Starfist: FlashFire

To: Sergeant W. D. Ehrhart, USMC Scout/Sniper, First Battalion, First Marines RVN, 1967–1968

and World-Class Poet

PROLOGUE

A small, black object arced out from the crowd, described a graceful parabola, and burst into greasy orange flame in the middle of the street. “Steady, men, steady,” the lieutenant murmured from behind the thin line of infantrymen facing the mob. To his men he appeared calm and in control; in reality his legs were about to give way on him.

“Shee-it!” one of the infantrymen exclaimed, grasping his lexan shield more tightly and glancing nervously over his shoulder at the sergeant of the guard, who shook his head silently, gesturing that the man should watch the crowd and not him. The troops had only just been called out to face the unexpected mob of irate citizens. Already the area between the Fort Seymour main gate and the demonstrators, a very short stretch of about one hundred meters, was littered with debris that had been thrown at the soldiers. Now a firebomb! Things were getting serious. That firebomb belied the innocuous messages on the signs carried by the demonstrators, GIVE US INDEPENDENCE!, NO TAXES TO THE CONFEDERATION!, CHANG-STURDEVANT DICTATOR!, and others.

Lieutenant Jacob Ios of Alfa Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st Brigade, 3rd Provisional Infantry Division, Confederation Army, was pulling his first tour of duty as officer of the guard at the Fort Seymour depot. Neither he nor his men had received civil-disturbance training, and the only equipment they had for that job were the lexan body shields they were using to protect themselves against thrown objects. Fortunately, none of the crowd’s missiles had yet reached them. He wished that Major General Cazombi’s recommendation to keep the contractor guard force—all men recruited on Ravenette— responsible for the installation’s security, had been followed, but he’d been overridden by General Sorca the tactical commander with overall authority for security. Still, Ios couldn’t help wondering what Cazombi had done to get himself stuck at Fort Seymour.

The sergeant of the guard interrupted his musings. “El Tee, should I have the men unsling their arms?” he whispered.

“Not yet.” Ios made a quick estimate of the crowd’s size and his stomach plummeted right into his boots. There had to be at least three hundred people in it; his guard force was outnumbered ten-to-one.

“If they start coming at us, Lieutenant, we won’t be able to stop them,” the sergeant whispered. Surreptitiously, he unfastened the retaining strap on his sidearm holster. As if confirming the sergeant’s fears, several men in the crowd ran forward a few paces and tossed more firebombs. They exploded harmlessly in the street but much closer to the soldiers than the last one.

“
Confederation soldiers! Go home! We do not want you here! Confederation out!”
a woman with a bullhorn began chanting shrilly. Ios couldn’t see the woman. That was ominous, someone leading the mob from behind.

“That’s okay with me!” One of the soldiers grinned and several of his buddies laughed nervously. More and more people in the crowd took up the chant, “
Confederation out!”
until the slogan swelled to a roar. People banged clubs and iron pipes on the pavement as they chanted, beating a steady
Whang! Whang! Whang!
A chunk of paving sailed out from the mob and skittered across the roadway, coming to rest against the knee-high stone wall that flanked the main entrance to Fort Seymour. That wall was the only shelter the soldiers would have if the mob charged them; the iron gates across the entrance, which had never before been closed, were chained shut and two tactical vehicles were drawn up tight behind them in the event the mob tried to break through.

“Climate Six, this is Post One, over,” Ios muttered into the command net, trying very hard to keep his voice even as he spoke. Climate Six was the Fort Seymour staff duty officer’s call sign.

“Post One, this is Climate Six, over.”

“We need immediate reinforcement, over,” Ios said, his voice tensing as more bricks and stones pelted the road. The fires had burned themselves out.

“Ah, Post One, what is your status? I hear shouting but I cannot see your position from here, over.”

Ios suppressed an angry response, “Climate Six, several hundred rioters are approaching my position! We are in danger of being overrun! Request immediate reinforcement!” Stones and bricks hurtled toward Ios. Then another bright orange blossom. “Climate Six, we are being firebombed, repeat, firebombed!”

“Casualties? Over.”

Ios took a breath to steady himself. “None, so far, Climate Six, but we cannot hold unless reinforced immediately! What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Ah, Post One, use proper communications procedure. Use your initiative but hold that gate at all costs. You will be reinforced ASAP. Climate Six out.” The staff duty officer, Lieutenant Colonel Poultney Maracay, who only a few moments ago was happily contemplating his position on the promotion list for Full Colonel, had begun to perspire. “Just where in the hell am I supposed to get reinforcements?” he muttered.

