The Return of the Marines Trilogy Read online

  As usual, Staff Sergeant Child was immaculate. Gunny Mac nodded at him and said “Precede me.”

  Stepping in front of Sergeant Tony Niimoto, Gunny felt a small misgiving. Sergeant Niimoto was to bear the Corps Colors today. Gunny Mac felt a little outclassed intellectually by Korea Joe (a nickname he had picked up in bootcamp by a drill instructor who obviously did not know the origins of his family name.) It wasn’t that he showed off his intelligence. In fact, he seemed like any other Marine, if rather talkative and prone to break out in a loud, donkey-like laugh at the slightest provocation. But he was a graduate of Stanford, and that daunted the gunny a bit. He was also the best marksman in the detachment, if not the company. While at Camp David, he had been on the depleted Marine team which won the National Rifle Championship trophy at Camp Perry against all the other service and civilian teams. Now, on his chest, he had the gold-colored distinguished shooter medal.

  Gunny Mac nodded at Sergeant Niimoto and moved on the next Marine, Corporal Samantha Ashley. Corporal Ashley was taller than Gunny Mac, slender and hard. In uniform, she seemed to have a runner’s body, but in the weight room, she revealed corded muscles that could push a surprising amount of iron. Quietly competent, she did what was asked of her in a determined and thorough fashion. She rarely joined the rest for a beer or cards, but spent most of her time reading or working out. She went out in town to worship at a local Christian church, and she had been taking Hindi lessons. Gunny Mac could never get a feel for her. Not overly attractive, she had pale blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. The rest of the detachment often speculated about her—her background, her goals, even her sexual orientation—but since she pulled more than her own weight, they let matters lie.

  Next in line was the other rifle bearer, Corporal Seth Crocker. Corporal Crocker loved two things in life—the Red Sox and Sam Adams beer. He somehow convinced someone at the embassy to have his Sam Adams piggybacked in with the embassy’s booze shipment, and he kept that as his private stash. Technically against regulations, the previous detachment commander had chosen to ignore it, and when the battalion commander joined Crocker for a brew on one of his visits, Gunny decided to let that dog lie. Corporal Crocker also had Lance Corporal Steptoe take his PDA and hack past the subscription firewalls for the Sox games. A good Marine, he still needed to be watched. He should have received office hours for listening to a game while on post, but he had gotten off with a warning. Gunny Mac still kept track of when the Sox were playing and checked up on Crocker if he was on post at the same time.

  On a sudden impulse, Gunny Mac turned quickly, without warning, to see if he could catch Staff Sergeant Child unawares. Child smoothly executed his own right face as if physically connected to Mac. The gunny almost smiled, struggling to keep on his game face. He wasn’t going to catch Child that easily.

  Stepping in front of the first member of the cordon, Gunny wiped the hint of the smile from his face. Lance Corporal Saad had his usual nervous look on his face. This was his perpetual countenance. LCpl Mahmoud Saad was actually part of the other watch, but he was in the cordon to make the numbers right. A logistics specialist, he was a natural linguist. Speaking English, Spanish, Farsi, Arabic, Chinese, Hindi, and who knows what else, he was the duty dictionary. Now he was studying Bantu. He was also the detachment pool shark. Many modern era Marines were athletic and fit enough to max out the PFT, but Saad could crank out 120 situps in two minutes and do 50 dead-hang pull-ups. He had trouble maxing out the run, though. Saad would offer smirking encouragement to Gunny when he was struggling to get his 20 pull-ups, so Gunny took a perverse satisfaction on running him into the ground during detachment runs. He knew it wasn’t professional, but driving Saad in the humid New Delhi heat until the guy literally puked gave Gunny a small degree of satisfaction. But he could find no fault with Lance Corporal Saad’s uniform, so he moved on.

  No one would take Lance Corporal Harrington Steptoe for the twisted genius that he was. Tall and big, he had a look of softness about him and a dull expression which might make some think he was the village idiot. The Marine Corps got it right when they gave him the 2802 MOS. Steptoe was a genius with anything electronics. In another era, he would have been a master hacker. Now, he merely invented ways to make his life and that of his peers easier.

