Pointblank, p.7
Pointblank, page 7
Natilvash grinned. “You know better than that, Top. All I really need is the name.”
Periz looked at the others; they were all nodding. “You got it. It’s one General Jason Billie. Got promoted to four stars right before he shipped out to Ravenette. I’ve read his record, the man’s got a chestful of medals. Every last one of them’s an attaboy.” Marines called personal medals awarded for noncombat job performance “attaboys” and had no respect for them. The Marines only awarded campaign medals for those who went in harm’s way, and decorations for personal heroism under fire. “This is his first combat command.”
A murmur went through the senior NCOs; they didn’t understand how anybody could reach so high a rank without extensive combat command experience. And for his first combat command to be a corps in a major conflict was simply beyond their comprehension.
“You’d think a man like that would want all the help he could get,” Natilvash said.
“Anyone with brains would,” Periz grunted. “But this guy’s got no use for Marines—and he thinks Force Recon is a bunch of resource-wasting prima donnas.”
The platoon and section sergeants had begun shaking their heads at another army general who didn’t understand how valuable Marines could be in assisting his command, but stopped and gaped at Periz when he described Billie’s attitude about Force Recon.
“So that’s why we’re reporting to the squid in the sky instead of the doggie in the dirt,” Periz concluded. “Now, any more dumb questions?”
Natilvash shook his head. “At least there’s a good Marine unit planetside. Thirty-fourth FIST is just about the best there is.”
“Got that right. Now, if there aren’t any more dumb questions, we all have to get ready to move out—and the Skipper needs his office back. Wait until we’re in Beamspace before you tell your people about Billie.” Periz watched the twelve file out and Commander Obannion returned.
“They wanted to know why?” Obannion asked.
Periz nodded. “I straightened them out. They won’t tell their Marines until Beamspace.”
“Good.”
Ensign Arvey Barnum, the company’s S1 personnel officer, and First Sergeant Robeer Cottle were disappointed to learn that they had to stay behind to pass squads returning from other deployments through to the campaign on Ravenette. Lieutenant General Indrus provided them with a junior supply sergeant and a senior clerk from his headquarters battalion.
Aboard the Fast Frigate CNSS Admiral Stoloff
A fast frigate is small as starships go. Fast frigates weren’t designed for use as troop transports, though even back to the days of oceangoing warships they had sometimes been called upon to do exactly that. And when they are, they are very, very crowded. Crew are taken from their compartments and doubled up with other crew—hot-sheeting, in the ancient parlance—to make room for the troops being transported. Those troops are in turn double- or triple-billeted, two or three men assigned to sleep in shifts on the same bunks. A fast frigate’s physical-fitness and recreation facilities are of a size to easily accommodate the starship’s crew, but when those same facilities are required for the use of 120 Marines in addition to the crew, they can become congested almost beyond effective use.
To ease the congestion, Commander Stuard Alakbar, the Admiral Stoloff ’s skipper, and Commander Obannion worked out a schedule that gave everybody aboard the starship reasonable access to the facilities. The Marines, sleeping in three shifts, had four hours per shift in the gym and two in the library and entertainment facilities. Two hours was just enough time to watch a trid in the ship’s tiny theater. The rest of the time, the facilities belonged to the sailors, and the Marines were at mess or in their assigned compartments and adjacent passageways. That reduced the crew to half of their normal allotment of time in the gym and three-quarters of their recreation, but it was only for the few days the Marines would be aboard. Half of the allotted time in the gym was more than the sailors normally used anyway. And while the Marines of Fourth Force Recon Company used every minute of their alloted time in the gym, they took little advantage of their time in the recreational facilities. They were too busy maintaining their weapons and equipment, studying what they could find about their coming foes via the library hookups in the compartments assigned to them, and conducting limited training exercises in the passageways adjacent to their compartments.
