27
“Rev, the lieutenant wants to see you,” Ting-a-ling said, sticking his head inside the classroom.
Rev looked up to Staff Sergeant Montez who said, “Go ahead. Catch up with me later today.” He stood and was leaving when she added, “And I mean today. I need to get everyone’s Survivor Benefit nominations in by COB.”
With the high mortality rates, the Corps wanted six-month updates on who was going to get their survivor payment. The Corps could and did suck at times, but it treated its obligation for survivor benefits with an almost religious fanaticism.
Rev’s wasn’t going to change. His family would get everything, but he couldn’t just tell the staff sergeant that. Sitting through the brief was part of the process.
As Rev followed Ting-a-ling out of the building, he wondered if the Frisians had the same sort of banal paperwork. He knew they had a liaison admin team in with the personnel office, but here with the company in admin and maintenance week, the Frisians seemed to have lots of free time on their hands.
“Which lieutenant? Smith or Omestori?”
“Omestori,” Ting-a-ling said.
“Ting-a-ling” was not the Frisian’s real name. Neither Rev nor any of the Marines could pronounce it, but Ting-a-ling was close enough, and he didn’t seem to mind.
Half of the twelve Host soldiers had impossible names. On their side, they had problems with Tanuwijaya and Černý, and the concept that Kel had two last names in Dean-Ballester blew their minds.
Despite that, and despite the fact that their rank system, which they swore weren’t ranks but rather operational slots, the integration of the flight had gone surprisingly well. The commandos were skilled, to be sure, and some of their augmentations were pretty rad, but the main reason was that they were good guys. Rev liked almost all of them.
Yancey and Orpheus were not as happy with their Frisians, and there were none in armor, mech, or arty units—too much equipment incompatibility—but with the Raiders and Recon, the two Host flights were fitting in.
Ting-a-ling turned into the company duty office as they entered the building, and Rev continued down the passage to the platoon commanders’ office. The lieutenant was at his desk at the back of the room.
“Kaitlan, Hua, can you give me a moment?” he asked the two other platoon commanders in the office when he saw Rev.
“Sit down a second, Pelletier,” he said when they were alone.
The lieutenant, for such a green boot, was turning into a pretty good commander. He was still technically the team leader as well, but he’d been straddling the line between learning from Gunny Thapa but not letting the SNCOs play him. Rev didn’t have much experience, but he thought the man was doing a pretty good job at it. And from what he’d been hearing, both Staff Sergeant Montez and the gunny thought so, too.
At the moment, however, he seemed unsure of himself. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, then sat back up straight. He started to say something, then cut himself off.
Finally, he said, “I’m just going to come out with it. It’s about your PN.”
That perked Rev right up. He was wondering how long it would take to jump through all the necessary hoops. But he couldn’t ask. That would make him seem like he cared about the award, that he was a medal chaser. Rev wasn’t a medal chaser, he thought, but he did care about the medal. But acting like he didn’t care was part of the game, part of the culture.
Everyone professed not to give a shit about awards, but they always checked out the rack when meeting new Marines, seeing what they’d earned.
The lieutenant scratched his ear, grimaced, then said in a rush, “It’s been disapproved.”
Rev heard the words, but they didn’t register. “Sir?”
“It’s been disapproved. The Platinum Nova. You’re not getting it.”
Rev slumped in his chair. He’d gotten used to the idea, and he’d been figuring out how he could use it as a stepping stone once he left the Corps. There was only one living PN awardee in Swansea, and he’d be the second. But now he wasn’t getting it?
Screw it. It’s not the end of the world.
He’d still killed a Centaur, and anything that mentioned that would be proof enough. And maybe it wasn’t quite good enough for the PN anyway.
“Got downgraded, sir?” he asked after a long pause.
“No, Pelletier. Not downgraded. Denied. You’re not getting anything.”
“Nothing? What the hell?” he blurted out before he could engage his brain.
“I know—”
“People get fucking Bronze Achievement Medals for making sure the general’s coffee is hot,” he said, standing as he cut off the lieutenant. “And I killed a tin-ass! Isn’t that worth something?”
The lieutenant stood as well. “I know it’s bullshit, Pelletier. And I’m pissed, too!”
The lieutenant’s surge of rage caught Rev by surprise, and that acted as an immediate damper on his own anger. The man was seething now, his neck turning red.
Rev sat down and asked, “What happened, sir?”
“It was fine, all the way to General Begay. I saw his recommendation. Twenty-five-thousand words in it. All saying you deserved the medal.”
Lieutenant General Locklear Begay was the commanding general of the Safe Harbor Marine Force. There was no one higher on the planet.
“So, if he recommended it, what happened?”
A moment ago, Rev was seething in anger, but in a second, that had changed. For some weird reason, he was more concerned at how the lieutenant was taking it. The man was obviously beside himself.
“Big Corps happened. Or Big Navy. Or the Secretariat happened. Someone on New Mars stopped it.”
“But why? I’m confused.”
“Because we lost, Pelletier. We lost big time. They want to sweep this under the rug, to act like this never happened.”
“But it did happen.”
“Of course, it did. But they don’t want the leeches to know. And if someone gets a PN, that’s big news. You’ll be a local hero, interviewed by the press. And the top brass thinks what happened will get out.”
“I could, you know, just keep my mouth shut.”
“Which the general said when he found out. And they told him they were sorry, but this was for the good of the war effort.”
The lieutenant said that more in sorrow than in anger. He sat down and looked at Rev, waiting for his reaction.
Rev said nothing. He didn’t have any words.
“The general also told Colonel Destafney to find some reason to award you a Gold Achievement.”
Rev understood why. A regimental commander could award one of those, and it would never reach Big Corps. It was considered an administrative-level award.
“Well, I guess I could bring him his coffee for a week,” Rev said, disgusted but resigned.
“Yeah, yeah. Look, I know this is bullshit. And I don’t know what else I can do. My grandfather’s on the Safe Harbor Council. I can ask him to bump it up. At least get you a Bronze or Gold Nova.”
Shit? Our team leader is connected? Wait until the others hear this.
Then he looked at the lieutenant. The man was serious. What he was suggesting was a serious breach of military protocol, one that could get him busted down to a Ninety-nine private. Yet, looking into the lieutenant’s eyes, he knew the man would do it. All Rev had to do was ask.
And for a second, he was tempted. He’d imagined going home with the PN around his neck often enough by now, and to have that jerked out from under him hurt.
But it wouldn’t be right. The lieutenant hadn’t done anything wrong. And now he was offering to put his career on the line for a chunk of platinum hanging from a black ribbon.
“Shit, Lieutenant. I didn’t kill that Centaur for a damned medal. I did it because it was my job.”
Was there a tiny bit of relief in the lieutenant’s eyes?
“Are you sure?”
“Sure as shit, sir.”