In Every Clime and Place (19 page)

USS
TRIPOLI

We got back aboard the Tripoli and took over for Ski’s departing squad. Hernandez’s Marines were already ashore, having left twenty-four hours after we did. They were due back the next day, then Ski’s would come back, and we’d get our replacements and shove off.

The story of our larceny must have made the rounds. Lt Mitchell was looking at us like he was proud, but knew he shouldn’t be, like your dad when you get in your first fight at school and win. Lt Evers was bribed with the bourbon, and, as the equipment was a benefit to the unit, he turned a blind eye. He was too much a professional officer to compliment us on our crime, but his forbearance was reward enough.

Gunny Taylor was open in his appreciation. “I guess you are good for something, O’Rourke,” he said wryly. “I owe Ski twenty bucks.”

“I told you, Gunny,” I explained, “he’s only useless on garrison duty. In the field he’s an OK Marine.”

“I am inspired to excellence by the sterling example of my senior NCOs,” O’Rourke replied piously.

“Spare us the act,” growled the gunnery sergeant.

I changed the subject. “Heard anything about the replacements, boss?”

“Nothing good. We’re the most experienced platoon, so we get the greenest replacements.”

“Why?” asked Johnson, still innocent in the ways of the military mindset.

“The Powers That Be figure we got enough veteran Marines to absorb and train the new boots,” Sabatini explained.

“And God help us,” muttered Gunny Taylor. “Get settled in. I have to make up the duty roster.” He walked off.

“Hope we get another brother in this fire team,” said Johnson. “I’m getting sick of being surrounded by all you white folks.”

“Whadaya mean all us white folks?” asked O’Rourke. “Sabatini’s Italian.”

Unsure which of them was being insulted, both Marines punched him in the arm. The rest of the squad thought it was funny. I just prayed that the replacements, whatever shade they were, were well trained and, most of all, not overly sensitive to Terry’s brand of humor.

The next few days were busy but unexciting. We had security watch to stand, supplies to onload, and equipment to maintain. We took our pick of the new thermal gear and tried it outside the hull. It worked well, but not perfectly. It pulled sweat away from the body so you didn’t freeze when you stopped moving, and it kept you warm longer than the old gear. It was a step in the right direction.

Nobody got lost on leave, but Lt Mitchell had to go get two of Hernandez’s Marines out of the brig. I guess after experiencing my flock the local Gestapo weren’t inclined to let any Marines off with a warning.

Corporal LeBlanc got his third stripe and came over from Ski’s squad to replace Sgt McCray as our squad leader. LeBlanc: a black Marine from Philadelphia. As a former inmate of a Catholic school in New England, I had picked up enough French to find that funny. He was a professional, competent Marine. He wouldn’t have made corporal under Pilsudski if he weren’t. He was tall, well built, athletic, a rifle expert, and looked like a goddamn recruiting poster. He was the kind of military ideal who could make Alexander the Great feel insecure.

My friendship with Terry was slowly returning to its old state. We both knew we’d been out of line, but were too stubborn and Irish to admit it. Fortunately, we both understood that the other wasn’t going to apologize, so neither of us was holding out.

I needed to talk to him about team business anyway, so I caught him after duty hours and pulled him aside. I slipped a flask into the cargo pocket of my trousers before we left.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“We’re getting some new meat.” I handed him the flask.

He tipped it, smiled and passed it back. “Won’t be the first time.”

“I guess not.” I hesitated, covered the silence with a sip. “Just seems like a lot of shit’s changing all of a sudden.”

He nodded, waiting for me to go on.

“So, you want to partner up with Johnson or the new guy?” I asked. Even in a four-man team it was customary for each Marine to have a buddy to watch his back in action. Terry and I had been partners for years, but we were the only real seasoned Marines in the team. Johnson was still too green to buddy with a new boot. I didn’t want the blind leading the blind.

“Jesus, I’m still thinking Johnson is the new guy.”

“He’s coming along. He learns quick. If the two of us don’t ruin him, he’ll turn out to be a good Marine.”

“He’s a good shit,” Terry agreed. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll take him. I have him broke in where I want him.”

“Another little present for you,” I said. “I’m gonna have to put you on point. At least for now.”

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he said, taking the whiskey.

“I know it’s a shit job for somebody with your seniority, but I don’t want the new guy up there. He’ll miss an ambush and get us all killed. Sabatini was good on point, but she has her own team now. Johnson’s just about learned to be a decent TAR man. I don’t want him starting from scratch.”

