"Jesus Christ! Are we out of beer already? I just lugged a cylinder up from cybernetics!"
Christopher looked at his watch. "Stoney, that was almost three hours ago. How far do you think two six-packs can go with four guys in one place at one time?" he said to the general disbelief in the room. "Let's take a break. I’m starting to lose it."
Rojas and Sabott slumped down in their chairs, exhausted and relieved that Maysfield was not in the room to see them exhausted like this. He had taken the Watch as all four platoons slept and Phase One results were evaluated. There were no fatalities or serious physical injuries, which was a plus. The recruits had adjusted to the heavily regimented living for the most part. They understood mechanical, they understood orders, and they had enough drive to keep going. But they were dull. Dull was the agreed term of all four men in the room. There was no Esprit de Corps! No feeling for the job other than as just that—a job. No feeling for tradition. In fact, the word itself translated into Malacan as "habit." They were not competitive, and that was the bottom line.
Sabott rose and picked his way through the cramped room with its small pools of lights indicating a workstation or reading stand. He fumbled with the coffee maker, looking for the filters and coffee bags. Finally, he just stopped. Without turning to face his boss he suddenly blurted out, "Bob, are we doing something wrong? What are we missing?"
"No, it's nothing we're doing or not doing, Danny. They're treating this like it’s another job aboard ship. Check the cargo, swab the deck... join the Marine Corps! Roach understands a little, Lewis a little, I think even Dirty John understands a little...”
"Yeah!" grunted Rojas, "up until the part about being a Republican in a Democracy. They don't understand politics at all."
"And do we?" returned Christopher. "I still can't figure out if I'm here to avoid a punishment or to have one! What is the political reason to covertly make alien Marines, when at home the Congress is listening to a thousand and one reasons to shut the shop? What are we doing here? Polishing tin or making a weapon? I don't know! I'd like to think I'm taking this seriously, doing my job for real. But I just don't know. I've never seen a platoon that didn't let me know where I stood."
"Well," declared Stone, rubbing his still-sore ribs, "Phase Two is all rifle quals and tactical weapons firing. If it don't seem real now, it never will! Can't argue with that."
There was a sudden uncomfortable pause. All eyes were affixed to Christopher, who seemed to have slipped over the edge. He had sat straight up in his chair and placed both of his hands in front of his face, palms facing inward.
"Y'all can 'scuse me, Sergeant?" drawled Sabott in his most formal Louisianan. "You okay?"
Christopher never looked up from what he was doing, but spoke out with unsuspected energy. "Every argument has two sides, right? It’s got a left side. In this case five jarheaded butt wipes—us! It’s got a right side, in this case 185 Malacans in full battle gear—them! We've been trying to resolve this argument by looking at the left side or the right. Now think! What's this argument got that most arguments don't have?" Christopher had lowered all his fingers into the palms of his hands and carefully brought both pinkies erect, still touching, until they were in plain sight of all. "In fact, we've got not one, but two! Two middle men!"
Christopher rose from his chair and rushed towards the workstation. He pressed his back flat against the wall and shoved his arm behind the shelving. It emerged with a fifth of twenty-five year old Chivas Regal. Almost lovingly he dusted off the vessel of rare Scottish fluids and vapors until at last he was satisfied, holding the sacred container up to the dim lighting and spinning it. A radiant, almost spiritual light seemed to whisper off the very bottle itself. When at last he himself was pleased with the vessel's countenance, he snapped it smartly into the crook of his arm as if it were the very Marmaluke-handled sword itself, and strode to the Ship's intercom on the far wall. He paused in front of it and with an almost painful sigh inspected the jug one last time. He leaned into the intercom and unlocked the inter-deck hailing frequency.
"Christopher to ship's Captain. coHLI, please identify your location sir."
* * *
"YOU GA'DANNED FLUKE‑EYEBALLED LI'L NO‑JAWED HERD OF SUGAR PANTS PARROT‑PORKERS, WATCH WHAT 3030 DOES—AND TRY! JUST TRY TO DO WHAT THEIR DOING! NEAR THIRTY IN THIS MAN'S CORPS, AND I'VE NEVER SEEN A MORE USELESS SHITLOAD OF SKIVVY DIRTYIN', STRIPPED‑SCREWED, PECKER-HEADED MORONS IN MY LIFE! I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ASS‑KISSIN', BROWN NOSED, HOLE PUCKERERS DO TO GET OVER ON YOUR DIs, BUT IT DON'T FLOAT WITH MAYSFIELD HERE!"
