In Every Clime and Place (9 page)

ASTEROID BELT RESCUE SUBSTATION ECHO 7

I finished reading Jensen’s lines about the ex-colonel.

“So this was a bunch of failed rebels and terrorists?”

“And a few real soldiers in exile. I interviewed Radicz in prison.”

I nodded. “There were a few who knew what they were doing.”

“We did manage to confirm the identity of a few fighters wanted for war crimes.” He brought up another file and slid the device across the table to me.

SNN News File 5, courtesy Brian Jensen

17 Nov 2075

Unconventional Forces Training Station, Ganymede Tanya Kajosevic lay on her belly, feeling the cold of the ground seep through her insulated space suit. She adjusted the scope, allowing greater distance from her eye to accommodate the face shield of the helmet. It made for an awkward position, but she didn’t think of that. Discomfort was part and parcel of sniping. She recalled lying motionless for hours in the rubble of her homeland, waiting, patient as death, for her target to present itself.

She fired, then observed the distant paper target through the more powerful spotting scope. High. The gravity made more difference than she’d expected. She turned the dial on the turret of her rifle scope and made a note into the microphone of her helmet, updating her file on her computer.

She was alone on the makeshift range. The others didn’t understand shooting. They had no respect for their weapons. They gave homage to the philosophy of accuracy by volume. They made excuses. Asked her why practice shooting out here when they would do most of their fighting on a ship, or a station, close range and artificial gravity?

But she knew they were wrong. Shooting was her religion. It was a skill that must be cultivated, nurtured, maintained. And how could she feel worthy of her weapon if she didn’t even know the idiosyncrasies of shooting here, at their home base?

She pulled the trigger again, consulted the scope.

Good. On target.

Here there was little wind in the thin atmosphere. Little that needed correcting. But the elevation, the drop of the bullet which the maker of her rifle had calibrated to Earth, was very different. That was hard to account for, since it changed according to your angle to the pole. The laser range-finder automatically adjusted elevation, but it was useless out here. The spin of the moon was different as well. At long range the Coriolis effect moved the round enough to matter. On a ship, with artificial gravity created by rotation, it was more marked. Shooting in a new environment required practice, experimentation, repetition. Do it until you understand it, until it becomes deeper than understanding. Deeper than thought.

If the others lacked the discipline to face the cold, the discomfort, to become shooters, that was not her concern. She was not an officer. Not a leader. She did not have the colonel’s feel for command, for the temper of his people. She had no skill with people. She acknowledged that, accepted it. Communication was not her strength.

But she could shoot. She had a connection to her weapon, to the flight of the round, to the way the heat or humidity would influence its path.

She fired the rest of the magazine into the bullseye, then went back inside the base and cleaned the weapon.

USS
TRIPOLI

As I ate chow in a bleary-eyed haze the next morning, I remembered the news items I had dug up the day before. I glanced at my watch. I had an hour before formation. I washed down the last of my eggs and toast with a second cup of joe and headed for Sgt McCray’s office.

“Sarge,” I said when he admitted me, “I found some scuttlebutt on the newsnet that Lt Evers might want to see. Mind if I run over and let him know?”

“Knock yourself out.”

I figured Sgt McCray wouldn’t object, but I had to follow chain of command. If he thought I skipped him, he’d tear me a new asshole even though he made no attempt to find out what I was bringing to the lieutenant. Sgt McCray didn’t concern himself with intelligence reports. They were somebody else’s problem.

I checked my uniform in the mirror before I banged on Lt Evers’ hatch. When he called me in, I halted two paces in front of his desk and stood at my best approximation of attention.

“Stand at ease, Corporal,” he drawled. “What’s your business?”

Lt Evers was tall and lean. His blond hair was cut to regulation length. His blue eyes regarded me through wire-rimmed spectacles. He was one of the few Marines I knew of who wore glasses. When I first met him, I wondered why he hadn’t had corrective surgery, like most everyone else in the service. Then I found out that his long-distance vision was better than twenty-twenty and he didn’t want to sacrifice it. He wore glasses for paperwork and computer work.