  An African American, he had a small splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose. This caused him no end of grief from other African American Marines who pulled his chain constantly about how that proved he wasn’t really black. When he finally gave up defending himself and began his own jabs back, the teasing on that aspect faded away. However, one aspect did not fade away. Lance Corporal Steptoe had a serious case of hero worship. He looked in awe towards Staff Sergeant Child. His feelings were so obvious that the other Marines started calling him “Stepchild.” He took it as a badge of honor.

  Then there were the two newbies, Privates First Class Ramon and Van Slyke. Both on their first duty station. Both going to see the president for the first time.

  Gunny Mac stepped in front of PFC Ivy Ramon, known as “Princess” by the detachment. Princess was short, about 5’2” with a cute, very young-looking face. But there was nothing child-like about her figure. Her Alphas seemed to strain to contain her rather large breasts. Gunny Mac did not know where to look when inspecting her. He looked down at her while she stared straight ahead into his chest. As he looked down, his eyes were drawn to the swell of her chest. He looked away quickly, but then felt his eyes being drawn back.

  Truth be told, Gunny was rather attracted to PFC Ramon. From the second she marched into the duty office to report in, he felt something stirring inside him. He really hadn’t had a serious girlfriend in years, and seeing this pert, smiling woman with an amazingly curvaceous frame brought to the surface longings he thought he had suppressed. But Gunny Mac was a professional, first and foremost. She was a PFC in his command, and he would not step over the boundaries set by years of tradition in the Corps. So no matter what he wished, he tried to treat her like any other Marine.

  But Princess was not like any other Marine. How she made it through boot camp was a topic of much discussion. Princess always seemed to just get by. On her first PFT, she barely passed. She barely passed her marksmanship training. She barely passed her drill. She had been counseled about laughing when on post. She picked up her nickname because of her obsession with her appearance and living quarters. She lightheartedly complained about any training that messed up her nails or hair, then would rush back at the first opportunity to give herself a manicure. She shared a room with LCpl Wynn, but there was little doubt as to whose rack was whose. Princess had a stuffed pink dog, a frilly pillow, and a pink comforter on her rack and a poster of some young movie star-of-the-moment (Gunny didn’t even begin to recognize whom it might be) posted above her desk. She was like a high school girl suddenly transported into wearing the Marine uniform.

  Gunny Mac looked down at Ramon. He was surprised to see that her marksmanship badge was off kilter. The surprise was that Staff Sergeant Child had not corrected it. He started to reach for it, but then stopped. He wasn’t sure how he should fix it lying as it was on the platform of her left breast. He decided to ignore it for now and make sure it was fixed before the president’s arrival.

  Private First Class Peter Van Slyke stood awaiting inspection. A Maine Military Academy graduate, he was a legacy Marine. Five generations of Van Slykes had preceded him. His great-grandfather had been awarded the Medal of Honor in Vietnam, and his father was killed in Iraq. Van Slyke wanted to be an officer, but family tradition required that he serve as an enlisted Marine first. Of average height and with flaming red hair, Van Slyke had an earnestness about him which made the other Marines back off of riding him about his desire of being an officer. He had been pretty impressive so far in his short time on station.

  Gunny Mac stepped away from PFC Van Slyke and moved slowly to the front of the formation, giving Staff Sergeant Child enough time to get in position. He stepped u
p to Child.

  “They look good. As always. I need to talk to them, though. Have them form up in a school circle.”

  “Aye-aye, sir! Detail. Fall out and form up round the Gunny.”

  The Marines each took a step backward, executed an about-face, then moved forward to gather round. Gunny Mac looked at each one before beginning.

  “OK Marines, you look good. For most of you, this is not big deal. But for you newbies, this is your first time with POTUS. Remember what they taught you at Quantico, though. He is not here to see you. You don’t exist. You don’t look at him. You are a statue. Once it is over, you can e-mail home and say you were two feet from the President of the United States. But until then, just do exactly as we’ve rehearsed over the last week. Nothing more, nothing less.” He paused a second. “And there is a change. We are not going to have the full Color Guard. Only the US Colors will be presented.” He looked at Sergeant Niimoto.