He nodded, smiling bitterly. “I guess I see. No, leave the kid on the TAR. I can handle scout duty. Man, I almost miss the wop.”

“You gonna be OK about me and her?”

He stared into the middle distance for a few seconds, then turned to face me. “I’ll adjust.”

“Thanks, brother. It means a lot.”

“Don’t get mushy on me,” he smirked. “I don’t want her gettin’ jealous.”

****

We met the new meat as a formation as they marched down the ramp from the lander. I have to admit, they looked a little scary. Their uniforms were too new, their eyes too wide.

“Shit, Mick, they’re just kids.” This from Johnson, apparently going grey and approaching senility at twenty.

I saw his point though. I was never that green. Sister Rosemary would have eaten me alive in first grade if I were.

Gunny Taylor read off the names and they hustled over to their new squads at the double, their seabags bouncing and swaying on their backs, to fill in the gaps we left in the formation. I hate to think so, but they may have been divvied up alphabetically. We got Khan and Kovanian.

Lt Mitchell stood in front of the platoon and gave a “Welcome aboard” speech, then dismissed us.

On the way back to the squadbay, I took the opportunity to observe our new additions. PFC Khan was now in Sabatini’s team. Give him a turban and a Khyber knife and he could step into the pages of Kipling. I hoped he inherited more than looks. Like my ancestors, his had fought the domination of the hated British Empire; they just did it better. Then, a hundred years later, they fought the Russians to a standstill. And another twenty years after that, they made the US occupation miserable. Maybe some of that had rubbed off.

My new teammate, Kovanian, was dark, heavyset and wide-eyed. He looked like he had escaped from the farm about twenty minutes ago. It was my job to turn him into an infantry Marine.

Of the new replacements, only one caused any comment. PFC Wagner went to Ski’s team. She was the only female replacement, bringing our platoon total soaring up to two. She was blonde, green-eyed, and had a dancer’s body. All grace and strength. She naturally attracted a good deal of attention from the platoon. I never gave her a second glance. That was because the cold smile Sabatini flashed me when the new troops walked by reminded me of midnight garrottings and cement shoes. With a wonderful and devoted man like me, she had no need of jealousy, but she was letting me know that even making her suspicious might have deadly consequences.

After we got the new replacements settled in, the first training we gave them was knife fighting. This might seem strange in the high-tech age we live in, but it was good for developing aggressiveness and reactions for combat.

Chan would have taught the class if he had survived the boarding action. It was his specialty. Ski wound up filling in, being the most bloodthirsty. We all took turns fighting one on one, then two on one. It was a good workout because we had to combine kicks, punches, throws and blocks with the cut and thrust of the knife. Just because somebody has a knife in his right hand doesn’t mean he won’t kick you in the balls, or punch you with his other hand.

Khan took to it like a fish to water. He faked me out with a jab at my face, and put me on the deck with a foot sweep. I’d have been all done if I hadn’t caught his ankle and dragged him down with me. I wasn’t going to lose a bout to a replacement. If I couldn’t match his reflexes, I’d fall back on dirty tricks.

Kovanian was slow. Not stupid, just slow. If another Marine learned something after five repetitions, Kovanian took ten. He would be OK, he just needed a lot more practice than everybody else. I just hoped I’d have time to train him before we got dumped in the shit again. On the plus side, he was strong, eager, and had the stamina to carry on all day. He’d be a good man in a heavy weapons platoon, humping mortar rounds or extra machine-gun ammo. He was definitely not ready to be a point man. He would master the LG/BW and take Terry’s place for now.

After an hour of knife work, Ski dismissed us.

Sgt LeBlanc looked at his watch. “OK, squad, we got two hours until we go on watch, so grab some chow.”

We gratefully headed toward the chow hall, except for Kovanian.

“Where you headed, Marine?” I asked, “Chow is this way.”

“Not hungry, boss.”

“Hey,” I said seriously, steering him toward the chow hall, “eat now when you got a chance. In two hours we go on a four-hour watch. That’s if nothing goes wrong. There’s no guarantee in the world when you’ll get another chance to get some grub. Never pass up an opportunity to eat, drink or sleep.”

“Or screw,” added Lcpl O’Rourke, ever mindful of a young Marine’s education.

I rolled my eyes. “He has a point.”

“Speaking of which,” said Johnson, as we grabbed a table, “what’s the scuttlebutt on Wagner? She seeing anybody?”

The two new Marines burst out laughing.

“Bad news, buddy,” said Khan. “She’s a dyke.”

