Starfist: FlashFire (8 page)

“Right,” Pasquin agreed. “Tell Doyle to screw something together and he’ll go looking for a hammer.” Kerr shook his head. “Wrong. Doyle made corporal and senior company clerk because he was good at the Mickey Mouse of keeping records. He’s also stood an IG before. The IG gave his office an ‘outstanding’ rating. He knows what he’s doing here.” He paused to let the others absorb what he’d said, then added, “Doyle told me the junk-on-the-bunk is a piece of cake compared to what his office

had to go through preparing for that IG. He had his shit so together that he had time to help Summers get ready.” “No,” the others said in disbelief. “Fact. Doyle was ready before I was.” Kerr checked the time. “I told Doyle and Summers to be back in

the barracks by twenty-one hours. I better be back before them.” He stood to leave.

“Where
is
Doyle?” Hough asked, looking around. “He’s a corporal, he can come to the 45 Club. Hell, he could even sit with us if he wanted to.” He returned a bland look to the glare Pasquin gave him. “He took Summers to Pete’s Place. Said he wanted to give him the straight scoop on IGs from the

perspective of a junior man who’s stood one.” Everybody looked at him with shock. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was bucking for the next fire team leader opening. I’ll see you

back at the barracks.” With that, Kerr left. The others looked at each other. “Doyle, a fire team leader?” “No way!” “Never happen!”

“ATTENTION ON DECK!” Staff Sergeant Hyakowa bellowed. “FALL IN!”

Thudding feet echoed off the walls of the corridor that ran the length of third platoon’s squadbay, followed seconds later by the loud clicks of room doors latching open. Less than fifteen seconds after the platoon sergeant’s orders, the Marines of third platoon were standing at attention against the walls of the corridor, facing across it, each fire team outside its room.

Hyakowa hit the lights; the morning light that filtered into the corridor wasn’t bright enough for an inspection. “Squad leaders, REPORT!” he ordered.

The squad leaders could see their men from where they stood together outside their room at one end of the corridor.

“First squad, all present and accounted for!” Sergeant Ratliff reported.

“Second squad, all present and accounted for!” Sergeant Linsman called out.

“Guns, all present and accounted for!” Sergeant Kelly cried.

Hyakowa turned to face the head of the stairs that entered the corridor and stepped back from it. “Sir, third platoon all present and accounted for!” he said loudly as Ensign Charlie Bass stepped into the corridor.

“Very good, Platoon Sergeant,” Bass said loudly enough for everyone to hear as he stopped in front of Hyakowa. He briefly stood at attention, then relaxed into a modified parade rest—feet at shoulder width, hands clasped behind his back—and swiveled side to side to look down the corridor in both

directions.

“Today is the company commander’s inspection,” he said looking in one direction. “I hope you are better prepared for inspection than you were yesterday,” he said looking the other way. He returned to attention and said to Hyakowa, “Platoon Sergeant, have the men get their weapons and fall in behind the barracks.”

“Aye aye, sir!” Hyakowa replied as Bass about-faced and left the squadbay. As soon as Bass reached the foot of the stairs Hyakowa broke his stance and looked at the Marines. “You heard the man, grab your weapons and fall in behind the barracks. Go! Move-move-MOVE!” The Marines of third platoon got their weapons so quickly he barely had time to back against the wall to avoid being buffeted by them as they scrambled past to the stairs.

“What’s up?” someone asked nervously. “We were inside for yesterday’s junk-on-the-bunk.”

“We won’t be inside when the IG comes through,” Linsman answered. “What’s the matter, did you forget to store your skin-trids in the supply room and you’re afraid the Skipper will find them? Now move it!”

In a minute, third platoon was in position behind the barracks along with the rest of the company. No officers, no one from the company command element, only the hundred and eleven enlisted Marines from the three blaster platoons and the assault platoon.

Hyakowa, standing in front of third platoon’s three ranks, looked to his left and right at the other platoon sergeants and shrugged a question. They all shrugged back; none of them knew just what was going on either.

He about-faced and said just loud enough for his men to hear, “Stand easy.”

The Marines of third platoon relaxed from their positions of attention. To their flanks, the other platoons also fell into “at ease” at the commands of their platoon sergeants. They waited. The platoon sergeants stood facing their platoons, and casting frequent glances over their shoulders at the rear door to the barracks, waiting for someone to come out and tell them what to do.

After about five minutes, Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher, Company L’s second ranking enlisted man, exited the barracks and marched to a spot midway along the company’s front. At his approach, the platoon sergeants called their platoons to attention.

Thatcher came to attention at his spot and bellowed, “Platoon sergeants, REPORT!”

“First platoon, all present and accounted for!” Staff Sergeant DaCosta reported, followed by the other platoon sergeants in order.

