“Your suit’s computer says you did. You then advised the platoon leader to call down the unit’s drop ship and head back to the carrier, against orders.”
“See those?” I point at the rank sleeves on my uniform, a chevron in a U-shaped border on each shoulder. “That means ‘staff sergeant.’ The platoon leaders had a star on each one. That means ‘second lieutenant.’ Those don’t take orders from staff sergeants.”
The Intel captain looks at me impassively for a moment, like a biologist watching a strange specimen twitch at the end of a needle. Then he puts his data pad onto the desk in front of him, and leans back in his chair.
“You’re a combat controller. You’re the fleet liaison on the ground. Any platoon leader with half a brain will follow your advice. The only reason you’re alive is because you acted against orders, and because your ship’s CAG threatened to shoot nukes at a task force ship. That’s good enough for a court-martial for everyone above the rank of corporal on those four drop ships, as far as I’m concerned.”
I look at the captain in disbelief for a moment. Then some gasket in my brain gives way.
“Are you seriously taking us to task for getting off that rock alive? You have got to be joking.”
“That’s absolutely not the case, Sergeant. I don’t have an issue with the fact that you survived. I just have an issue with the fact that you acted against orders.”
“Fuck you,” I say, and fold my arms across my chest. “I’m done talking to you. Get me JAG counsel in here or get out of my face.”
“You don’t need legal counsel. You’re not charged with anything yet.”
“Then either charge me and have the MP haul me off to the brig, or stop wasting my fucking time.”
The captain picks up his data pad again and taps the screen studiously. I have to suppress the urge to reach across the desk and rip the damn thing from his hands. Right now, they’re looking for a way to pin the tail on the donkey, to find someone to take the heat, to make it look like the brass aren’t the collection of ticket-punching career desk pilots they’ve always been. We’re losing the war for the survival of our species, and the people in charge are still willing to throw the grunts out of the airlock to save their own careers.
“You’re a fleet asset, Staff Sergeant Grayson. We don’t have enough combat controllers to let you spend a month or two in Leavenworth while the corps decides whether to throw the book at you. Rest assured, however, that the incident will go on your record, and that we’ll revisit the issue once things have settled a bit.”
I shake my head and chuckle.
“We just got our asses kicked by the Lankies, seven light years from this place. The way things are going for the home team, I’m not too worried about a fucking court-martial right now, Captain.”
The fleet has an informal term for sailors who survive the destruction of their ship: HLOs, hull-loss orphans. “Halos” usually get shifted from one Transient Personnel Unit to another as the fleet tries to find a new home for them. Those of us who survived the disaster of Sirius Ad aren’t treated like halos, even though we are. Instead, they treat us with a combination of movement restrictions and benign neglect that makes us feel only marginally more welcome than SRA prisoners of war. We’re not allowed onto MilNet, and we’re berthed in a restricted area of Independence Station, with a screen of military police guards keeping us away from the other troopers and sailors passing through the place. The week after our arrival sees an ever-increasing stream of personnel and gear, until Independence looks like a slightly cleaner and newer version of the perennially overcrowded Gateway Station. I’ve been in the fleet long enough to know that our comms blackout means that the brass don’t want the news of our ass-kicking to get out among the rank and file just yet. The meaning of the swelling troop buildup in one of the NAC’s three major orbital hubs is pretty clear—we’re gearing up for a major operation, and Command is throwing everything but the kitchen sink at the Lankies this time.
Finally, after a week and a half of more debriefings, extended naps, medical checkups, and long stretches of mind-numbing boredom, the fleet has figured out what to do with me.
“Staff Sergeant Grayson,” the lieutenant says as he walks into the storage room that serves as our temporary mess hall. I put down my ham-and-cheese sandwich and get up to render a salute.
“As you were, Sergeant,” he says, and sits down across the table from me. He is wearing the standard black fleet beret, and his specialty badge marks him as a Logistics & Personnel pencil pusher, not an Intel officer like all the other brass I’ve seen this week.
“Yes, sir,” I say, and push aside my sandwich. “What’s the word?”
“Vacation’s over. The fleet needs you to jump back in, if you’re ready.”
“Of course, sir.”