David Sherman & Dan Cragg - Starfist 11 - FlashFire

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侵权投诉

To:

Sergeant W. D. Ehrhart, USMC

Scout/Sniper, First Battalion, First Marines

RVN, 1967–1968

and World-Class Poet

PROLOGUE

A small, black object arced out from the crowd, described a graceful parabola, and burst into greasy

orange flame in the middle of the street. “Steady, men, steady,” the lieutenant murmured from behind

the thin line of infantrymen facing the mob. To his men he appeared calm and in control; in reality his

legs were about to give way on him.

“Shee-it!” one of the infantrymen exclaimed, grasping his lexan shield more tightly and glancing

nervously over his shoulder at the sergeant of the guard, who shook his head silently, gesturing that the

man should watch the crowd and not him. The troops had only just been called out to face the

unexpected mob of irate citizens. Already the area between the Fort Seymour main gate and the

demonstrators, a very short stretch of about one hundred meters, was littered with debris that had been

thrown at the soldiers. Now a firebomb! Things were getting serious. That firebomb belied the

innocuous messages on the signs carried by the demonstrators, GIVE US INDEPENDENCE!, NO

TAXES TO THE CONFEDERATION!, CHANG-STURDEVANT DICTATOR!, and others.

Lieutenant Jacob Ios of Alfa Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st Brigade, 3rd Provisional Infantry Division,

Confederation Army, was pulling his first tour of duty as officer of the guard at the Fort Seymour

depot. Neither he nor his men had received civil-disturbance training, and the only equipment they had

for that job were the lexan body shields they were using to protect themselves against thrown objects.

Fortunately, none of the crowd’s missiles had yet reached them. He wished that Major General

Cazombi’s recommendation to keep the contractor guard force—all men recruited on Ravenette—

responsible for the installation’s security, had been followed, but he’d been overridden by General

Sorca the tactical commander with overall authority for security. Still, Ios couldn’t help wondering

what Cazombi had done to get himself stuck at Fort Seymour.

The sergeant of the guard interrupted his musings. “El Tee, should I have the men unsling their arms?”

he whispered.

“Not yet.” Ios made a quick estimate of the crowd’s size and his stomach plummeted right into his

boots. There had to be at least three hundred people in it; his guard force was outnumbered ten-to-one.

“If they start coming at us, Lieutenant, we won’t be able to stop them,” the sergeant whispered.

Surreptitiously, he unfastened the retaining strap on his sidearm holster. As if confirming the sergeant’s

fears, several men in the crowd ran forward a few paces and tossed more firebombs. They exploded

harmlessly in the street but much closer to the soldiers than the last one.

“Confederation soldiers! Go home! We do not want you here! Confederation out!” a woman with a

bullhorn began chanting shrilly. Ios couldn’t see the woman. That was ominous, someone leading the

mob from behind.

“That’s okay with me!” One of the soldiers grinned and several of his buddies laughed nervously. More

and more people in the crowd took up the chant, “Confederation out!” until the slogan swelled to a

roar. People banged clubs and iron pipes on the pavement as they chanted, beating a steady Whang!

Whang! Whang! A chunk of paving sailed out from the mob and skittered across the roadway, coming

to rest against the knee-high stone wall that flanked the main entrance to Fort Seymour. That wall was

the only shelter the soldiers would have if the mob charged them; the iron gates across the entrance,

which had never before been closed, were chained shut and two tactical vehicles were drawn up tight

behind them in the event the mob tried to break through.

“Climate Six, this is Post One, over,” Ios muttered into the command net, trying very hard to keep his

voice even as he spoke. Climate Six was the Fort Seymour staff duty officer’s call sign.

“Post One, this is Climate Six, over.”

“We need immediate reinforcement, over,” Ios said, his voice tensing as more bricks and stones pelted

the road. The fires had burned themselves out.

“Ah, Post One, what is your status? I hear shouting but I cannot see your position from here, over.”

Ios suppressed an angry response, “Climate Six, several hundred rioters are approaching my position!

We are in danger of being overrun! Request immediate reinforcement!” Stones and bricks hurtled

toward Ios. Then another bright orange blossom. “Climate Six, we are being firebombed, repeat,

firebombed!”

“Casualties? Over.”

