Steel Gauntlet (13 page)

As a battlecruiser, the Crowe could outfight any known spaceship or starship from any of the independent human worlds, and virtually any ship short of a dreadnought from the Confederation Navy.

One Crowe-class amphibious assault battlecruiser, with an escort of a few destroyers, could defeat any of the lesser worlds in Human Space. The five Crowe-class starships of the Confederation Navy together with a strong enough amphibious task force of the Confederation Army behind them, could defeat any but the strongest worlds in the Confederation.

Diamunde wasn’t one of the strongest worlds, but it was far from being one of the lesser ones. But the mighty warships weren’t going to engage in battle against the planet, only against its ships. Diamunde was too valuable for the Confederation to risk doing serious damage to the planetary infrastructure and surface. The Crowe-class ships were being used only because they were the most efficient means of transporting six full Marine FISTs while allowing the Marines to continue training with the still-unfamiliar antiarmor weapons. When the three Crowe-class amphibious battlecruisers and their destroyer escorts converged on Diamunde, they would meet the largest interstellar amphibious invasion fleet ever assembled. The Confederation Army was committing five hundred thousand combat troops to the fight.

The gymnasium compartment HL/q/v/I4-3 was assigned to the exclusive use of Company L, 34th FIST. Every day, when they weren’t in the VR chamber or the mess line, the Marines of Company L

were in HL/q/v/14-3 working out individually or in organized calisthenics or athletics. Captain Conorado was determined that two months aboard ship weren’t going to cost any of his men muscle strength or endurance.

During the
Tripoli
’s first hop, the compartment was used for another purpose. On the fourth day all of the gymnasium equipment was stowed away and a small platform was raised at one end. The men of Company L assembled in parade-ground formation. The uniform of the day would have been dress scarlets, had they brought their dress uniforms. There was a susurration of voices in the ranks as the Marines asked each other what the formation was about, and speculation when nobody knew. The noise level grew louder when the officers and senior noncommissioned officers of the other companies in the battalion crowded in behind them, then were followed by all the officers and senior NCOs from the rest of the FIST’s units, including the FIST and battalion headquarters. Everyone was present except the FIST and battalion commanders and sergeants major.

Of the more than two hundred Marines in the compartment, only Captain Conorado and First Sergeant Myer, both on the raised platform, knew what was going on. Conorado stood at ease, calmly looking over the assembled Marines. Myer, also at ease, less calmly eyeballed the side entrance to the compartment.

At a signal from someone in the passageway who only he could see, Myer snapped to attention, faced front, and bellowed, “COMP-ney, A-ten-HUT!” The heels of the Marines standing in formation slammed together with a thunderous clap.

Brigadier Sturgeon strode in with Commander Van Winkle immediately behind him. Sergeants Major Shiro and Parant followed them. FIST Sergeant Major Shiro had a rolled sheet of parchment in his hand.

The four senior Marines were in their dress scarlets; they had room in their kits to carry them. They mounted the platform and stood facing Conorado and Myer.

“Sir, Company L and attachments all present and accounted for,” Conorado said sharply. He didn’t salute his commanders; the gymnasium compartment wasn’t an area where the Marines wore their hats, and they didn’t salute “uncovered.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Sturgeon replied. The six men then formed a single line along the back of the platform.

Sturgeon spun in a sharp about-face to look at the assemblage. “We are Marines,” the FIST

commander began without preamble. “We take care of our own. We honor our own. There are some of you, and some who aren’t with us in this compartment, who a month ago were serving in positions above the rank you held then. You were promoted in recognition of this before we left Camp Ellis. There are some of you who a month ago had decorations or letters of commendation coming to you that you hadn’t yet received. You have received them. We are assembled here today to give recognition to another outstanding Marine. I’m sure everyone will agree that this recognition is richly deserved. Many, perhaps most, of you will think a higher recognition is deserved.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “We honor our own, but sometimes the honor we wish to give is beyond limits we cannot pass. We are Marines. We do our best. Our best is always enough.” He turned his head to Van Winkle. “Commander.”

“Sergeant Major,” Van Winkle said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “call Staff Sergeant Bass.”

