Terms of Enlistment

Chapter 4

At precisely 0430 hours, the ceiling LEDs turn on abruptly, and Sergeant Gau strides into the platoon bay.

“Out of bed, now,” he shouts without preamble. “Do your business, wash up, and get dressed in your greens-and-blues. That’s the kind of clothing with the spots on it. If you need help, check your PDP for ‘UNIFORM, COMBAT, INDIVIDUAL.’ Morning inspection is at 0455, so get a move on.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re all dressed and lined up in front of our lockers. If Sergeant Gau is pleased at all with the fact that we’re ready five minutes ahead of time, he doesn’t show it. There’s a window set into the wall of the senior drill instructor’s office, and I can see that he’s fully aware of the platoon all lined up and waiting for inspection, but he doesn’t come out of the office again until the clock at the head of the room says 04:55.

We march off to breakfast. It’s only our third meal in the military, but the tables that were thrown together by coincidence on the first day are already coalescing into firm little groups. Our table of six has reconvened at every meal so far. There’s me, and my bunk mate Halley. There’s Ricci, the thin kid with the acne-scarred face and the silly chin beard, and Hamilton, an athletic-looking girl with long, blond hair. Then there’s Cunningham, who is covered in tattoos, and who was wearing a buzz cut long before she decided to join up. Lastly, there’s Garcia, a dark-eyed guy who never speaks unless you ask him a direct question. Halley is from Vancouver, Ricci from the Dallas-Fort Worth metroplex, and Hamilton is from Utah. Cunningham signed up in some forsaken farm town in Tennessee, and Garcia merely shakes his head when you ask him about his hometown.

“What branch would you pick if you could?” Ricci asks us over scrambled eggs and toast.

“Shit,” Halley laughs. “I’ll be glad if I make it through Basic. They can post me into any branch they want.”

“Come on,” Ricci prods. “Everybody has a preference.”

Halley shovels another forkful of eggs into her mouth and shrugs before answering.

“I don’t know, honestly. They’ll decide what we’re good for at the end of Basic. I wouldn’t mind something to drive or fly, though. Marine drop ship pilot, maybe, or armor crewman.”

“What about you?” I ask Ricci.

“I want Navy,” he says. “Coasting around in a starship. Not having to run around and get shot at. I’ll do anything, seriously. Mop decks, clean toilets, whatever.”

“You’ll end up in the Marines,” Halley tells him. “Or worse, they’ll put you into the Army.”

Our knowledge of the military branches is mostly limited to a number of self-contradictory shows on the networks, and the promotional vids they played for us at the recruiting office when they were convinced that they couldn’t talk us out of joining up.

The Navy owns the heavy gear, the starships that jump between the Colonies and provide the heavy firepower in territorial disputes, and the Marines are the boots on the ground in the Colonies. The Navy is considered a choice assignment, with the candidates for fleet service going to Fleet School on Luna right after boot camp. With close to five hundred colonized worlds to garrison and defend, the Marines have the most slots available, so that’s where most of us are likely to end up.

The Territorial Army is for anyone who doesn’t make the cut for the other two branches. Those are the grunts who keep civil order in the NAC on Earth itself, who slog it out with any of a hundred other nation-states. Army grunts don’t get to travel in spaceships and defend colonies; they are the garbage haulers of the Armed Forces. The TA has to deal with the armies of all the belligerents on Earth, including the ones too poor or backward for colonial expansion. The TA is also the government’s main tool to deal with violent strife in the NAC itself. It’s dangerous to jump onto a new planet or defend a new colony settlement against an invasion of Sino-Russian marines, but it’s a whole different level of danger to have your drop ship land you in the middle of a Public Residence Cluster in civil unrest, with five million people around you in various states of agitation and discontent.

“If they try to stick me in the Army, I’ll just walk away from the whole thing,” Ricci says.

“Are you serious?” Cunningham asks. “After making it through Basic?”

“Hell, yeah,” he replies. “I didn’t join to get my head blown off. It’s Navy or nothing. Push comes to shove, I’ve had three months of real food, right?”

“What about you?” Halley asks me as we take our trays over to the collection racks at the end of breakfast time. “What do you want to be when you get out of Basic?”

I duplicate the shrug she gave Ricci earlier.

“Whatever,” I say. “Anything’s better than being back home.”

I pause for a second as she steps in front of me to slide her breakfast tray into the collection rack.

“I do want to get into space,” I add when it’s my turn to discard my tray. “Get off this shitty rock, maybe breathe some unfiltered air on a colony somewhere.”

Sergeant Gau gives us the evil eye from twenty feet away—conversation is to cease when we’re away from the table—and we hurry to join the rest of our platoon assembling outside.

After breakfast, we proceed to weapons issue.