Ios took a breath to steady himself. “None, so far, Climate Six, but we cannot hold unless reinforced

immediately! What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Ah, Post One, use proper communications procedure. Use your initiative but hold that gate at all costs.

You will be reinforced ASAP. Climate Six out.” The staff duty officer, Lieutenant Colonel Poultney

Maracay, who only a few moments ago was happily contemplating his position on the promotion list

for Full Colonel, had begun to perspire. “Just where in the hell am I supposed to get reinforcements?”

he muttered.

“All the line troops are out on Bataan,” the staff duty NCO replied.

“I know that!” Maracay responded angrily. Both generals Cazombi and Sorca were out at the Peninsula

on Pohick Bay, where the division was billeted. The division hadn’t been on Ravenette two weeks yet

and already the troops, in the infantryman’s age-old cynical way, had dubbed the Peninsula “Bataan.”

It’d take fifteen minutes or more to get a reaction force back to Main Post and by then . . . he left the

thought hanging. All he had at Main Post were supply specialists and, since it was Saturday afternoon,

most of them would be out in town or otherwise incapacitated.

“Sergeant,” he turned to the staff duty NCO, “I’m going down to the main gate and see for myself what

that young stud’s got himself into. Inform General—” he thought for a moment. Major General

Cazombi was the garrison commander and the senior officer at Fort Seymour but Brigadier General

Sorca commanded the infantry division. “—General Sorca and request that he send immediate

reinforcements to Main Post. Keep the net open with Lieutenant Ios and keep HQ informed. Jesus,

what a mess!” Shaking his head, he strapped on his sidearm as he went through the door. Where’d

these people come from? He knew there were tensions between the Confederation Congress and

Ravenette and its allies, but that was esoteric, trade-relations crap, not the kind of thing to drive people

into the streets, much less motivate them to attack a Confederation military post.

Lieutenant Ios and his men were not at that moment worrying about trade relations. The young officer

was so rattled that he couldn’t remember if there was a specific command for “unsling arms” so he fell

back on the oldest and most reliable method for passing on a command at an officer’s disposal:

“Sergeant, have the men unsling arms!” he said crisply while unstrapping his own sidearm. As one, the

men dropped their shields and unslung their rifles. “Take up firing positions behind the wall!” Ios

ordered over the tactical net. “Do not fire unless I give the command! Steady, men, steady! Show them

we mean business! Reinforcements are on the way.” He said it with a confidence he didn’t feel because

he knew, as well as the SDO and every man in his tiny guard force, that useful reinforcements were all

out on Bataan.

Seeing the soldiers take up firing positions, the mob howled and rushed forward to within fifty meters

of the gate. Now rocks, paving stones, bottles, all kinds of junk began raining down on the soldiers. Ios

could clearly hear people in the mob shouting for blood. Protected somewhat by their helmets and

equipment harnesses, the troops crouched behind the low wall. “Hold on!” Ios shouted into the tactical

net, but at that moment a brick smashed into his mouth and he fell to the ground, dazed, spitting teeth

and blood.

As he lay there in agony Lieutenant Jacob Ios, “Jake” to his friends, heard only dimly the fatal zip-

craaaak of a pistol shot.

Panting, out of breath, Lieutenant Colonel Maracay, whose fate it was to be there at that time and in

that place merely through the impersonal agency of the post sergeant major’s duty roster, gasped in

horror at the sight in the street before the main gate.

A driver assigned to one of the blocking vehicles looked up at him, face white, eyes staring. “I-I didn’t

fire my weapon,” he managed at last.

From somewhere off to the right, someone yelled, “Hooo-haaaa!” and began laughing hysterically.

“Open the gates,” the colonel said. He stepped out into the street, his now forgotten sidearm dangling

uselessly in one hand, and surveyed the carnage. Scores of mangled bodies lay in pools of blood;

wounded men and women, even some children, lay moaning in agony. Directly overhead, spanning the

gate, incongruously happy and welcoming, a sign announced, FORT SEYMOUR ARMY SUPPLY

DEPOT. YOU CALL, WE HAUL.

“Get—get medics!” Maracay screamed into the command net. “Get the fucking medics!” Dimly, he

became aware that someone up the street was pointing something at him and instinctively Colonel

Maracay raised his pistol, but it was only a man with a vid camera.

