Captain (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 4) (11 page)

Chapter 14

Ryck and the first sergeant were making the rounds.  He tried to stay out of the barracks, preferring to leave those areas to the SNCOs, but frankly, he was bored.  This whole mission sucked hind tit, but if the battalion was going to sit on this cesspit, he wished that they’d do something.

He was glad they hadn’t really gotten involved with the latest protest in Tay Station, but the routine patrols along Route 2, along the river, and at Ledges Park were getting old pretty quick.  They’d encountered a big fat zero as far as any trouble.  That was good, of course.  No trouble meant all his Marines were safe.  But Marines did not have sitting on their ass in their DNA.  Marines were meant to do things, to be aggressive, to take it to the enemy. 

Ryck wasn’t even involved with the day-to-day running of the company.  Because of the daily briefings, most of that had been ceded to the XO and the first sergeant.  Today, however, there was a top-level meeting with the Federation governor and company CEO, and that was way above Ryck’s pay-grade, so he had a day off.  He was going to use it to get out among the Marines.

“We’re getting better bedding in here, compliments of Gunny Coudry,” Hecs was saying as they entered the barracks.

Gunny Coudry worked in the armory, but he was a scavenger extraordinaire.  It seemed he could get anything.

“Attention on deck!” a voice called out as the two came into sight of the Marines in the squadbay.

Ryck was about to put them at ease until he realized that about a dozen of them were gathered around a rack, most looking guilty.  He held off and walked up to them.  Several looked about ready to pass out or go into seizures.

“How are we doing today, Marines,” he asked, trying to see beyond them.

He received a chorus or “Fine, sirs,” and “Ooh-rahs.”

He put one hand up against Corporal Sympington’s shoulder and gently pushed him aside from where he was blocking Ryck’s view of the rack.  Ryck thought Sympington rolled his eyes ever-so-slightly, but he did not resist.

On the rack was a simple Sanyo film screen.  The screen could be folded up or rolled into a small package, then unfolded when it was needed.  With a simple press of the power button, it got rigid and became a display screen for flat vids, photos, documents, or whatever. 

Ryck picked it up, then almost dropped it.  The screen displayed a woman, obviously naked.  Only, not everything was shown.  The screen had been broken into 320 small sections, and almost half of them had been filled in.  This deployment was scheduled for 320 days.  This was a shortimer’s calendar.

Most of the borders of the pic had been filled in, as had most of the model’s face.  Enough of her arms and legs had been filled in so give Ryck an idea of what was still hidden.  Number 320, the last small section to be filled in was strategically placed over the model’s most private part.

“Whose is this?” Ryck asked.

“Uh, mine, sir,” Cpl Sympington managed to get out.

“And who is the young lady?”

Sympington hesitated, and Hecs had to prompt him to answer his company commander.

“My wife, sir,” he blurted out, face red.

Ryck swallowed hard and placed the screen back on the rack.  Pornography of any kind was expressly forbidden in the Corps.  But soldiers going back to the Babylonians had probably kept little mementoes of what, or rather who, they were fighting for.

“Well, Corporal, I’m not so sure that this is really a group calendar.  Why don’t you put this back in your seabag and fill it in when you have a bit more privacy,” Ryck offered.

“Yes, sir!  Aye-aye, sir!” Sympington shouted, grabbing the screen and powering it down.

Ryck turned around, and with Hecs beside him, walked out of the squadbay.

“They’re pretty hard up for excitement, aren’t they?” Ryck said as they left.

“Not much to do here,” Hecs said.  “The patrols are it, and they’re getting pretty routine.”

“Routine isn’t a word I want to hear about Marines on patrol.  We need a break, something to shake it up,” Ryck said.

“Battleball?” Hecs offered.

“My thoughts exactly, First Sergeant.  My thoughts exactly.  Say on Sunday?  Not full platoons, but ten-man teams.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Hecs said.

As they made their way back to the CP, Ryck asked, “Do you think I did the right thing with that?”

“Ah, if you nailed Sympington, you’d have to nail half of the company, I’m thinking.  I dare say even some of the senior Marines might be guilty of a little flesh collection.  Sympington is no different, except that he shouldn’t be letting his Marines partake in it.  I’ll have Sergeant Rios talk to him about it.”