  “That’s bullshit, Gunny!” cried out Corporal Crocker. “We always have a full guard. Always!”

  The grumbling started up in echo of Crocker’s outburst.

  “First he fucks the Corps, then he fucks us. Spits on us.” That was Saad. He understood just where the decision had been made.

  “I say fuck this piece of shit. He can march in with his Secret Service. He doesn’t need us.”

  Gunny knew he should have stopped it right away. But he wanted to vent, too, and he let them vent for him. After a few moments of this, he considered it to be time to stop the complaints.

  “OK, zip it. I don’t want to hear about it. The Battalion CO is over in Amman now, and he gave us the word, and that came right from the president himself. He doesn’t want the Corps Colors. Period. We go with the National Colors and the two honor guards.” Gunny glared at the Marines around him.

  Sergeant Niimoto looked up. “What am I supposed to do, Gunny?”

  “Well, you aren’t going to be in the guard. Just make yourself scarce. I’m going to watch from the Cultural Affairs office. Why don’t you join me there? Or go to Post 2 and hang out there.” Gunny Mac looked around. “Any more questions?”

  The Marines stirred, but no one spoke.

  “Staff Sergeant Child. Take charge. I want everyone in place by 1400.” With that, Gunny Mac wheeled around and walked back into the Marine House. He could hear Child speaking behind him as he entered the building. Captain Leon-Guerro stood in the passage waiting for him.

  “How’d they take it?”

  “Like shit, sir. How’d you think they’d take it?”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m taking it the same way.”

  Gunny Mac didn’t reply but walked past him and into his room.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday Morning, Marine House, New Delhi

  When Gunnery Sergeant Jacob McCardle enlisted into the Marines, he entered a Corps which was a full member of the US military. Three active duty divisions, three air wings, and three FSSGs formed the offensive power that had served the nation so well over the years. Another reserve division, wing, and FSSG augmented the active forces, and had been in combat in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Sudan since the turn of the century. The Commandant was a full member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. One Marine, General Pace, had even served as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

  Jacob had been a cross-country star in high school in Billings, Montana, earning All-State honors. Looking ahead past graduation, he didn’t see much of a future for guys who could merely run fast. When his cousin, a soldier in the 101st Airborne Division was killed in Afghanistan, Jacob decided that he needed to step up. So he marched down to the Army recruiting office.

  The Army recruiter had stepped out of the office to use the latrine. With Jacob standing waiting, looking at posters of “An Army of One,” he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked to see a Marine Staff Sergeant standing there. Staff Sergeant Woleski smiled and escorted Jacob into the Marine recruiters’ office. Thirty minutes later, Jacob was signed up as a Marine.

  At the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, recruit McCardle fared well. Being a natural runner gave him a certain degree of “cred.” He performed well enough to be assigned as recruit squad leader, a position he held until marksmanship training at Camp Pendleton’s Edson Range. Recruit McCardle just couldn’t shoot well, and when he had to endure marksmanship extra instruction, he lost his billet.

  What was strange about his shooting abilities, or lack thereof, was that he excelled in other weapons. During the mortar orientation, he found he could hit any target at will. One spotting round, and he could call for fire for effect.

  Recruit McCardle qualified with the rifle with his platoon—barely. During the Gauntlet, his recruit squad leader was injured, and Recruit McCardle was promoted back up. Standing on top of Mount Motherfucker, looking down at the mountain he had just humped, he felt a lump in his throat. Exhausted as he was, he had just become a Marine. He had joined a brotherhood.

  With the War on Terror, most new Marines moved into a combat MOS. Recruit Jacob hoped to become an artilleryman, or if going infantry, a mortarman. But he had also shown an ability to write. So the powers that be decided Recruit Jacobs would become a Public Affairs Marine.

