[FFML] [XOver] Wednesday's Child: Chapter Two

[Tail Kinker]

                        *Disclaimer*

     Macross is owned by or licensed to lots of people -
Tatsunoko Studios, Harmony Gold, Studio Nue, Streamline
Video...note that none of them are me.

     The same can be said of Ranma 1/2 - Rumiko Takahashi,
Kitty, Shonen Sunday Comics, Viz Video. Not me.

     I didn't create any of them, and I certainly do not
own them.  Any use of them in this story is meant as nothing
more than tribute.  Please don't sue me.


                    Wednesday's Child


               Chapter Two:  A Few Good Men



*October 16th, 1997*

     *Never thought I'd be back in Nerima.*

     Crawling through the mud and grass was not Ranma's idea
of a good time, by any stretch of the imagination.  Espe-
cially considering that at the speed required for your aver-
age soldier to traverse this particular stretch of mud and
grass without giving away his position, said traverse took
far too much time.

     On his own, he could have covered it in a tenth the
time, still undetected, but then how would he be able to
support his fire team?  Much as it chafed him, as the Lance
Corporal responsible for his team of five, he had to think
of them first.  And therefore crawl at their speed, so that
he could properly support them on arrival.

     The new plastic chain-links on the machine-gun's ammu-
nition belt made silent movement a hell of a lot easier, at
least.  He'd approved of that change most heartily.  Not
that they'd listened to him.

     *Hmmm...how could I improve this situation?  Fire sup-
port from the front is certainly possible, but I'd still
need the rest of my fire team to close up before I started
with the rock and roll.  Plus, the longer we remain unde-
tected, the better.*

     As they had every time he'd run this sort of training
exercise, his mind turned to the Umi-Sen-Ken.  However, he'd
sworn never to teach those techniques, never to even use
them again, and his word, even if only to himself, was some-
thing that he kept.

     *But if it is altered, changed, adapted for a different
style of combat--*

     No.  Best to put it out of his mind.  Perhaps he could
design a new stealth style entirely, but the Umi-Sen-Ken had
caused nothing but pain and grief.  The one time that Akane
had a right to actually call him a pervert was from when he
had trained in the Umi-Sen-Ken.


     *Yo, better pay attention...that sentry is gettin'
close.*  He glanced at his watch...three minutes until show-
time.  The sentry pulled out his walkie-talkie, made a quick
report, and Ranma grinned.  *How perfect is this?*

     The sentry clipped the radio back onto his belt, and
Ranma moved.  The dull edge of his knife blade touched the
sentry's throat, and he whispered, "Gotcha."

     The sentry nodded, a sour expression on his face, and
Ranma lowered him to the ground.  By the rules of the exer-
cise, the sentry was "dead", but having just checked in with
his base, he would not be missed until the show was over.

     Ranma moved more quickly now, the machine gun held in
his hands.  He crested the ridge, and looked down at the
truck park below.  Six two-and-a-half-tonne trucks, thirty
soldiers, all wearing desert camo - a bad choice for the
terrain, but they had the defensive role.

     His own radio crackled in his ear, and Private Yashida
whispered, "*Machine gun nest at the big oak, and two more
sentries not yet accounted for, Lance.*"

     "Got it, Private.  Private Komori."

     "*Yes, Lance?*"

     "Grenade on the machine gunner, when the balloon goes
up."

     "*Already got him ranged in.*"  Komori's M-16 rifle was
fitted with an underslung grenade launcher.  He had the only
live ammo in the lance, and they were thunder-shock
grenades, that produced a brilliant flash and loud report.
It would stun the machine-gunner, as it was meant to, but do
no lasting damage.

     Another crackle in his ear, and his Corporal said,
"*Lance one is in position.  First section reports in posi-
tion.  Wait for it...*"

     Ranma flipped out the bipod on the MINIMI, and care-
fully and quietly loaded the belt into the breach.  He drew
back the bolt of the machine gun, prepped to fire.  And
waited.

     Another crackle in his ear, and Sergeant Sakamoto said,
"*Begin.*"

     Far to Ranma's left, Komori's M-203 coughed, and the T-
Shock exploded downrange.  Ranma held his fire, waited until
he heard Corporal Hashimoto order his Lance down.  Then he
opened fire, his MINIMI flaring as it fired blanks, and more
importantly, LASER beams from the MILES gear attached to it.
His lance closed the gap to the encampment, covered by his
fire.

     Seconds later, it was over.  The Sergeant commanding
the OPFOR - the opposing force - was among the "dead", his
MILES gear beeping and flashing, but despite his obvious
disgust with himself, he saluted the Lieutenant running the
exercise smartly, and exchanged brief pleasantries with
Sergeant Sakamoto.  Ranma safed the machine gun, unloaded it
carefully - even blanks can cause serious injury at short
range, and it was just the Army way to keep a gun as safe as
possible - and slung the weapon.

