Enemies

TWENTY

The Marine staff sergeant stood in front of the ragged formation, surveying the men and women lined up. Supposed to be the cream of the crop, they were, but you sure couldn’t tell it from the way they looked now. Long hair, ragged jeans, and smart-ass smirks on most of the faces. Talking, playing grab ass, checking out the chicks, all the normal things that a group of forty teenagers might do when they were strangers.

Mostly teenagers, he amended. Not all of them. Ten of them were coming from the Fleet or the Corps, maybe had some idea of what to expect. They’d have been through boot camp at least. Knew how to march. Must have done something right or they wouldn’t have earned one of the few slots at the Naval Academy reserved for fleet sailors and marines.

He’d check their records out first, try them out in some leadership positions and see how they shaped up. Not every enlisted man was cut out to be an officer — but then, not every college grad or senate nominee was, either. At least the priors knew what an officer did.

And there he was, the one he’d been looking for. Hanging back on the last rank, quietly at attention, watching everything without seeming to look at it directly. The staff sergeant let his eyes linger on the young sailor, wondering how much of what he’d heard was true. No matter — he’d find out soon enough for himself. But there was one thing this particular plebe was going to learn right off, and that was that Staff Sergeant Carter was his god for the next two weeks.

Smith felt the staff sergeant looking at him, but kept his eyes caged, staring straight ahead as though they were encased in iron bars. It was a lesson from boot camp that had come back immediately in the first moments that the Marine had barked at them.

He still couldn’t believe he was here. Not after… not after Greece. Just to have survived without being court-martialed, not losing a stripe, no punishment at all unless you counted the flack he’d had to take from some of the guys on the boat. Especially after they found out about Annapolis.

Admiral Magruder’s words came back to him. It was just before they shipped him off, maybe two weeks after everything had been resolved.

“You ask questions. That’s good. You’re not afraid to make a tough call. Also good. I’m going to make sure you know how to ask the right ones from now on — and how to live with the answers,” the admiral had said.

Annapolis.

“You got something on your mind, slimeball?” a voice shouted in his right ear. Smith barely repressed a flinch.

“No, Staff Sergeant Carter.”

“Then wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. Now, asshole.”

Smith’s inadequate attempt earned him five laps around the field. He loved every single one of them.