In Every Clime and Place (20 page)

USS
TRIPOLI

If there is one thing I despised about my years in the Corps, it was the cleaning. I understand cleaning weapons. If you don’t, they malfunction and you die. Same thing for our body armor and breathing equipment. And I don’t have anything against policing up the area. In the field it keeps the rats, flies and disease down, and nobody wants to live in squalor. But the whole spit-and-polish, bulkheads-that-shine and decks-you-can-eat-off routine is pure chickenshit. No unit ever won a battle because it had the sparkliest squadbay and heads that smelled of rose petals.

Besides, if I wanted to clean for a living, I’d have been a janitor. God knows the pay is better. Commercial ships have automated systems to clean and maintain just about everything. It is an old Naval tradition, however, that mindless work is good for morale—or maybe just keeps the crew too tired to mutiny—so military vessels lack such conveniences.

This attitude, which I’m sure started among some spoiled gentlemen officers in the British Empire who had servants to polish their boots and brass, always rubbed me the wrong way. Kind of like when you complained of being bored as a kid and your mom suggested you clean your room, when all you wanted to do was hang out with your buddies and run around the woods playing war.

Come to think of it, it’s exactly like that.

So I was in a foul mood that afternoon as I knelt on the deck, scrubbing furiously with a scuz brush at some scuff marks in the passageway. The whole squad was similarly engaged, except Sgt LeBlanc, who was at a meeting with the Old Man, which left me in charge. Being a corporal wasn’t enough to get me off cleaning detail, but it was enough to prevent me from bitching as loudly as insubordinate non-ranks like Terry.

“What’s the point of this field day, Corp?” Kovanian asked.

I hesitated. As an NCO, I couldn’t say it was a stupid order, given because the brass lacked the imagination to find us something useful to occupy our time, but I wasn’t about to sling the whole “this ship is your home” bullshit at a brother Marine.

I decided on, “We do it because it’s a lawful order.”

“But it’s a stupid order,” he persisted. “We could get this done in half the time with automatic buffers.”

I stopped scrubbing. I looked around at my squad. The new guys awaited my explanation with the hope of enlightenment, the old salts with amusement as to how Mick was going to justify this exercise and thus preserve the sacred chain of command and safeguard discipline in God’s Own Marine Corps.

I rocked back on my haunches. “OK Marines. Listen up. This is a stupid order. You all agree on that?”

They nodded and voiced their affirmation with a chorus of grunts. “Ooh fucking rah,” came from somewhere, probably Terry.

“But we do it, right?” I let a little steel into my voice.

Again, the muttered agreement, although more subdued.

“One day, your superior is gonna order you to charge an enemy machine gun, and there ain’t nothin’ stupider than that. This is just breaking you in gently.”

They laughed at that.

“And looking around, you see the rest of us knuckleheads following the stupid order right along with you. Reassures you we’re all dumb enough to rush that gun with you.”

“Damn, Mick,” said Johnson in awe. “You just boiled twelve weeks of boot camp down to three sentences.”

Everybody laughed at that, and the work, still mindless, went easier.

As we labored away, the squad started talking, playing over the old ritual of “what did you do in the world before the Corps.” Us old veterans told the same lies as usual. I was interested in what the new guys had to say, though.

“I grew up in Iowa,” said Kovanian.

Aha!
I thought,
I was right about the farm boy.
But I wasn’t.

“My dad was big in real estate, wanted me to follow him in the business, but I wanted to see the world first.”

“Joke’s on you, then,” O’Rourke said with a smirk, “since they sent you off it.”

I couldn’t get past the image of Kovanian in a suit and tie selling real estate. Stick a straw in his mouth, give him a “John Deere” hat and the guy was a poster boy for “Farm Aid 70.”

“You don’t look like a land baron,” I observed politely.

“Grandpa made a killing in real estate out east, then moved the business to Iowa. The old style farms were folding. More and more of the food was being grown in labs. Dad bought a lot of the old thousand-acre places, developed ’em and sold ’em. Affordable homes for city families who thought half an acre was a barony. Then he leased a bunch of fields to the power companies for windmills after the petroleum ban of ‘54. Made a pile.”

