5.

Convoy A22 split soon thereafter or at least the eight transports that had survived the shockwave did. It was decided providing a smaller nuclear target was more advantageous than group protection versus submarine torpedo attacks. So a single destroyer patrolled for the four transports of the Slumlord Battalion, minus the HQ Jump Jet and artillery detachments. They had presumably gone down with their ship. None of the V-Boats ever showed up again, and only one other time did they see a chopper. It was far in the distance, undoubtedly looking for a place to land after its carrier had gone down. They also saw a second nuclear blast, a flash that was too far away to send another shockwave rolling over them.

Dispirited and scared, the men gloomily wondered if the dark ocean would become their grave. Luckily, the storm abated the next day and they rode their air cushion as fast as the turbines could whine. Marten led the men in hard calisthenics, exhausting them physically so they didn’t have enough mentally to conjure up unneeded terrors. The hovers whisked over the Pacific Ocean all alone. From horizon to horizon stretched the mighty salt sea.

“It almost seems peaceful,” said Turbo several mornings later. Rumors said they were a day out of Tokyo.

“It gives me the creeps,” Stick muttered. “Everywhere you look is endless sea, water and clouds.” Stick shook his head. “It doesn’t stop, just goes on and on and on. It makes a guy feel insignificant.”

“Aren’t we?”

“No,” said Marten.

“No?” asked Turbo.

“Breath the air, taste the salt tang. Look at the view and enjoy it, because today you’re alive.”

“And tomorrow I die,” said Turbo.

“Maybe,” Marten said, “but today you can affect the world, or if not the world then somebody in it. So that means you’re not insignificant.”

Turbo shrugged.

“You’d better not feel that way when you’re covering my backside in Tokyo,” Marten told him.

“Good point,” said Stick. “In the old days I told the Blue Jackets the same sort of thing before we strolled the streets for a rumble.” He flexed his muscles. The short, stocky youth looked more dangerous than ever in his brown uniform and steel-toed combat boots.

“We’re gonna die in Tokyo,” Turbo said gloomily.

“We didn’t die in Reform,” Stick growled.

“Because we were lucky,” said Turbo.

“No, because Marten had balls to act,” said Stick. “I’ll tell you what I think.”

“Must you?”

“Life is like a knife-fight. You gotta crouch, glare your man down and grit your teeth. Then you gotta attack before you get a knife stuck in your ribs.”

“How can you slip a vibroblade into life?” asked Turbo.

“That’s not what I mean,” Stick said. “It’s the attitude.”

“Wonderful,” Turbo said. “Attitude.”

Stick shoved him. “Better keep on my good side, junkie, or it’s you who’ll get the knife in the ribs.”

Turbo squinted down at the shorter, much more thickly built Stick. “I’m combat trained, you ape. You can’t push me around anymore.”

Stick pushed him again.

“I’m warning you!”

“Knock it off,” said Marten. “Here comes the captain.”

Captain Sigmir strolled onto the front deck. He’d been jumping between transports, inspecting what was left of Tenth Company. Other than a lone sailor swabbing the middle deck, the captain and they were the only ones topside. Captain Sigmir wore the same black uniform he had the first day. Behind him followed two carbine-toting thugs, his personal bodyguards. Officially, they were his batman and orderly, both corporals and dirty-fighting experts.

“Gentlemen,” said the captain.

Marten and Stick saluted. Turbo lowered the brim of his hat.

Captain Sigmir expelled his breath as if someone had slugged him in the gut. His two bodyguards, odd-looking men, grinned at one another as they took up port arms behind the towering captain.

“After shock?” asked the captain softly.

“Sir?” said Turbo, the one addressed.

“Your disrespectful salute, soldier. I want to know what caused it.”

“Oh,” said Turbo. “It must have been my preoccupation with the joy of being alive, sir.”

Captain Sigmir narrowed his strange eyes. Since the end of training camp, he’d been acting even more weird than usual.

“Salute, you idiot,” said Stick, prodding Turbo in the ribs.

“Sir!” barked Turbo, snapping off a crisp salute.

“Is your sergeant being insubordinate, Lieutenant?”

“Sir,” said Marten, “I don’t believe so, sir.”

Captain Sigmir clucked his tongue a few times, as he eyed Turbo. “Sergeant,” he finally said, “take off that silly looking cap.”

Turbo wiped it off his head.

“You seem pale, Sergeant. Sickly.”

“I feel fine, sir.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In top physical shape?”

