FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
More than a week had passed since Tychus had been released from Military Correctional Facility-R-156 and ordered back to duty. It had been a tough three months, but that was behind him now as a dropship named Fat Girl skimmed over what had been the city of Whitford, and Tychus took the opportunity to eyeball the ruins through an open side door. The slipstream blasted his face and forced him to retreat. But not before he caught a glimpse of devastated buildings, cratered streets, and burned-out vehicles all laid out on a tidy grid.
Whitford had been overrun by what the press liked to refer to as “the breakout.” Although Tychus thought it was more like a break-in, since the Kel-Morians had been able to fight their way through Hobber’s Gap and lay waste to an area between Burr’s Crossing to the south and an outpost called Firebase Zulu up north.
But what they hadn’t been able to do was overrun Fort Howe. That was the home of the 3rd Battalion, 4th Marines, also known as “the Thundering Third.” The battalion had not only pushed the KMs out of Whitford and back toward the mountains, it was currently following the enemy home.
In the meantime Tychus was about to join the 3rd Battalion’s holding company at Fort Howe, where, with any luck at all, he would be able to return to work on Operation Early Retirement. A much-neglected aspect of the war effort that Tychus hoped to refocus his attention on.
The transport began to slow a few minutes later, circled the base below, and lowered itself onto the main landing pad of a starport. The dropship carried eleven other passengers, replacements mostly, who would soon become members of the Thundering Third. They were already pulling their belongings together as the skids touched down and a green light appeared.
When the ramp was extended, Tychus followed a couple officers and some noncoms onto the pad. Once there, he was struck by the fact that, except for one other ship, the area in front of the starport structure was empty! A sure sign that most of the battalion was elsewhere.
All of his original gear had been lost during the transfer from Prosser’s Well to MCF-R-156. So all Tychus had to carry was his duffel bag containing some extra underwear and a Dopp kit. Tychus entered the starport to get directions to the admin building and went back outside to wait for an open-sided jitney.
The five-minute ride served to confirm his initial impression: Fort Howe had been stripped of troops in order to battle the Kel-Morians off to the east. A barracks building had lifted off the ground and was in the process of being repositioned, and the occasional squad could be seen double-timing from one location to the next. But the facility had an empty feel.
He entered the admin building and discovered that half the people who had been on the dropship with him were already there—and lined up in front of a single sergeant who was doggedly working to help them. So a good forty-five minutes passed before it was Tychus’s turn to belly up to the counter and surrender the chip containing his personnel file and his orders.
The clerk assigned Tychus to holding company Echo, scheduled him for a medical exam, and a follow-up appointment with Fort Howe’s “morale” officer. Meaning a shrink who among other things was charged with keeping track of marines fresh out of a military correctional facility.
Having completed those arrangements and assigned Tychus to the barracks where Echo Company was quartered, the sergeant looked up at Tychus with strangely soulless eyes. Was it because the guy was a stylus-pushing rear-echelon functionary? Or was it something else? Whatever it was came across as kind of spooky. “That should take care of it, Private… . Check the monitor in your quarters for chow times.”
“How ’bout some gear?” Tychus demanded. “I lost everything I had at my last duty station. All I have is a change of underwear.”
That problem lay outside the realm of the expected, so the sergeant frowned disapprovingly and tapped a series of keys. Then, having found the necessary entry on the screen in front of him, the frown disappeared. “Here we are,” the clerk said apologetically. “You are authorized to receive a full issue. I missed that, for which I sincerely apologize.”
Tychus’s eyebrows rose. An apology? From a clerk? And a sergeant at that? That was downright weird. “Take this over to Supply Depot 7,” the clerk said, as he passed a chip across the counter. “Give it to the person on duty. They will take care of you.”
After exiting the admin building and catching another jitney ride, Tychus got off across from a low, one-story, metal-clad supply depot with a big white supplydepot7 painted on the front. Heat shimmered as it rose from the concrete, a dropship roared as it passed overhead, and a file of sweat-soaked marines jogged past. They were singing, “One, two, three, four—I love the Marine Corps.”
Tychus knew it was a lie as he made his way toward the supply depot. The homely structure was protected by a defensive blast wall. Not far away, to either side of the structure, two missile turrets sat poised to defend the base against enemy aircraft.
In order to reach the front door, Tychus had to walk a zigzag course between prefab obstacles. It was five degrees cooler inside the building, and Tychus was reminded of Gunnery Sergeant Sims and the supply depot full of Kel-Morian supplies back on Raydin III. Had Sims and Calvin been able to sell off some of the war booty before the logistics team arrived? No, he thought, not without a customer!
That thought made Tychus feel better as he crossed a spacious waiting area to the counter that separated him from long rows of storage racks beyond. Two-person teams could be seen in the back, pulling items off of shelves and scanning them.
A lance corporal was positioned under a sign that read newissue, and nodded as Tychus approached. “Morning … what can I do for you?”
“All my gear was lost in transit from one duty station to another,” Tychus explained. “They told me to report here to receive a new issue. Here’s my A-chip.”
The lance corporal looked young and had probably been in the marines for a year or so, given his rank. He passed the chip by a scanner, eyed the results, and nodded agreeably. “Yup, you’re authorized for a new issue, all right … but we’re in the middle of an inventory at the moment. Come back at 1400 hours and we’ll fix you up.”
Tychus frowned, put both fists on the counter, and leaned forward. “I have a better idea… . Why don’t you, or one of your supply weenies, draw my gear right now? Because I don’t feel like coming back at 1400 hours—or any other time for that matter! Do you scan me?”
“Oh, I scan you all right,” Lance Corporal Jim Raynor replied calmly. “Only trouble is that you have me confused with someone who gives a crap. Private.”
Tychus was momentarily stunned as the other man mirrored his posture, eyes narrowed, looking straight at him. When confronted with his overwhelming size, most people took two involuntary steps backward. But this marine hadn’t flinched, and showed no signs of backing off. Having put himself on a limb, Tychus had no choice but to reach both hands across the counter and grab a generous handful of the other man’s shirt. He gave it a twist for emphasis. Tychus scowled as the marine’s eyes drifted toward his tattooed knuckles. “That’s right, boy. P-A-I-N, something you’re about to become very familiar with,” Tychus growled. “Now, maybe I wasn’t clear… . Get my stuff, and bring it here, or I will rip your fekkin’ head off and piss in the hole!”