All starships, regardless of type or class, whether military or civilian, travel through Beamspace at the same rate—slightly faster than six light-years per standard day. Fast frigates are so designated because of their speed in Space-3, and the Admiral Stoloff took little more than two days, standard, to reach jump point into Beamspace. Jump was somewhat problematic. There is a disorienting moment during transition between Space-3 and Beamspace when the universe seems to turn inside out, topsy-turvy, and every which way but up. At this time, everyone should—for safety sake—be strapped into a bunk, acceleration couch, or workstation. But with 120 or so extra bodies on board, there simply weren’t enough bunks, acceleration couches, and workstations to hold everybody. The way the crew was berthed allowed every sailor to be properly strapped in. The Marines secured padding to the deck in their spaces and jury-rigged strapping to hold themselves in place during jump. It worked well enough that while there were a number of bruises and contusions, there were no broken bones or other serious injuries among them.
The Beamspace voyage took five days, at the end of which the Marines again had to fake their way through the jump back into Space-3. They’d learned enough the first time through that in this jump there were hardly any bruises or contusions at all. The Admiral Stoloff then needed another two days of deceleration to reach a high orbit around Ravenette.
Within an hour after the return to Space-3, Commander Obannion was on a secure link with Commander Bhati, Rear Admiral Hoi’s N2, intelligence officer, as well as with Brigadier Sturgeon, commander of Thirty-fourth FIST.
Despite the Confederation Navy’s having full control of the approaches to Ravenette, planetside mobile weapons systems had been effective in preventing the navy from maintaining a complete string-of-pearls surveillance satellite system. Therefore, once Sturgeon had given Obannion his initial orders, Commander Funshwa, Sturgeon’s F2, had limited intelligence to give Obannion for the latter to use in making his plans.
Obannion wasn’t greatly concerned about the lack of intelligence from the forces already planetside. After all, finding the enemy’s positions, strength, and intentions was Force Recon’s job. Even if Thirty-fourth FIST’s F2 had been able to provide him with detailed intelligence, Obannion would have wanted to have his own squads confirm most of it, perhaps even all of it.
The first part of Obannion’s plan was easy. The Admiral Stoloff carried one AstroGhost stealth shuttle, capable of carrying eight fully equipped Force Recon squads from orbit to planetside. He’d use it to drop eight of his squads behind Coalition lines to begin gathering intelligence. The hard part was deciding where to drop the squads. The drop points had to be in places where nobody was likely to spot the AstroGhost as it came in, yet close enough to possible enemy locations for the Marines to reach them in a timely manner. And they had to be situated in locations so related to each other that the AstroGhost could safely and quickly maneuver from one to the next.
The AstroGhost, with its thirty-two embarked Marines, the four squads of second platoon’s first section and the four of fourth platoon’s second section, launched while the Admiral Stoloff was still a half day out from orbit around Ravenette. On its second trip, the AstroGhost took a section from first platoon and the sniper squads from second and third platoons.
Commander Obannion transferred his command post to the CNSS Kiowa, the flagship of Task Force 79, as soon as the last of his squads launched.
CHAPTER
* * *
EIGHT
Arrival, Confederation Military Training World, Arsenault
The suborbital flight from Camp Alpha to Oceanside took about an hour. Before leaving Camp Alpha, Daly had changed into his dress reds so he could report in to OTC in the prescribed uniform. He looked splendid sitting next to his seatmate on the flight, a young man wearing an ugly gray uniform Daly had never seen before. “I see you are a Marine.” The young man smiled, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. “I trained with the Confederation Marines and I am going to their Officer Training College,” he added proudly, displaying a handful of colorful brochures describing Marine OTC.
“Jak Daly.” He extended his hand. “I guess we’re going to be classmates.” Often, Confederation member worlds requested slots at the Marine OTC for their own army personnel.
“Manny Ubrik,” the other responded. They shook. “I am a sergeant in the Soldenese Army. I was trained by a member of your Corps.”