CHAPTER ONE

It wasn’t late in the evening, but at high latitude on Thorsfinni’s World the sun was long down by the

time the liberty bus clattered to a stop next to a vacant lot near the center of Bronnysund, the town

outside the main gate of Marine Corps Base Camp Major Pete Ellis. The driver levered the door open

and thirty Marines clattered off, whooping and hollering in unrestrained glee at their weekend’s

freedom from the restrictions on behavior imposed by the Confederation Marine Corps during duty

hours.

Well, most of the restrictions. They were required to maintain a certain level of decorum—at least, they

were not to commit crimes, or get themselves injured badly enough to miss duty, or go anyplace from

which they wouldn’t be able to return for morning roll call on the third morning hence. And it was only

most of them who whooped and hollered; there was a loose knot of eight who were somewhat more

restrained. The eight in question were the junior leaders of third platoon, Company L, 34th Fleet Initial

Strike Team.

“So where are we going?” Corporal Bohb Taylor, second gun team and most junior of the corporals,

asked when the other twenty-two Marines had scattered.

Corporal Tim Kerr, first fire team leader, second squad, and the most senior of the eight, simply

snorted and turned to lead the way.

Corporal Bill Barber, first gun team leader and not much junior to Kerr, slapped the back of Taylor’s

head hard enough to knock his soft cover awry, said, “Taylor, sometimes you’re so dumb I don’t know

how you ever got your second stripe.” He turned to follow Kerr.

“Yeah, Taylor. What do you know about the Top that the rest of us don’t?” asked Corporal Rachman

“Rock” Claypoole, third fire team leader, second squad, and not much senior to Taylor. He followed

Barber.

“What do you mean, what do I know about the Top?” Taylor squawked.

“Blackmail!” Corporal Joe Dean, first squad’s third fire team leader and also not much senior to

Taylor, hooted. “There’s no other way you could make corporal!” He laughed raucously.

“Which begs the question of how you made corporal,” Corporal Raoul Pasquin, first squad’s second

fire team leader said with a loud laugh.

“Hey!” Dean yelped indignantly.

Corporal Dornhofer, first fire team leader, first squad, not much junior to Kerr, chuckled and shook his

head. He and the other corporals fell in with Claypoole.

Taylor had to run a few paces to catch up.

A few blocks and a couple of turns later, Kerr shoved open the door of Big Barb’s, the combination

bar, restaurant, ships’ chandlery, hotel, and bordello that was the unofficial headquarters of third

platoon, Company L, 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team during liberty hours.

“Te-e-em!”

Twin shrieks barely preceded two young women, one blond and fair, the other brunette and swarthy,

both beautiful by any standard, who flew across the large common room and flung themselves on the

big corporal with enough force to stagger him back a couple of steps.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, Kerr!” Corporal Pasquin shouted into the back of Kerr’s head. He

raised his hands and pushed Kerr off his chest.

Corporal Dean helped keep Kerr upright and moving forward. The press of advancing bodies behind

them forced Kerr and the others farther into the room.

Kerr barely noticed the hands and bodies holding him up and forcing him forward, he was too

distracted by the four arms clinging to his neck, the four breasts pressed into his chest, the two mouths

raining kisses on his face. He wrapped an arm around each waist and lifted, to ease the weight on his

neck and shoulders.

“Way to go, Kerr!” Corporal Dean said, slapping Kerr on the back as he squeezed past and began

looking for a table that would hold them all—and their girls.

“Some people,” Corporal Chan laughed, following Dean.

“Raoul!” shouted another girl, Erika, who sidled through the crowd to take Pasquin’s hand.

Another voice boomed out, “Vat’s all dis commoti’n oud ’ere?” and Big Barb herself waddled out of

the office to the rear of the large room and began plowing through the crowd like an icebreaker through

pack ice. Freyda Banak wasn’t called “Big Barb” for nothing—she not only weighed more than 150

kilos, she carried her weight lightly when she wanted to move fast. She planted herself in front of Kerr

and loudly demanded, “Who you tink you are, Timmy, hogging two a my best girls all t’ yersef?”

Their cheeks still pressed against his, Frieda and Gotta stopped kissing Kerr to look back at their

employer. Kerr loosened his hold around their waists and they dropped down a couple of centimeters,

but not all the way to the floor.

