Lieutenant Colonel (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 6) (2 page)

Chapter 2

“Your mother’s wrinkled ass!” Sams shouted up to the Armadillo’s driver as a sudden lurch sent him headfirst into the personnel carrier’s wall.  “Drive this thing right, damn it!”

“Sorry, Top.  The terrain here sucks,” Corporal Throckmorton yelled back down into the compartment.

Ryck refrained from joining in with Sams.  He’d thought having armor would be an interesting change, but without a shred of doubt, no question,
abso-fucking-lutely
, he hated the tracs with a passion.  The Armadillo-C was the latest and greatest of what GM-Fiat could produce.  It was fast and chock-full with enough command and control gear to make a Navy dreadnought crew jealous.  Theoretically, Ryck could control the entire battalion down to the individual Marine in a fluid and ever-changing battlefield.

Theoretically.

In actuality, the thing bounced around like a paint-mixer.  It was almost impossible to do anything other than brace oneself and hang on.  With all the technology available to the Federation, Ryck was at a loss as to why the Armadillo was so useless.  The Navy had assault craft that used the same hover capabilities as a family sedan, and that produced a much better ride.  The designers of the Armadillo had opted for a fluid-ferro suspension that supposedly adjusted to every dip and bump—except that it didn’t if the speed got above about 25 KPH.  A Marine in a PICS could move faster than that, so Ryck didn’t know how he was supposed to keep up with a battle while in the command carrier.

Even when the Armadillo was halted, the C4
[2]
systems didn’t quite have the bugs worked out yet.  As just became apparent once more.

“Colonel, I’ve lost comms with Team Anvil,” Major Stig Juventus, the S3, shouted above the din of the Armadillo’s big twin Chanto engines.

“What else is new?” Sams muttered as he tried to brace himself with his back and legs.

“Where’re they at?” Ryck asked.

“I think, maybe at Phase Line Oak?” the Three said without conviction.

“I need to know.  Get them back,” Ryck ordered.

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the nausea threatening to make a return appearance.  Iron-gutted Ryck, who was never bothered by Null-G, had lost his breakfast earlier in the day, a victim of motion sickness. 

It had seemed so exciting, to be one of the first two assault battalions, with capabilities far exceeding any other battalion-size unit.  He’d own tanks and personnel carriers instead of just having them in support.  He had a fleet of jacked-up Aquasleds, militarized to meet Marine Corps requirements.  He had his own section of arty.  He had a flight of Storks.  And all he wished for now was to have a normal, old-fashioned, infantry battalion. 

Historically, the Marines from the 20
th
Century, Old Reckoning, and on for the next three hundred years had been the experts of integrated ops.  Somehow, that expertise had faded away.  The Marines had merely become a weapon for the Navy, a rifle that could be aimed and fired.

The Marines had tanks and arty, but they tended to be in general support and only occasionally in direct support.  In both cases, they were controlled by higher headquarters, not the supported unit.  This new-old concept put all the assets under the direct control of the unit commander—that is, Ryck.  But the command and control procedures were lacking.

“Colonel, I’ve got them back.  They are into the assault on Bluebird!” the Three shouted over the engine noise.

“What?  Where’re Echo and Golf?” Ryck asked in surprise.

“Uh, coming up to the FCL
[3]
now, ETA ten mikes.”

“Mother grubbing son of a—Stig, tell Anvil to hold up.  This is supposed to be a coordinated attack.  Coordinated!”

“Roger that, sir,” the Three shouted back.

And the Armadillo shuddered to a halt.  The lights on the various pieces of command gear flickered and gallantly tried to stay on before they gave up the ghost.

“Well, fuck,” Sams said quietly as silence took over the command carrier.

That about sums it up
, Ryck thought. 
Fuck!

Chapter 3

“Well, that was not pleasant,” Ryck said in a decided understatement as the Force Eval team left the conference room.  “I do not intend to sit through another one like that.”

The exercise had been a total bust.  The assault on Bluebird had been disastrous with the exercise AI’s first assessing each of the 10 Davises as knocked out of action.  To add insult to injury, the disjointed infantry assault, without the cover of the armor and with the arty out of comms, was assessed as a rout.  It was a total defeat at the hands of a simulated company minus of irregulars.  A company minus!

