In Every Clime and Place (7 page)

“It’s as old as recorded history,” I said. “Since agriculture. The Assyrians, Babylonians and Egyptians all used slaves for the fields. And any time the rulers have been weak or oppressive, or the food failed, the masses have revolted.”

“Oh-oh,” said Sabatini. “Here comes the history lecture.”

This was a standing joke in the platoon. I never paid much attention to history classes in school, just memorized the bare minimum to get by. When I went to Parris Island, part of basic training was Marine Corps History. I thought it was great. These were the epic stories and exploits of the great warrior band I was joining. Later on, when we had sea duty with the fleet or garrison deployments and there wasn’t anything to do, I would study the computer nets for historical records of the events around the battles I learned about in boot camp. I gradually began to understand that history is a great, interlocked story of human behavior on a massive scale. This was one of the most exciting discoveries I ever made. I couldn’t believe how boring it had seemed in school.

I held back my speech, “OK, Marines, you don’t want a lesson in history, we’ll have one in getting your asses whupped at poker.”

I spoke too soon. I wound up losing a few bucks. Sabatini broke even. Johnson took a bath, as usual. The uppercrust, peaches-and-cream college graduate social worker was a shark at the table. We were lucky to get off as lightly as we did. They taught cutthroat cards at that school along with Peace, Love and Understanding 101.

“Shit, boss,” Sabatini muttered in awe. “If she can shoot, we’ll trade Johnson and O’Rourke straight up for Sterndale here and play teams against the Navy. Think about it, Mick, we could retire after one cruise.”

“What do you think?” I asked our newest player. “You want to sign on? Food’s decent, pay sucks, but you’ll just take everybody else’s, and you probably get shot at as much as we do just being a social worker. Join the Corps and you get a helmet.”

“Thanks, but I plan to go into teaching or counseling after I get back to Earth.”

“Combat is definitely more relaxing. Trust me.”

“No thanks,” she laughed. “Although, I think we could accomplish a lot if we went into a place together. You could disarm the thugs and we could teach the people to better themselves.”

“It’ll never happen,” I said ruefully. “It makes too damn much sense.”

It was true. The aid workers and Peace Corps types went in first. Their work was impossible because of the fighting and social chaos, and half of the food they brought got stolen by one faction or another. So we went in to clean up the mess, by which time the people’s confidence in foreign aid was eroded all to shit.

“A word of advice,” Sabatini said, unusually serious. “Get a thick skin. Being a crusader is a tough racket. If you gotta do it, do it, but expect everybody to hate you for it. Even the people you try to help.”

I agreed. I’d seen enough of that firsthand. “Protect us, but don’t talk to my daughter” was how most civilians looked at us.

“By the way,” I asked, “what’s this revolution about?”

“You don’t know?”She was genuinely shocked.

“Hell, I didn’t find out the name of the damn rock until we were getting on the shuttle home. I assume it’s gotta be wages, conditions, or personal or religious freedom, but I don’t have a clue which.”

“It started as living conditions. The corporation stopped improvements to the facility. They slacked off on maintenance. Then food deliveries slowed down and they started rationing. You could only get food on the black market for ridiculous prices. Finally, the miners had enough. They declared independence.”

I froze as the enormity sank in. This was the potato famine, the Pullman strike and the Bolshevik Revolution all wrapped up in one horrible package.

I whistled. “Thank Christ we got out as easy as we did.”

ASTEROID BELT RESCUE SUBSTATION ECHO 7

I handed Jensen his machine.

“So that’s how they planned to suck us in,” I said. “Did anybody besides us grunts think it smelled bad?”

He keyed up another file. “Your little expedition, and the Rescue crew showing up to plug the hole, caused a firestorm back on Earth. The mining company. Congress. The Pentagon. Everybody was scrambling to assign or dodge blame.”

“Anybody try to figure who was responsible for us getting hung out to dry?”

“Actually,” he said, smiling, and handing back the reader, “some of the high ranking military took offense at being used like you were. I got some information from a secretary in General Lopez’s office. It seems the General had a hard time keeping his voice down when he got angry.”

I grinned as I looked back down and began reading again.

SNN News File 3, courtesy Brian Jensen

15 Nov 2075

Office of the Commandant of the Marine Corps, Washington DC

General Rafael Lopez, Commandant of the Marine Corps, replayed the news video and smiled. His Marines did well. Mission accomplished and no dead Marines, that’s all that mattered.

