John Ringo - Islands of Rage and Hope

“Div Five, Flotilla.”

“Division Five, over,” Bowman replied.

“Status check.”

“Passing Forest Harbor at this time, Flotilla,” Bowman replied.

“Roger. Supplementary orders. Do not load weapons until all vessels report in position and ready to fire, over.”

“Do not load weapons until all boats in position, aye,” Bowman replied.

“Flotilla out.”

“Wonder what that was about?” Bowman said.

“Fifty-caliber Singer has a maximum range of seven miles, sir,” Barney said. “This island is three miles wide at its widest. Those bloody Singer rounds are going to be bouncing off these block houses and going all the way across the bloody island, sir. Our path takes us through three possible impact zones. And one of those rounds will go all the way through these cockleshells, sir. I’d rather wondered about whether we’d get shot up heading to the anchorage, sir.”

“You didn’t bring that up in the meeting,” Bowman said.

“I was leaving it up to the Yank colonel, Lieutenant,” Barney said. “But I’ll tell you I’ve been keeping a bit of an eye out for bits of ocean churned up by descending Singer rounds, sir. You might want to do the same in case others haven’t gotten the word, sir.”

“And what would that look like, exactly?” Bowman said nervously. He was now scanning the surface of the water intently.

“Bit like flying fish jumping, sir,” Barney said.

“Those are all over the place!” Bowman snapped.

“Really, sir?” the sergeant major said, smiling slightly and still looking through the binoculars.

“Oh, now you’re just yanking my chain!”

“Am I, sir?” Barney said, grinning. “What gave you that impression? In seriousness, the answer was honest and, of course, useless. The rounds can and will cross the island, spotting them incoming is hard to impossible since the tracers will have burned out and even then only one in five is a tracer. If it happens, by the time we know we’ll have a half-inch hole through ourselves, and that is not what you call a survivable wound. So we’d better bloody well hope that everyone’s got the word, sir.”

“How screwed up can one sailing cruise get?” Bowman said, shaking his head.

“This technique, oorah, was developed with Lieutenant Fontana’s help, oorah?” Faith said, standing in front of Decker. She was in full ground combat gear with her face shield up. She even had her Barbie gun strapped across her chest but no magazine in the well. Added to the ensemble, and not normal, was a bulging messenger bag slung over her shoulder. She’d dropped that before starting the inspection. “It is based upon the way that you… oorah… do the preinspection for somebody who’s doing a jump, oorah? Questions?”

“Like a parachutist, ma’am?” Staff Sergeant Barnard said.

“Lieutenant Fontana is a Green Beret, oorah?” Faith said. “They call it something different, oorah? Airport or something, oorah? But it’s how they inspect a jumper. Da used to inspect me and Sophia the same way. Da used to be a para. So, we start at the helmet and face shield, oorah? Grab the face shield and flex it in with the base of your palms on the bottom of the face shield, oorah? It should flex a bit but not crack or be too solid, oorah? And it can’t be so scratched you can’t see through it. Then push up on the bottom while holding your other hand on top of the helmet. All of the shields are supposed to be attached to the helmet. It can’t be loose, oorah? Or an infected’ll pull it right off in a scrum, oorah? Watch your hand there, you can cut yourself. Been there, done that, oorah…? Decker, you need to pay attention to this. You’re going to be doing it, too.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Decker barked.

It took thirty minutes just to walk the staff sergeants through what was essentially a PJMC, pre-jump manifest check, used in “airborne,” not “airport,” operations.

“You really got to watch the magazines, oorah?” Faith said. “Bunch of ’em ended up sitting for months with multiple rounds or full loads. That really fu… messes up the springs, oorah? If the spring feels weak, it’s probably bad.”

“Oorah, ma’am,” Barnard said.

“Oorah,” Faith replied. “Don’t know how to say this. Doesn’t matter if they need a shave, their boots ain’t shined or there’s bloodstains on their uniform. All that matters is their gear is right, oorah? Now you and Decker start doing checks on all the rest of the platoon. I’ll watch and critique, oorah?”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Barnard said.

“Decker, check Sergeant Hoag,” Faith said. “You check Derk, Staff Sergeant. Derk’s been through this and knows the drill. I’m going to go prepare them,” she added, hefting the bag. “I’ll send them up when it’s time.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,”

“Derk,” Faith said. “Barbie gun.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Corporal Douglas said, unclipping his M4 and handing it over.

“Nobody saw this,” Faith barked. She opened the gun, slid out the bolt, closed it up, latched the dust cover and handed it back. Then she pocketed the bolt. “I should remember to get that back to you. But if I don’t, for God’s sake don’t hit the beach that way, oorah?”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” the corporal said.

“Fumitaka,” she said, dipping into the messenger bag then holding out a Ka-Bar to the lance corporal, butt first. “Switch Ka-Bars. Don’t go ashore with this one.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Fumitaka said, switching blades. He fingered the edge and shook his head. “You couldn’t cut butter with this, ma’am.”

“That’s the point, Lance Corporal,” Faith said, making a note in her notebook. She adjusted one of Filipowicz’s sling clips so it was barely hooked, switched out one of PFC Summers’s magazines for one with a bad spring and generally spent ten minutes making sure that there were various minor faults scattered through the platoon. She also wrote down each “fault” so her Marines wouldn’t actually go into combat with messed-up gear.

“Now it’s a real test, oorah?” Faith said, walking back to the gear locker.

“Okay,” Fumitaka said. “I guess maybe she does know what she’s doing.”

“O ye of little faith,” Corporal Douglas said. “Semper Fi, boys and girls. And keep your mouths shut.”

“Douglas!” Faith yelled from the next compartment. “You’re up!”

“Inspection complete, ma’am,” Barnard said, stepping back from Corporal Douglas.

Faith was standing between and slightly behind the two staff sergeants. At Barnard’s words she dropped her head, reached into her pocket and wordlessly handed Douglas his bolt. Barnard’s face went white and she winced but didn’t say anything.

“As I mentioned, Staff Sergeant, I have made just about every mistake possible when it comes to combat,” Faith barked, pulling out her little green notebook and scribbling a note. “Next! I screwed that one up on the Voyage . The miracle is that I am alive. Staff Sergeant Decker, while I appreciate and often admire your intense attention to detail, we have thirty Marines to go through. You will learn to be both fast and accurate. Oorah?”

“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Decker said. He was barely halfway through his check on Sergeant Hoag’s gear.

“Begin again, Staff Sergeant Barnard,” Faith said.

“Attention on deck!” PFC Randolph bellowed. Since he and Fumitaka were facing the hatch they were the only ones that saw the colonel enter the compartment.