He looked around the table at his gathered senior staff and commanders.  Some, like Sams and Çağlar were familiar to him.  He’d met most of them, though, only a week before, and he was still feeling them out.  He’d been making some judgments, though, and he was about ready to act on those.

Major Juventus had to go.  He’d evidently done quite well at Command and Staff College, but from what Ryck could see, the man just didn’t have what it took in a fight.  This last exercise had sealed the deal, as far as Ryck was concerned.  Sandy Peltier-Aswad was about ready to graduate from Command and Staff, and Ryck wanted him as his Three.  Ryck had made up his mind on that just now during the brief as he listened to Juventus’ responses to the Force team.  He’d call Sandy tonight—no, tomorrow night. Tonight he’d be pretty busy.

Ryck felt a little guilty about that.  He hoped that he was not acting selfishly just to get Sandy in the unit instead of doing what was best for the battalion.  He had a reputation of gathering his posse around him, and that reputation was justified, he knew.  Senior officers often did the same, but with Ryck’s Nova, he’d just been able to start earlier in his career.

He’d already pulled in Sams and Çağlar.  Sergeant Major Hecs was slated to take over for Sergeant Major Suzuki at the end of the year.  Captain
Naranbaatar “Genghis” Bayarsaikhan, with whom Ryck had gone to recruit training, was inbound to take over a company, and Captain
Erick Koske, who had been one of his squad leaders with Golf 1/11, had already reported aboard and was in the Three shop while waiting to take over Fox Company.  Lieutenant Joab Ling was inbound, as was Gunny Cesar Pallas.

“Gunner Barnhouse, what are we doing about the comms?  That wasn’t the only reason we shit on ourselves, but it sure contributed,” he asked.

Chief Warrant Officer Four Jason Barnhouse was a 28-year Marine, rising from private to gunny before making warrant officer.  Normally, the comms officer for a battalion was a lieutenant, but with all the new gear, Kip Ab Salaam had petitioned for someone more experienced, and praise be to all, the brass had agreed, sending Jason from his position in the Division J4.  Ryck didn’t know if he could keep the gunner permanently, but he intended to try.

“Well, sir,” the gravelly-voiced warrant officer began, “if we could use our 55s, I ‘spect I could jack them in, and we’d be good to go.  I’m not saying the new Pyrolis would be working, but at least ya could talk.  For the Pyrolis, if ya want them, I’m still working with Engineer Pham on that kettle of fish.  Don’t know if they’ll ever wipe yar ass, but they could git ya the essentials.”

The assembled Marines broke into laughter.  Ryck was not happy and wanted to keep things serious, but a smile threatened to break out over his face as well.

The Pyrolis were the newest line of battlefield controllers from O.F. Data.  During the introduction brief, the company rep had said they would do everything a commander needed, even as far as wiping his ass.  On their first exercise, they had not lived up to the promises.

“Do we have the 55s?” Ryck asked.

“I can git them,” Barnhouse said, leaving it at that. 

Ryck didn’t pursue it.  He’d learned a long time ago that it was often better not to know how things got accomplished.  If the warrant officer said he could “git” them, that was good enough for him.

“So do you want to try it?” he asked instead.

“I reckon it’d be a good idea,” the gunner said.

“Then do it.  Captain Cristophe, please make an Armadillo available to the Comm O,” Ryck ordered.

He could see the armor company commander’s face fall.  He was assigned to the battalion for the duration, but at some time, he and his vehicles would have to report back to his parent battalion, and he’d be held liable for any “modifications” to the vehicles.

“Aye-aye, sir,” he said, even if Ryck knew it took an effort for him not to object.  “I can give him 303.”

Armadillo 303 was the reserve carrier, to be used if any of the others went down.  Ryck didn’t take issue with that.  It was probably a good idea to use it, so the others could be kept in training.

“That’s settled, then.  Now, commanders,” he said, purposely eyeing the Echo Company, Golf Company, and the two Tank Platoon commanders, “Just what was going through your grubbing minds out there?  Do you really think that running amok is how you win a fight?

“You’ve got in front of you a readout covering every step of the assault.  Major  Juventus is now going to go over each one, and we’re going to discuss what was done and what should have been done instead.  I know it’s Friday night, and you are all anxious for the weekend, but I hope you called your wives because this is going to be a long afternoon, evening, and night.  So get comfortable. 