“B-but . . .” he began.

“Vot you mean, ‘B-but . . .’? Dere’s no ‘b-buts’ ’ere, Timmy. You led go a dem girls!”

“Big Barb,” Frieda said calmly, “you gave him to us.”

“And we intend to keep him,” Gotta finished just as calmly.

Big Barb glared from one to the other, then planted her hands on her hips and roared out a long,

raucous laugh. “You right, girls,” she said, tears streaming down her face when her laughter eased

enough for her to speak.

“Wha’s a madda you, Timmy, lettin’ dem two girls dangle like dat? Hol’ ’em up like a gennleman!

Where you been? All we seen o’ Marines fer the pas’ few mont’s is dem base pogues. Dirty-fort FIS’

yust up ’n take off somewhere wid’out sayin’ noddin’ t’ us and we don’ know when we see you again,

or if we ever see you again.” She quickly looked around and before Kerr could answer, asked, “Vhere’s

Chollie Bass? I vant my Chollie!”

“He’s probably with Katie,” Gotta giggled.

“I don’ care no Katie!” Big Barb boomed. “Chollie don’ need no skinny voman like Katie, he needs a

full-size voman!” She thunked a meaty thumb into the center of her own chest.

“I don’t think Charlie thinks Katie is skinny!” Frieda laughed.

“I don’ care vhat Chollie t’inks neider! Zomebody go tell him I’m ’ere pinink avay to nodink, vaiting

for him!” She turned her attention back to Kerr. “How many a you are dere ’ere donight? I make sure

you godda good table. Vell? Answer me!”

Kerr hesitated, unsure which of her many questions to answer first. Claypoole stepped into the breech.

“There are eight of us, Big Barb. The corporals.”

“Eight corporals?” She quickly scanned the room. “Vat’s de madda vit Corporal Doyle, vhy ain’t he

’ere? He gid kilt vhereever it vas you vent?”

“No, no, Big Barb. Doyle’s fine. This is just the team leaders,” Claypoole quickly assured her.

“Chust da team leaders? ’Ow come Doyle ain’t no team leader? He’s a corporal. Corporals suppose t’

be fire team leaders, gun team leaders, so how come he ain’t?”

Claypoole opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of how to explain why a corporal was filling a lance

corporal’s billet. He looked at Kerr. Yeah, Doyle was in Kerr’s fire team, let him try to explain it.

“Neber mine,” Big Barb said, looking around again. “You Marines make yer own rules, whedder dey

makes sense or not. Come, I get you gut table. Give you back room. You,” she looked at Kerr, “come

vit me. You,” she looked at Claypoole, “go gid de oders, bring dem along.” She did her icebreaker

impersonation again, drawing Kerr and his happy burden in her wake.

Less than an hour later, the eight Marines and nine young women in the back room were seated around

a large, round table digging into a medley of reindeer served “family style.” The table was filled with

platters of reindeer—steaks, cutlets, a roast, chops, sausage, even a steaming bowl of stew. Other bowls

held several varieties of potatoes, legumes, grains, squashes, and less easily identifiable foodstuffs,

most of which were cooked with sauces or gravies. Spices and condiments were spread about, the full

range near to hand for everybody.

For a while, all that was heard inside the room was the chewing, sighs, and belches of contented diners;

they ignored the hubbub that came muted through the door. At length, most of the platters and bowls

were cleared down to bits and crumbs—Marines fresh back from a combat deployment have prodigious

appetites.

Dean belched loudly enough to make Carlala, a skinny, busty girl seated next to him hip to haunch,

jump. “Ahhh,” he sighed, “that was great.”

“A lot better than the reindeer steaks we used to get here,” Dornhofer agreed.

“Very much so,” Kerr added. “What happened?”

“We have a new cook,” Klauda said as she moved from her chair to Dornhofer’s lap.

“She’s a fancy girl,” Erika said, casting a nasty look at Carlala.

“Oh?” Chan said meaningfully. “Then what’s she doing in the kitchen?”

“You’ll see,” Erika said haughtily. “And that’s not the kind of ‘fancy’ I meant.” She darted a look at

Dean and made a show of shifting onto Pasquin’s lap.

The hubbub in the main room suddenly grew in volume.