Shows what a judge of character I am.

Khan had a very different tale.

“I picked the Corps over prison,” he said.

“Say what?” asked Johnson.

Khan shrugged. “I grew up in Detroit. Bad neighborhood. Ran with the wrong crowd. I got into some trouble. Nothing big. Just stupid stuff. Graffiti, broken windows, that kind of thing. Then I started stealing cars.” He shrugged again, looked at the deck. “Guess I wasn’t very good. I got busted. Judge gave me the option of the military. I figured I was in the toughest gang back on the block, why not the toughest service?”

“Wise choice, the Marines over prison,” said Li gravely. “In prison they shave your head. Make you wear the same uniform as everyone else. Keep you confined in a small facility. Shout orders. Make you do mindless tasks. Very wise choice, the Marines.”

He said it all with a straight face. You had to know Li very well to detect the humor.

Bauer asked me, “Hey Mick, have you and O’Rourke been in the same team your whole hitch?”

“Yeah, Mick,” added Sabatini with a twisted smile. “You two have been together long enough to be considered married in some states.”

“I’d ask him,” said Terry. “But he’s a lousy dancer.”

“And he won’t put out,” I replied.

“I need a little romancing,” he countered.

“OK, before we have to hose you two down, or Rodriguez asks you to dance, have you always been the Two Musketeers?” Sabatini asked.

“Yep. Ever since second grade at St Joseph’s,” I said.

“It was the Three Musketeers when we enlisted, though,” added Terry. “Us and Jimmy Sullivan.”

“Good old Sully. He was a hell of a point man.”

“What’s he doing now?” asked Kovanian.

“Decomposing,” answered Terry.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” I replied. “Sully died in a lifter crash on a training exercise. New assault vehicle to replace the old Osprey class. He volunteered to go to the testing unit. Figured it would be easier duty at Cherry Point than Lejeune. Too bad.” I shook my head.

“Yep. That was our first fire team. Me, Mick, Sully and Cpl Roberts,” Terry went on.

“Jesus, I haven’t thought about Roberts in ages,” I said. “Remember him with the women? If we could bottle what he had, we’d be rich. Women loved Roberts. It was amazing, no matter where we were, even if he didn’t speak the damn language, he would have two or three girlfriends within a month.”

“What happened to him?” asked Khan.

“Roberts bought it in Srebrenica. He got hit in the belly outside the perimeter leading a counter attack on a machine gun. We dragged him back into the position and got him to a corpsman. He lasted through the night, but we couldn’t get a medevac. The enemy fire was too heavy. He finally bled out. We got the gun, though.”

“That’s...I’m sorry, Corp...I...” Khan began.

“Don’t be,” I repeated. “Shit happens. It’s part of the job. You can’t be a Marine for twelve years and not lose a few brothers. If you can’t face that, I’d advise you to get out as soon as you can.”

This cruise had already taken Chan. Sgt McCray was out of action and maybe disabled. Williams was wounded and would stay on Mars for rehab. I looked at the squad and wondered how many of these Marines would make it home.

I wondered how much longer I could face that.

“Attention on deck!”

We leapt to our feet at Khan’s shout. Lt Evers strode into the passageway. We all shouted, “Good afternoon, sir!” Terry imitated a rifle salute with his scuz brush.

“As you were,” he replied. I noticed he looked a little preoccupied. Probably a good thing since we did have O’Rourke with us.

As he passed, I remembered a fact I’d meant to tell him. Something I’d learned from the Rescue crew before I’d become tangled in a web of sex, alcohol and larceny.

These things happen, and my memory isn’t what it was.

“Hold the fort,” I told the squad after he passed. “Sabatini, you’re in charge. I have to talk to the boss.”

“You slack-off bastard!” O’Rourke sneered. “Funny how you remember something you have to tell him just in time to get out of scrubbing the deck.”

“Rank hath its privileges, you insubordinate old lance corporal. If you ever get more than one stripe, you can go discuss important squad business with the brass.”