“Staff Sergeant Bass, front and center,” Parant called out in a voice that made Top Myer’s sound soft.

Bass suffered an instant of startlement, then stepped forward and marched to the platform.

“Sir, Staff Sergeant Bass reporting as ordered.” He flicked his eyes questioningly at Parant, who studiously ignored him.

“FIST commanders sometimes have levels of authority unknown to brigade commanders in the past,” Sturgeon said to the assembly. “The commander of a FIST on a remote outpost such as Camp Ellis has levels, of authority that other FIST commanders don’t. The commander of a FIST on a combat operation has further levels of authority. That means I have certain extraordinary powers. I’m going to exercise one of them now.” He held out his hand and Shiro slapped the rolled parchment into it. Sturgeon unrolled the parchment, looked at it, then let it roll itself back up. “Commander,” he said, handing the parchment to Van Winkle, “would you like to do the honors?”

“I certainly would, sir. Thank you very much.” The infantry commander unrolled the sheet of parchment and began in a loud, clear voice, “To all who shall see these presents, greeting: Know ye that reposing special trust and confidence in the fidelity and abilities of Charles Bass...” When Van Winkle finished reading through the Marine promotion warrant, a document that hadn’t changed its wording in centuries, he glanced at Sturgeon, who nodded. Van Winkle said, “Sergeant Majors.”

The two sergeants major stepped up to Bass. Each withdrew something from a pocket.

“Charlie,” Shiro said, “this was pinned on me by my company first sergeant the first time—the only time, I might add—that I was promoted to gunnery sergeant.” A pointed reference to the fact that Charlie Bass had already been a gunnery sergeant twice before and was busted both times. He pinned gunnery sergeant’s chevrons on one collar.

“This was pinned on me,” Parant said, “by the”—he quickly glanced at Van Winkle—“the second best battalion commander I ever served under.” He pinned chevrons on Bass’s other collar.

The two sergeants major shook Bass’s hand, then returned to their positions.

“Gunnery Sergeant Bass, my hearty congratulations,” Sturgeon said, shaking his hand. Lower, he added, “I’m sure you understand why we had to wait until we were en route before your promotion.” Van Winkle shook his hand and said, “Richly deserved, Charlie. Though I’d rather it was a bar.” But Charlie Bass always refused a commission; he thought he was of more value as a noncommissioned officer.

Conorado added his congratulations.

“I’ll see you after formation, Charlie,” Myer said softly, smiling.

“You’ll have to ambush me, Top,” Bass said and smiled back.

Myer chuckled.

“Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher,” Sturgeon said as soon as the congratulations were completed, “you are still Company L’s gunny. All other gunnery sergeants rest easy. Gunnery Sergeant Bass is still third platoon’s platoon sergeant. Nothing changes except the number of rockers Gunny Bass wears on his rank insignia. That and the size of his paycheck.” He chuckled briefly, then said, “That is all.” He looked at the other officers and senior NCOs on the platform, pivoted, and marched out of the compartment with Van Winkle, Parant, and Shiro following.

When the commanders were gone, Conorado nodded to Bass, who marched back to his position.

“Today we honored one man,” Conorado said when Bass was back in position. “But I like to think that one man could not have been honored if the entire company wasn’t as good as it is. I also believe the company couldn’t be as good as it is if that one man wasn’t the outstanding Marine he is. Gunnery Sergeant Bass, you have been honored. In return, you honor all of us by being the Marine you are. First Sergeant, dismiss the company.” He strode off the platform and out of the compartment.

Myer waited until the company commander was gone, then faced the Marines. “COMP-ny, dis-MISSED!”

Working out and VR weapons training weren’t the only things the Marines had to do during the voyage; the navy wasn’t that dumb—no way they’d want to inspire a mutiny from two thousand overworked and bored Marines. The
Tripoli
also had a library well-stocked with books—archaic hardcopy as well as digital—educational programs, and games. There were also several vid theaters, two-dee and trid, with enough variety that a Marine could attend one every night without having to see a repeat of anything.