The arms locker is in the basement of the company building. There are no windows, and a rather substantial steel door separates the room from the rest of the basement. Sergeant Gau has us line up in the basement hallway outside the arms room, and then takes a rifle from the attendant sergeant-at-arms. We all look at the weapon in his arms, a sinister piece of alloy and polymer that looks both sleek and bulky at the same time.

“This is the M-66T weapons system, and it will be your best friend for the remainder of your training here. This weapon is the training version of the one you will be issued in your service branch. It is identical to your future issue rifle in weight, balance, and operation, with only one difference.”

The sergeant-at-arms hands him a square polymer box, and he flips it around and inserts it into a well at the bottom rear of the weapon.

“The difference is that this weapon does not fire live ammunition of any kind. It uses self-contained, disposable magazine packs like the service weapon, but the magazines of the training version only contain a bunch of circuits, weights, and a battery. The fired rounds are simulated and scored electronically.”

Sergeant Gau removes the magazine from the weapon, cycles the action, and cradles the gun in his arms as he slowly walks down the line of recruits.

“The M-66 is a multipurpose personal weapon designed to defeat a wide range of battlefield threats. Its main component is an automatic impulse-operated flechette rifle, feeding caseless three-millimeter flechette cartridges from disposable two hundred and fifty round magazines. The rifle operates in automatic or user-controlled modes and can fire single shots, any combination of multiple-round salvos, and fully-automatic. The rate of fire in burst and automatic modes depends on threat profile and varies from two hundred to six thousand rounds per minute.

“The secondary component is the integrated forty-millimeter grenade launcher, which fires a variety of low-pressure grenades. Mission-specific munitions for the grenade launcher include high explosive, armor-piercing, fragmentation, buckshot, incendiary, thermobaric, chemical, and less-lethal ammunition. We call this a ‘dial-a-pain’ weapon. With just a change of grenades, you will be able to knock down a rioter or a reinforced one-story concrete building.

“You will each receive and sign for one M-66T weapons system. The serial number of the weapon will be linked to your service number and DNA profile. Let me be absolutely clear on this: if you aim your weapon at another person without authorization or instruction, you will wash out of Basic Training instantly. You will only handle your weapon when instructed. Once you receive your rifle, you are to sling it over your shoulder for the march back to your quarters. You will stow the weapon in your locker, and if you so much as touch it again between that point and the first day of weapons training, your status as Recruit Trainee will be terminated.”

He looks at the line of recruits for a moment to gauge whether his words have had sufficient effect.

“Now you will approach the sergeant-at-arms one at a time, and sign out your weapon. Once you have received your rifle, you will go back to the end of the line and reform it. Execute.”

I watch as the recruits in front of me go and receive their rifles one by one. For the first time, it feels like we’re really in the military. We are wearing camouflage fatigues, and now we are receiving weapons, even if those weapons are incapable of live fire. I look at the rifles slung over the shoulders of the recruits walking past my spot in the line. The rifles are clad in flat black polymer shells with lots of curves and few angles. They look almost organic in appearance.

Then it is my turn to sign out my rifle. The weapon is heavier than its compact shape suggests, and I reposition it on my shoulder briefly before starting my walk to the back of the line.

When we all have our weapons, Sergeant Gau lines the platoon up in front of the building again, and then marches us back to our quarters.

“You will open your lockers and place your rifles in the holding clamps on the right side of the locker,” he orders. “After you stow your rifle, you will not touch, look at, or think about it until being told to do so by a drill instructor.”

There are padded clamps on the rear side wall of each locker, and a polymer bracket on the floor that matches the shape of the rifle’s butt end exactly. I secure my rifle, close my locker, and join the rest of my platoon to line up by the center aisle of the platoon bay. Sergeant Gau waits impassively at parade rest, his hands behind his back, until the entire platoon has fallen back in line.

“You now have all your issue equipment. You are now ready to begin your training. I will now hand you over to your drill instructors. Follow their orders, do exactly what you are told, and maybe I will see a few of you at graduation in twelve weeks.”

He turns to face the door, and three sergeants enter the platoon bay in perfect lockstep. They’ve obviously waited just outside the door for Sergeant Gau to finish his speech. We watch with apprehension as they march up the center aisle and stop right in front of Sergeant Gau. All three are hard-faced and lean, without an excess ounce of fat between them. The lead sergeant has a rocker under the trio of chevrons on his collar, which makes him a Staff Sergeant. The other two just have the chevrons, which means they are plain Sergeants. The senior drill instructor is also the shortest of the three. The other two are taller, but don’t look half as mean. One is a hulking black man with a shaved head, and the other is a red-haired woman. She has a regulation high-and-tight haircut, her red hair shorn down to less than a quarter inch in length.

The senior drill instructor salutes Sergeant Gau, who returns the salute smartly. Then Sergeant Gau turns on his heels, walks around the row of recruits on the left side of the platoon bay, and leaves the room without another word. The short senior drill instructor looks at us like we’re a boring little zoo exhibit.