     "Yo, Lance."  Private Hatta, Ranma's radioman, had
pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it casually.
"You just gotta train me up in stealth.  That big-ass gun of
yours should make it impossible to sneak around, but I had
no idea where you were until you opened fire."

     "All just practise, Private."  Ranma shrugged.  "And
trainin' ain't in my job description, but I can steer you to
the right instructors."  He hesitated, then asked, "You a
martial artist?"

     "Basic Kempo training, that's it."

     "Spend a little more time in the dojo.  It'll help your
stealth."

     "Thanks."  Hatta flicked an ash.  "How long you been
in?  I haven't seen any service stripes on your uniform."

     "Just over a year."

     Hatta's eyebrows rose.  "A year only, and you've made
two pay grades and got posted to the Special Forces?  Lance,
you're on the fast track."


                         - - - - -


     "I do not really appreciate your poaching our men,
Brigadier."

     "You are not expected to like it."  Brigadier General
Goro Enomoto wore the grey undress uniform of the United
Nations Marine Forces - a high-collared jacket, its only
decorations his rank markings;  a floppy beret, bearing the
delta of the UN Forces;  slacks and boots, the latter unpol-
ished, so that they would not betray the wearer's position.
"But the simple fact is that Japan has not yet met its quota
of forces to the United Nations.  The Marines in particular
are under-represented, because Japan has no Marine Forces.
But the Special Forces are the closest that you have, and so
I need some of your warm bodies.  Thirty men."

     "That's almost a full platoon."  Major Sato scowled.
"You know the problems that the JSDF has holding onto
trained soldiers.  This sudden rush of recruits that we've
had won't last.  Once the terrorists are run to ground, sol-
diers will start remembering how much more they can be paid
in the private sector.  Talent goes to where the money is."

     "Major, I understand why you oppose me on this.  You
have to look out for your men."  Enomoto pulled a folder
from his briefcase.  "This has been signed by the Prime Min-
ister."

     Sato frowned, and accepted the folder, but did not open
it.  "Very well.  You got any men in particular in mind?"

     "Yes.  But I will need to interview them.  Like the
JSDF, the UN Forces are strictly volunteer.  Even more so
the Marines."


                         - - - - -


*October 23rd, 1996*

     *Dear Ranma,

     *I was glad to hear that you've been posted to Nerima,
but unfortunately, I had to relocate to Yokohama.  Believe
it or not, I've gotten a job.  Your father disapproves,
which is causing us some stress, but he will have to learn
to deal with the fact.

     *And from what you've told me, you're doing very well
in your new career.  Your father disapproves of that as
well, but I know you give little credence to what he wants
on that score.  You're doing what you feel is right, and I
cannot disagree with you.  I just wish I had had a chance to
be there for your graduation ceremony.  You must look so
manly in your uniform!

     *Your father won't admit it, possibly because he feels
it's not manly, but he misses you.  I miss you too.  Let me
know if you have a vacation, or whatever the military calls
it, and we'll try to get together.

     *With love,

     *Your mother.

     "Yo.  Saotome."

     Ranma looked up from the letter.  "Yeah, Sarge?"

     "Word from head office.  There's a UN officer there,
looking to talk to you."

     "Thank you, Sarge."  Ranma folded the sheet of paper,
tucked it back into the envelope, and leaped to her feet.
"I bet it's Edgar.  His sister is posted to Nerima."

     "This Edgar fellow a Brigadier General?"

     Ranma blinked.  "No.  Last time I saw him, he was a
Lieutenant, junior grade."

     "Then it ain't Edgar.  And since it *is* a Brigadier
General, I suggest you get there on the bounce."

     Ranma nodded, snagged her beret, and glanced around.
"Damn...never a cup of coffee about when you need one.
Sarge, you think I got time to boil up a pot?"

     "Doubt it."

     "Damn.  Well, if he's askin' to see me, he probably
already has my dossier."  With the curse being on Army
record, Ranma saw very little point in hiding it.  But meet-
ing a superior officer while in female form wasn't her first
choice.  She pulled the beret on, and jogged from the H-Bar-
racks.


                         - - - - -


     "Lance Corporal Saotome Ranma, reporting as ordered,
Sir."  Ranma held the salute until the Brigadier returned
it.

     "Brigadier General Goro Enomoto, United Nations Marine
Force."  The General indicated the coffee machine, filled
with only hot water.  "There is water for tea, if you wish,
or for any other purposes you might have."

     "Thank you, General."  Ranma quickly filled a cup,
removed her beret and dumped it over her head.  The General
watched with quiet shock as the petite female vanished, to
be replaced by a somewhat short, though still much larger,
young man.

     "I had difficulty believing that part of your dossier,
Corporal."  The Brigadier sat down, and picked up his cup of
coffee.  "But I see that it was true."