Evers was a career officer by blood. His ancestors fought under Washington, Lee, and MacArthur. Like Pilsudski, he started out in Recon. He only got posted to Intelligence by accidentally letting the brass catch on that he picked up languages easily and was a natural at deductive reasoning. He was like a heavily armed Sherlock Holmes.

He was also the most formal, polite Marine I ever met. A man who wouldn’t say “shit” if he had a mouthful, as my sainted Irish mom would have said. As an intel officer, he had to interact with generals, members of other services, civilians, and public officials, so he had become a master of etiquette. The first impression he made gave no hint to the fact that he had learned his trade stalking poachers and rebels in the wilds of Africa.

“Sir, I was reading through the newsnets, to see if I could find anything about the riots on Sunflower One. I stumbled across this.” I handed him a memory stick with the information I had uncovered, as well as possible links and related sources.

He took the stick from me with apparent calm, but I could see his brain working. “Thank you, Corporal. Checking the net was good thinking.”

“I just thought the situation was strange, sir. Is there anything we should be worried about?”

He looked at me for a long moment before speaking. “Corporal, I can’t feed rumors or encourage speculation on that sort of information. You’re a good team leader and you show initiative. That’s admirable, but temper your enthusiasm. I trust you’ll keep your theories to yourself.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Suitably chastised, I withdrew.

****

When I got back to the squad, I found that Sgt McCray had decided to hold one of his “Team-Building exercises.” I guess he was upset that half of his Marines were hung over or had big, stupid, I-just-got-laid smiles on their faces.

I was in ship-shape. Two liters of beer is no excuse for a hangover, but we had a lot of young PFCs who were never taught to drink properly, so they weren’t as bright-eyed as Sarge wanted.

It could have been worse. He could have let Chan lead us through one of his unarmed-combat drills. Cpl Chan’s idea of discipline was to grab his Marines without warning and fling them around the squadbay. As a zillionth degree black belt in some obscure subphylum of Karate, he used his skills whenever he felt that the troops needed to be taught a lesson. Or when he just got bored.

Sgt McCray’s exercise consisted of each fire team sitting in a circle and disassembling all of our weapons. We then put all the pieces together in a big ammo can and the team leader would pass out parts to his Marines who would each reassemble his own weapon. As O’Rourke was still missing, Sabatini got the privilege of assembling two rifles, which did little to improve her mood.

When Sarge gave the signal to start, I immediately began grabbing pieces out of the ammo can, knowing by feel which weapon they belonged to, and handing them off to my Marines, or piling them in front of me if they were bits of my ACR. We worked well as a team.

Johnson was a bit haggard and red-eyed, but he kept diligently working, despite his obvious wish that he could just hang his head in a toilet and pray for a quick death. He needed a lot of instruction from the Collins & O’Rourke School of Advanced Carousing. He worked on automatic pilot, enduring the hangover and doing his job. He was turning into a good Marine.

Sabatini looked pissed, probably at being punished along with the rest of us, but she worked like lightning. I put the parts of her ACR to her right and O’Rourke’s to her left to help her out, but I think she would have done OK even if I hadn’t.

When the ammo can was empty, I rapidly assembled my own weapon. Over the last dozen years I’d reached the point where I could strip and rebuild an ACR in my sleep. I was the first one in my team finished, but I couldn’t take credit. That went back to the long line of sadistic sergeants who’d forced me to do it over and over. When I finished, I slapped Johnson to wake him up and grabbed O’Rourke’s half-finished rifle from Sabatini. We finished ten seconds ahead of Chan’s team.

“Halt!” Sgt McCray bellowed when we all presented our weapons. “Chan! What the fuck is wrong with your team? Collins’ shitbirds beat you even without that useless fuck O’Rourke!”

“That’s an advantage for them, Sarge,” Chan offered in defense.

“Shut up!” The sergeant surveyed his squad in disgust. “You are a sad frigging disgrace to my Marine Corps. If you can’t present yourself like Marines after a few beers, you ain’t worthy of the title. Maybe you can join up with those social workers you’re all so hot to screw. Now break down those weapons again! This time, I expect you to finish today!”