The first sergeant was right. Ryck knew others had their little reminders of home, starting right at the top.  The big difference was that Hannah’s pic, with the same strategic placement for number 320, was 10-level password protected on his PA.  Ryck’s shortimer’s calendar was for his eyes only!

Chapter 15

When Ryck had set Sunday for the company battleball tournament, he’d forgotten about A-Day, Adjustment Day.  Officially, everything in the Federation went by Greenwich Mean Time back on Earth.  And while most inhabited worlds in the Federation were within spitting distance of a 24-hour rotation, none were exact.  Small doses of synthetic hormones kept people attuned to their planet’s particular diurnal cycle, but nothing was going to force a planet to match the Earth’s rotation exactly.  So, depending on each planet’s rotation, a day was either added or subtracted as required from the calendar as a rough way of keeping the planets in synch.  For Kakurega, that meant adding an A-Day every 23 planet days or so.  An A-Day was usually a day of rest on most planets, so the battleball tourney was moved to that day.  Sams had arranged for a BBQ with the best steaks and links Propitious Interstellar manufactured, and somehow, he’d even put together cheerleaders from two Tay Station universities.

The patrols were still out, but for the bulk of the company, this was going to be a day to let off some steam.  And Marines being Marines, battleball was the perfect way to do that.

Battleball’s origins were somewhat lost in time.  Some said it came from rugby, some from American football, some from world football.  The first recorded game was shortly after the Federation was formed.  A battalion made up from mostly ex-British Royal Marines played a battalion formed up from mostly Chinese Marines.  Almost immediately, the game caught on and became part of the new Corps’ DNA.

The allure in the game was probably in its simplicity.  Teams lined up across either end of the playing field.  A large, three-meter inflatable ball was placed in the middle.  At the ref’s whistle, both teams tried to push the ball into the opponent’s goal line.   That was about it.  Rules were minimal.  If the ball went out of bounds, play stopped until the ref brought the ball back in and commenced play.  There was no striking of another player.  Other rules were up to the ref to enforce as he saw fit.

The game was a game of brute force.  Oh, there was always someone pushing some strategy or the other, but basically, it was which team was stronger and more aggressive.  This was the penultimate Marine game.

Games could be and often were brutal, and regen was always a possibility for some players.  Several times, the top brass had tried to ban the game, and General Fitch, the 13
th
Commandant actually did ban it—until General Maracopa, the 14
th
Commandant and a huge fan and player in his day, brought it back.

Ryck wanted his men to shake off the complacency, and the game was only one part of the day’s activities.  But he had to remember that they were on combat footing, even if there hadn’t been any combat.  He could handle a couple of sprained ankles or cut lips, but massive amounts of injured Marines needing regen could not only land him in trouble, but more importantly, diminish the company’s ability to perform a required mission.  So he limited the size of the teams to ten men and drafted Bravo’s gunny, Dove “PICS” McTanish, to ref.  Dove was 2.3 meters of rock-solid Marine.  No one was going to argue with Gunny PICS, and the gunny understood that he was to keep the violence to a minimum.

The mood was pretty good before the first game between First and Second even started.  Sams was in fine form with an old-fashioned chef’s hat he’d acquired from God knows where.  He was supervising the firing of the hickoryoak, something he’d managed to get donated by Propitious Interstellar.  The smoke wafting over the playing field had gotten Ryck’s stomach churning.  As the senior Marine at the camp, however, he would be the last one fed, so he tried to banish the thoughts of those charbroiled steaks from his mind.

Ryck didn’t know what was taking more of Sams’ attention:  the grill or the cheerleaders.  No, strike that.  This was Sams, after all.  The cheerleaders.  A good half-a-dozen of them were gathered around him as he explained, or probably bullshitted them, about how to grill a perfect steak.

At 1100, Gunny PICS pushed the battleball to the center of the field and called the first two teams to their places.  Without any stands, Marines surrounded the sidelines and climbed onto the roofs of the surrounding buildings.  The gunny blew his whistle, and the tournament was on.

