“He’s in the Marines,” Craig said, very slowly and carefully. “He’s in the Marines, Ashley. Do try to keep up.”
“He was in church on Sunday,” Brooke said tightly. “Our families went to supper at Aubry’s. We went out to see a movie, after, and ended up talking instead.” She stood up and grabbed at her tray, half spilling it on the table. “He’s in the Marines and he’s probably not coming back and that’s ALL I WANT TO SAY ABOUT IT!” she ended on a scream, turning and stalking away.
“What just happened?” Ashley asked plaintively. “And what are you wearing to formal, Clara?”
Craig caught up to Brooke as she was trying to open her locker with shaking hands.
“I’m sorry, Brooke,” he said, softly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re a total nerd, you know that,” she said bitterly. “You have no clue how to be a human being.”
“I said I’m sorry,” Craig said. “I really, really am. I didn’t know he meant that much to you, okay? Look, I ran across a link a while back. I’m going to send it to you. I… I don’t know if it will help or not, but it’s all I can think of to say how sorry I am. It was from back during the War on Terror and it’s about… Well, I’ll send it to you, okay? And he’s going to be fine. He’ll be back before you know it.”
“You think you’re so smart, Craig,” Brooke said, finally getting her locker open. “You think you know everything. Well, he’s not in one of the cleaner things. He does something off-world. I think he’s looking for the Dreen or maybe even fighting them in secret. And they lost almost all the Marines last time. So you don’t know what you’re talking about, okay? And just don’t talk to me about it.”
“Okay,” Craig said, sighing. “But I’m going to send you this link, okay? And I think you should look at it. It’s about… It’s called Homeward Bound. Just don’t delete the e-mail, okay?”
“Just go away, Craig.”
When Brooke got home and sat down at her computer, the promised e-mail was there. Craig hadn’t even written anything, there was just a link.
Not sure if it would help or hurt, she clicked on it and watched the flash animation as a choir sang in the background. In moments tears were streaming down her face as she pieced out the lyrics. She began to sob at the refrain:
Bind me not to the pasture, chain me not to the plow.
Set me free to find my calling and I’ll return to you somehow.
By the end of the images she felt wrung out but somehow more peaceful. Eric’s future was in the hands of the Father and nothing that she could say or do would change that. All she could do was pray for his return. And know that if she bound herself to him, that she would have to accept his calling. To be a Marine, to travel to distant places and fight for all she held dear. And maybe, someday, to not come home.
“God,” she whispered. “If you can hold your hand over the whole world, then you must hold it over the galaxy. I don’t know where Eric is right now, but you do. Keep him safe, Lord, please. And let him come home. In Jesus’ Name I pray, amen.”
She realized that she was in love with a Marine who had a pretty good chance of dying and that really seemed like too much burden for a seventeen-year-old. If this was being an adult, she’d prefer not to grow up. But there didn’t seem to be much choice.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Eric snarled, turning up the volume in his bunk. He’d dispensed with earbuds. It had become a contest to see who could drown out Portana’s caterwauling.
It didn’t help that he was suffering from the aftereffects of “pre” mission physical. Dr. Chet, the Sasquatchoid multiple specialty M.D. who was the ship’s doctor, was not happy at having to do the physicals en route. Back in Newport News he had an elaborate laboratory capable of twisting every nuance out of the Marines and sailors on the mission. Onboard not only were the quarters far more cramped — an important factor for a man over seven feet tall — but he had a fraction of the equipment he needed. So he appeared to be taking it out on his subjects. Although there was a less vile concoction than the dreaded “pink stuff,” he was using the latter for his MRI brain analysis. His stated rationale was that he had over a hundred and fifty crewmen and over forty Marines to test in less than thirty days. But everybody was pretty sure it was just petty viciousness. With over a hundred sailors and forty something Marines trying not to puke all over the ship, it didn’t seem like it could be anything else.
And the Marines were exhausted. Top had had them drilling day in and day out, on sleep time, off sleep time, for the last two weeks. They’d run repel boarders drill, trained on damage control, trained to rapid deploy with and without Wyverns. They’d used “chill” times, when the ship had to shut down to cool off, to train in their suits outside the hull. The whole platoon had just finished a brutal simulated boarding action that had them running all over the ship, up and down ladders, jumping the hundreds of thresholds on every hatch of the damned boat, and all of it in full battle rattle on top of their suits to simulate death pressure. All the Marines wanted was to get some sleep. And that damned Filipino salsa simply wouldn’t stop!
What really annoyed everyone, besides the fact that the armorer just couldn’t seem to understand the concept of “politeness,” was that the music blasted whether Portana was in his bunk or not. He’d just keep the same ten songs playing, over and over and over again, whether he was in the compartment or down in the armory.
“Two-Gun!” Priester shouted. “For God’s Sake, turn it down! It’s bad enough listening to Portana’s shit, but mixed with metal?”
“I can’t drown him out with buds in!” Berg shouted back. “It’s this or listen to his shit!”
“Fine!” Uribe shouted from across the compartment. “We’ll just all crank it up!”
“Sounds good to me!” Seeley shouted, turning up the rock booming from his bunk. “I’m tired of listening to your damned hip-hop!”
“What the grapp is that?” Captain Blankemeier asked as he opened the hatch to Sherwood Forest. The truncated missile compartment was filled with the most God-awful sound he’d ever heard. It sounded like every style of music ever invented was being blasted at full volume. From…
He hit the intercom to the conn.
“Officer of the Day! Get me the Marine CO! Right. Now!”
“GOD DAMNIT! WHAT THE GRAPPING HELL IS… !”
First Sergeant Powell realized that he was screaming to Marines who couldn’t hear him. Most of them, in fact, seemed to be asleep. It was Third Platoon’s rest period and, as far as he could tell, the Marines were “resting” with the volume turned up to maximum on all their speakers.
As he strode down the compartment the far hatch opened up to reveal the ship’s CO looking about equally furious.
When he got to Berg’s compartment he banged on the memory plastic door.
“TWO-GUN, OPEN THE GRAPPING DOOR!”
The darkened plastic first depolarized then snapped open on the chagrined junior NCO.
“TWO-GUN WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING HERE?”
“SORRY, TOP!” Berg shouted, turning off his own speakers. But that didn’t silence the compartment by any means. “GOD DAMN PORTANA NEVER TURNS HIS DOWN! IT WAS THE ONLY WAY WE COULD GET ANY SLEEP!”