“I’ve earned more stripes than this whole fire team. I just don’t wear more than one at a time.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response. I made my way to Lt Evers’ office and banged on the hatch. He gave me permission to enter.

“Sir, Cpl Collins requesting permission to speak to the Lieutenant, sir?” I asked, the very model of military propriety.

“What’s on your mind, Corporal?”

“Sir, while we were on the beach, we heard some Rescue Service crew talking about the Sunflower One mission.”

“And?” His eyes were suddenly cold.

“And they said some Navy Lt Commander tried to order them off from sealing the breach.”

“Really?” His eyes widened a bit at that news.

“Yes, sir. I thought that was a bit strange. Along with a lot of things about this cruise. Figured you’d want to hear it direct. I don’t know that it ties in with anything else, but it seemed unusual.”

“You talk to anybody else about this?”

“No sir. Corporal Sabatini was present, but neither of us has mentioned it to the rest of the platoon.”

“Good, good,” he said somewhat absently. Scratching at his chin. It seems I had given him something to think about. “Anything else, Corporal?”

“No, sir.”

“Let me know if anything comes up.”

“Aye aye, sir.” I turned to go.

“Collins,” he called after me.

“Sir?”

“You wouldn’t want to transfer to Intel after this cruise?”

“No, thank you sir,” I smiled. “I’m happy to be a grunt.”

“I understand,” he said, switching on his computer. “So was I.”

ASTEROID BELT RESCUE SUBSTATION ECHO 7

“Lt Evers managed to pass info up the food chain without anybody noticing?” I asked.

Jensen smiled. “Sometimes, it’s all about who you know.”

SNN News File 9, courtesy Brian Jensen

24 Dec 2075

Office of the Commandant of the Marine Corps

General Lopez swore quietly as he finished reading the secure message on his computer. He shouted for his aide.

“You bellowed, sir?” Colonel Bryant asked, stepping briskly into the office and closing the door.

“That how they taught you to report to your superior?” General Lopez asked, a smile undercutting the rebuke.

“Sorry, boss. Comes from slumming with Senators. What’s up?”

“I just got an email from my daughter. She’s in Intel on the
Halsey
. Tell me what you think.” He swiveled the monitor toward the colonel.

Colonel Bryant read in silence for a moment. His expression grew serious. “If this is all true, I can see why we didn’t get any of this through Naval Intelligence. How reliable is her friend?”

“They went to MI school at Huachuca together. He’s a mustang. Went through Infantry and Recon as an enlisted man before he got his commission. Excellent record, good proficiency and conduct scores, no negative remarks in his jacket. He’s only a lieutenant in a grunt platoon, but he’s sharp.”

“This is going to trash a lot of careers if it’s all true.”

“Screw ’em. They made this mess.”

“I agree. How do you want to follow up on this?”

The general sighed. “I want to storm over to Congress, the CIA, and the Secretary of the Navy and demand a list of scalps, but we know that ain’t gonna happen. Since my usual ‘overrun and secure’ tactics aren’t appropriate, I was hoping you could think of a way to confirm some of these facts.”

The colonel thought for a long moment. “Maybe. We can check the personnel files, look for connections to this Lt Commander Burton, see if he’s got ties to any of the other players. Then we can inspect the transport logs heading out to space. I know some people who work at FN in Belgium. I did some work with them when I was a liaison at NATO central command. I can get production numbers for these small arms, check that against deliveries and find out what may have been redirected to this pirate outfit. And not too many places build spaceworthy ships. I can dig around and figure how many may have wound up in the wrong hands. Hell, maybe some were even paid for by UBM or the CIA. Probably not, but we can always hope.”

General Lopez smiled. “I knew I could count on you, Bill.”

“Don’t forget your daughter and her lieutenant friend. How’s she doing now? Captain, right?”

“That’s affirmative. She’s a captain, on the selection list for major. Somebody’s got to carry the torch for the family since my oldest went into engineering.”

“Good for her. Give her my congratulations.” Colonel Bryant turned for the door. “I’ll report back when I can. Lots of rocks to look under.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

The general sat back down at his computer when the colonel closed the door. He began to compose a reply to his daughter.