“My name is Staff Sergeant Burke. These are Sergeants Riley and Harris. Our job is to send most of you back home, and figure out what the rest of you are good for.”

Sergeants Riley and Harris fan out behind the senior drill instructor and stand precisely one step behind him on either side.

“You will change into your issued sweat suits and running shoes. Execute,” Sergeant Burke barks. We fall out to rush to our lockers. As we shed our fatigues and put on the blue sweat suits, Riley and Harris move over to the ends of the line of lockers, while Sergeant Burke remains in his position in the middle of the room. All three drill instructors start counting down simultaneously.

“Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen.”

I have no idea what will happen if I am not in my exercise outfit by the time they reach zero, and I have no particular desire to find out. By the time the drill instructors have counted down to seven, I have finished tying my shoes, and I am back on my spot at the center aisle when the count is four. All of us are in position in time, although two or three stragglers only manage to take their spots in the line just before the countdown expires.

“Most of you are out of shape,” Sergeant Burke announces. “You have been sitting on your asses at home, watching the Networks and eating garbage. I have no clue how you can get fat from eating the shit they dole out to you people, but I see way too much flab in this room.”

Sergeant Burke speaks in the same cadence as Sergeant Gau before him. Except for his slight Southern accent, he sounds just like the Master Sergeant. I wonder whether they teach a special drill instructor voice.

“We are going to run you through some physical exercises now. We need to find out which ones of you are in sufficient condition to even begin getting into shape.”

He takes a step back, and the red-headed woman sergeant steps forward and takes his place. She gives us a glare that’s hard as flint.

“Pla-toon!” she barks. “In front of the building, in double row, fall in!”

We rush out and file past the drill instructors, but I have a good idea that any speed at this point will be deemed insufficient by our drill instructors, even if we managed to teleport downstairs instantly.

“That means now, boys and girls!” she shouts. “You’re not getting paid by the hour.”

We trample down the stairs like a herd of panicked mountain goats. Outside, we reform the platoon in double line as ordered.

Our drill sergeants emerge from the building at a walk. Sergeant Burke once again steps in front of the platoon, while the red-haired female sergeant takes up position on the left end of our double row. The bald-headed black sergeant mirrors her position on our right side.

“We’re going to play a game called ‘Follow the Leader.’ Sergeant Riley over there is the Leader.”

He nods towards the red-haired sergeant to our left.

“Sergeant Riley will lead the platoon on a little run. Your job is to stick with her. Sergeant Harris will bring up the rear. It is in your best interest to stay in front of Sergeant Harris, and behind Sergeant Riley at all times.”

Sergeant Riley looks like she could run a marathon, but I’m reasonably confident about my ability to keep pace with her. She’s wearing fatigues and combat boots, we’re wearing exercise clothes and running shoes, and I’ve been running the staircases back at our residence cluster for the last three months in preparation for military training.

We turn left to align the column as instructed, Sergeant Riley starts running, and the platoon follows.

After an hour, I’m not so confident about my stamina anymore.

I’m in the middle of the platoon, and Sergeant Riley is twenty yards in front of me. As far as I can tell, she’s not even breathing hard. We’ve been running in one direction since we started, and I still can’t see an end to this military base. Other platoons pass us in both directions, and all the recruits in those platoons run in perfect synchronicity. Platoon 1066, on the other hand, is a loose formation of coughing, wheezing, and gasping recruits in various states of misery. Sergeant Riley does not slow down. So far, nobody has dared to fall behind Sergeant Harris at the rear.

Finally, Sergeant Riley departs from the straight line she has been running for the last hour. There is a large vehicle park by the side of the road, and she veers onto it, skipping over the curb in a sickeningly light-footed fashion. The platoon follows, some of us only barely managing not to trip on the curb. Sergeant Riley slows down to a trot and comes to a halt when the bulk of the platoon is in the center of the square.

“Two rows, boys and girls. This is the military, not recess at school. Fall in!”

We shuffle around to line up as ordered.

“Leave plenty of space between yourself and the recruit in front of you,” she instructs the back row, and I know what’s coming next.

“Push-ups,” she announces. “I count, you follow. Don’t anyone work ahead of me, or we’ll start back at One.”

She drops into position on her hands, and looks at the platoon as we follow suit.

“One.”

She lowers herself until her chin almost touches the ground. I take a glance sideways and notice that Sergeants Harris and Burke are doing push-ups as well, and both of them are watching the platoon as they follow Sergeant Riley’s lead.

“I want to see good form here,” Sergeant Riley shouts. “Noses touching the ground with every count.”

“One,” she starts again. “Two. Three. Four. Five.”