“Sir?”

“I asked you a question, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir. In top physical shape.”

“Excellent. I want you to roll up your sleeves and square off against Petor.”

The thickest bodyguard, a roly-poly Muscovite with a single hairy eyebrow over his bluest of blue eyes, handed his carbine to the other guard.

Marten tried to explain. “Captain—”

“Please keep quiet, Lieutenant, and watch your sergeant’s fighting technique. I’m sure you’ll see areas that need improvement. Begin.”

Turbo was still rolling up his sleeves as Petor snapped a kick at his left knee. Turbo cried out, flopping onto the deck. Petor attempted another kick. Turbo rolled and clutched the foot, but Petor jumped back, yanking his foot free. Turbo scrambled up. It didn’t really matter, though. Despite his comical appearance, Petor truly was an expert at dirty fighting, and twenty seconds later Turbo slumped to the deck, nearly unconscious.

Stick and Marten had grown tense and angry, easing onto the balls of their feet. The second bodyguard, however, had lowered his carbine in an apparently nonchalant manner. Now he aimed it at them. Captain Sigmir appeared not to notice the interplay. He kept licking his lips, chuckling as Turbo grunted or cried out. As the lanky sergeant hit the deck, the captain held up his hand. Petor stepped back, a slight sheen of sweat on his ever so round face.

Squatting beside the fallen Turbo, Captain Sigmir grabbed him by the hair and jerked up his head so they could peer eye-to-eye. “Joy is a wonderful feeling, Sergeant. But where we’re going, it’s a dangerous emotion. Work on hate, or if that’s too difficult for you then fear. Fear of pain or death would be the two most appropriate emotions.”

“Yes, sir,” whispered Turbo, who was missing one of his front teeth. It lay on the deck in a small, bloody glob.

“I like your attitude now, Sergeant. So run along to the infirmary and see to your mouth.” Captain Sigmir let go of Turbo’s hair, rose to his imposing height and faced Marten. “I abhor slack discipline, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” Marten growled. His stomach had the feeling it once had when Hall Leader Quirn had his hands on Molly, and he had that same helpless feeling as when he’d seen his father slain. He hated that feeling. Today, however, he wasn’t that young teenager.

“Oh, it’s not as bad as that, Lieutenant. A few scrapes and bruises and hopefully a lesson finally driven home.”

Marten nodded sharply.

“Ah, I see a word of advice is in order. Life is precarious, Lieutenant, so you must grab it by the short hairs and force it to accommodate you. Soon we will be in combat. You must therefore learn to enjoy what pleasures you can squeeze out of life, yes?”

“If the Captain says so, sir.”

“But you just heard me say so.”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Sigmir removed his cap and rubbed the forehead scar. He squinted as he muttered to himself. Then he brightened, set his cap back on and moved a step closer to Marten. “Can it be that you also need more combat training?”

Marten glanced at Petor, who grinned evilly at him.

Captain Sigmir put a single finger on Marten’s chin, turning Marten’s face so they stared eye-to-eye. “I’m addressing you, preman.”

“Sir,” said Marten, hating that finger on his chin so much that he could hardly think.

Captain Sigmir searched Marten’s eyes.

Marten finally reached up and took hold of the captain’s huge wrist, moving it so the finger no longer touched his chin.

Captain Sigmir’s pursed his lips. “Lieutenant—”

“Have a care, sir,” Marten told him softly.

Captain Sigmir’s eyes widened. “Do you have any idea what this means?”

“Do you, sir?”

The astonishment left the captain’s face. A weird gleam now appeared in his eyes. “Very well, Lieutenant. Petor!”

“Won’t be doing anymore fighting today,” Marten said, his hand dropping to his holstered pistol.

“Oh no, Lieutenant, no, no. Perhaps you think I can’t disarm you on the instant. So please notice my other bodyguard.”

“I am. My Top Sergeant stands behind him.”

Captain Sigmir raised his eyebrows, held Marten’s gaze a moment longer and glanced back. Omi stood behind the bodyguard. The ex-gunman leaned against the railing. As if resting his hand, Omi had it on the butt of his holstered pistol.

Captain Sigmir smiled in a strange way and said, “Very good.” Then he turned and without another word marched off, his two bodyguards trailing.

“I don’t like this,” said Stick, as he helped Turbo.

“No,” said Marten, his gut churning. What did that strange smile mean? And why had the captain given up so easily? Marten feared for their future.