Of all the weapons in Abner Willie's arsenal, his vocabulary was undoubtedly the most potent of all. At the Island, such language was no longer tolerated but here, who cared? As had been inspired by three consecutive showing of 'Full Metal Jacket', he was locked and loaded and sending rounds down field in all directions. His chosen path for 3030, while somewhat out of favor with his contemporaries, was proving, if nothing else, tactically correct. Under a full head of steam, 3030 could out-run, out-work, and out-drill all the other platoons combined. They couldn't tell you why! But they did it. But Abner could tell you why! Fear of God, which he himself had put into them—who, for all intents and purposes, he himself was!
Christopher had seen this and bitten hard on the bullet at times to let his own mentor continue. He didn't need to see the evals on 3030 to know which way they were going. They were overly obedient, overly aggressive (as far as Malacans went), overly self-reliant, and early flashes of an unhealthy cockiness were becoming apparent. When politely confronted with this observation, Maysfield had just chuckled and replied, "Sorta makes you feel bad we can't go back into 'Nam, don't it!"
If this had been an attempt at humor, it had been wasted on Christopher. He saw things more closely to the immediate position the Corps took regarding Marines in combat. While Maysfield's platoon may look further along than the others, they were shaping up to be nothing more than cannon fodder—the greenie most likely to have his head blown off charging a dug-in enemy. A dead Marine is a useless Marine. But aside from curtailing the brutality that seemed to have gone with the DIs of the 'Nam era, there was little Christopher could do or say in regards to Maysfield. He had been told, "Make Marines!" And that was what he was doing.
A Marine from the mid-twentieth century was as much a Marine as the Marine of the mid-twenty‑first. Or nineteenth, or eighteenth, or any other century for that matter.
There was no point in having Maysfield at the evaluations, though his input on the results would be invaluable. So Christopher requested of him to accept the Watch, which he did, with the understanding that night maneuvers were a distinct possibility. Well, a little extra drill at this point sure as hell couldn't hurt.
Drill? Maysfield had never said drill. Old Abner Willie had truly been reborn to the spirit of the 'Nam era. He had begun to jump ahead on the curriculum with a few special night courses—on infiltration and attacking. At lights out, 3030 had cloaked its squad bay in darkness and, under cover of the dimly illuminating night-lights, had begun to infiltrate the other platoons. Teams of four and five men would infiltrate the other barracks and, armed with Martian chasers and broom sticks, drive the unsuspecting enemy out into the open—where they would be set upon by the remaining numbers. The plan was simple. Slip past or capture the fire watches and take position until the signal was given for the spearheads to move.
3033 was the first perimeter infiltrated. It had to be. It was directly in front of 3030, and once taken you had sound cover to move through to get to the other barracks. The fire watch was only two of the Tall Ones, Friday and Sunday. They were taken from behind and removed, prisoners of war. It was going well.
Or so it looked. There is an old Malacan saying—once bitten, twice shy. It had become Blue Lewis' motto. He held the series record for most M80s being set off between his legs by a DI sneaking up on him. He had learned to sleep with one eye open and, on watch, he had learned to grow eyes on both sides of his head. And he always kept a third eye peeking out his butt to defend a rear attack.
He had seen the two Tall Ones taken out through the small porthole in the hatch. One by one he saw the advanced party enter into the bay. When the second team appeared leaving their launch point at 3030, Blue had figured out what was going on. There was no time to waste.
He motioned the other guard over. "Look! There!" he whispered to his counterpart, a round-faced puckish recruit that Sabott had taken to calling Meatball. "That cocksucker's coming after us!"
Meatball was pissed, but nonplussed. When Blue realized he was going start screaming every cuss he knew at the creeping enemy, he jumped at him and slapped the palm of his hand across his mouth.
"Relax, Chesty," he said. "I got a better idea. Go get Boone, Ho Chi, Hand Ball, and the Duck. Have them follow me over to 3032. I'll be in the south corner. Then wake the rest of the platoon, get them dressed, and tell 'em to wait for anything that sounds like a fight. Tell them to get out into the yard and beat the livin' shit out of anyone from 3030. And don't turn any lights on!"
