Starfist: Lazarus Rising (44 page)

"Hell of a way to wake up in the morning," Corporal Pasquin said.

"You've got that right," Corporal Chan chimed in.

Corporal Dornhofer looked at the three Marines. "I'll bet they're put off by the fishy smell," he said.

"Do you smell fish?" Claypoole asked. "I don't smell fish." The others laughed.

Corporal Kerr wondered if he was going to be given one of the new men. If he didn't get one, he'd have to talk to Staff Sergeant Hyakowa and find out why not.

When he hadn't been given one of the six replacements the platoon received midway through the Kingdom Campaign, he'd wondered if that was because Hyakowa and Lieutenant Rokmonov, who had taken over as platoon commander after Gunny Bass was killed, didn't trust him to break in a new man. He knew he was capable. Or thought he was. He shook his head sharply. Stop that! he ordered himself. He was probably better than anyone else in the platoon at teaching a new man. If he hadn't been away for so long after being almost killed on Elneal, he'd probably be a squad leader now. I'd better get one of the new men, he thought.

Corporals Barber and Taylor from the gun squad looked at the new men and tried to figure out which of them was a gunner. They figured the gun squad would be reorganized and Barber would get the new man—he was both senior and more experienced.

Staff Sergeant Hyakowa strode out of the barracks and took a position facing the members of third platoon.

"All right," he said. "We've got new Marines for the platoon, but you already figured that out." He nodded toward the new men. "The platoon's getting a reorganization," he went on, addressing the older Marines. "I'll give the basic assignments to the squad leaders, then you reorganize your squads and report to me how you did it." This was the normal way new men were integrated into the platoon.

Hyakowa crooked a finger at the new men. They stepped out from the corner of the barracks and walked over to the platoon sergeant.

"Lance Corporal Groth just graduated from Marine Corp communications school on Earth. Yeah, that's right, he's way overqualified to be a platoon comm man.

Someone must have pulled some heavy duty strings to get us replacements as fast as possible."

"PFC Dickson, show yourself." A tall Marine with a scar on his left cheek took half a step forward. "He comes to us directly from the CNSS
Vicksburg
, where he was ship's complement. That's right, one day he's a spacegoing bellhop, the next day he's in the mud with us. This is his first assignment to a FIST. He's got a primary MOS of guns. Hound, he's yours."

Sergeant Kelly gave Dickson a wave, and the new man joined him.

"That leaves us PFC Summers. He has a tour with 39th FIST behind him, but he joins us directly from embassy duty on Carhart's World. Rat, you've got him."

Sergeant Linsman, second squad's leader, nodded. Summers joined him.

"That's it. I'm not going to muck about anymore with squad assignments right now. We've got a new platoon commander coming in and he might have other ideas."

"Do we know who the new ensign is yet?" Sergeant Ratliff asked.

"All I know is his name's Bestwick. He's meeting with the Skipper now and gets command tomorrow at morning formation. Any other questions?" There weren't any. "Squad leaders, do your things. Groth, come with me." He headed back into the barracks, trailed by Groth.

"Second squad, gather 'round," Linsman said. His men formed a tight semicircle in front of him and Summers. He looked at his squad for a long moment, pondering how he was going to plug Summers in.

The easiest thing would be to give him to Claypoole, who was missing a man. But Claypoole was his most junior fire team leader and simply didn't have the experience.

Chan could do it; he'd proved that on Kingdom when he got two new men. But the best man for the job was Kerr. Hell, Kerr should be squad leader, not him, Linsman thought. But he already had Kerr running herd on Corporal Doyle, and Kerr was probably the man in the platoon best qualified to handle Lance Corporal Schultz. So what was he to do? He didn't want to give Claypoole a new man until he had more experience or there were so many replacements at once that he had no way to avoid it. Neither did he want to make Chan the squad's official breaker-inner of new men.

That meant he had to give Summers to Kerr. Besides, he'd gotten the impression that Kerr had his nose bent out of joint on Kingdom when he wasn't given one of the new men there.

He had to move one of Kerr's Marines to one of the other fire teams, but which one? And to whom? He couldn't give Corporal Doyle to Chan or Claypoole; even though he was filling a lance corporal's slot, Doyle had time in grade over both Chan and Claypoole, so technically he was senior to both of them. And Schultz, who seemed to live and breathe combat, was very capable of scaring the shit out of anybody given command over him.