With each platoon limited to only ten men, Ryck thought the biggest and strongest men from each platoon would have been selected.  He was surprised, then, that Second Platoon had LCPL Summers on the team.  Taking nothing from Summers, but he was barely 1.6 meters and maybe 60 kgs soaking wet.  Lt Chomsky’s selection of the Marine became clearer when Summers immediately locked his sights on Jeff and tackled the big lieutenant, much to the delight of the watching Marines.  Each time Jeff struggled to his feet, pushing the smaller Marine away, Summers was back in the attack, grabbing and hauling Jeff to the deck.

Without their leader being able to lead, First Platoon suffered a surprising defeat, falling to Second 10-6.  After the battleball was pushed over the goal for the tenth time, the entire Second Platoon rushed the field and lofted the battered, exhausted, but smiling Summers on their shoulders.

The steaks started coming out after the first game, and Ryck tried not to stare.  Sams had put together a pretty big grill, and he had three assistants, but he could only get out so many steaks at a time, and while the PI links were pretty good, he knew, Ryck wanted beef!

Around the field, the cheerleaders were getting more than their fair share of attention from the men.  It was like a pack of orca surrounding the mackerel. Battleball, as simple as it was, seemed to be beyond the cheerleaders as they hadn’t done much cheering during the first game, but the Marines didn’t seem to mind that as they tried to chat them up.  Some evidently thought the quickest way into their panties was through the girls’ stomachs as there was a never-ending line of Marines bringing food to them.

“Let’s keep an eye on that,” he told Hecs as the first sergeant walked up sipping on a Bolt Cola.  “We don’t want another LCPL Regent here.”

The first sergeant nodded and held out the Bolt to Ryck, who grimaced and shook his head.  Aside from the fact that Bolt was sickly sweet, he wasn’t about to swap spit with him.  Ryck really wanted a tried-and-true Coke, but with Propitious Interstellar making Bolt, that is what they had, along with their even sweeter Grab-On and Utopia.

Grab-On?  What vile programmer came up with that shit?
Ryck wondered.

Gunny PICS called together the next two platoons and started the second game.  This was a much closer-fought affair.  Lt McAult was the central cog for Third, and SSgt Menlo Nomchaikut, the Heavy Gun Section leader, essentially ran the game for Weapons.  The score was tied at six apiece when PFC Quita went down, almost immediately followed by Lt Davidson.  Down eight men to ten, Weapons scored only one more goal before Third reached ten.

Ryck glanced back at the grill.  Smoke was pouring up into the crystal clear air, forming a nice plume that rose 4o meters high.  The XO was standing by, watching the grill like an osprey over a quiet lake.  Ryck had to smile. 

Get used to it, son
, he thought. 
The men always come first.

There was a lull in the action as Third needed a break.  Over on the other side of the field, Chomsky was getting his men ready, and once again, he surprised Ryck.  Instead of using the same Marines, an entirely new group was getting ready.  The lieutenant was spreading the wealth.  It might not get him the win, but it was in keeping with Ryck’s intention of breaking the monotony.  Ryck wished he’d thought of that earlier and made it a requirement.

Beside Ryck, several members of Third’s team were sitting on the ground, sucking air.  They needed more time, and Ryck wondered if bringing in fresh players might have a strategic basis.  Was Chomsky that calculating?

With the delay, Marines were losing interest, especially those who’d already been served.  They were gathering in small groups to shoot the shit.  The mood was still good, but Ryck didn’t want to lose them just yet.

“Lieutenant de Madre!” he yelled out to Jeff at the spur of the moment.  “You up for a challenge?”

“Sir?”

“I asked, are you up for a challenge?  Or are your Marines too tired?”

“What, sir, against Weapons?”  Sure, we’re up, aren’t we?” he asked his men who cheered back at him.

“Not Weapons.  Headquarters.”

“Sir?  Headquarters?” he asked, sounding slightly confused.

Ryck understood why.  Headquarters didn’t even have ten Marines total.  With the XO, the first sergeant, the gunny, the police sergeant, the comms chief, and the admin chief—and Ryck—that was seven Marines, three short of a team.  Doc Kitoma and Corporal K’Nata were with the headquarters, but Kitoma was the official corpsman for the tourney, so he was off-limits, and K’Nata was back at battalion entering PDPs.
[16]

He understood it, but pretended not to as he asked, “What, you’re afraid of Headquarters?”