“Major?  The floor is yours,” Ryck said, settling back into his chair.

Ryck detested long- drawn out meetings, and this was going to be torture, but he was damned if he’d have to get his ass reamed again from the Force Eval team.

Chapter 4

“Really, is it OK?” Hannah asked, watching Ryck’s face anxiously. 

“Delicious, honey.  Delicious,” he said.

It wasn’t though.  Hannah’s attempt at tuna casserole with hand-made pasta came out more like tuna glop.  It was edible, but not really good.

Hannah looked like she didn’t believe him, and Ryck tried to keep an innocent smile on his face as he reached for the spoon to get another helping.

“The noodles were all mushed, Mom,” Noah said, poking at a large lump of them on his plate.

“But they tasted good, right?” Ryck said before taking a bite.

His son could be a real jerk at times.  His social skills were decidedly lacking, and for the millionth time, Ryck wondered if his constant absences had somehow stunted his son’s development.

“If you say, so,” Noah said unconvincingly.

“I know I screwed up,” Hannah said.

“Nonsense.  They may look a little weird, but it’ll all be the same coming out in the end, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, gross, Dad!” Esther said, feigning shock but trying to keep from laughing.

Ryck was just happy to be home again on a Saturday night.  He’d gotten used to it after leaving the Raider battalion and finishing up his previously truncated staff tour.  But with the work-ups with the battalion, he’d missed three Saturday nights in a row.  Each Saturday, unless something else was going on, the family tried to cook real food and not run the fabricator.  Hannah would honcho one meal, Ryck the next.  Hannah, bless her heart, was not particularly skilled in the kitchen.  Ryck wasn’t either, but he thought he was a heap better than his wife.  He’d never made pasta from scratch before, but he was pretty sure he’d have done a better job at it. 

How hard can it be?
he wondered.

He wouldn’t be able to try it now, though; it would look like he was trying to show her up, and that was not a smart idea.

“Very funny, Ryck,” Hannah said, a fake frown on her face.  “Ha ha ha,” she said sarcastically.

“You know me, full of hot air,” Ryck said, giving in to the temptation.

“Daddy!” Esther screamed.  “Gross!”

“Is Daddy talking about farts?” Ben asked, trying to pick up on the innuendo.

“No, he’s not,” Hannah said, standing up.

“Kids, how about clearing the table?  And is it
King’s Quest
tonight!”

“King’s Quest!” Ben shouted, “King’s Quest!  I get to be Sir Jasper!”

“I’m the dragon!” Esther shouted.  “Called it!”

Family game night was another new tradition that Ryck loved.  Looking at the twins, he realized that he wouldn’t have them around for games and such much longer.  They would soon be too “mature” for things like that and have other interests.

“Hannah, why don’t you get it all set up.  I’ve got to call Sandy first.  I’ll be back in a few,” he said.

“Sure.  We’ll wait.  Tell him hi from me,” she said.

“And from me, too!” Ben shouted.

“I will,” Ryck said as he climbed the stairs to the small desk he had set up in the bedroom.

He picked up his PA and connected to Sandy.

Sandy’s cam was off, but his voice came through, “Evening, sir.  How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.  Why no cam?  You and Poppy doing the—” he started before cutting himself off in a panic.

Shit!  What if they are doing it?  She can hear me!

“Just got out of the shower, sir.  Wait one.”

A few moments later, Sandy’s cam came on as he finished pulling down a shirt.  Ryck was relieved that Poppy was not in sight—and that the bed was still made.

“So, sir, what’s up?” Sandy asked.

“When do you graduate?” Ryck asked.

“From Command and Staff?  Fifty-three days and a wake-up.  Why?”

“Well, I was wondering.  How would you like to come to 2/3 and join me?” Ryck asked.

Sandy was quiet for a moment, which surprised Ryck.  He figured Sandy would jump at the chance.

“Uh, sir, I’ve already got my orders.  I’m going to 3/9.”

“That’s no problem.  Believe me.  I’ve already got Sams and Çağlar.  Sergeant Major Hecs will be here towards the end of the year.  Joab Ling, Cesar Pallas, and Gunny Bondi, from Golf Company’s Weapons Platoon, you remember him, right?”

“Yes, sir, I remember him.  Good Marine.”

