John Ringo - Islands of Rage and Hope

“Roger, sir!” Faith snapped.

“Onboard, you will march, ramrod straight, absolutely everywhere,” Hamilton said. “Eyes front and on parade.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Faith said.

“When you hit the beach, it’s up to you,” Hamilton said. “I don’t want anything interfering with your combat ability. However, I strongly suggest that you bark every order. Forget you’re thirteen, forget you think they don’t trust you. You are the mistress of this mission. Own it. You do this for a year, and that’s the minimum I’m going to require, and you’re never going to be able to do anything else. And then you will truly be the epitome of a Marine officer. Oorah? Now we both have a briefing to prepare for.”

“’Tention on deck!” Sergeant Smith snapped.

The Marines had berths but the ship had not been designed to carry Marines. So most of their combat gear was stored separately. It was also where the weapons were being sorted and cleaned for issue to “local militias” if they found survivors.

“Staff Sergeant!” Faith said without calling “at ease.”

“Ma’am?” Staff Sergeant Barnard said.

“Inspection in combat gear, quarter deck, ten minutes. All Marine landing personnel. Carry on.”

Faith spun in place and exited the compartment.

“What… the… hell…?” Smitty said.

“All of you fall in on your gear,” Staff Sergeant Barnard said, shaking her head. “You will be on the quarterdeck in five minutes.”

When the Marines fell in on the quarterdeck, in this case an open area on the fantail of the forward-stack vessel, Faith was leaned up against one of the cargo containers, buffing her nails. She was, however, in full ground combat gear with her own addition of spare knives.

She let Staff Sergeant Barnard fall the Marines in and do a preinspection. When the staff sergeant was done she strode to her assigned spot at the front of the formation and saluted.

“The unit is prepared for inspection, ma’am,” Barnard said.

Faith looked at her watch and nodded.

“You have one minute and thirty seconds left, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said, without barking, returning the salute or straightening up. “You sure you want me to take it?”

“The unit is prepared for inspection, ma’am,” Barnard repeated.

Faith straightened up, returned the salute, then marched over.

“Follow me,” Faith barked.

She marched to the first Marine, Staff Sergeant Decker, and held out her hands.

“Inspection, arms!”

Decker unclipped his M4 then threw it at her, which she caught and inspected. She tossed it back and then began a meticulous inspection of his gear. Starting at the top she inspected his helmet, pulling on all the straps, looking under it, yanked at every loose bit of equipment, checked every button. She pulled out his magazines and inspected them. She handed one to Barnard.

“Spring is weak, get that DXed,” she snapped.

“Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said.

“A weak spring can cause jamming in combat, Staff Sergeant,” Faith stated. “My Marines do not go into combat with bad mags. Other than that, good turn-out, Decker.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Decker snapped.

She pivoted right, stepped to the next Marine, Corporal Douglas, and pivoted left to face him.

“Inspection… arms!”

“This Ka-Bar is not sharpened.” A fast-clip on an M4 sling snapped when she yanked on it. “Dirty gas tube.” A helmet strap weakened from wear. Faith didn’t appear to check a single item that was cosmetic. All she checked was what they were going to need in combat.

It took nearly two hours while the Marines stood at parade rest or attention sweating in the sun. They were sweating not so much from the heat as from the reality that a thirteen-year-old was making some of them look like dumb recruits. And Barnard was slowly acquiring a pile of equipment that did not meet her lieutenant’s satisfaction.

Finally it was done and Faith marched back to the front of the formation followed by Barnard. Faith paused for a moment looking at the Marines balefully.

“Sergeant Smith, front and center!” Faith barked.

When Smitty was in place, at attention, Faith gestured from the staff sergeant to the sergeant.

“Staff Sergeant, transfer that pile to Sergeant Smith.” Once the transfer was complete she gestured back to the formation with her chin. “Resume your position, Marine.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Smitty snapped, double timing back to his place.

“When I say ‘fall out,’ fall in on the gear locker and carry on with your previous mission,” Faith boomed. “Fall OUT. Staff Sergeant, a moment of your time,” she finished. It was very nearly a whisper.

When the Marines were gone, Faith gestured to the rail.

“Staff Sergeant, the colonel gave me an order,” Faith said mildly. “That order was to ‘command voice’ every word that came out of my mouth. I think he’ll forgive me for not command voicing this. If I start in on command voice, by the time I’m done they’ll hear me belowdecks and I think this should be between us, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said.

“Staff Sergeant, how many tours did you do in combat zones, pre-Plague?” Faith asked. “I assume you were in the Sandbox.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said. “Six, ma’am.”

“Your MOS is… administrative, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said. “Oh, One-Eleven.”

“Was the Fall your first taste of combat?” Faith asked.

“I was in a couple of ambushes in Afghanistan, ma’am,” Barnard said. “I wasn’t just a fobbit on my last tour. I had to go outside the wire as part of my duties. Outside the wire there wasn’t much that was safe, ma’am. And we took a good bit of mortar and rocket fire.”

“So, total, maybe, what, ten hours?” Faith asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said.

“And in the Fall, when did you go to free-fire?” Faith asked. “I get that it was pretty much the last day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Barnard said.

“So maybe ten more there?” Faith asked. “Because, sorry, standing on a rooftop does not count.”

“About that, ma’am,” Barnard said.

“When people ask me ‘how many times have you done this’ I generally say ‘I’d have to check the log,’” Faith said. She pulled out her H&K, slid back the slide with her thumb, checked for a round, dropped the mag and pressed down to make sure it was full all without looking and without a break in speaking. “So after I got done talking with the colonel and the preplanning meeting, I decided to actually check the log. I am technically credited with seven thousand hours of direct infantry combat against infected.” She reinserted the mag and holstered the weapon, again without looking, and just kept staring out to sea.

“Thousand, ma’am?” Barnard said, her mouth dropping open.

“Thousand, Staff Sergeant,” Faith said. “Kind of surprised me. And that is in the last six God-damn months. The point to that is not that I’m a billy bad-ass. It’s that every single item I checked was something that fucked up on me , Sergeant. In combat . Because, yeah, I’ve seen that much combat. I’ve got that much experience of fighting for my life, generally at short ranges when seconds count. I’ve had guns jam, straps break, knives not be sharp enough to cut a throat. And, Staff Sergeant, don’t ask me how many throats I’ve cut because there’s no log for that. My point is that thing about assumptions. I assumed that a Marine staff sergeant would understand what her boss meant by ‘make sure all the gear is straight and get anything that needs it DXed.’ That’s on me. I should have made sure you understood what I was saying. And now we got to get it fixed on the float instead of back at Gitmo where there was a bunch of spare shit. Oorah?”