It didn't take great military genius to realize that there was no getting out the front or rear doors without being seen, so Lewis removed a Kabar from the nearest footlocker and pried a four-foot section of floor board up. The buildings were elevated about two feet off the ground and it'd be a tight fit, but he could crawl through and come out on the blind side of 3030.
He moved quickly. Arnold and Black Hole had fire watch at '32, and between the two of them Lewis knew there weren't enough active brain cells to power up a small candle. 3030 couldn't count on overpowering Arnold without a lot of difficulty, but they probably could sneak past him holding flashlights and singing a cadence.
He waited in the darkness, watching as the advance force lingered in their cover, trying to isolate where the night watch was posted. It was obvious that none of them wanted a piece of Arnold. Behind them, he could see Roach waving at them furiously. For a moment, Lewis thought he had been spotted. Then he realized he was witnessing Roach's attempt to get them on Arnold, and Lewis snickered to himself. Roach would do this just to make Arnold look bad.
One by one, Lewis's own people from the 3031 came up behind him. 3030 had sent a five-man unit in, and it appeared that they were going to split up—two men to watch the front, and three to enter through the rear. Two moved along the far side of the building and one moved slowly along the near side, checking for observers through the portholes as they moved.
Lewis sent his four-man team to the far side, instructing them to crawl in under the hatch ladder and move under the building. They were to take the incoming invaders from the rear, as close to the far corner of the building as possible, and drag them under the building and wait for Lewis to take out his man.
As he saw it, the only place to take the man on the near side was a two- or three-foot blind spot caused by an equipment rack. It sat in front of a porthole that offered a commanding view of the entire barracks. For a spy to linger there a moment or two would not be suspicious.
He saw Boone's hand waving that they were in position, so he moved. Under the porch as they had done, he positioned himself where he was certain he'd emerge concealed. He saw a pair of black boots move past him. Perfect! he thought, the first break of the night!
He slid from under the building and slow crawled forward until he was less than a foot away from his prey. Silently, he pushed himself up into a squatting position and checked his location. He was hidden from view of 3030, no doubt of it. He stood up. His man was wearing a field cover and not a helmet, probably because the damned things didn't fit right and tended to fall off. Blue Lewis had a clear, unobstructed shot at the ears. He struck.
With as much force as he could generate, he slammed his fists onto the ears of his enemy, stunning him. Before his quarry could utter a cry, he drove the thumbs of both hands deeply and rapidly into the throat of the helpless invader, four or five quick shots to drive the air out of the wind tunnel. His gasping prey dropped to his knees. Lewis pushed him face-down and placed a knee on his back to keep him down and to slow the return of air to the lung. He reached down and pulled the laces off one of the boots and bound his enemy's hands behind him, then removed the boot and pulled off the sock underneath it. When he was certain his victim could breathe through his nose, he stuffed the sock into the gasping orifice and dragged him under the building. He tore off his enemy’s fatigue blouse and crawled inside it, put his cover on his head and with balls as big as brass, popped out from under the barrack, signaled to 3030 to wait where they were, and quickly disappeared quickly through the hatch. He pressed against the far wall and could hear a silent scuffle as the others did their job.
He picked his way through the sleeping platoon until he found the watch. He waved furiously at them to get down, and prayed that the two idiots standing the watch would have the sense to actually get down and not start screaming. They did and began crawling towards him under the porthole.
"Wad the fug h'are you doin', Lewis?" chunked out Arnold. "If Maysfield..."
"You're under attack, asshole! That prick is sending 3030 in on us. Why? I have no idea, but they've already taken '33! Four of my guys just took care of half the crew meant for you."
Through the normal fog that seemed to fill Arnold's brain, he began to see the picture. "Listen," Lewis continued, "get your guys up and keep them quiet, I got an idea. Oh! Pry up the floor boards over there in the corner and let my men in with their prisoners, and have one of them drag in that asshole I've got tied up in the other corner, too."
Crawling members of '32 now crowded the hatchway. Blue waved half of them off. The immediate problem was the two invaders waiting outside. He cut the small bulb that lighted the hatchway and covered them all in a deep darkness. With great stealth, he pulled the cover low over his eyes, pushed his head and arm out the hatch, and motioned to the two waiting invaders to come in—quickly!
The first invader through the door paused a second, saw nothing, and pressed further inside. He'd gotten about four feet from the hatch when the second invader appeared. It was Roach. Through the darkness he moved, letting the hatch close behind him. He was about to call out for his advanced group when two large palms slapped his ears and almost popped his eyes out. Hands closed around his throat and one monstrous paw covered his mouth (and half his face).
