Guy,” and soon after he stopped trying to pin that sobriquet on Dean and McNeal. Chan, the veteran who’d been through the ritual before, was quietly amused by it all. Not long after, more replacements arrived, and soon the third platoon and all of Company L were up to full strength.

They also learned more about Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass: who he was, and who he had been. It wasn’t that he talked about himself or what he’d done, he never did; he let others do the talking, and they relished the opportunity, incessantly telling stories about him. The most recent concerned the incident on Fiesta de Santiago, which the barracks gossips embellished with unfeigned glee, especially when they got to the part where he beat up Mr. Daryl George—who in these renditions had become an icon for the despicable and unscrupulous civilian entrepreneur making a fat living selling shoddy goods to the Corps. But Bass had been a legend in the Corps for years now. Anyone who wanted to appear a veteran had a Charlie Bass story to tell, most with eyewitness reputability.

The first solid evidence the new men had that he was someone truly special among Marines was the first time the company fell out in dress reds for a FIST commander’s inspection.

“Move it, move it move it move-movemove!” the squad leaders shouted in the rising staccato voice that always seems to be issued along with a sergeant’s chevrons. “On the parade deck right now! Move it, move it move it move-movemove!” They strode up and down the squad-bay corridor like bos’ns on an ancient slave galley, exhorting the men at the same time to complete their preparations for inspection and form up on the company parade ground.

Inside the rooms the team leaders were everywhere, hovering over their men, breathing down their necks, in their faces, and sometimes calmly making final adjustments to a uniform—at times even their own.

“Okay, Juice, Dean,” Leach said when he was satisfied at his men’s appearance. “You’re as ready as you’re going to be. Let’s hit that deck.”

Dean tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. This was his first FIST commander’s inspection since Boot Camp Graduation, and he was for some reason very tense. He’d been well-prepared for the graduation inspection; the recruits knew far in advance that it was coming, and the drill instructors worked with them for several days ahead of time getting everyone ready. For this inspection, though, they’d had only two days’ notice. Nobody walked them through their preparations step by step—everyone from the company commander to the squad leaders expected each man to know what was expected of him. If it hadn’t been for Claypoole, Dean wasn’t sure he would have been ready.

“Snip off that Irish pennant, Dean,” Claypoole said with a trace of condescension, gesturing at a stray thread hanging from a buttonhole. “You don’t want to meet the Brigadier looking like some kind of sloppy civilian.” He shook his head sadly. “ ‘New Guy’? Everybody was right about not calling you New Guy, you’re too boot to be salty enough to even be ‘new.’ ” Claypoole spent so much time helping Dean prepare for the inspection, Dean wondered when he had time to get ready himself. Claypoole raised an eyebrow when Dean voiced his concern.

“Dean-o,” he said calmly, “once you’ve been around as long as I have, you’ll always be ready for a FIST commander’s inspection. You get as much salt on you as I’ve got on me, you’ll always be ready for anything.” Goudanis guffawed at his boast and Claypoole glared at him.

“I got more time in the chow line than you got in the Corps, Clayhead,” Goudanis muttered.

“What’s the joke?” Dean asked, but Goudanis only shook his head. Claypoole nodded grimly at the lance corporal and went back to helping Dean get ready.

Dean was so concerned with getting his uniform ready he didn’t notice the amused way Leach kept an eye on him and Claypoole, ready to step in at any time to make sure his most junior man was ready. But instead of intervening, Leach let Claypoole do the job he’d assigned himself—if nothing else, it was good practice for Claypoole, a good way for him to learn something about leadership. Ratliff approved also—he was glad to have Claypoole out from underfoot.

Finally, the day, the hour, the minute of the inspection arrived and the men of third platoon scrambled out of their rooms, down the stairs, and out to the parade deck for the ordeal. Dean barely noticed Bass as he passed him at the head of the stairs. It wasn’t until they were outside, standing at attention in platoon formation, Bass front and center, that he had a chance to get a good look at his platoon sergeant in his dress uniform.

Staff Sergeant Bass was resplendent. The scarlet of his tunic seemed to burst into flame above the blue of his trousers with the bloodred NCO stripes running down their outer seams. His ebony NCO sword scabbard gleamed. But what caught the eyes of the men who’d never seen Bass in dress uniform before were the medals displayed across his left chest. The first, farthest to the wearer’s right and occupying the “field of honor,” as the precedence of personal decorations was called, had a navy-blue ribbon with a scarlet stripe down its middle, suspending a cross with a fouled anchor in its center—the Marine Medal of Valor, second only to the Confederation Medal of Heroism in the hierarchy of decorations. A gold comet pinned to the ribbon told the men he’d won the medal twice. Next came a medal with the ribbon colors reversed from the first, the Gold Nova. Then a Silver Nebula, once more two awards; then a Bronze Star with three gold starbursts, indicating he’d been awarded the medal four times in action against an enemy, After this, his Good Conduct Medal—it was short one silver comet cluster that denoted subsequent awards since his recent court-martial invalidated the award for that entire enlistment. His Marine Expeditionary Medal was so covered with comets the ribbon could hardly be seen through them.