He turned back to the colonel across the desk. The man was the Corps’ liaison in Congress, responsible for keeping the Commandant in touch with the mood of the legislature. General Lopez had neither the time nor patience to deal with the myriad interests and coalitions in the government, and was happy to have Marines like Colonel Bryant to attend to that.

“What are they bitching about now, Bill?” he asked.

“Well, General, the usual groups are trying to denounce this action. The mining company is putting pressure on some members of Congress to protest the use of force.”

The general snorted. “Screw ’em. If they could run the fucking place, we wouldn’t have had to go in.”

“Yes, sir,” Colonel Bryant agreed. He sighed inwardly. General Lopez was a damn fine Marine, and had an excellent combat record, but he hated Washington. His style made the liaison’s job a difficult but necessary one. “There is some concern from the Secretary of Defense that the troops used live ammo when they should have used less-than-lethal rounds.”

“Tell the secretary that with all due respect, he’s never been pinned down in some Godforsaken slum by armed rebels and had nothing but some Goddamned beanbags for protection,” the Commandant replied. “I was a brand new lieutenant leading a platoon in Africa and that happened to me. We were pinned down for six hours. They couldn’t get a medevac in for my wounded. I had to watch three of my boys die waiting for a pickup. The fleet finally sent a frigging airstrike to suppress the enemy. A hundred civilians got fried by bombing because the damn politicians didn’t want us shooting a few rebels. That’s what happens when you send the military in without any authority to carry out its mission.”

“Well,” said the colonel, “the Secretary is asking for an investigation into the use of live ammo. I think he wants to take credit for the rescued civilians but kiss the asses of the corporation by handing over the leader of that platoon.”

“Tell him to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.”

Despite his long association with the general, Colonel Bryant was taken aback. “Sir?”

“No way am I going to co-operate in the destruction of a good Marine’s career to appease these assholes. They want to hang somebody, let’s go after the idiot who put the use of nonlethals in the order. You don’t want to kill somebody, don’t shoot at him. These half-assed riot rounds are a bad idea.”

“I fully sympathize, but you know that our friends on the Armed Services Committee are going to use this against you.”

The general shrugged. “Bill, I’m bullet proof. My term’s up in a year. My pension’s safe. They’d need to catch me handing the President’s daughter over to a gang of neo-fascist extremists to fire me now.”

“Senator Donovan loves to use your temper as an issue.”

“If I had a problem with my temper, that bitch would be lying in a pool of her own blood,” General Lopez replied. “What kind of idiots elected her, anyway?”

Colonel Bryant sidestepped the question. “Bad publicity could hurt us in the budget talks. We’ve asked for some new equipment for the space security mission. The isolationists are using the cost to try to shut the whole thing down. Maybe we should at least try to—”

“No.” The answer was flat and simple. “Bill, you want to talk publicity?”The Commandant pointed to the video image. It showed a Marine in full combat gear scooping up a little girl and carrying her to safety, giving her a reassuring kiss on the head. “That image is gold. That will do for these small interventions what the Suribachi flag-raising did for the Corps in WWII. The spineless bastards can attack me as a loudmouthed old hawk, but what can they say about those men and women? Is that a vicious warmonger? Hell no, that’s a good, all-American boy saving the world.

“Don’t concentrate on the generals, or the funding, or the experts, Bill. Concentrate on the Marines out there on the line. These kids are putting themselves in harm’s way to carry out the missions Congress and the President give them. Just like we did twenty years ago. We owe it to them to stand behind them when they do make a decision.”

The colonel nodded. He had been in Washington a long time. He thought back to his active service on the Indian subcontinent, cleaning up after the USNE.

“Aye aye, sir!” he snapped with more conviction that he had felt in a long time.

USS
TRIPOLI

After the poker game, I decided to talk to Sgt McCray on O’Rourke’s behalf. I banged on the bulkhead beside the hatch to his office.

“What?” came the friendly reply.

“Cpl Collins requesting permission to enter!” I called.

“Come!”

I hit the button beside the hatch and it slid open. I walked into the office, halting the regulation two paces from the desk. “Good afternoon, Sergeant!” I snapped, assuming a position of attention.

“Afternoon, Corporal. Now stand at ease and spit it out.”

I relaxed. This one formal ritual remained unchanged. Now that we had gone through the motions, we could speak freely. “I want to recommend O’Rourke for meritorious promotion to lance corporal, chief.”

“That insubordinate fuck?”

I sensed Sgt McCray was not impressed with O’Rourke’s general conduct. Not a completely unjustified view, but I still felt the need to go to bat for my team member. “He saved my ass at that ambush.”