"You liddle pin‑dicked az‑wipe!” Arnold whispered into Roach's ear, "I should ring your..."
"Relax, Cowboy,” Lewis said. "We're not out of this yet."
"So what now?" Arnold whispered as Roach was being bound and gagged.
"Counterattack!” Lewis replied. "We got five prisoners. We drive them through first..."
"We can't do that!" a third voice whispered excitedly. "That’s a violation of Military law! Article..."
"Meatball, shut the fuck up! Show me where in military law it says one platoon can night-raid another at boot camp! And what the hell are you doing in here? I told you..."
"We figured you'd need some help, so the whole platoon came in through the floor boards!" Sure enough, when Lewis looked behind him the occupancy of the squad bay had doubled in size. "So what now?"
Lewis thought for a second and then grabbed Roach by the collar and pulled out the sock that had been stuffed in his mouth.
"Okay, asshole, you've got two choices,” he said threateningly to the captive. "Talk to me, or talk to Arnold! What's it gonna be, Roach?"
"Talk to you!" he responded, remembering what Sergeant Christopher had said about dead Marines.
"You did a knock-down of the Watch at '33. Where are they, and how many of them?"
"Side of the building between the outside bulkhead of the building and the inner bulkhead of the ship. Three of them."
The space Roach was talking about was about four feet wide. "All right, get three of their uniforms off... We got to drop them, one on one, there isn't room to do anything else!" Lewis commanded. "Arnold, Meatball, you'll come with me. We take out the guards..."
"What the fuck?" Meatball was fishing through pockets of his borrowed uniform and produced two M80s. "What the hell are—" Before he could finish Lewis had clamped his hands over the stash.
"Quick, frisk 'em! See if any of them have more of these. And double time it, we're on a clock and it’s running."
Altogether, there were six (which promptly got tied together at the fuses) and as many wooden matches. "Ho Chi!" Lewis directed, "climb under the '32's barracks. When you see our boots reach the edge of the building, light 'em up and roll 'em as far towards 3030 as possible. When they go off, the three of us will rush the guards, and everybody else charge. Go right through '33, sweep out whoever isn't supposed to be there, then hit 3030."
* * *
"It is going that well! So well you are willing to part with Scotch a quarter of a century old?"
"Hell, Captain. Back on the Island, the CO and commanding staff celebrate the end of Phase One training for days. ESPECIALLY when things are going this well!" Christopher reached across the small table in the Captain's quarters and refilled coHLI's half-empty glass—for the sixth time in less than twenty minutes. "Why, when they get a unit this good, they dress up in red suits and white beards and walk around giving people presents!"
coHLI made what Christopher interpreted as a macho grunt and slammed down the entire glass, ice and all. "Now I know you are kidding me!” he laughed. "Griffen has already told me about the Easter Bunny!"
"Yeah! Right!" The Sergeant hastily refilled coHLI's glass.
"Sergeant Christopher, are they... are you certain you don't want some of this excellent..."
"Oh no, no, no. I brought that for you! Besides, during boot camps, I tend to be more of a beer drinker." The truth of the matter was it was breaking his heart to see the Chivas disappear in front of him. In his mind, he kept hearing a little voice say “for Corps and Country, for Corps and Country.” But in his heart, he felt like an Eskimo trapped in a blizzard and forced to eat his favorite sled dog to survive. "I'm sorry," Christopher said with a broad, relaxed smile, "uh, you were saying?"
"I was saying?" coHLI was getting sloppy. The sled dog hadn't died in vain! "Yes, yes... I was saying... I was... Oh! Are they really good Marines? Can they do the job?"
"Well, they're not Marines yet. But their Phase One scores are exceptional for the most part. Just a few minor things slowing us down. Things, I don't know, things that make us different. Things about your culture we just don't know. I'm sure it won't hurt their careers too badly when they get into the fleet."
"Things? What things? It's their size, isn't it! They're too small, they’re...”
"No, no. Size has nothing to do with it. They qualify in size, in weight. It's just your guys seem to have some strange mental attitude regarding, well, authority."
"Ahhh! Yes. They're XzwaXfarri, workers! Your blue collar masses. You order. They do! No thinking! Eighty-five percent of their planet is that way. It's disgusting!"