“COMP-ny, at EASE!” Thatcher commanded. He stood feet spread, hands clasped behind his back, leaning forward slightly as he looked over the company from one end to the other. Most of the Marines stood at an easy parade rest rather than slouching into a full “at ease.” All eyes were on him. Satisfied that he had the Marines’ attention, he announced, “The Skipper, the rest of the officers, and First Sergeant Myer are inspecting the squadbays. When they finish the barracks inspection, they’ll come outside and inspect
you.
” He ignored the muted protests and expressions of dismay. “The inside inspection will take as long as it takes. In the meanwhile, we will wait out here.” There were more vocalizations in the ranks, less muted than before. “Keep it down to a low roar, people.”

When the voices lowered, Thatcher made a slight head movement, and the platoon sergeants left their positions to gather in front of him.

Thatcher looked at Hyakowa and shook his head. “Wang, I wish we still had Doyle as chief clerk. Palmer’s a good clerk and he tries hard, but he doesn’t have the experience Doyle has, and he’s not as meticulous. When Lieutenant Humphrey,” the company executive officer, “inspected the records yesterday, he found so many minor gigs he damn near flunked the clerks. The Top had them working all night correcting errors.” He paused to heave a sigh. “The records
might
be in proper shape by the time battalion conducts its inspection.”

The platoon sergeants grimaced. “Was there anything serious?” DaCosta asked.

Thatcher shook his head. “Nothing major. Just piddling little things, like file names out of sequence by a character so it looked like things were missing. The biggest thing was an incomplete inoculation record in one man’s file.” He smiled wryly. “Fortunately, it was my file, and I was able to get it corrected right away.”

The platoon sergeants murmured unkind words about pogues who couldn’t get things right.

Hyakowa shook his head and asked, “Does the Top still want Doyle’s ass?” On Company L’s still-secret deployment to the quarantined world called Avionia, then-chief company clerk Corporal Doyle had forced an issue, making the first sergeant do something he didn’t want to do. Top Myer called it insubordination and wanted Doyle court-martialed. However, the army general, a Major General Cazombi, in command of the operation thought Doyle deserved a medal. They compromised; no medal, no court martial, and Doyle was transferred out of 34th FIST. Only to be returned, in the strongest hint that 34th FIST had been secretly removed from the Confederation Marine Corps’s normal personnel rotation. There were no billets open for a corporal clerk in the FIST, so then-Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass said he’d take Doyle as a blasterman in his platoon. Doyle had once inadvertently been on a patrol deep behind hostile lines with Bass, who believed the corporal could function well enough as an infantryman. So Doyle was kept away from Myer.

“I do believe so, Wang,” Thatcher replied disgustedly. “So you’ve got to keep him.”

Hyakowa shrugged one shoulder. “He’s not nearly as good a blasterman as he was a clerk, but he’ll do.”

“How are they doing it in there?” second platoon’s Staff Sergeant Chway asked with a nod toward the barracks, changing the subject.

“The Skipper’s got yesterday’s gig list from the platoon commanders. He’s looking to make sure all the deficiencies have been corrected.”

“That shouldn’t take too long,” Gunnery Sergeant Charlo of the assault platoon commented.

“Think again. The Top’s royally pissed about the clerical errors. He’s looking for gigs that
weren’t
in the platoon commander’s reports, or new gigs. And you better believe he’s going to keep looking until he finds some.”

The platoon sergeants stifled groans at that news.

“We’re in for a lo-o-ong wait,” DaCosta groaned.

“That’s for sure. Tell you what. Return to your platoons and inspect them. That’ll help pass the time, and maybe give them a chance to correct any deficiencies you find before the the Top lets the Skipper get out here.”

“Right,” Hyakowa said sourly, but no more sourly than the responses of the other platoon sergeants.

It was another hour before Captain Conorado led the platoon commanders and First Sergeant Myer out of the barracks. All of the officers looked displeased. The men in the ranks could almost see the canary feather sticking out of the corner of Top Myer’s mouth.

Much to Top Myer’s disgust, Captain Conorado and Lieutenant Humphrey, who conducted the inspection of the Marines and their weapons, passed all of them. Still, he had a
lengthy
gig list from the junk-on-the-bunk portion of the company commander’s inspection. There would be no liberty call until after the battalion commander’s inspection—not even base liberty!

CHAPTER SEVEN

“
Nacqui all’affanno, al pianto. Soffri tacendo il core . . .”
the mezzo-soprano voice soared, filling the room with its power and the beauty of the music. Preston Summers sat transfixed, a half-full glass of bourbon in one hand, a cigar smoldering in the other. Slowly, slowly, he raised the cigar and inhaled the tobacco smoke. He held it in his lungs for long moments and then expelled it in a long, lazy puff through mouth and nose, savoring the rich flavors. Such private moments had always been precious to him, the more so as the events of the past weeks rushed his world headlong into a dubious future.

“Didn’t know you were into opera,” a voice boomed suddenly behind Summers, causing him to start upright.

“Goldurnit, didn’t know you came into rooms without knocking.” Then, almost defensively, “I may still have dirt under my fingernails but that don’t mean I got dirt between my ears.”