Those six medals, slightly overlapping, formed the top row. Under them were clustered so many campaign medals they couldn’t easily be counted or individually recognized. On his right chest were the rectangular ribbons for the Confederation, Marine, and Meritorious Unit Citations, again with multiple awards of each. The only mar on the uniform was a slightly darker swath of red under the gold chevrons that showed where a second rocker had once been. But no one in the platoon cared that Charlie Bass had once carried a higher rank, they only knew that they’d follow him into combat anywhere, under any circumstances. And so would any other professional who met him on the street, because what counted about Charlie Bass was not his “conduct,” but how he conducted himself under fire.

“Listen up, people,” Bass said in a soft voice that nonetheless carried clearly to every one of his men. “I’ve watched you prepare for this inspection more closely than you realize. I’m here to tell you we are going to ace it.” It may have been only their imagination, but his men detected a trace of pride in his face as he looked them over. Bass drew his sword and held it at rest. “Sergeant Hyakowa, front and center.”

The senior squad leader stepped briskly from his position and marched to face Bass, also drawing his ceremonial sword. The two NCOs exchanged salutes with their swords. The blades flashed brightly in the strong sunlight, slashing up and down in brilliant silver arcs.

“Sergeant, the platoon is yours.”

“Aye aye, Staff Sergeant, the platoon is mine.”

The two exchanged salutes again, then Bass sheathed his sword, about-faced, and marched to take his place among the platoon commanders where the company officers were assembled.

Hyakowa about-faced to look over the platoon. “First squad, one pace to the right.” The men of his squad sharply shifted position to fill in the blank he had left when he stepped into the platoon sergeant’s position. “Like the man said,” he said when the platoon was again in crisp formation, “we’re going to ace it.” He paused for a moment, then cried out, “Third platoon! Pa-rade REST.”

With a sharp thunk, the men of third platoon shifted their left feet to a shoulder’s length apart and leaned their grounded blasters out and to their right in the classic position. Hyakowa about-faced again and assumed the position of parade rest himself.

Hyakowa must have gotten a signal from somewhere, because he suddenly whirled around and commanded: “Platoon! A-ten-HUT! Open ranks for inspection, HARCH!” The first rank took one smart step forward; the second stood fast; the third took one step backward. “Platoon! In-spec-shun, HARMS!” In two sharp, perfectly coordinated movements, the platoon hoisted their blasters to the port position, bisecting the body at a forty-five-degree angle.

Abruptly, the FIST commander and his retinue were with the company officers. They went through the motions of introductions and stating briskly what was about to happen, and then the Brigadier walked the ranks, inspecting the men. He stopped briefly in front of each man and said a crisp, “Good morning, Marine,” as the man operated the charging lever of his weapon, exposing the battery well, glancing down quickly into the empty well and then back up. The Brigadier then stepped to the next man. Once or twice per squad his hand shot out to take a blaster that was held at port arms. The Marine’s arms snapped instantly to his side, fingers extended and joined, thumb placed carefully along the seams of his trousers, eyes fixed steadfastly to the front. He gave the weapon a cursory glance, simply going through the form of inspection, and then casually handed it back. The man snatched it out of the Brigadier’s hands with a sharp smack as his own hands clapped loudly onto the weapon.

He stopped in front of Dean, who operated the charging bolt instantly, ready for the Brigadier to “inspect” his weapon. The Brigadier noted the Expert Marksmanship medal on Dean’s tunic. “Name?” he inquired.

“Dean, Joseph F., private, serial number 21993014C, SIR!”

“You ever fire this weapon, Private Dean?”

“Yes, SIR! Zeroed in on the range last week, SIR!”

“Your chest won’t be bare for long,” he said to Dean. “Thirty-fourth FIST never stays on Thorsfinni’s World for long.” When he finished the inspection, which was more of a review than a true inspection, he took a place in front of the company to address the men. The company’s officers stood behind him.

“The 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team is a proud unit.” The Brigadier’s voice carried clearly without need of amplification. “We have fought in more campaigns and expeditions than any other unit in the Confederation Armed Forces. It has now been more than half a year standard since we returned from our last mount-out. We don’t know when next we’ll receive orders to go somewhere, nor do we have any idea where we will be sent or what we will be required to do once we get there. Still, we have to be ready for any contingency. To that end, you will be going into the field tomorrow on a training operation of an at-this-time-undetermined duration. Your officers will be briefed at zero-seven hours as to the nature of this training exercise. They will then have one hour to formulate their preliminary plans and get the company ready to move out. Do well, whatever the mission is.” He cracked a smile. “Right now, I don’t even know what the exercise will be. My F-3 hasn’t sent me the operations order yet, so I don’t know what he’s got planned for you. That is all.” The Brigadier turned to the company officers and returned the company to them. He was gone as suddenly as he arrived.

Captain Conorado stepped forward and looked over his company. “You heard the man, people. Be ready.” He turned to Top Myer. “Company First Sergeant, the company is yours.”

“Aye aye, sir, the company is mine.”

The two exchanged sword salutes and Conorado led the officers into the barracks.

“Platoon sergeants,” Myer bellowed. “Dismiss your men.” He about-faced and followed the officers.