19
Rev hopped off the chopper and helped carry Sergeant Mason until the Aid Station corpsmen took over. He watched silently as they hustled him away. The CASEVAC corpsman said there was a chance that they could bring him back, but with the brain damage, it didn’t look good.
“Fight hard, buddy.”
He turned to go back to the platoon bivouac. He’d beaten back the rest of the patrol, and he was grateful for that. He needed to get his head on straight before everyone started grilling him.
Everything had been a mad rush, from carrying Mason to the roof, loading him into the bird, and to the short flight back. And in the process, Rev had filed a false report, a big-time offense. If he was caught, they could ninety-nine him, sending him back to Nguyen with a thirty-year obligation.
“Have you erased the feed?”
<Yes, but as I told you, any half-competent forensic AI will be able to unravel it.>
“Then we can’t give them a reason to look.”
In the three or four minutes he’d been waiting on the roof for the CASEVAC, Rev had filed a report on what happened. Or not quite what had happened.
Mason had wanted to become a HOG, and it was through no fault of his own that snipers weren’t effective against Centaurs. But with him dead and with little chance of being resurrected, that wasn’t going to be in the cards.
Unless he was already a HOG.
Without thinking it through, Rev had reported that Mason had gotten the kill, firing a split second before the opposing sniper fired the shot that killed him. The delay in Rev reporting back that the area was secure was because he had to confirm that Mason had, in fact, taken out the threat.
If that had actually been the case, then Sergeant Mason died a HOG, just as he’d wanted.
It wasn’t until they were landing that he realized what he’d done. He’d given Punch orders to alter his feed, erasing anything that contradicted his version. But, as his battle buddy had reminded him, that would only work with a person-to-person share, and even then, he’d have to explain the gaps. If anyone higher up wanted to try and recover what had happened, it would all be exposed.
Not only that. The Navy orbital surveillance could easily prove that Rev’s story was false, that there was a couple-of-minutes gap between the two shots. All Rev could hope for was that his report would be taken at face value, and no one would bother to look too deeply.
He was shaking as he walked to the bivouac. He couldn’t imagine being kicked off the teams, to serve out a long term of service as a Ninety-nine.
<Do you want to hear a joke?>
“No! Read the room, Punch!”
<I am aware of your bios, and the numbers indicate that you need to get your mind on something that isn’t causing you stress.>
“Screw the numbers!” he shouted, drawing some stares from other Marines. Then subvocalizing again, he said, “I don’t care about my bios. I don’t want a joke now.”
He shifted his fear to anger, directing it at Punch and the psychs who programmed him. And for a moment, he wondered if that was exactly what Punch intended. It didn’t matter, however, if he was being manipulated or not. He was pissed either way.
He stormed into the hardened-foam field bivvy and stopped. Far from being empty, it was full while the four teams were busy with their gear.
“Look who the cat dragged in,” Hussein said. “Glad you could make it.”
“Make it?”
“Hey, word is that you got a sniper,” Tomiko said. Two dozen eyes turned to spear him.
Do they know I shot her?”
“I . . . not me. Sergeant Mason did.”
“Well, no shit. But you were his spotter, right?” Greenie Sjberic, from First Team, asked.
He didn’t answer her but asked Tomiko, “What are you doing back already? You should still be out in bad-guy country.”
“Got recalled early.”
“Why?”
“Why? Look around, big guy.” She glanced to the others and said, “He may be big and strong, but he sure can’t put two and two together.”
She tapped a forefinger to the side of her head while everyone laughed and went back to their prep.
Rev was confused. Too much had happened since Mason was shot.
Tomiko walked up, patted his arm, and said, “Let mama explain, Rev. This is it. The Angel shits are getting ready for a big-time offensive. We’re getting ready to kick their asses so we can finally leave this piece-of-shit planet.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course,” he said. “I knew that.”
“You keep telling yourself that, and eventually, you might even believe it. But really, you need to get ready yourself. We’re getting our Ops Order in fifty minutes.”
There was a palpable air of excitement in their bivouac. His fellow Marines were looking forward to taking the fight to the traitors and bringing this to an end.
Rev was starting to get excited too, but not for the same reason. If this was the big battle, then what were the chances that anyone would take the time to dive deep into one mere corporal’s report on a single incident?