Well, he was a Marine, and like the Marines always said, "When in doubt, act decisively."

"Tim, you get the new guy. Rock, I'm moving Hammer over to you."

Kerr simply nodded. He'd rather have lost Doyle than Schultz, but he'd already thought along the same lines Linsman had and understood why he made the choice he did.

Claypoole grinned as he said to Schultz, "Welcome to my home, Hammer," but he looked a bit sickly. Linsman expected
him
to handle Schultz? Was the man out of his flipping gourd?
Nobody
could handle Schultz, except Gunny Bass and Corporal Kerr.

Linsman looked at Claypoole, Schultz, and Lance Corporal MacIlargie. "I've got you where I want you," he said. "All my problem children and troublemakers together in one fire team, right where I can keep an eye on you." He managed not to quail when Schultz looked at him.

Ensign Bestwick had mixed emotions. He'd been a staff sergeant, a platoon sergeant, and became acting platoon commander when his platoon's commander was badly wounded on a deployment a year earlier. He performed well enough that when his FIST returned to its base he was offered a commission and was sent to Officer Training School on Arsenault. But the day before graduation, he was put aboard a fast frigate and sent to Thorsfinni's World to join 34th FIST. He wasn't happy about missing the graduation ceremony or about losing his assignment to 11th FIST. On the other hand, 34th FIST had a reputation for being hard-charging, and a deployment and combat record to back up the reputation, where 11th FIST was almost a ceremonial unit rather than a combat unit. So he felt good about that. Then there was that shocking news Brigadier Sturgeon dropped on them less than an hour ago. He still hadn't gotten over that, and doubted he would in the immediate future.

Sentient, spacefaring aliens who only wanted to fight and kill humans? That was the first he'd ever heard of sentient aliens, except for rumors. And 34th FIST was the designated military First Contact unit—and was quarantined to keep the secret safe?

He might never go home again? Not that he had a real "home" to go to, but still...

And never get transferred or be allowed to retire? If those "Skinks" really were as bad as he'd been told, living long enough to retire was problematic anyway.

If all that wasn't bad enough, here he was, facing his new company commander, Captain Conorado, and Company L's other officers and senior NCOs, and they weren't doing a very friendly job of welcoming him aboard. Instead of the captain and other officers taking him to the officers' club, the eight of them were all crammed into the Skipper's office. Conorado was leaning back in his swivel chair, playing with a stylus and not doing a lot more than eagle-eyeing him until he became uncomfortable. The others were doing their best to keep a distance from him, and not one of them looked in the least bit happy about his presence.

Conorado finally leaned forward and placed the stylus at a precise angle near the corner of his small desk.

"Mr. Bestwick," he said, "you are in a very difficult position. And I don't mean simply being so unceremoniously dumped into a situation none of us signed up for.

Tomorrow morning you are going to take over third platoon, and that's a tough job for anyone who hasn't already proved himself." He held up a hand to forestall anything Bestwick might want to say about a need to prove himself. "Yes, I know you've performed well through your entire Marine career. It's all right there in your record and in the letters of recommendation from your former commanders up to FIST.

"But you haven't proven yourself to the Marines of third platoon. They're going to be judging you against one of the harshest scales I can imagine. Every step of the way they're going to be comparing you to their former platoon commander, Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass, who was killed by the Skinks on our most recent deployment.

"There's hardly a man in this company, up to the rank of staff sergeant, who wouldn't have wanted to be in Charlie's platoon. Probably a majority of the men in the infantry battalion would have liked it. That's who you have to follow." Something must have shown in Bestwick's face, because Conorado rushed right on with, "Don't labor under the misconception that popular commanders are necessarily poor commanders. I know, we all know, that history is replete with commanders who were very popular with their men but wound up getting them killed and losing battles and even wars because they were poor commanders.

"Charlie Bass wasn't one of them. Charlie Bass's platoon won their battles, all of them. His platoon won battles for the entire company. If he'd been willing to accept a commission and go up through the officer ranks, he could have been an outstanding FIST commander. But he didn't want to be more than a platoon commander.