USS
TRIPOLI

We secured the deck-swabbing detail and were headed for chow, when I heard the intercom calling myself and Sabatini to the officer’s day room. We exchanged guilty looks. I wondered if somebody had caught wind of our torrid little affair.

I was mentally running down the list of suspects when we arrived before the hatch. Being senior, I dutifully knocked and announced our arrival.

“Come,” barked Lt Mitchell.

We entered, stopping before the desk and snapping to attention.

“Afternoon, sir. Corporals Collins and Sabatini reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Afternoon, Marines,” the Old Man replied. “I want to introduce Captain Lopez from Battalion Intelligence.”

Captain Lopez was probably in her early thirties, short, dark and formidable. She looked like she had been nursed on Jack Daniels and read the Guidebook for Marines as a bedtime story. Her utilities were pressed, not uncommon among rear echelon troops like Intel, but she had steel in her eyes and visible muscles on her arms below the exact regulation cuff on her rolled-up sleeves.

I normally reserve an Infantryman’s contempt for all non-combat troops. As my dear old dad taught us, “Rear Echelon Motherfuckers include every son of a bitch whose position is behind mine.” Captain Lopez seemed to warrant more respect than that, even if she wasn’t a grunt.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said.

“Afternoon, Marines.” She walked toward us, looked us up and down, then asked, “You two were the first to notice the FN serial numbers on the pirates’ weapons?”

“Actually, ma’am, Cpl Sabatini noticed it first. She was in my fire team at the time and brought it to my attention.”

“And you went straight to Lt Evers?”

“It seemed to fall under Intel, ma’am.”

“Good call. You didn’t talk about it to the rest of the platoon?”

“No, ma’am. Lt Evers had already asked me to watch the scuttlebutt when I brought him some earlier information.”

She turned to the lieutenant and raised an eyebrow slightly.

“Cpl Collins dug up those speeches I forwarded,” he said.

She seemed to make a mental note before proceeding. “What did you hear from the Rescue crew?”

“We were on shore leave at Mars Station when we heard some Rescue Service guys talking about the Sunflower One operation. We wondered if they were the ones who sealed the breach, and they were. So we bought them a beer.”

“You discussed a military operation with civilians?” she demanded.

I was stunned. It wasn’t classified, and we hadn’t really given out any information. I struggled for words to answer this charge but Angelina beat me to it.

“They saved our asses. They risked their careers and maybe their lives to bail us out so we did the decent thing and bought them a round,” she answered, her irritation at this desk jockey’s question clear despite the polite tone she chose. “Ma’am,” she added, after a calculated pause.

I waited for the explosion, but it never came.

“I see,” said the captain. “What did you hear about the Navy that you found so disturbing?”

“The Rescue guys said a Navy Lieutenant Commander tried to warn them off. It sounded screwed up to us, ma’am.”

“How so?”

“I didn’t think the Navy would hang us out to dry. They haven’t done that since Wake Island, but that was a hundred something years ago. I figured it was fishy, so I told the lieutenant.”

Cpt Lopez cracked a thin smile. “You know your history. My father would like you, Corporal.”

“Your father’s a Marine, ma’am?” I asked.

“General Rafael Lopez,” she answered, her smile still in place. “You’ve probably heard of him.”

Shit. I thought for a minute how stupid I was not to have made that connection, but how many Latino Marines are named Lopez? Nearly as many as thickheaded Irish ones named Collins, probably.

“I need to question the prisoners you took on the ship you boarded. I’ll be here for a few hours. If either of you think of anything else, let me know. I will trust in your continued discretion. Dismissed.”

We deployed hastily to the rear. When we were back in the comparative safety of the passageway, we released the breaths we had both been holding.

“Jaysus,” I muttered. “I was worried about getting a slap for Fraternization in Defiance of Regulations.”

“Well, that’ll teach you to mix with Intel types,” Angelina answered.

“Hey, I didn’t backtalk the Commandant’s daughter.”

The pretty shade of pale she turned made the whole episode worthwhile.