“Well, all of them had orders, too.  I got them changed.”

“Uh, yeah, sir, um . . . well, that’s kind of the thing,” Sandy said hesitantly.

“I don’t understand.  What is the thing?”

“You’re kind of known for gathering your posse, your ‘special Marines,’” Sandy said.

“I know.  And I’d like to think of you as someone special to me, too,” Ryck responded, unsure of where the conversation was heading.

“And I . . . don’t get me wrong, sir.  I appreciate it, and I think the world of you, but I’m wondering if I shouldn’t be making a name for myself, you know, out from your shadow.”

Ryck stared at Sandy in shock.  He’d never considered that point of view. 

“But you’re not in my shadow.  I’ve always given you free rein to act as you deem fit.”

“I know you do, and believe me, I appreciate that.  But that’s not how other people see it.  They kind of see me riding your coattails.  It was pretty evident as soon as I reported into the school here.”

“I . . . don’t know what to say.  I know you are not riding on my coattails.  If anything, I am using you.  You are an asset to any command.”

“Thank you for saying that, sir.  I appreciate that, coming from you,” Sandy said.

Ryck could understand Sandy’s point.  He had never realized it before, but it made perfect sense within the Marine culture.  Having a godfather was great and made life easier, but it could label you as merely a follower of others. 

The problem was, though, that Ryck needed Sandy.  Really needed him.  Major Juventus was not going to cut it, and Sandy was at the top of his class.  Ryck needed his skills to develop the integrated fighting capability.  If Sandy wasn’t going to come over, then he didn’t know of anyone who fit the bill.  Someone like Jorge Simone would work out, but Ryck knew of no major with Jorge’s skill set except for Sandy.

“Sandy, I understand you, and I won’t get in your way, of course.  But hear me out.  You’ve heard what is happening with 2/3?”

“Yes, sir.  You and 3/7.  Not the details, but the generalities.  Sounds interesting,” he admitted.

“It is interesting, that’s for sure, but it’s also a cluster,” Ryck said, trying to keep within security rules on a non-secure line.  “Things are, well, not so good.  I really need some help. Strike that, the battalion needs some help, and that means the Corps needs it.  My Three is in way over his head, and I’m afraid this whole thing is going to crash and burn.  I’m not blowing smoke up your ass when I say you are the only major I can think of that might right this ship.  I wouldn’t ask you, but I honestly think that I need you if this is going to work.”

Sandy said nothing, but he seemed to be considering what Ryck had just said.

Ryck was afraid that Sandy would say no, so he started pushing, “Look, come on over for a year and help us un-fuck things.  Just a year.  Stick with me, and I’ll make sure good things happen for you.”

Sandy started to say something, but Ryck cut him off with, “I know, I know, more godfathering.  But I will get you the position you want, wherever.  Away from me and where you can make your own name. 

“Look, I wouldn’t ask it if I thought it wasn’t necessary.  Still, if you say no, I’ll respect that.  I won’t force the issue.  But please, just think about it.  Talk to Poppy.  Take the weekend.  Let me know on Monday, OK?”

Sandy looked at Ryck with an expression that was asking what Ryck’s game was, and that broke his heart.  But if he were honest with himself, he could be playing a game, he knew.  He wasn’t 100% sure if he really thought Sandy was necessary for the mission or if he was just acting for his own self-interest.  He’d like to think he was acting for the good of the Corps.

“Until Monday, OK?  That’s reasonable, right?” Ryck asked.

“Uh, yes, sir.  That’s reasonable.  I’ll sleep on it, sir, and let you know.”

“That’s all I can ask.  And whatever you decide, I’ll respect that.”

“Daddy, you coming down?” Esther’s voice reached up the stairs for him.  “We’re ready!”

“Game night?” Sandy asked with a smile, the first smile since the call started.

“You know it.  Someday, that will be you playing with your family.”

Sandy and Poppy had been trying to have kids for over a year while Sandy was at school, but so far, no such luck.

“Hopefully, yes, sir.  We’re looking forward to it.  Look, I’ll let you go.  I promise I’ll think on what you’ve asked,” Sandy said.

“Good enough for me.  Have a good rest of the weekend,” Ryck said before cutting the connection.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he shouted down the stairs.

He only hoped that Sandy would be coming, too.