“Yeah? Maybe I know him. What were you trained in?”
“Force reconnaissance.”
Daly couldn’t restrain his astonishment. “Force Recon? Who trained you? Goddamn, I’m Force Recon!” It was not uncommon for military personnel of the Confederation armed forces to be detailed on training missions to the armed forces of member worlds. Force Recon was a popular request.
“Gunny Dubois. Do you know him? There was also a Corporal Renfew, as I recall.”
“Bax Dubois! Bram Renfew! Goddamn! I know them both! Man, what a small world! Your name is Manny? Manny, my man, we have a lot to talk about! Boy, what a small world it is!”
Manny Ubrik smiled broadly.
“Can I see those brochures?” Daly asked. “You ever been to Arsenault, Manny?”
“No, we took our boot camp under a special program that kept us at home.”
“Heh.” Daly laughed, reading. “Listen to this stuff: ‘At any given time, depending on the training cycle then under way, the Confederation’s military training world, Arsenault’—that’s ‘Asshole’ to anyone who’s ever trained there,” he added—“‘has a population of approximately a million and a half. Of this number about two hundred thousand are military cadre’—lucky bastards!” he apostrophized—“‘assigned to the various training centers and administrative headquarters required to operate the many schools that compose the training complex; a further two hundred thousand military personnel are trainees attending the various schools and courses; and the remainder are government civilian employees’—oh, those are the really lucky stiffs!—‘contractors required to support the training activities, and the families of the cadre and civilians.’ Listen to this stuff, Manny! Makes Asshole sound like a goddamn summer resort!
“‘While life for the men and women undergoing basic infantry and naval training courses on Arsenault can be very hard, an experience to be remembered (and cherished as they grow older) the rest of their lives’—oh, the Virgin’s wrinkled old buttocks! Gawd, I can’t believe the government puts out such crap, Manny!” Daly laughed and shook his head in disbelief, continuing, “‘The advanced courses are a lot less strenuous.’ Yeah, I just bet they are! ‘And for the permanent-party personnel and their civilian counterparts, life on Arsenault can actually be quite pleasant, so much so that many of the cadre request an extension of their four-year tours there.’ Manny, you’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got to go puke!” Daly laughed.
But Daly read on in spite of himself. There was quite a bit here he didn’t know about Arsenault. It had only one port of entry, Camp Alpha, in the northern hemisphere. He hadn’t known that. He had believed that cadre and civilians came in through their own luxurious port of entry. Of course, when he’d gone through Camp Alpha, he’d had no time to take in the surroundings. From there incoming personnel proceeded to their areas of assignment spread out all over the planet. From his time there Daly knew that all recruits prayed for the wonderful day when they would return to Camp Alpha to leave the place, hopefully forever.
The Confederation armed forces operated several commissioning programs on Arsenault. In the northern hemisphere were the four-year naval and military academies that were available to any citizen who could meet the rigorous entrance requirements. In various places around the world, the army and navy also operated commissioning programs, similar to the Marine Officer Training College, which they referred to as officer “basic” schools. The army, for instance, had schools for infantry officers, artillery officers, logistics specialists, and so on. More advanced training for officers was available on Arsenault also, or elsewhere, but the entire military education system, from basic recruit training to courses for field-grade officers, was integrated into one program that was run from the Heptagon back on Earth.
Marine OTC commissioned only infantry officers. Those graduates designated for duty in other specialties—artillery, aviation, ordnance, what have you—received that training after commissioning.