“That was just bad judgment on his part, Collins.”

“Come on, Sarge. You know he’s a good man in a fight. Yeah, his attitude needs work, but do you really want a Marine walking around with more hash marks than rank?” Hash marks, also known as idiot stripes, were diagonal stripes worn on the sleeve of the dress uniform, near the cuff. Each stripe denoted four years of service. Terry might be the only PFC in the Corps with three hash marks.

Sgt McCray grunted. He was apparently in a good mood. “I’ll pass your recommendation on to the lieutenant.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“By the way, your team did real good today. Even that undisciplined fuck O’Rourke.”

“Thank you, Sarge.” That was high praise indeed. And he didn’t look more than slightly disgusted.

“The Old Man wants to see you at eighteen hundred.”

“Oh, shit. Am I in trouble?”

“I don’t think he’s too pissed. Everything worked out. You did jump the gun giving orders to the whole platoon, though. He’ll probably just chew your ass a little and tell you to watch the rest of it.”

I grimaced. I was expecting this, but not looking forward to it.

“Anything else?”

“No. Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Tell your Marines they did good. I’ll go see the whole squad soon. I got all these fuckin’ reports to fill out first. Now get your ass out of here.”

“Aye aye, Sergeant!” I clicked my heels, did an about-face and marched out.

****

I had about an hour before I had to see Lt Mitchell. I decided to hit the news nets and do some digging about these riots. I honestly hadn’t thought about the rebellion until Miss Sterndale brought it up at the game. Even so, I was probably the only Marine, apart from Lt Evers, the intelligence officer, who gave a rat’s ass.

I sat at the computer terminal and logged on to the net. I skimmed the basic news, looking for anything relating to the belt settlements. There was almost nothing. That, in and of itself, was interesting. It wouldn’t have occurred to me unless I had been looking for it.

Finally, buried in the political reports, I found some speeches. They were by our old isolationist pals. They were discussing the unfair tax burden of supporting and protecting trade. Blah, blah, blah, taxes, blah, blah working-class families, blah, blah...I was familiar with the spiel.

Apparently, the cost of maintaining and protecting the bases wasn’t being covered by the mineral wealth they provided. Senator James, that gutless prick, wanted to scrap the whole spacegoing Navy. Just see what happens to the economy when you disband the fleet and you’ve got all those unemployed sailors, Marines and asteroid miners back home. And we all can vote, you bastards.

“Thought I’d find you here.” Sabatini spoke from behind my chair. “Got a sec, chief?”

“Always.” I left a reminder for myself in my file. The next time I logged on, this data would come up immediately. “What’s on your mind?”

“Thought you might like to know,” she began, with a mischievous glint in her dark eyes. “The ambassador talked to the ship’s captain and our lieutenant. They’re throwing us a party.”

“Great,” I responded. “We could all use the recreation.”

“There’s more. The social workers have invited themselves.”

I blinked. “They do realize they’re all gonna get laid?” I asked.

“I think they know. I don’t know that the ambassador has it figured out.”

“The Navy is gonna shit when this gets out,” I chuckled. The story would definitely make the rounds. My rotten, cynical side hoped that the ambassador’s daughter wound up carrying some jarhead’s child. A black Marine’s would be even better. I snickered at the thought.

“So, don’t you have to run off and make nine appointments with the barber, and check your dress blues still fit and all that?” Sabatini asked.

“Hm, what?” I asked in surprise. “Me?”

“All the other guys are getting all dolled up. You don’t want to give them the advantage, do you?”

“Oh, right. Like these girls are gonna be interested in some thirty-year-old, short, cynical grunt like me. There’s enough young, tall, athletic studs like Johnson in this platoon. I’ll just soak up their share of the free booze.”

“Give women a little credit, boss.”

“What? You gonna try to tell me that women are any less lecherous than men?”

“Hell, no. We’re just smarter. We aren’t hung up on that physical, youth thing like you guys. We know that a more experienced partner is probably better in the rack. You got a sense of humor, you know all that political and sociology shit. You can fake the college talk, and you still got that whole dangerous ‘I kill people for a living’ thing going on. And you carried that little girl out. Chicks dig that. You’d probably have ’em lining up. Our poker partner was all mushy about you carrying that refugee kid, ya know. That kind of image is gold.”

I laughed. “Thanks for the pep talk, but you don’t have to get your fearless leader laid. Nice though the thought is.”

“Just trying to help.”

“I got a few minutes before I have to see the Old Man.” I turned off the terminal. “Let’s grab a cup of joe and you can convince me how desirable I am.”