We get to the mid-twenties before the first recruits start wavering. As soon as it is obvious that some of us have begun to struggle, the two Sergeants on either side of the platoon rise from their push-up positions and move in.

“If you can’t do thirty little push-ups, there’s really no point in sticking it out for the rest of the training,” Sergeant Burke shouts at one of the recruits as he tries to keep up with Sergeant Riley on quivering arms. “Do yourself a favor and just drop on that gut of yours.”

The recruit struggles through one more push-up on shaking arms, and lowers himself onto the ground with a groan. Sergeant Fallon just snorts with disgust and moves on.

After a while, very few of us are still keeping pace with Sergeant Riley. She keeps doing push-ups and watches as the still-active part of the platoon shrinks to four, then three, then two. The last recruit to remain on her hands and toes is Hamilton, the trim and lean girl from my mess table.

“Well,” Sergeant Riley says as she stops mid-pushup, and hops to her feet. “We’re going to have to work on that. Only one of you is in decent shape.”

She eyes Hamilton, who has remained in push-up position.

“Back on your feet,” she orders, and Hamilton obeys.

“Platoon 1066, meet your platoon leader,” Sergeant Burke says. “Recruit Hamilton here will lead our run back to the company building.”

The smile that had briefly started to form on Hamilton’s lips disappears again.

In the afternoon, we learn the basics of moving like soldiers. It’s called drill, and it involves our three instructors trying to get us to move in unison and respond to their movement commands at precisely the same moment. It’s something the more advanced platoons have mastered to perfection, but it doesn’t look so impressive when we try it for the first time.

“That sounds like shit,” Sergeant Harris opines when we march across the space in front of the building, trying to maintain unison. “You people march like a herd of spastic goats. I want to hear every left heel hit the ground at once.”

After two hours of loud and repetitive instruction, I find that drill works best when you switch off your brain entirely, and just act like a voice-controlled robot. The rest of the platoon seems to have come to the same conclusion. We still suck, but much less than in the beginning.

It’s a strange feeling to be walking in lockstep with a bunch of people dressed exactly alike. I feel like a cog in a machine, but that’s one part of the military I don’t mind. When you do exactly as you’re told, and you’re neither the best nor the worst at any task, you can disappear in the crowd and have a small measure of solitude.

For the rest of the afternoon, we sit in front of our lockers in the platoon bay again, listening to our instructors as they lecture us on subjects like the Uniform Code of Military Justice, the branches of the military, and our chain of command. Most of us are tired from the morning’s exercise and the drill session after lunch, but when the first recruit nods off, we get a demonstration on the necessity of staying alert. Sergeant Burke suddenly stops his recitation of the history and mission of the Territorial Army, straightens up, and folds his hands behind his back.

“Recruit Olafsson,” he barks.

Olafsson, who sits right across the center aisle from me, suddenly jerks awake and looks around with a panicked expression.

“You seem to have a problem remaining conscious,” Sergeant Burke says amicably. “I suspect it’s a lack of oxygen. Get on your feet, now.”

Recruit Olafsson obeys, clearly distraught about being the sudden center of attention.

“You will join Sergeant Riley on the quarterdeck,” Sergeant Burke says, indicating the front of the platoon bay, where there’s a generous amount of open space between the first row of bunks and the window to the Senior Drill Instructor’s office. Sergeant Riley is standing in the middle of the quarterdeck already, hands folded behind her back.

If the exercise on the quarterdeck under Sergeant Riley’s tutelage is supposed to restore some oxygen to Olafsson’s system, it seems to have the opposite effect. Fifteen minutes later, Sergeant Burke has finished his lecture on the Territorial Army, and Recruit Olafsson’s face is a dark shade of red as he works through his sixth cycle of push-ups and sit-ups.

“Your attention is on me,” Sergeant Burke barks when he catches a few of us glancing over to the quarterdeck. “I promise you that each and every one of you will have ample opportunity to spend time on the quarterdeck in the next twelve weeks.”

He moves on to the history and mission of the Navy, and Recruit Olafsson continues his efforts on the quarterdeck, with an impassive Sergeant Riley standing over him as he struggles through yet another set of push-ups.

Eleven weeks and five days to go, I tell myself. Eighty-two days of running, getting yelled at, and doing punishment workouts on the quarterdeck.

I briefly consider standing up and walking over to Sergeant Burke to announce that I want to quit, before I end up spending weeks sweating my ass off, only to wash out anyway without anything to show for the work. Then I recall the PRC—the smell of piss and puke in the hallways and staircases, the garbage everywhere, the thugs rousting people just out of meanness and boredom, and I banish the thought. As much as I hate working out and getting bossed around, having to take a shuttle back to that place would be much worse.

Hell, I think as Sergeant Burke drones on about the structure and organization of the Commonwealth Navy. At least I’ll be in great shape when I get out of here.