Aftermath

[GSgt Mike Hefner 0]

Snoop Leader 2397.10.29

GSgt Mike Hefner, SFMC

139th Marine Battalion

USS Agincourt NCC 81762

 

Aftermath

 

"Nothing. Will ever. Replace. Your ears. And your eyes." Nine years into recon and Instructor MSgt "Hammer" Kravitz' deep baritone still burned in Hefner's ears. "Hefner! Get your head outta the sand! Check your ten o'clock!"

 

Damn! "Alpha three, sniper bearing three zero zero at five hun...." The rest gagged as the sting of sniper kill tore into him inches below and to the right of his left shoulder blade causing more pain than damage. But the real pain came from MSgt Kravitz after the fact in a fifteen mile double-time in full combat gear and 80 pound pack, after which Mike had to report sniper count. Get it wrong and you did it again. And again. And again.

 

Lucky for him, Mike was a quick learner. Once was enough.

 

"Nothing. Will replace. Your ears. And your eyes."

 

When Marine Commandant James Quinlan Tanner created low-tech Force Recon SpecOp Omega in 2383, Mike couldn't wait to sign up. Tanner's argument that technology had become more of a burden than an asset rang true with everyone in Hefner's home town of Lone Tree. Tanner's media statement in defense of his beliefs would be remembered years later with the Soltan incursion. "Technology trails point the way home. Subspace transmissions, encrypted or not, become a beacon for the enemy, a neon sign that flashes You Are Here."

 

Retro became a benchmark for recon. Hand signals all but replaced unit coms, heightened senses processed by gray matter replaced computers, and eyes replaced visual sensors. Up close and personal, it worked exceptionally well and brought home the nitty-gritty of recon.

 

Unfortunately, heightened senses also brought home the nitty-gritty of combat.

 

Mike and Rocky locked down their helmets, flicking their rebreathers to full and leveling their weapons as the door to gamma bridge slid open. Shouts of clear echoed as security and Marine teams moved towards them from opposite ends of the corridor. Keeping Caine between them, Slick and Rocky worked their way through the carnage and debris until all clear sounded throughout the ship. Caine moved on. Mike and Rocky shed their weapons in favor of medical gear secured in their combat vests. Atmospheric reading acceptable, they tossed all but the inner hazmat layer of their helmets to the deck.

 

The immediate sensory assault was nearly overwhelming. Hefner choked back the sickly-sweet smell of Soltan, like burned marshmallow mixed with hot tar. Incendiary chemical burn followed closely by burning insulation and charred flesh forced him to up his rebreather before kneeling to patch up the security officer at his feet. Even with atmospheric scrubbers working at 100% the corridors of Agincourt would hold the smell for days. It seeped into the walls, the carpet, and the upholstery - a constant reminder. As if they could ever forget.

 

A few hours later, Hef found himself giving Private Veras the lowdown on the NNC - what part was accessible. From the Private's uncertainty, Mike figured he had come aboard after the fact. Pushing the question of who Veras was replacing from his mind, Mike welcomed the young man, showed him around, cautioned him on Soltan contact, and excused himself to a small room in the corner for team debriefing. White lie.

 

Rocky and Gus sat facing each other around a small table when Mike entered. Door closed. Here they were free to be what they were besides tough Marines.

 

Marine casualty Honors were a privilege. Lists of the fallen were passed from command to unit leaders who passed them on to team leaders according to team rotation, separated by species to accommodate varying burial rituals. Mike was human and it was his team's rotation.

 

Snoop Team would represent the brotherhood of the Marine Corps. They'd take their brother or sister home. Hand the Marine's remains and personal effects to parents or sisters or brothers. To children who had lost both parents. In person. Face to face. Kids who'd never see their dads or moms again. Kids who were often too young to understand they never would. It had happened far too often lately and it never got any easier.

 

One by one Mike read the names of the fallen, pausing to give the team time to come to terms with their passing, to grieve in whatever manner they chose so they could move on.

"Corporal Alejandro Sanchez. Matamoros, Mexico," Mike read. Incendiary bomb; wasn't much left. They called him Andy and assorted other names on occasion. They ribbed him constantly about his accent, though he really didn't have one. Andy took it all in stride knowing they did it to everyone. After a long pause Mike placed an engraved titanium cylinder emblazoned with the Marine Corps logo on the table. It contained Andy's remains, the only way they could safely transport them to earth. Next came Andy's hand-written letter, required of all Marines before a mission. Low tech. No trace. No way for the Soltan to know how many had died or where or how. No way for the enemy to detect their grief and use it against them. Gently, reverently, he lifted the cylinder and placed the letter beneath.

 

"Staff Sergeant Gary McNaughton. Alpha 5." Energy weapon to the chest, allowing his team to escape. Medal of Honor would be little consolation to the grandmother who raised him. Mike stared at the floor, wondering if her heart would stand the loss. He cradled his remains, then placed Gary's letter beneath them.

 

"First Lieutenant Iravan Chandrasekaran. New Channdai, India." Incendiary bomb. Rocky treated him. Survived long enough to suffer. Damn. Mike kept his eyes diverted, giving Rocky privacy. He remembered Van's gentle manner, the tilt of his head when he spoke, his Bollywood smile. His mother's curry, so blazin' hot it would stop a raging bull in its tracks, make it turn and whimper. His father's pride that his son was in the Corps. His beautiful wife and daughter. Mike rested the titanium cylinder gently on Van's letter.

 

The ritual continued for an hour, give or take. Time didn't matter. Then, in silent accord, they stood with practiced precision and came to attention, the remains of the fallen in the center of their circle.

 

"Semper Fi!" Long pause. "Hoo-Rah!"

 

It echoed through the NNC even with the door closed. Outside all life paused. The team appeared, bearing their comrades with slow, measured step to the Wall of Honor in the NNC. Their remains and personal items would be secured in the wall until next Earth fall or, should the ship be destroyed, they be committed to the depths of space. After a long moment of silence before the Wall, the three made a sharp about face, paused, then returned to duty.

 

Some hours later they had stripped to fatigues and donned full hazmat to continue cleanup. Business as usual on Agincourt.