“All the line troops are out on Bataan,” the staff duty NCO replied.

“I know that!” Maracay responded angrily. Both generals Cazombi and Sorca were out at the Peninsula on Pohick Bay, where the division was billeted. The division hadn’t been on Ravenette two weeks yet and already the troops, in the infantryman’s age-old cynical way, had dubbed the Peninsula “Bataan.” It’d take fifteen minutes or more to get a reaction force back to Main Post and by then . . . he left the thought hanging. All he had at Main Post were supply specialists and, since it was Saturday afternoon, most of them would be out in town or otherwise incapacitated.

“Sergeant,” he turned to the staff duty NCO, “I’m going down to the main gate and see for myself what that young stud’s got himself into. Inform General—” he thought for a moment. Major General Cazombi was the garrison commander and the senior officer at Fort Seymour but Brigadier General Sorca commanded the infantry division. “—General Sorca and request that he send immediate reinforcements to Main Post. Keep the net open with Lieutenant Ios and keep HQ informed. Jesus, what a mess!” Shaking his head, he strapped on his sidearm as he went through the door. Where’d these people come from? He knew there were tensions between the Confederation Congress and Ravenette and its allies, but that was esoteric, trade-relations crap, not the kind of thing to drive people into the streets, much less motivate them to attack a Confederation military post.

Lieutenant Ios and his men were not at that moment worrying about trade relations. The young officer was so rattled that he couldn’t remember if there was a specific command for “unsling arms” so he fell back on the oldest and most reliable method for passing on a command at an officer’s disposal: “Sergeant, have the men unsling arms!” he said crisply while unstrapping his own sidearm. As one, the men dropped their shields and unslung their rifles. “Take up firing positions behind the wall!” Ios ordered over the tactical net. “Do not fire unless I give the command! Steady, men, steady! Show them we mean business! Reinforcements are on the way.” He said it with a confidence he didn’t feel because he knew, as well as the SDO and every man in his tiny guard force, that useful reinforcements were all out on Bataan.

Seeing the soldiers take up firing positions, the mob howled and rushed forward to within fifty meters of the gate. Now rocks, paving stones, bottles, all kinds of junk began raining down on the soldiers. Ios could clearly hear people in the mob shouting for blood. Protected somewhat by their helmets and equipment harnesses, the troops crouched behind the low wall. “Hold on!” Ios shouted into the tactical net, but at that moment a brick smashed into his mouth and he fell to the ground, dazed, spitting teeth and blood.

As he lay there in agony Lieutenant Jacob Ios, “Jake” to his friends, heard only dimly the fatal
zipcraaaak
of a pistol shot.

Panting, out of breath, Lieutenant Colonel Maracay, whose fate it was to be there at that time and in that place merely through the impersonal agency of the post sergeant major’s duty roster, gasped in horror at the sight in the street before the main gate.

A driver assigned to one of the blocking vehicles looked up at him, face white, eyes staring. “I-I didn’t fire my weapon,” he managed at last.

From somewhere off to the right, someone yelled, “Hooo-haaaa!” and began laughing hysterically.

“Open the gates,” the colonel said. He stepped out into the street, his now forgotten sidearm dangling uselessly in one hand, and surveyed the carnage. Scores of mangled bodies lay in pools of blood; wounded men and women, even some children, lay moaning in agony. Directly overhead, spanning the gate, incongruously happy and welcoming, a sign announced, FORT SEYMOUR ARMY SUPPLY DEPOT. YOU CALL, WE HAUL.

“Get—get medics!” Maracay screamed into the command net. “Get the fucking medics!” Dimly, he became aware that someone up the street was pointing something at him and instinctively Colonel Maracay raised his pistol, but it was only a man with a vid camera.

CHAPTER ONE

It wasn’t late in the evening, but at high latitude on Thorsfinni’s World the sun was long down by the time the liberty bus clattered to a stop next to a vacant lot near the center of Bronnysund, the town outside the main gate of Marine Corps Base Camp Major Pete Ellis. The driver levered the door open and thirty Marines clattered off, whooping and hollering in unrestrained glee at their weekend’s freedom from the restrictions on behavior imposed by the Confederation Marine Corps during duty hours.

Well, most of the restrictions. They were required to maintain a certain level of decorum—at least, they were not to commit crimes, or get themselves injured badly enough to miss duty, or go anyplace from which they wouldn’t be able to return for morning roll call on the third morning hence. And it was only
most
of them who whooped and hollered; there was a loose knot of eight who were somewhat more restrained. The eight in question were the junior leaders of third platoon, Company L, 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team.