“The beatings will continue until morale improves,” I muttered. Johnson nearly smiled, and Sabatini fought down a chuckle. My philosophy has always been that anything we can laugh at, we can get through.

We broke down our weapons again, groaning and calling down muttered curses on our fearless leader’s head.

This was going to be a long day.

“Oh, shit, man,” groaned Johnson. “What the hell is his problem?”

“Suck it up, Marine. He’s got a point,” I explained. “What if we got attacked today? We can’t let our readiness lapse just because we had a party last night.” I still wasn’t thrilled with the situation, but I had to defend my superiors to my team. I was secretly happy that we hadn’t had more beer available.

As expected, the session dragged on. By the end, Sgt McCray had us doing it blindfolded. I was glad we got out before he made us do it one-handed. My team held together well. Johnson kept his breakfast down, just moaning low and promising to murder his recruiter when he got out. I think we were all sharing a group fantasy of beating the shit out of Sgt McCray, but at least something united us.

“Alright. That’s as much as I can stand to watch,” he grunted at us at the end of two hours. “Now shove some chow in those ugly faces and get your useless asses to your posts. You have guard detail at thirteen hundred. Dismissed!”

We filed out. I pulled Johnson aside. “OK, Marine, drink a canteen full of water. Then get some painkillers from sickbay, get one of the docs to give you a B-12 shot, grab a shower and drink another canteen. You’ll feel like shit for a few hours, but you’ll live.”

He nodded in thanks and stumbled off. Sabatini and I hiked to the chow hall.

I became aware of her glare burning a hole in the back of my head. I faced her with an innocent smile. “Something on your mind?”

“Did you screw one of those social workers last night?”

That I had not expected. I was taken aback, but not about to be held answerable to a lance corporal, especially for behavior which had no bearing on my duty. “That’s not something a gentleman answers.”

“That’s why I’m asking you, Mick.”

“Nice shot,” I said, “but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Level with me, damn it!” she shouted.

I realized belatedly that she was genuinely angry. I didn’t know why, but her eyes were flashing with a cold fire.

“Five Marines were smirking and bragging about their conquests,” she continued, “and all six of those women went to chow late with a happy glow, so somebody’s holding out. My money’s on you.”

Her tone pissed me off. What the hell business was it of hers? She was neither my wife nor my superior, so who the hell was she to demand information like that? I started to voice those sentiments in an angry growl, but hesitated and bit my tongue.

Instinct saved me. My gut told me to think before speaking. If she were that upset, it was for a reason. Whether or not that reason was justified was irrelevant. I swallowed my retort and spoke calmly.

I’ve gotten a little smarter in thirty years.

“Easy, Marine. If I upset you or hurt your feelings in any way, I’m genuinely sorry and it was purely unintentional. If something’s pissing you off and you want to talk, let me know. If not, drop the attitude and carry on like a good Marine. You’ve always been my most reliable teammate. Let’s not fuck that up now.”

Her jaw worked for a moment like she wanted to snarl at me some more, but realized that was not the way to go. I let her debate with herself for a few seconds. At length she nodded sharply. “I’m OK, boss.”

That was a lie, but it meant she might be OK given some time. I was willing to accept that. “I’m happy to hear that,” I replied sincerely. “Let’s grab some chow.”

We ate in silence for the most part. I was annoyed that she was upset. It seems petty, but this was a difficult strain in a unit this small. Christ.

The next few days were not pleasant. With so many extra people aboard, we made a direct line toward a rendezvous with battalion command back on the
Halsey
. Space was at a premium, fresh water was rationed, and the food supply was strained. Nobody was going to starve, but options declined, and we were forced to eat the hated lima beans that usually survived a ship’s entire service, safe in the bowels of the freezer hold. Sickbay was running out of some supplies from treating the children. The ship’s medical corps were stocked for trauma, not runny noses, vaccinations, and malnutrition. We went through our meager stockpile of pediatric drugs real fast.

Tensions within the ranks were high. My team was short-handed. I was sure something shady was going on behind our deployment. True to Lt Evers’ wishes, I kept my mouth shut, but other people, the embassy staff and the social workers in particular, let some speculations out. These were the kinds of days that made retiring and getting a real job look appealing.