Which is not to say the
Tripoli
had all the comforts of home. The stock in the ship’s store had a limited variety, and access to it was equally limited. The vid and trid theaters were cramped, and during long features it became very easy to tell if the Marine alongside you was showering after the gym. Short features, especially military comedies like General Clinton’s War, became very popular. Nothing could be taken from the library—of course, some Marines found out how to defeat the ship’s security system.

Marines always figure out how to do what they aren’t supposed to. Neither alcohol nor tobacco was allowed in any of the troop areas—and the Marines weren’t allowed in those parts of the ship where alcohol could be drunk or tobacco smoked. Naturally enough, several Marines found ways around that restriction as well, and there was more than one drunken party in a smoke-filled squad compartment.

And, of course, there were no women. Well, there were women in the
Tripoli
’s crew, but the Marines couldn’t get close to them even though from time to time a navy woman’s duties would bring her to a place where the Marines could see her. It wasn’t only navy policy that kept the Marines and the women apart. The navy women didn’t want to get close to those dirty Marines with their hungry reputations.

There was sound logic and good reason for the restrictions and minor discomforts inflicted on the Marines. Marines are cargo. Cargo is something ships pick up in one place and drop off at another.

When Marines are taken from one place to another by the navy, they’re frequently dropped off at someplace nasty. The navy doesn’t want to make the Marines so comfortable they want to stay on board ship when they get to where they are supposed to be dropped off. Nossir!

Twenty-fifth-century space flight used the Beam Drive for hyperspace transit between star systems.

The Beam Drive used the Beam Constant, which allows travel at a light-years-per-day speed, which is calculated as an irregular number that begins with 6.273804 and continues on from there. What with the irregularity of the Beam Constant, the movement of the celestial spheres, and the space-time curvature, interstellar navigation is something less than an exact science. No starship navigator, no matter how good, knows with any real precision where his ship will pop back into Space-3. This means that interstellar navigators have to plan a margin of error when they plot their courses. The plotted arrival point is always at greater distance from the outbound jump points than the radius of the circle of error, as it’s called. It really wouldn’t do to have an inbound ship suddenly return to Space-3 in the same spot from which an outbound ship is attempting to make a jump. When two or more ships are traveling together, they also have to consider each other’s plotted arrival points, to avoid coming out within each other’s circle of error. Just in case. Since the margin of error increases with distance traveled, ships in convoy go in short jumps and reassemble in formation each time they return to Space-3. Otherwise, after a single long jump, they would be scattered over a horrendously large sphere on arrival. Which won’t do at all for warships boldly sailing into a hostile environment.

The
Tripoli
was traveling with an escort of destroyers, so it made the transit in jumps. Top-of-the-line warships have the best navigators, so the
Tripoli
Amphibious Battlegroup made the entire journey in just four hops, and never had to take more than one standard day to “regroup” at the conclusion of a hop.

That was exceptionally good for a voyage of about 240 light-years. The final hop took them out of hyperspace nine days out of Drummond’s system.

The battlegroup reassembled in formation and began its ponderous journey through Space-3 into the system and the planet to which it was to send in the Marines. Three days out it was met by a courier boat from the blockade force that had been gathering over the past month. The courier boat transported the Commander Amphibious Battlegroup and the two FIST commanders to Fleet Admiral Wimbush’s flagship, the
CNSS Lance Corporal Samuel Ogie
, for the final planning session for the amphibious assault landing. The meeting was almost a waste of time for the commander of the 34th FIST. Even if the overall mission to Diamunde hadn’t been a Confederation Army operation, a Marine brigadier ranked too low to be allowed to speak.

CHAPTER 10

Sitting quietly and virtually unnoticed in a remote corner of the briefing room on board the
CNSS Lance
Corporal Samuel Ogie
, Fleet Admiral Wimbush’s flagship, Professor Jere Benjamin thought, Good luck, fellas, but if you believe this plan’ll work...

Since he had done such a good job with the Marine trainers in the use of the Straight Arrow and antiarmor tactics, Professor Benjamin had been attached to Admiral Wimbush’s staff as a “civilian adviser,” and as such was permitted to sit in on high-level planning conferences.