“So where are we going?” Corporal Bohb Taylor, second gun team and most junior of the corporals, asked when the other twenty-two Marines had scattered.

Corporal Tim Kerr, first fire team leader, second squad, and the most senior of the eight, simply snorted and turned to lead the way.

Corporal Bill Barber, first gun team leader and not much junior to Kerr, slapped the back of Taylor’s head hard enough to knock his soft cover awry, said, “Taylor, sometimes you’re so dumb I don’t know how you ever got your second stripe.” He turned to follow Kerr.

“Yeah, Taylor. What do you know about the Top that the rest of us don’t?” asked Corporal Rachman “Rock” Claypoole, third fire team leader, second squad, and not much senior to Taylor. He followed Barber.

“What do you mean, what do I know about the Top?” Taylor squawked.

“Blackmail!” Corporal Joe Dean, first squad’s third fire team leader and also not much senior to Taylor, hooted. “There’s no other way you could make corporal!” He laughed raucously.

“Which begs the question of how
you
made corporal,” Corporal Raoul Pasquin, first squad’s second fire team leader said with a loud laugh.

“Hey!” Dean yelped indignantly.

Corporal Dornhofer, first fire team leader, first squad, not much junior to Kerr, chuckled and shook his head. He and the other corporals fell in with Claypoole.

Taylor had to run a few paces to catch up.

A few blocks and a couple of turns later, Kerr shoved open the door of Big Barb’s, the combination bar, restaurant, ships’ chandlery, hotel, and bordello that was the unofficial headquarters of third platoon, Company L, 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team during liberty hours.

“
Te-e-em!”

Twin shrieks barely preceded two young women, one blond and fair, the other brunette and swarthy, both beautiful by any standard, who flew across the large common room and flung themselves on the big corporal with enough force to stagger him back a couple of steps.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, Kerr!” Corporal Pasquin shouted into the back of Kerr’s head. He raised his hands and pushed Kerr off his chest.

Corporal Dean helped keep Kerr upright and moving forward. The press of advancing bodies behind them forced Kerr and the others farther into the room.

Kerr barely noticed the hands and bodies holding him up and forcing him forward, he was too distracted by the four arms clinging to his neck, the four breasts pressed into his chest, the two mouths raining kisses on his face. He wrapped an arm around each waist and lifted, to ease the weight on his neck and shoulders.

“Way to go, Kerr!” Corporal Dean said, slapping Kerr on the back as he squeezed past and began looking for a table that would hold them all—and their girls.

“Some people,” Corporal Chan laughed, following Dean.

“Raoul!” shouted another girl, Erika, who sidled through the crowd to take Pasquin’s hand.

Another voice boomed out, “Vat’s all dis commoti’n oud ’ere?” and Big Barb herself waddled out of the office to the rear of the large room and began plowing through the crowd like an icebreaker through pack ice. Freyda Banak wasn’t called “Big Barb” for nothing—she not only weighed more than 150 kilos, she carried her weight lightly when she wanted to move fast. She planted herself in front of Kerr and loudly demanded, “Who you tink you are, Timmy, hogging two a my best girls all t’ yersef?”

Their cheeks still pressed against his, Frieda and Gotta stopped kissing Kerr to look back at their employer. Kerr loosened his hold around their waists and they dropped down a couple of centimeters, but not all the way to the floor.

“B-but . . .” he began.

“Vot you mean, ‘B-but . . .’? Dere’s no ‘b-buts’ ’ere, Timmy. You led go a dem girls!”

“Big Barb,” Frieda said calmly, “you gave him to us.”

“And we intend to keep him,” Gotta finished just as calmly.

Big Barb glared from one to the other, then planted her hands on her hips and roared out a long, raucous laugh. “You right, girls,” she said, tears streaming down her face when her laughter eased enough for her to speak.

“Wha’s a madda you, Timmy, lettin’ dem two girls dangle like dat? Hol’ ’em up like a gennleman! Where you been? All we seen o’ Marines fer the pas’ few mont’s is dem base pogues. Dirty-fort FIS’ yust up ’n take off somewhere wid’out sayin’ noddin’ t’ us and we don’ know when we see you again, or if we
ever
see you again.” She quickly looked around and before Kerr could answer, asked, “Vhere’s Chollie Bass? I vant my Chollie!”

“He’s probably with Katie,” Gotta giggled.

“I don’ care no Katie!” Big Barb boomed. “Chollie don’ need no skinny voman like Katie, he needs a