Read Online First to Fight by Dan Cragg, David Sherman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dan Cragg, David Sherman
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hands happily.
The following hours passed in a whirlwind of hurry-up-and-wait, punctuated by moments of frenzied activity and confusion. Before they were through, all the recruits streamed perspiration from every pore. First, all personal possessions, clothing, watches, rings, even toothpaste, were confiscated and locked away, to be returned when the recruits joined the Fleet; everything they would need over the next six months would be issued to them.
CHAPTER
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FOUR
Second platoon’s chief drill instructor was a barrel-chested staff sergeant of about forty named Neeley. The first assistant D.I. was an older man, very slim and immaculate in his Class A uniform, named Staff Sergeant Pretty. No one dared laugh when he said his name, though. His embroidered red chevrons consisted of three bars with points up and a rocker underneath with a flaming-sun device in the center. These chevrons were much smaller and utilitarian than those worn on the dress uniform Dean had seen on Riley-Kwami at the recruiting office. Corporal Singh was the junior drill instructor. The three instructors quickly put them through their paces. At the double—which was quite a trick in null-g.
“Line ’em up, line ’em up, line ’em up,” Staff Sergeant Neeley cried out for what felt like the five hundredth time since Captain Tomasio turned the recruits over to the D.I.’s. “In alpha order.” This time—in reality the sixth—it took only a fraction of the time it had the first; by now they knew whose names came before and after theirs.
“Name,” demanded the lance corporal seated at yet another battleship-gray desk.
“Anderhalt, Shaqlim X,” said the first recruit in line.
The lance corporal typed the name into his computer, then glanced over the personnel display that popped up on his screen. “Date of birth?”
“April eighth, 2427.”
The date of birth matched. “Mother’s birth name.”
“Lahani Schwartz.”
That also matched. One last check for verification—or maybe it was just for the annoyance factor. “Blood type.”
“AB negative, N, Duffy,” also matched.
“Put your left wrist in there.” The lance corporal pointed at a buff-colored ring on top of a box on the comer of his desk nearest where his subject gripped a handhold.
Anderhalt put his wrist in the ring. The lance corporal pressed a large red button on the side of his keyboard. The ring contracted until it was in full contact with his skin. There was a muted click, then the ring expanded back to its original size.
“Next.”
Anderhalt, not having been told to move, stayed where he was. The lance corporal looked at him for the first time. “You can go now. And take your wrist with you, I don’t want it.”
Anderhalt flushed and hastily did what he was told.
“Name,” the lance corporal said to the next recruit in line.
Everyone strained to see what the shrinking ring had done to Anderhalt, but Pretty and Singh were hustling him down the passageway, and they each had to wait their turn to find out what was happening.
After his turn, Dean was still examining the featureless bracelet the ring had clamped onto his wrist when the chief D.I. called the platoon to attention.
“You have just been issued your personnel record,” Neeley said when all of his recruits were looking at him. “Right now it’s just about blank, because you’re blank. All it contains is your personal data, your medical history, and the results of the tests you took when you enlisted. Every company office and every personnel department from battalion or squadron on up in the Marine Corps has a reader for it. Every company, battery, and squadron first sergeant in the Corps controls a writer that will update your record as things happen that need to go into your record. Every time your company updates your record, the update will also relay to the next-higher command, which will relay it to the next-higher command, and so forth, until your record is completely updated
The following hours passed in a whirlwind of hurry-up-and-wait, punctuated by moments of frenzied activity and confusion. Before they were through, all the recruits streamed perspiration from every pore. First, all personal possessions, clothing, watches, rings, even toothpaste, were confiscated and locked away, to be returned when the recruits joined the Fleet; everything they would need over the next six months would be issued to them.
CHAPTER
----
FOUR
Second platoon’s chief drill instructor was a barrel-chested staff sergeant of about forty named Neeley. The first assistant D.I. was an older man, very slim and immaculate in his Class A uniform, named Staff Sergeant Pretty. No one dared laugh when he said his name, though. His embroidered red chevrons consisted of three bars with points up and a rocker underneath with a flaming-sun device in the center. These chevrons were much smaller and utilitarian than those worn on the dress uniform Dean had seen on Riley-Kwami at the recruiting office. Corporal Singh was the junior drill instructor. The three instructors quickly put them through their paces. At the double—which was quite a trick in null-g.
“Line ’em up, line ’em up, line ’em up,” Staff Sergeant Neeley cried out for what felt like the five hundredth time since Captain Tomasio turned the recruits over to the D.I.’s. “In alpha order.” This time—in reality the sixth—it took only a fraction of the time it had the first; by now they knew whose names came before and after theirs.
“Name,” demanded the lance corporal seated at yet another battleship-gray desk.
“Anderhalt, Shaqlim X,” said the first recruit in line.
The lance corporal typed the name into his computer, then glanced over the personnel display that popped up on his screen. “Date of birth?”
“April eighth, 2427.”
The date of birth matched. “Mother’s birth name.”
“Lahani Schwartz.”
That also matched. One last check for verification—or maybe it was just for the annoyance factor. “Blood type.”
“AB negative, N, Duffy,” also matched.
“Put your left wrist in there.” The lance corporal pointed at a buff-colored ring on top of a box on the comer of his desk nearest where his subject gripped a handhold.
Anderhalt put his wrist in the ring. The lance corporal pressed a large red button on the side of his keyboard. The ring contracted until it was in full contact with his skin. There was a muted click, then the ring expanded back to its original size.
“Next.”
Anderhalt, not having been told to move, stayed where he was. The lance corporal looked at him for the first time. “You can go now. And take your wrist with you, I don’t want it.”
Anderhalt flushed and hastily did what he was told.
“Name,” the lance corporal said to the next recruit in line.
Everyone strained to see what the shrinking ring had done to Anderhalt, but Pretty and Singh were hustling him down the passageway, and they each had to wait their turn to find out what was happening.
After his turn, Dean was still examining the featureless bracelet the ring had clamped onto his wrist when the chief D.I. called the platoon to attention.
“You have just been issued your personnel record,” Neeley said when all of his recruits were looking at him. “Right now it’s just about blank, because you’re blank. All it contains is your personal data, your medical history, and the results of the tests you took when you enlisted. Every company office and every personnel department from battalion or squadron on up in the Marine Corps has a reader for it. Every company, battery, and squadron first sergeant in the Corps controls a writer that will update your record as things happen that need to go into your record. Every time your company updates your record, the update will also relay to the next-higher command, which will relay it to the next-higher command, and so forth, until your record is completely updated
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