Christopher was taken aback. "I'm sorry, you said..."
"I said... disgusting! They don't reach out beyond what they're told. They could if they wanted to! I was XzwaXfarri. It took me fifteen years to work up from cargo hauler to—"
Before coHLI could finish, an intense blast from the belly of the ship shattered the peacefulness of the Captain's cabin. "My Gods," coHLI screamed, "engine four has finally blown!" coHLI sobered immediately, sprang to his feet, and bolted through the hatch. Christopher, who knew damned well the blast wasn't engine four, pushed back in his seat. He slowly lifted the bottle of Chivas from the table. Not more than a quarter-inch was left on the bottom of the bottle. He held it up to the light, then lowered it and removed the cap. Lovingly, he inhaled the vapors rising to the top of the decanter. "Sorry, old dog!" he said to it. With full honors, he placed the bottle to his lips and threw his head back.
* * *
As the Browning automatic rifle had altered the world of small arms, the M80 had altered the world of small fireworks display. Each little tube carried the equivalent of a quarter stick of dynamite. Logic, therefore, dictates that if you tie six of them together, you've got the rough equivalent of a stick and a half of dynamite. When Ho Chi rolled the goods at 3030, he got within twenty feet of their hatch. The percussion of the intense blast, amplified greatly by Malacan acoustics, blew the hatch down and stunned the thirty-three recruits inside.
Platoons '31 and '32, who had covered their aural openings in anticipation, were only half-stunned—but, as instructed, rampaged through 3030. It was by no means military, but not totally without merit. With Arnold leading the charge, holding a terrified Roach by the collar and the crotch over his head, they beat their way through the captured but still bunk jockeyed barracks and swept like the Golden Horde into the invaders’ stronghold. From there, things escalated to riot status.
It must be noted that, after the initial shock had past and despite the uneven odds, 3030 did hold their own. Just how long they could have held their position is still anybody's guess. After the blast had rocked the ship, Stone, Rojas, and Sabott—once they had dug out from all the debris flying off the walls to pelt them—had hot-footed down to the barracks. The whistles were blowing before they even got into the bay deck. "By platoon! By platoon!" the calls went out. By the time Christopher had made it in, a semblance of order had been returned and the platoons (with the exception of 3033 which had slept through almost the entire battle and still had no idea what had occurred) were reasonably formed.
Christopher, who was livid for a number of reasons (not the least of which was the passing of his favorite sled dog), stormed across the floor.
"Where's Maysfield! Where the fuck is Maysfield! Rojas! Find Maysfield! NOW!"
Before Rojas could take a step, the Master Sergeant appeared at the entrance of the DI hut looking for all the world like he had just finished Thanksgiving dinner. Considering what had just transpired, he had a satisfied—even pleased—look on his face. He strode confidently towards Christopher.
"You lookin' for me, Sergeant?" he said almost innocently.
That did it! Christopher's teeth clenched and he started grinding them slowly together. The expression on Maysfield's face, although nobody but Christopher could see it, began to change. Christopher leaned in and through clenched teeth half-whispered, "Master Sergeant! Get your ass into my office... now. Be standing in front of my desk and don't move, don't breathe, don't so much as fuckin' blink until I get there!"
Maysfield snapped to attention instantly. "Aye, aye Sergeant,” he spit out, then snapped a perfect right-face and headed off to meet his fate. Christopher dropped his chin to his chest, the wide brim of the Smokey hiding his face from his other Drill Instructors. After several moments of dead, motionless silence, Christopher placed his hands on his hips and slowly raised his face.
"Rojas!"
"Sergeant!"
"I want every recruit checked for damage. Aas soon as you've determined they're going to live, I want Jacks & Hammers till the day lights get turned on! They've got so much extra energy, let's burn it off!"
"Aye, aye Sergeant!"
"Stone!"
"Sergeant!"
"Before those lights come on, I want a detailed report on EXACTLY what happened, and I want to know who did what to whom!"
"Aye, aye Sergeant Christopher!"
"Sabott!"
"Sergeant!"
"Ascertain all property damage and what is required to repair it! And contact coHLI! He's got the entire ship on red alert!"
"Aye, aye Sergeant Christopher!"
Christopher right-faced and walked rapidly towards his office. There was a small explosion of activity behind him as orders were immediately executed.