"Mr. Bestwick, in effect, you're following a legend. That's a tough act to follow. I don't envy you."

He stood abruptly. "Gentlemen, I believe the sun has passed the yardarm. Let's retire to the O Club and give Mr. Bestwick a proper welcome aboard before we throw him to the wolves."

EPILOGUE

The air scrubber in First Sergeant Myer's little cottage was fighting a losing battle with the Fidels. Sergeants Major Shiro and Parant both risked burned lips from the stubs they managed to keep burning in the corner of their mouths. Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher gnawed more than puffed his and had to frequently relight it. Chief Hospitalman Horner puffed more sedately and still had three inches of Fidel between the fingers of his left hand. Staff Sergeant Hyakowa had just snubbed out the stub of his and looked at the humidor, wondering if he should take a second without a specific invitation from their host. Myer himself was on his second, a full twenty centimeters of stogie jutting from his mouth. The thoroughly masticated end of his first lay soggy in the ashtray that sat near his wrist.

"You're showing part of a busted straight and you're staying in, Bernie?" Thatcher snarled. "You think I came in with the kwangduks, I can't tell a bluff when I see one?" He was showing a pair of deuces. "I'm in."

Parant removed the cigar stub from his mouth and turned up the edge of his hole card as though looking at it for the first time. Then he regarded Thatcher blandly.

"Goldie," he said as he dropped his stub in his ashtray and reached for a fresh Fidel.

Myer
harumphed
and looked at his hole card again. He showed a tray, seven, and ten of spades. "Who dealt this garbage?" he groused.

"You did," Horner said.

"Oh. Well, in that case, dealer's in." He tossed a kroner into the pot. He looked around the table. "Nobody's out. I'm surprised. Wang, stop mooning and take another Fidel before Fred gets the last good one."

Hyakowa's poker face slipped for a second, then he reached for the humidor and barely managed to beat Shiro to it. The FIST sergeant major glowered but let the junior man have his choice.

"Six, got a pair showing, Frigga high," Myer said as he dealt Hyakowa his fifth card. "Frigga, no help," to Horner. "Odin, there goes Bernie's straight." He tossed the card to Shiro. "Nope, busted straight's still alive." He glanced at the open place, then dealt Parant a seven to go along with the eight, ten, and Thor showing. "Ten, no help," to Thatcher. "Dealer gets a..." He flipped the top card over. "Shit. Dealer's out." He turned his cards facedown. "Wang, it's up to you."

Hyakowa finished lighting his fresh Fidel and studied his four up cards. "Two."

He tossed two kroner into the pot and looked at Horner.

"I'm out," the infantry battalion's second-ranking corpsman said, and flipped his cards facedown.

Shiro studied his cards, peeled up the corner of his hole card, and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

"Your choices are see, raise, or fold," Myer said. "You're showing garbage."

"But you don't know what this is," Shiro said, and plunked a finger down on his hole card.

Thatcher snorted. "Garbage is garbage, your hole card doesn't matter."

Shiro shrugged and tossed two coins into the pot. "I want to see if you've got that third deuce."

"See, raise." Parant shoved three kroner into the pot. His face showed nothing, not even awareness of how close the coal of his Fidel was to his lips.

Thatcher leaned back and stared at Parant. "You
do
think I just came in with the kwangduks. A busted straight is garbage. See." He put three kroner into the pot.

"You still in, Wang?" Myer asked. "Your pair of sixes beats the deuces, but there's a possible flush and a possible straight showing."

Hyakowa leaned back and thought. His hole card was another Frigga, which meant he beat anything Thatcher could have unless his hole card was another deuce. But what were the odds of Shiro or Parant filling their flush or straight? He began to extend a hand, but nobody but him ever knew whether it was to ante up or turn his cards over because the door suddenly slammed open.

"Good, you saved a place for me," Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass said. He dropped a small duffel on the floor. "Where's the beer? I'm thirsty."

"In the cooler next to your chair."

That was the last thing anybody heard clearly for the next several minutes. The six men jumped to their feet and rushed to greet Bass back to the living; they knocked over chairs and jarred the table, scattering cards and coins. Two ashtrays thudded to the floor.