  All newly graduated recruits attended a four-week course at the School of Infantry. One precept of the Marines was that every Marine was a rifleman. That is the prime purpose of any Marine, be they aircraft mechanics, cooks, or computer jocks. All of that is secondary—being a rifleman is primary. So Private McCardle became a rifleman. He also became known just as “Mac.”

  Private “Mac” actually preferred to be called “Jake.” He thought the name had power, an élan. “Mac” was so common. It seemed like every Marine with a “Mac” or “Mc” before their name became known as “Mac.” He told several fellow Marines to call him “Jake,” but names either stick or they don’t. “Mac” stuck. “Jake” did not.

  Four weeks later, Private Mac was off to Fort McNair, Maryland for the Public Affairs Specialist School. This was an intense 20-week school, and Private Mac was the junior person in the class. Normally, most services, including the Marines, sent to the school students who had already served a tour of duty in another specialty first. Private Mac and Airman Cynthia Conners were the only two students right out of basic training. Other students ranged up to E-7. Understandably, both Mac and Conners got pretty much every shit detail.

  But Mac liked the school. He learned structure to his writing. He learned how to look at things in the way others might view them. And the proximity of the school to Washington, DC made liberty enjoyable. A Marine sergeant, John Willis was also a student. Newly back from Iraq, Sergeant Willis had a car. On their first liberty, Sergeant Willis ordered Private Mac to get in the car. Private Mac had never been east of Montana before, so he had no idea where they were going. When the car finally stopped near a small, heavily windowed apartment building surrounded by trees, Private Mac still didn’t know where they were. Until he stepped out of the car and turned around. There, down a slight rise and across an open expanse of manicured lawn, stood a statue of five Marines and a Navy Corpsman raising the US flag: the Iwo Jima Memorial. Mac felt a lump in his throat. This was the Marine Corps. This was his history now. Sergeant Willis didn’t say anything. He let the moment speak for itself.

  An hour later, at Boomerangs in Georgetown, Private Mac bought a beer for Sergeant Willis. He figured it was a small price to pay for that gift. Boot camp, Mount Motherfucker, graduation—all hinted at what it was to become a Marine. The Iwo Jima Memorial cemented what it was. And Private Mac knew then he wanted to be a Marine for life.

  After graduation from Public Affairs Specialist School, now Private First Class McCardle was given order to the Second Marine Expeditionary Force (Forward) at Camp Fallujah in Iraq. Assigned to the MEF newspaper, The Globe, PFC McCardle began penning articles. Some of his articles made it as far at Leatherneck and The Stars and Stripes. He began to make a small name for himself. As the junior Marine in the office, he ha
d also been sent to driver’s school during work-ups and received his government license. His extra duty was to drive Colonel Parks, the MEF PAO, or sometimes visiting dignitaries. Colonel Parks was an infantry officer who was now assigned to Public Affairs. A platoon sergeant in the First Gulf War, and a company commander in Iraq for the invasion, he was now back—but not as a regimental commander. PFC Mac knew the colonel would rather be holding the point of the spear, but he did his best shepherding VIPs around. Although technically in charge of the newspaper as well as the television station, Colonel Parks spent most of his time babysitting visiting politicians and public figures. He knew he didn’t know the first thing about running a television station, but he also knew that he could shoulder the burden of every VIP Division threw at PA and let the PA experts do their jobs with the paper and television programs. PFC Mac rather admired the colonel for that.

  It was after his tour in Iraq that the world according to the Marine Corps changed. The Muslim World rocked the planet, and the US military lost radical Islamic terrorists as a foe. Then the Military Reform Act of 2018 regulated what became known among the Corps as the “Dismemberment.”

  Much to his surprise, Corporal Mac was selected to remain a Marine. He didn’t think he stood much of a chance, so he was already planning his transition to the 1st Civ Div. When his notice came in, his joy was tempered by an almost sense of guilt. No one else in the PA office was selected. In fact, upon his arrival at Quantico for school, he found out he was the only Marine with a Public Affairs MOS to remain.