“What’re you listening to?”

Angrily Summers shut the music off, the mood destroyed, and got out of his chair. “A snort of Snort?” he asked, offering General Davis Lyons a drink of Old Snort.

“No, I never drink when I’m on duty. But I will have one of those cigars, if you please.”

“I do please. Yer always on duty, Gen’rel,” Summers laughed. “These are Davidoff Anniversario Number Ones, the best they is.” Deftly he cut the cigar and handed it to the general. During the last weeks the two had formed an uneasy alliance, a grudging respect for one another. “How’s Varina?”

“Tolerable, tolerable,” Lyons answered, lighting his cigar. Funny, he thought, how he was beginning to adopt some of Summers’s manners of speech. A month before he would have hesitated even to shake the man’s hand, now he was visiting him in his home and smoking his cigars.

“It’s an opera by a guy named Rossini,
La Cenerentola,
ever hear of it?” Talking like this about one of the secret loves of his life, opera, embarrassed the gritty old politician, like talking about the secrets of his sex life or his religious beliefs, which he believed a man should hold in the utmost privacy.

“No, Preston. What language is that?”

“Italian. ‘Cenerentola’ is Italian for Cinderella. Everyone knows the story, Gen’rel. Hell, we know it better’n most ’cause that’s all we are, a world full of little goddamned Cinderellas. What she’s sayin’ is, ‘I was born to hardship and sorrow, my heart suffered in silence.’ Well, we ain’t sufferin’ in silence no more, are we, Gen’rel Lyons?”

Lyons shook his head, more in wonder than agreement. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there, Preston?”

“Aw, I dunno know ’bout that. I’m a pretty simple type of guy,” the red blotches on his face grew darker. “Are we ready, Gen’rel?”

“Yessir, we are ready.”

“How will it all end?”

“Badly. I don’t need to tell you that.”

Summers nodded. “You don’t give a damn anymore, do you? Yer gonna ride this dark horse just like me, aren’t you?” Summers puffed on his cigar and sipped some bourbon. “I feel we ain’t really in charge anymore, Gen’rel, we’re being carried forward on a big wave, like. The wave of history, huh?” he laughed. “Ke-rist, am I gonna miss all this,” he gestured about the music room that was the heart of his home. “I oughta be in retirement, livin’ out the last of my years instead of—” he shrugged. “Anyway, if we lose and we don’t get ourselves kilt, they’ll come for us, you know that. Gawdam, though, we’ll go down swingin’! The bastards’ll know they had a fight.”

“We can always call it off.”

“Nah, too late for that,” Summers finished his drink in one gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand. “Well,” he held out his right and they shook. “I’ll see you at your headquarters in the morning. How come you military fellas can’t ever start a war at a civilized hour?” He paused and then muttered, “God help those poor boys at Fort Seymour.”

“God help us, Preston.”

“As luck would have it, God’s on our side, Gen’rel, didn’t you know that?” Summers laughed. “Now, sir, would you leave me alone here until the morning?”

After General Lyons had left Summers let the glorious music fill the room again, but the mood was irretrievably lost and after a short while he shut the music off and turned his attention to finishing the bottle of bourbon.

Charlette Odinloc stretched luxuriously under the sheets. She ran a hand through her short, brown hair, cut to regulation length. “Hand me a cigarillo, would you, Donnie?” she purred. Donnie Caloon shook a cigarillo out of the pack, lighted it, and passed it over to Charlette, propping one hairy arm on her chest as he did. Donnie was stocky, muscular, with a pleasant, boyish face. The thinning hair in the front of his head made him look older than his thirty years. But he was a simple man consumed by a youthful enthusiasm for everything physical. Charlette had actually come to like him in the time they’d been together, something that surprised her somewhat. Professionals weren’t supposed to do that.

“I ain’t never had a gal as—” he began, but she placed a finger on his lips.

“Don’t say it, Donnie,” Charlette murmured. “Thanks,” she sucked in the smoke and held it in her lungs. The cigarillo was a blend of tobacco and thule and its combined mild narcotic effect was immediate. “Get yer arm off my chest, Donnie, I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry.” Donnie lay back on the pillows. “Y’know what we need right now, Charlette?”

“No, Donnie, what do we need right now?” Since all Donnie thought of when he was with her was sex, she thought that’s what he meant. Donnie was impervious to sarcasm, but he was good in bed. And he was good for some other things too. As a courier for a major import-export firm he got around the capital city of Ravenette, saw things, liked to talk about what he saw, and trusted anyone who as much as smiled at him.

“Honeybabe, we need brekfus ’n plenty of it!”

“Yeah, after all those calories we just burned up. But Donnie, we can’t go out. It’s not wise for me to be out in the daytime since I’m technically AWOL. I’ve told you that. I can make it back at night okay but I don’t want to take a chance on being picked up in broad daylight. I’m puttin’ my young ass on the line for you, stud boy!”