John Ringo - Manxome Foe

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” Brooke said. “You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because if you have somebody to come back to, there’s more reason to come back,” Brooke said. “Promise me you’ll come back. Promise.”

“Can’t,” Eric said. “Because there were plenty of guys who had people to come back to that didn’t. I was at the memorial. There were crying widows all over the place.”

“Then I’ll say this. I won’t promise I won’t date other guys or anything, because you’re never home and I’ve got to go to prom with somebody . But I really like you, too, Eric. A lot more than any guy I’ve ever known. So when you come back, there will be a Brooke to come back to. Okay?”

Eric’s implant dinged urgently. He ignored it, though, and took Brooke’s hand. “Brooke, honey—”

“Priority Call from Gunnery Sergeant Daniel Neely,” the military issue implant whispered. “ Priority call for Sergeant Eric Bergstresser…”

“Damnit,” Eric said, activating the implant. “Sergeant Bergstresser.”

“ Two-Gun ,” his platoon sergeant said. “ Recall. Right now. Get your ass back to Newport News even if you’ve got it half stuck in .”

“ Maulk, maulk …” Two-Gun muttered. “Tell me you’re joking , Gunny.”

“ Negative ,” the gunnery sergeant said. “ Get moving, Two-Gun. That’s an order .”

“Aye, aye,” Eric said. “Two-Gun, out.”

“Two-Gun?” Brooke asked. “What was that… ?”

“I have to go,” Eric said. “I need to take you home, then get home and pack.”

“You’ve got a mission,” Brooke said, her already pale skin whitening. “Don’t you?”

“I… I don’t know how long it will be until I can contact you,” Eric said, starting the truck and putting it in gear. “Normally that’s bullshit when someone says that. But in my case it’s true. I’ll be really seriously out of contact. And I don’t know for how long. Figure three months.”

“Eric,” Brooke said about halfway home.

“Yes?”

“I take it back. I won’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else. Not for five months. I’ll give you that long.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry,” Eric replied. “But I also can’t say you won’t be.”

“Can I just ask one teeny question about what you do?” Brooke asked.

“Maybe.”

“Why did you call yourself Two-Gun?”

Any casual observer would have noticed the sudden flurry of activity on a sleepy Sunday evening on a normally nearly deserted platform. The apparent street person muttering to himself on the platform’s single bench was anything but a casual observer. He had memorized a list of faces but in many cases he didn’t really need it. The one Marine in incongruous dress blues he’d seen in the news.

Moscow Center was going to be very interested in this development. The entire crew of the Vorpal Blade seemed to be flooding back, quite unexpectedly. There could be only one reason for that and by tomorrow Akula s would be redeploying to watch for the American’s newest “submarine” as it set sail.

However, although he was a trained observer, he hadn’t noticed that one platform up, the only route down to this platform, the Pakistani vendor of the sundries shop had apparently sold out to a new Chinese owner.

More than Akula s would be watching.

“Two-Gun,” Michael Gants said, sucking in through his teeth. “Now we all know it’s gonna get bad.”

“Sub Dude,” Eric said, nodding at the machinist’s mate. “Scared any children lately?”

“My kids scare me ,” Gants replied. “And the other kids. And casual strangers. And Jehovah’s Witnesses, although I can’t complain about that one.”

“Hey, Two-Gun,” Corporal Julian Nicholson said. “How they hanging?”

“That’s Sergeant Bergstresser to you, Nugget,” Eric replied. “But for your information, at the moment they’re pulled up and blue. I was in the middle of a date.”

“Sucks to be you, Sergeant,” the corporal said as the light over the entry turned green. “What’s up with the recall?”

“If I knew, I certainly wouldn’t be telling you on an open platform, Corporal,” Eric replied, swiping his card and stepping through the Looking Glass.

The guard on the far side had been augmented by three Navy NCOs, a Navy lieutenant Eric didn’t recognize and Gunnery Sergeant Neely.

“At Ease!” the gunny shouted as the group gathered in front of the gate, chattering. “LT?”

“Busses outside,” the lieutenant said into the quiet. “Front two are for Naval personnel, rear one for the Marines. Fall into your busses. You’re not going to get briefed until you’re all in a secure area, so don’t bother asking. Now get moving.”

“Two-Gun,” Gunny Neely said as he headed for the exit. “As soon as you get your shit stored, get your team down to the quarterdeck. As soon as the company’s assembled, Top’s going to brief us.”

“Aye, aye, Gunny,” Eric said. “Any clues?”

“What you’ve got is what I’ve got.”

“Get the grapp out of the rack, into uniform and down to the quarterdeck,” Eric said, sticking his head into the two-man room occupied by the rest of his team. Lance Corporals Mark Smith and Mark Himes, or as he half thought of them “Mark y Mark” were replacements as was most of the “company.” Normally, Force Recon companies were oversized with a full count of grunts, around a hundred and forty, and a mass of detachments. They were some of the largest “companies” in the military, with a TO E of over two hundred bodies.

The Space Marine company was, by contrast, probably the smallest. It only had a total complement of forty-one, including its very limited number of “clerks and jerks.” Essentially, it was a platoon with some supports. But since the job of leading it required at least a captain, it got called a company.

The replacements had mostly come from the two full-sized Force Recon companies. A few were direct from the new Force Recon qual course. In many cases, teams were made up of guys who had trained with each other for years. They knew each other, understood each other’s strengths and weaknesses, had team names they used, were a team .

Berg had a hard time remembering most of their names. He sometimes forgot even the names of the platoon sergeants. To him, and the other two junior survivors of the last mission, they were all Nuggets. They might be Marines, they might even be Force Recon. They weren’t Space Marines.

“Jesus, we just got in,” Himes said or at least Eric thought it was Himes. The two replacement lance corporals were similar in appearance, both being tall and stocky with brown hair and regular features. When they’d first started training, the only way that Eric could tell them apart was that Smith had a tattoo of a spider on the back of his neck. If he was looking at them face on he regularly got them confused until he looked at their name tags.

“And we’re going out nearly as fast,” Berg said tightly.

“What’s up, Sergeant?” Smith said, rolling out of his rack and pulling a set of digi-cam out of his wall-locker.

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Berg said. “Now get a move on, Marines.”

The company had fallen out on the quarterdeck, a large indoor area on the side of the barracks that doubled as a PT room. It was, however, fairly secure with thick concrete walls lined by a Faraday cage to prevent electronic eavesdropping.

Looking around, since they were at Rest, Eric could tell that some people were missing. But Corwin and Seeley were there, the only two junior enlisted members of the old company to have survived besides himself. The survivors had been distributed around, each in a different platoon. Berg was the team leader for Bravo Team, First Platoon, the Alpha Team position being reserved for a staff sergeant. Seeley was a “rifleman” in Alpha Second and Corwin was a cannoneer in Alpha Third.