“Hey, Manny, now we get to the good stuff, Officer Training College! Not that I don’t know all this stuff, but for your information: ‘The Confederation Marine Corps OTC is located in Camp Upshur in the southern hemisphere, in the tropics. The nearby liberty town, Oceanside, population ten thousand, is right on the ocean.’ Yeah, like we’re gonna see much of that! ‘Oceanside boasts beautiful beaches that stretch for kilometers north and south of the town, immaculate, affordable recreational facilities, well-run hotels and restaurants, and nearly perfect weather year-round. The town is run by Universal Catering and Recreation (UCR) under contract to the Confederation Ministry of War.’ Man, maybe we can get jobs with them after we’re discharged. Listen to this, Manny! ‘UCR has had the contract to operate Oceanside’s facilities for many years, and there have never been any complaints about the way they run it.’ Hah! That only means they were always able to underbid everybody else competing against them when contract-renewal time came up, you can bet on that. I bet they’re so good at contract renewal no one else even thinks it’s worthwhile to bid against them anymore.”
“What does it say about mess duty?”
“Aha! It’s contracted out. UCR runs the messes at Upshur. Hey, man, they can’t have us potential officers taking time out to pull pots and pans or dining room orderly, now can they?”
“I’m not used to civilians pulling KP for me,” Ubrik sighed. “I’m beginning to think this OTC isn’t such a bad deal after all.”
Daly read between the lines. He realized that had Oceanside existed only on the business provided by the officer candidates at OTC, it could never have survived. Tourism was the main source of income for Oceanside’s businesses. The permanent residents on Arsenault spent their vacations there, as did many Confederation government personnel from other worlds allowed to go there on special tourist visas. So equitable the climate at Oceanside—there was no “off season” there—so reasonable the fees, so excellent the services, even the Military Training Command held meetings, retreats, and seminars there, during the worst weather in the northern hemisphere, of course.
“Ah,” Daly sighed at last, handing the brochures back, “tourists at Oceanside! Nubile young maidens! Well-preserved dowagers lousy with money and anxious to meet young gentlemen such as us!” When authorized liberty, the officer candidates at the OTC flocked to Oceanside as ascending souls to paradise, because Oceanside was a paradise.
Marine Officer Training College, Arsenault
Marine OTC was ten months long. Jak Daly’s class was Session 39, the thirty-ninth OTC class to commence training on Arsenault since the college had been reorganized forty years before. There were 730 candidates in Daly’s Session, divided into three battalions, A, B, and C. Since the Marines attending OTC had all had prior service in the Corps up to the level of the platoon, it was taken for granted they would have extensive knowledge of small-unit tactics. The goal of Marine OTC was to produce ensigns capable of eventually assuming company or battalion command. The motto of the college, emblazoned on a massive arch over the administration building’s main entrance, was TAKE RESPONSIBILITY.
The college commander was a brigadier. Department heads were full colonels or commanders. Tactical officers, those who would be directly administering the courses, served in the grade of major or senior captain. All officer candidates were assigned to an administration battalion commanded by an officer in the rank of commander. This officer was responsible for all personnel and personal matters pertaining to the candidates, including the legal or medical procedures incident to dismissal from the college. To be dismissed for any reason was considered a profound setback to any Marine’s career.
The dormitory provided was an excellent, state-of-the-art, self-contained building consisting of comfortable two-man rooms, study halls with complete online libraries, full recreational facilities, and two mess halls, both operating around the clock. For most of the Marines attending OTC, these were luxuries beyond compare. The classrooms were equally luxurious. The field training exercises, of which there were many, remained as they had been for the past five hundred years—rigorous. Once in the field on exercises, the candidates felt they’d somehow been transported back in time.
The first month of OTC was devoted to physical conditioning and refamiliarization with the basic duties of a Marine infantry private; fire-team, squad, platoon tactics, and weapons training. There was no liberty during that time, which was known as zero month, but afterward candidates were allowed liberty in Oceanside whenever they were in garrison; a candidate could go to town every night if he wanted, but woe unto he who fell behind in his class work. Written examinations were periodically given during the courses, and a final was administered at the end of each course, but a candidate’s exam scores, while important to his class standing, were secondary to his demonstrated leadership skills, and this was finally determined by each candidate’s performance in actual command of his battalion during a mock but realistic combat operation.