     "Long story, Sir."

     "Not especially interested, Corporal.  The end result
is all that matters, and according to your record, it
doesn't slow you down."  He sipped the coffee.  "I observed
your Section on manoeuvres last week.  You see, Japan needs
to send some people to the UN Forces, and I was talent-
scouting your Battalion.  I think you have what it takes to
be a Marine."

     "Really."  Ranma frowned.  "And what would that be,
Sir?"

     "The Marines are a light infantry unit, specializing in
one of the hardest jobs available:  Amphibious assault.  We
are the first on the beach, and we make it safe for the
slower units, such as tanks and armoured personnel carriers.
We are an offensive unit, not defensive.

     "The Marines are not just hyperaggressive killers, how-
ever.  The training that a Marine receives is the broadest
of any private soldier.  We train to operate in any environ-
ment, land, sea and air.  We have our own aviators, trained
in the use of vertical takeoff and landing aircraft.  We
have our own ships, even our own aircraft carriers, though
we work hand-in-hand with the Navy for those.

     "The two most important personal traits for a Marine
are integrity and flexibility.  The former is most impor-
tant.  A Marine must operate within guidelines, even more
than the Army, and must support his team to a greater
degree.  Chain of command is strict, and it is that way for
a good reason:  our job is more important."

     "Then there might be a problem, Sir."  Ranma chuckled.
"You've seen my dossier, so you know I've had issues with
bein' a team player in the past."

     "That is true.  But your dossier also states that you
have a level of flexibility that is wasted in the Army.  You
improvise, adapt and overcome.  The way you have adapted to
your curse, the way your family refines its Art, the number
of foes that you have fought and defeated before joining the
Army...you *think* like a Marine."

     "Okay."  Ranma shrugged.  "You've convinced me that I'd
be good for the Marines.  But I kinda like bein' in the
Army.  Can you convince me that the Marines would be good
for me?"

     "I think I can."  The Brigadier opened his dossier,
extracted a page.  "According to this, your wife was killed
in a terrorist attack a week before you signed up."

     Ranma said nothing, a wary look on his face.

     "Don't worry, Corporal.  Your reasons for signing up
are not my business."  He leaned forward.  "Fought many ter-
rorists in the last year?"

     "No."  Ranma sighed.  "We've been sent out a few times,
to help deal with a situation where the terrorists hit, but
only after the fact."

     "You joined up for retribution--"

     "Wrong."  Ranma shook his head.  "Oh, it mighta seemed
that way, even to me, but I joined up to save lives.  In the
end, that's what it was.  I couldn't protect her, not as I
was.  But I wanted to stop it from happenin' again.  It is
the duty of a martial artist to protect the weak."

     "It is the duty of a soldier to do the same."  The
Brigadier looked down at the notes again.  "But the Self-
Defense Force is just that:  A defensive force.  A very good
one - anyone who makes the mistake of invading Japan is in
for a rude awakening - but in the end, they train for the
purpose of protecting the islands.

     "The Marines are an offensive unit, as I've said.  Our
role is to go out, find the bad guys, and do unto them
before they can do unto those we have sworn to protect."

     "'Decent people sleep soundly in their beds only
because rough men stand ready to do violence on their
behalf.'"

     "You've read Orwell?"

     "Naw.  It was something that my drill instructor said."
Ranma shrugged.  "He put it differently, but I've heard it
lots of different ways in the last year."

     "At this time, the UN Marines are deploying all over
the world, specifically to capture or kill terrorists.  We
get them before they can attack helpless civilians."  The
Brigadier closed the dossier, and looked up.  "How would you
like to take the fight to them directly?"


                         - - - - -


     In the end, it was hardly fair, Ranma supposed.  The
Brigadier knew all the right buttons to press.  Well, that
was his MSO, just as Ranma's was Specialist (Heavy Weapons).

     The thirty men and women recruited by the Brigadier
found themselves packed into a train car, rather like cat-
tle.  Aside from their undress uniforms, they carried only
their personal effects;  all other uniforms, all other mili-
tary-issue equipment and clothing, were turned into the
quartermaster.
     In a way, it was a bit saddening for Ranma.  The Army
had been his home for a year.  Just like the Tendo-ke before
it.  Now, as always before, he was moving to a new home.

     *Just once, I'd like to get used to a place before I
have to move.*

     The train deposited them in Yokohama, a short run save
for the dozens of stops it made on the way there.  From the
train, they boarded a military bus.  Until they reached
their destination, he and the others on the bus were still
property of the JSDF.  The bus wove through the traffic,
finally pulling alongside a warehouse down near the docks.