“What?” asked Johnson incredulously. “No way.”

“It’s the straight dope, man. We were in the same replacement platoon. I’m telling you, she likes girls.”

Sabatini and I smiled as the rest of the squad cursed their luck.

Terry, with his usual eloquence, voiced the regret of the rest of the young men present:“Christ, just when we thought we were getting some more available pussy on this tub, we find out she’s competition for the few women we do see. No offense to Cpl Capone here.”

“None taken,” said Sabatini. She was used to the language. I took the fact that Terry wasn’t pulling punches as a good sign.

We ate our meal to the accompaniment of the squad’s shattered sexual fantasies. I wasn’t really surprised. Apart from Terry and me, and Sabatini, who obviously didn’t count, the oldest was Li at twenty-five. Johnson was heartbroken, Terry was just disgusted at what he considered a waste, and Bauer was confused. He was from a small, very religious town in the Midwest, and I don’t think they have accepted the existence of homosexuality yet. I mean, he was actually concerned that I was going to burn because I’m Catholic. The joke is on him: he had no idea how bad a Catholic I am. If his narrow-minded God is in charge, I’ll be interested to see if I get punished more or less than the good Catholics.

Sabatini listened with amusement. As we were finishing up, she offered her opinion. “Maybe it’s not a waste after all.”

“You interested, Corp?” asked Khan. “Some hot lesbo action would make this cruise more entertaining.”

Part of me wanted to deck him, but that part was already in enough trouble. This was just joking, and would help build a rapport within the squad. Angelina Sabatini had heard worse and spent years in the Corps without me to protect her. All the same, my grin was a little strained.

She noticed, brushing her foot against my calf under the table. Just so I’d know she knew I was concerned, and appreciated it, but was OK. Communication is a wonderful thing.

“Calm down, Marine,” she told Khan. “What I meant is maybe she could teach you dumb jarheads how to please a woman. She’s probably got a good perspective.”

The squad broke into laughter.

“I don’t need any pointers,” Johnson proclaimed, with all the self-assurance of a twenty-year-old.

“Unless you’re giving ’em out, that is,” added O’Rourke, “in which case he’ll take notes.”

Sabatini waited for the laughter at Johnson’s expense to die down then leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll let you in on a special secret.” She looked right and left, as though assuring herself the coast was clear. “If you want to improve your skill in bed, just practice saying ‘loquacious’ fifty times a day.”

With that, she turned and sauntered out.

Most of us laughed, but Johnson was turning the concept over in his mind. His lips moved and his brows knit as he tried to figure the significance. It was like watching a new second lieutenant staring at an entrenching tool.

“It’s a tongue twister, dumbshit!” explained O’Rourke.

Johnson’s reaction settled the question of whether a black Marine can blush.

“OK, you guys,” I said, climbing to my feet. “Guard duty in an hour. You probably better grab a cold shower first.”

ASTEROID BELT RESCUE SUBSTATION ECHO 7

“Didn’t the fact that we captured one of the pirate prizes tip them off?” I asked. “I wondered how we managed to surprise them after that.”

“Apparently not,” Jensen answered. “They were trying to keep communications down, to avoid any chance of interception, and they weren’t a very disciplined lot. A ship going rogue and taking its time to report wasn’t completely out of the question. The mercenary leader did think more of his men, but his concerns weren’t taken all that seriously.”

“Good thing for us,” I replied.

SNN News File8, courtesy Brian Jensen

23 Dec 2075

Unconventional Forces Training Center, Ganymede

Milos Radicz wished he had loyal troops at his command. Three of the four vessels had returned from their missions, but Slawco, the one officer he actually trusted, had not yet reported in. There were scattered reports of a fight. He prayed the ship had not been captured. If the location of this base were revealed...

Squalid as the outpost was, Radicz hoped to leave it on his own terms, not under arrest or blasted into his component molecules by a fleet from Earth. O’Hooley swore that the US Navy contacts would know of any move before it was made, and they were silent, but he still felt a rumble in his gut. The intelligence service was far from infallible.

In the meantime, he had to mediate disputes among his men. Some of the Irish paramilitary exiles (of whom the foolish Americans had given him both faiths) were dredging up old scores, and the fundamentalist Muslim troops were holding an uneasy truce with his own Orthodox soldiers. He shook his head and again cursed the choices which had led him to this rock. At least he had no Indian Hindus to wrestle with the handful of Pakistani extremists he had in his company.

He dispatched a sharp message to O’Hooley and prayed that Slawco and his crew would soon be back.