That brought a roar from the rest of the company.

Jeff had no other response possible but, “Bring it on, sir!”

“First Sergeant, get the headquarters together.  That’s seven of us.”

“Thanks for the opportunity, oh captain of mine,” Hecs said sarcastically.  “Just as the SNCOs are getting their steaks, too.”

“Oh, you love it.  Admit it,” Ryck said.

“Well, maybe I do, but you could have given my old bones a warning,” he grumbled as he moved off to gather the others.

“Private
Çağlar
, where are you?” Ryck shouted out. 

After a few moments, he heard a “Here, sir!” from the other side of the field.

“You’re my driver, so I’ve drafted you into headquarters.  Get your ass over here!”

Çağlar
made his appearance as he started to run across the field accompanied by coughs that thinly disguised the “Brown-noser,” “Captain’s bitch,” and “ass-kisser” that were being yelled at him.

“Corporal Patrick!  I see you over there trying to make time with our guests,” Ryck shouted to the Gun Team leader, who’d been one of the more active Marines attempting to make nice with the cheerleaders.  “You’re attached from Weapons Company, and that makes you part of Headquarters, so get your PFC and get your asses over here, too!”

Patrick was the team leader for the M54 Field Gun that had been attached to Charlie from Weapons Company.  He’d been working out of Ephraim Davidson’s Weapons Platoon, but Ryck used his command prerogative to make the two Marines part of Headquarters for the game.

There were more hoots and hollers that intensified when one of the cheerleaders reached out and briefly took his hand as he pulled away to come join Ryck and the rest of Headquarters.  Sams was the last to arrive, his chef hat still on.  Battleball was played in “utes and boots,” and old phrase that meant the utility trousers, combat boots, and t-shirt, and Sams frankly looked ridiculous with the towering chef’s hat on, but that was Sams.  Ryck just shook his head and addressed his team.

“Sorry for the lack of preparation, but we’ve all played before.  We know the drill.  Let’s kick some First ass, OK?”

“Uh, have you looked over there, Skipper?” the first sergeant asked.  “I’m guessing they outweigh us by 15 kg apiece, and they can’t average over 20 years old.  Even with our ringers here,” he continued, pointing at
Çağlar
, Patrick, and PFC Yarby, the M54 A-gunner, “I’d say they’re six years younger than us.  They’re going to be full of kick-ass, so I think we need to be crafty sons-of-bitches and use our vast experience.”

The first sergeant had the crux of the matter.  Jeff had been able to choose the ten best players in his platoon to face Headquarters.  Ryck had to make do with what he had.  To tilt the odds further against them, Ryck, Hecs, and Sams were all in their 30’s, and the others were mostly older than the other team as well.

“Speak for yourself, old man.  I’m reckoning I’m more than a match for any of those young boys,” Ryck said, going into a flex pose, which elicited a roar from the Marines who were gathering on the sidelines to watch. 

Ryck had participated in normal PT before, but this was the first time the Marines in the company would see him in this type of activity, and he knew they would be evaluating him.  Ryck wondered if this was a mistake.  Having a good showing would stand him in good stead in the company, but if he were embarrassed, that could plummet his credibility. 

Too late now
, he thought as Gunny PICS pointed to each end of the field. 

Before the two teams were in place, someone shouted out “Incoming Air!”  Ryck looked up to see a Stork arriving.  The big bird circled the field, which was also the LZ for Camp Joshua. 

“Clear the LZ!” Sams shouted as he ran back and forth, motioning for everyone to move back.

Who the grubbing hell?
Ryck wondered. 
We don’t have anything scheduled.

The Stork flared and landed, and Ryck’s heart fell when the CO and sergeant major stepped out. 

What now?

Ryck rushed up to the CO as the Stork lifted off.  “Sir!  I wasn’t expecting you.  Can I help you?”

He felt self-conscious in his utes and boots, sure that the CO wasn’t going to like that.