"Did you see 'em?" Maysfield asked. "There wasn't an eyeball visible anywhere! They were pissed off, Bobby, and they came after 3030—"
"ENOUGH!" Christopher just looked up at Maysfield. "Don't you have any idea of what just happened? There were one hundred and eighty-five swinging dicks runnin' around looking for someone—a fellow recruit—to stab, slab, and stack. That's just grand! Do you have any idea what you might have done to this program? What kind of trouble you could be in?"
"No? What? I told you we were going on maneuvers, and that's what we did."
"MANEUVERS! YOU SENT OUT 3030 TO ATTACK AND TAKE OUT THREE OTHER PLATOONS OF SLEEPING RECRUITS!"
"Yeah! And did you see what happened! All it took was one alert Boot and the whole thing—"
"Abner! You're not listening to me! Article number—"
"Screw the book, Sergeant! We're seventy-three light years from the nearest thing that dresses, looks, and talks like us without hiccupping after every word ending in a vowel! We got the Congress of the United States debating even as we speak over whether or not there'll even be a Marine Corps when this class has graduated. We're in an antique hauler in the middle of a void. And all we got to work with is a vague order to make Marines! What happened in the barracks bay tonight is the closest we've gotten to doing just that! '31 found itself under surprise assault by a prepared and motivated enemy. They stopped the advance, drove off the enemy, then they chased after 'em! 3030 should have driven those limp dicks into the wall, but they didn't! Son! We got us 0300s. Infantry! Natural born and good to go!"
Christopher pushed back in his seat and studied Maysfield for a moment, finally gesturing him to sit down. "If as much as one of those recruits is seriously injured, I'll pull your stripes off myself. You're going to apologize to all four platoons and explain what legal recourses are available if they so desire to pursue them. Is that clear, Master Sergeant?"
Maysfield rose from the seat slowly. "Aye, aye Sergeant," was all he said. It was said with no anger or joy. It was received as another order and nothing more. He turned and left.
Christopher sat there stunned at his own attitude. He had a strange cold feeling inside and wondered how he had managed to stand Maysfield on the carpet. Then he thought about what Maysfield had said. In a strange way, it smacked of the truth.
"Now don't I feel like an asshole!" he said to himself.
* * *
"Sergeant! The recruit was given orders and the recruit followed them, sergeant!" Christopher squirmed at the sound of the words. "The recruit had no idea they weren't lawful, Sergeant…" Roach's voice trailed off. He had known, and was probably the only recruit on the station that really did. Christopher turned to the man on Roach’s left.
"You got an excuse for what you did? Lifting a captive off the ground to use as a shield?"
"Sergeant Christopher! Dha rehcrewt was a batt'ring rahm, Sergeant, not a shield!"
"Oh, that's much better! That would sound so much better at the court martial if you had snapped his neck going through a hatchway." Christopher looked at the third recruit glued to the carpet in front of him.
"If this were a normal situation, the three of you would be out of here and on you way to a federal brig! But given the unusual situation... and unusual... external causes, I'm going to let this fly. However, I expect all three of you to report to the scullery for garbage detail every other day, starting from the minute you leave my hut and right up until the day you graduate—if you graduate! Understood!"
"Aye, aye Sergeant!" they choired.
"Lewis, stay here. You two are dismissed. Get outa my sight!" They hastily exited, leaving a heavily sweating Lewis still pinned to the edge of the carpet.
"Stand at ease, recruit." Lewis complied immediately, his hands leaving the seams of his pants and reaching behind his back as his legs spread. In the barely-fitting antique camys he was wearing, he made it look smart—which was by no means the way it was.
"Officially? I can't condone what you did. It was a dangerous, unlawful thing meritorious of dismissal and possible criminal prosecution. You'll stand your time hauling garbage around with those other two knuckleheads. Unofficially? Between you and me and no one else, damn good job! At least one person around here is moving the gray matter around a little. Diversion. Counter attack. Good juju, recruit. If there was a way to commend you without Command cutting me a second asshole, I'd do it!"
Lewis began blinking rapidly. He was caught completely off guard this time. "Than... thank you, Sergeant," was the best he could cough out.
"Get back to your unit, report to Sergeant Sabott immediately. Dismissed."
SHIP'S LOG
TUESDAY
55 - 07 - 27
ENTRY 34
Celebrated the end of Phase One with a riot. And all it cost was a little time away from the troops and a small bottle of twenty-five-year-old Sled Dog.