“Fine, but if I gotta do all the convincing, then you better put me in for a medal.”

“Like you need reassurance you’re a babe. Didn’t you ever wonder why the rest of the team only takes cold showers?”

She laughed, leading the way to the chow hall with an exaggerated sultry walk.

****

At the appointed hour, I presented myself before Lt Mitchell. The lieutenant considered me in silence for a few moments after returning my greeting. True to my role as a humble enlisted man, I patiently waited for my superior to open the discussion.

“Sergeant McCray tells me you recommended PFC O’Rourke for promotion.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The sergeant has some concerns about O’Rourke’s lack of discipline.”

“Yes, sir. He does.” I didn’t know where this was going, so I wasn’t going to give anything away. He would get a straight answer when he asked me a straight question.

“You think those concerns are unjustified?”

“To a point, yes, sir.”

“Explain.”

“I wouldn’t recommend O’Rourke for embassy duty, or Corporal of the Guard at the Washington Barracks. He’s not a spit and polish Marine, but he’s a damn good man in combat. He saved my life on that rock. He was the first to spot the ambush. I think PFC is an insult to a Marine of his experience,” I explained. “Sir,” I added.

“Considering his conduct marks,” Lt Mitchell indicated O’Rourke’s file, “do you think he should be given added responsibility?”

I was always amazed at the thickness of that file, regardless of how many times I saw it. It was a masterwork on insubordination. Probably the definitive treatise on the subject. “With respect, sir, none of the offenses relates in any way to PFC O’Rourke’s combat readiness, ability or courage. He has a short temper, a liberal view of the chain of command, and a fondness for strong drink when not on duty. These in no way affect his usefulness in combat. And as far as responsibility, to be brutally honest, sir, lance corporal is a pay raise as much as a promotion.”

“And if you get killed, do you trust him to lead the team?”

“Absolutely, sir. He thinks well under pressure, knows weapons and tactics and doesn’t freeze up under fire. I trust him as much as any fire team leader in this platoon, sir.”

“You want to rethink that, Corporal?”

“Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“Granted.”

“I’m sure as hell glad I had O’Rourke near me and not the spit-and-polish sergeant in charge of the embassy detail, sir.”

Lt Mitchell glared at me for a moment, then nodded. He could not defend the embassy Marines’ poor state of readiness which clearly came from following the letter of the regulations to the detriment of their spirit. That was one of his personal beliefs: obey the spirit of the order, even if the wording needs to be bent a little. He had done just that when he issued us the nonlethal rounds.

“Alright, Collins, you convinced me. Sergeant McCray said he’d support you if you could make me see your side. You can tell O’Rourke he’s a lance corporal effective the first of the month. But do the Corps a favor and try to convince him to act the part.”

“Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Now.” He looked at me from beneath lowered brows. “What the hell am I supposed to do about you?”

“Sir?”

“You know what I’m talking about, Corporal!” he barked. “Now do I rip off a stripe for you having the arrogance to give orders to my Marines, or do I give you another one for having the balls to give the right order without wasting time?”

“Sir, I stand by my actions at the airlock. I fully understand and accept any disciplinary action you wish to take. And I sincerely thank you for the reassurance that it was the right order, sir.”

“Oh, Christ, Collins.” He put his head in his hands. “How the hell am I supposed to chew your ass now?” He thought for a moment. “OK. In the future, you tell me when you think we should do something, don’t just give orders to the whole fucking platoon. As for punishment, I’ve decided to link your fate to O’Rourke’s. If he screws up and gets busted, you go down with him. Any discipline for showing up at formation without his pants, or pissing in the general’s rosebushes, you take the hit with him. You read me, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir!” I snapped.

“Good. Now, I just want you to know, you and your Marines did a good job back there. I’m proud to have you in my platoon.” To my surprise, he rose from his chair and extended a hand across the desk.

I took it. “It’s an honor to serve with you, sir.”

I was dismissed, and hastily deployed to the rear. We don’t say “retreat” in the Corps.

That pretty much summed up Lt Mitchell. He would back his Marines to the hilt if he thought we were right, but he wanted to put the fear of God in me so I’d remember who was in charge. He also knew that his success depended on his Marines, which is why he let me know he appreciated me and my team. That was one reason we’d gladly assault the gates of hell if he gave the order.

I was reminded of a quote from the old Corps. I read it in the memoirs of a Marine from the 1920s, when we were fighting in Nicaragua. A veteran enlisted man said of his lieutenant: “He may only be an officer, but he’s still a damn good Marine.”