John Ringo: Claws That Catch

“What did Two-Gun do to deserve all this brass?” Weaver replied.

From what Weaver had gathered, both Berg and his bride-to-be were popular in their hometown but since the wedding was relatively far from home, neither had the sort of universal showing you would expect. Despite that, the small chapel was packed out.

On the bride’s side were her family and the parents of her three maids of honor. They fit in the two front rows. On the groom’s side, his family and a couple of friends from home also filled the two front rows.

But immediately behind them was the sort of brass you’d expect at a major military wedding. Three admirals, ranging from the Chief of Astronautic Operations, Admiral Greg Townsend, to a newly minted two-star named Blankemeier, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and the brigadier in charge of Force Recon. Each was accompanied by his wife. Behind them was a row of aides, including the Navy captain who was the aide to the CAO. Behind them was a row of ladies, presumably the wives of the newly minted lieutenants doing usher duty. Then more Marines, with a sprinkling of sailors, spilling over to the bride’s side.

“The way I got it, Spectre asked for the day off to attend a wedding. He’s working for Greg Townsend now so Greg asked who was getting married. When the CAO said he was going to the wedding, the rest figured it was mandatory. Well, except Spectre. And the commandant.”

Since the end of the Dreen War — and the more or less simultaneous end of the War on Terror as the mujahideen fed themselves to the Dreen in profligate numbers — there hadn’t been many opportunities for the military to excel. At least known opportunities. The still Top Secret Vorpal Blade project was the exception. The Marines and sailors of the Vorpal Blade had faced more threats than any five divisions of regular troops over the last two years. And the casualty rates had been on the same order.

In other times and other wars it might have been unusual to see the space version of the Chief of Naval Operations and the Commandant of the Marine Corps turn up for the wedding of a Marine second lieutenant, no matter how decorated. But Two-Gun Berg was, by far and away, the best known of the Marine security contingent of the Blade . As such he was something of a celebrity within a very small and very black community. It didn’t hurt that he was a damned nice kid.

“I mean, let’s just do the list, shall we?” Miller whispered. “Stopped the crabpus attack on Runner’s World while it was eating up the rest of the Marines like so much popcorn. Saved the conn of the Blade , more or less single-handed. Did the drop on Cheerick. Point man into the Dragon Room. Just about the last man standing in same. The guy who found the sole survivor of the HD 36951 colony. Point man in multiple EVAs on same mission. The guy who figured out how to survive the entry of the Dreen dreadnought. Killed a rhino-tank at short range, more or less single-handed. Last but not least, the guy who captured the aforementioned dreadnought, again single-handed.”

“Hey, I was there for most of that!” Weaver whispered back. “So were you, and closer. And it wasn’t exactly single-handed.”

“Quit mucking with my narrative,” Miller said. “Alvin York wasn’t exactly by himself. The point is the story that’s become Two-Gun Berg, the guy who keeps going into the fire and emerging unscathed. That is why the CAO, the commandant and ComLinSpac are here. Partially, it’s in homage to a fine Marine, partially, I think, that they’re hoping some of his luck, and a lot of what he did came down to luck, wears off on them. The brass that have seen the intel estimates must be shitting a brick.”

“Which just makes the next mission that much more important,” Weaver said. “Speaking of which, you haven’t been in the meetings.”

“Meetings of my own,” Miller said disgustedly. “There’s much black discussion of what to do about SEALs these days. I’m not on the next mission. I’m going to have to attend a four-day Conceptualizing Event called ‘Whither SEALs.’ The upside is, it’s in Maui. So you’re on your own this time.”

“Shhhh,” Weaver whispered as the organist, who had been doodling along with various light music, suddenly shifted to the “Wedding March.”

“Let’s hope this goes off without a hitch,” Miller nonetheless whispered back as a tall, blond girl entered the room holding the arm of her father. “I know people are going to take it as an omen, one way or the other.”

Eric, frankly, didn’t remember much of the ceremony. He remembered seeing Brooke and thinking that she was just about the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life and then he was kissing her. All the bits in the middle were missing. He’d experienced the condition in combat before. One of the dozens of psychologists everyone on the missions had to talk to in after-action reviews had used the term “lack of ego awareness.” Things happened and then it was over. He apparently got his bits right.

Normally, the bride was the first person out of the chapel. In this case, after the twosome paraded down the altar at the direction of the chaplain who ran the small facility, everyone else filed out first. When the chapel was clear, he and Brooke were directed to leave.

He took Brooke’s arm and they walked down the aisle. He tried like hell to ignore the fact that the commandant was watching them. He also realized that he was walking so stiffly his legs were barely moving.

When they exited the chapel the reason for the change became obvious. His fellow OCS cadets had formed a sword-arch outside the doors. He and Brooke walked through the aisle to cheers and a bit of boozy breath; the cadets had clearly started partying early.

He helped Brooke into the limousine, then more or less tumbled in behind her.

“Was this shiny?” he asked quietly. Brooke was looking a little frozen.

“It was great,” she replied, her face breaking into a smile. Then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, hard. “Perfect. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Eric said, finally able to breathe.

“I was just surprised at some of the people,” Brooke said. “I didn’t want to get anything wrong in front of your bosses.”

“Those people are my bosses the way that Bill Gates is the boss of a lowly Micro-Vac programmer,” Eric said. “I’m not even going to try to figure out why they asked to attend. All we have to do is survive the reception and we’re out of here.”

“You just want to do more than what my mother refers to as ‘spooning,’ ” Brooke said, grinning.

“I just want to get out from under the gaze of the commandant,” Eric said, smiling back. “Not to say that I’m not looking forward to tonight.”

“And no alcohol for you at the reception,” Brooke said, crawling onto his lap. “At least that’s what Mom suggested.”

“ ‘Wine giveth the desire but taketh the ability,’ ” Eric quoted.

“Is that from the Bible?” Brooke asked.

“Close,” Eric replied with a grin. “Shakespeare.”

“Captain,” Admiral Townsend said, nodding at Weaver.

“Admiral,” Weaver replied.

The reception had turned into an odd affair. Held at the Quantico Officers’ Club, it was buffet style with tables and chairs but no defined places. It had started off rather aggressively split between the civilian attendees and the military. That slowly changed as it became evident that many of the civilians, the male ones at least, were former military. The town Eric and Brooke derived from had more than its share of veterans and while they tended to avoid the “brass,” they had been more than willing to seek out the more junior officers, and the few enlisted permitted for this occasion on hallowed ground, for conversation.