“Oh, wow, look at that!” Lance Corporal “Wolfman” MacIlargie murmured, then let out a wolf whistle.

Lance Corporal Dave “Hammer” Schultz didn’t bother looking to see what had drawn MacIlargie’s

admiration; he’d seen her as soon as she stepped through the kitchen door. She was a full-bodied

woman in a starched white shirt-jacket, closed all the way to the throat, over black pants. The heels of

her black shoes were high enough to lift her a bit above average height. A white cap restrained her

mass of lustrous chestnut hair. She held her head high, and her aristocratic face turned neither left nor

right as she wended her way between the tables filled with eating and drinking—but mostly drinking—

Marines. Two kitchen helpers followed her, guiding a covered cart. The woman was old enough to be

the underaged mother of the youngest Marines in the room, or the younger aunt—or at least older sister

of nearly any of them. But that didn’t matter to the Marines.

The woman yelped and spun about with her hand raised to slap whoever had just pinched her bottom.

Only to be confronted by four grinning faces, any of which could belong to the offending hand. She

dropped her hand, gripped the bottom of her shirt-jacket with both hands, and jerked it down. She flung

her head high, spun about, and, as regally as possible, stalked off. Guffaws, whistles, and raucous

laughter trailed her.

She was pinched twice more and propositioned four times by the time she reached the door to the room

where third platoon’s corporals were luxuriating in postprandial bliss, and hustled inside to what she

fully expected would be relief from the unseemly harrassment she’d undergone in the common room.

She barely remembered to leave the door open long enough for the two kitchen helpers to wheel their

cart into the room.

“Hey, baby,” Pasquin shouted as soon as he saw her, “come on over here! My lap’s big enough for

two!” He held out a welcoming arm. Erika knuckled him in the ribs, but that only made him laugh.

The woman’s palm tingled, and she began to raise a hand—now she knew who to slap—but noticed

several faces leering at her, and lowered it without striking.

She again adjusted the fall of her shirt-jacket, held her head regally high, and announced, “I am Einna

Orafem, the new chef at Big Barb’s—”

“Chef? Did she really say ‘chef?’ ” Dean crowed.

Einna Orafem managed to ignore Dean’s boorishness and went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “I have

been given to believe that you—gentlemen—are special patrons of this dining salon.”

“Patrons? Dining salon?” Barber hooted.

Once more, Einna Orafem ignored the rudeness of the remark and went on. “I have come to see if the

modest repast I prepared for you met with your satisfaction.” She looked at the empty platters and

serving bowls. “Judging from the state of the table, I take it it has.”

There was a brief pause as the Marines translated for each other: “She wants to know if the chow was

any good.”

“Hey, babe, that was the best feed I’ve ever had in this slop chute!” Taylor called out.

“Honey, you can stuff my sausage any day,” Chan yelled.

“No, it’s your sausage that’s supposed to stuff her . . .” The rest of whatever Claypoole was saying was

cut off by the finger Jente quickly pressed across his lips. Unlike the other young women around the

table, Jente wasn’t one of “Big Barb’s girls.” She was from Brystholde, a nearby fishing village from

which many young women had come to a blowout party Brigadier Sturgeon threw for his FIST when

they returned from a major deployment against Skinks on the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and

Their Apostles. First Sergeant Myer had strongly admonished the Marines of Company L that the

village women were “nice girls,” and were to be treated the way they’d want their sisters treated. Of

course, Top’s warning could not stop Jente from latching onto Claypoole and behaving just like one of

Big Barb’s girls—but only with him. Claypoole didn’t realize it yet, but Jente saw him as prime

husband material.

“Come and join us when Big Barb lets you off kitchen duty!” Pasquin called to Einna Orafem’s

brilliant red face.

“Here is a dessert I prepared specially for you,” the cook managed, waving a wavering hand at the cart.

The helpers opened the cart and joined her in a hasty retreat to the kitchen. But first they had to run the

gauntlet of the common room.

“Wazza madda, dolly,” someone shouted, “didn’t they want what you were offering?”

“Yours ain’t good enough for them corporals?” another Marine shouted.

Uproarious laughter broke out at the comments.

“She’s the cook,” Schultz growled.

Everybody close enough to hear his growl shut up.

Jente was the only one fastidious enough while gobbling the dessert to really notice what it was.