     "This way please, everyone."  A Marine Captain waved
them forwards.  Tall and dark-haired, his features were
decidedly Caucasian.  Having spent three of his last four
years in and about Nerima, Ranma was no stranger to foreign-
ers - eight percent of the ward's permanent residents were
non-Japanese.  But this man's accent was harsh and discor-
dant around his less than perfect command of the Japanese
language.  Ranma shouldered his duffle and followed him into
the warehouse.

     "If your last name starts with an A to M," called out a
voice in halting Japanese, "please proceed to the door on
the north side of the hall.  If your last name starts with
an N to a Z--"  The announcer pronounced this last letter
'Zed.'  "--Please proceed to the door on the south side of
the hall."

     *Do they mean family name, or given name?* Ranma won-
dered.  *How does the English alphabet go, anyway?  I only
know the *iroha*...*  He remembered the stupid song that
Kasumi had occasionally sung, and figured out that the first
sound in either of his names came after N, and proceeded
south.  The door led to a long room, low-ceilinged, that
reminded him of an H-barracks.  In place of bunks, however,
there were rows of desks.

     He saw quite a number of Marine uniforms, as well as
some from the JSDF forces, behind those desks.  Ranma found
himself processed through, his orders stamped, two uniforms
issued - simple grey jumpsuits, a one-piece variant of the
green camos he'd worn as a recruit private - and a few docu-
ments added to the file he carried.  All of them were writ-
ten in English, and he cursed himself for not paying atten-
tion in Hinako-sensei's class.

     "Lance Corporal Saotome?"

     Ranma looked up, to see a young woman with a cheerful
smile  Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent, and
what hair he could see was a very pale red.  She looked as
though she'd been dipped in bleach.  Rather than Marine
greys, she wore a white uniform, with the same high-collared
jacket, but a red trim around the edges.  He bowed to her,
and she returned it.

     "Pleased to meet you, Corporal.  My name is Alice Whit-
man, and I am a Commander in the United Nations Maritime
Forces."

     Her Japanese was crisp, and only barely accented - the
same discordant flavour as the Captain from before, but with
a different tang.
     "Pleased to meet you, Commander."  He still wore his
beret, and so smartly saluted her, and she returned the
salute.  She then casually removed her cap - it looked like
a bus-driver's cap - and tucked it under her arm.

     "I am here, Corporal, to assess your level of educa-
tion, including your knowledge of the English language."

     "I can save you a lot of trouble, Commander Whitman.
My English is all but non-existent, and my Japanese leaves a
lot to be desired."

     "If I may take that self-assessment as fact, I will
sign you up for Basic English courses immediately."  The
Commander drew a small notepad from her belt, and jotted
something down on it.  "The UN Forces are multi-cultural,
but we cannot function if we do not have a common language.
There are more English-speaking nations in the UN, and more
English-speaking people in the Forces, than any other repre-
sentational group.  But English is a difficult language,
even more so than Japanese, so we had a team of linguists
boil it down to its very basics."

     "Makes sense."

     "For ninety-nine percent of the things we need it for,
it does.  The other one percent...we try to get by.  Now,
what about the rest of your education?"

     "I ain't no rocket scientist.  If it doesn't have to do
with martial arts, I didn't pay much attention."

     "Well, we can make adjustments to that as well.  May I
have your dossier, Corporal?"

     Ranma handed it over, and Commander Whitman took it,
then waved towards a desk.

     "Please, take a seat, and help yourself to a coffee, or
a cup of tea."

     "I'm fine, thanks, Ma'am."  He sat down, and leaned
forward.  "So I'm guessin' that this ain't where we're
trainin'?"

     "You guess correctly.  We'll be taking ship to Oki-
nawa."

     "Any word on my rank and MSO?"

     "Every Marine is a rifleman first.  You'll keep your
rank - the JSDF insisted on that, by the way - but you'll be
retrained as a rifleman, then allowed to re-qualify in your
original MSO."  Commander Whitman's eyebrows rose.  "I doubt
that re-qualifying will be an issue for you, Corporal.  Your
reviews are excellent."

     "I know."  Ranma nodded.  "Ya need strength to handle a
MINIMI, and I got that in spades."

     "Modest, too."  Commander Whitman closed the dossier.
"I've only gone through about half of this, but I already
know what we'll be doing with you.  Go aboard, get racked,
and stand to for sailing orders."


     "Aye, Ma'am."  He stood, and paused.  "Where's my
rack?"

     "It's on the--Oh.  You can't read English.  Not a prob-
lem."  She pulled a sheet from her pad, and scribbled some
kana on it.  "Here's your rack assignment.  You're hot-bunk-
ing with a Navy file."

     "No problem."  He stood, and bowed to her.  "Thank you
for your trouble."

     "No trouble at all, Corporal."


                         - - - - -


     "What do you think, Commander?"

     Whitman shrugged.  "There's maybe two of them that
would make officer material.  Hasegawa, I'm not so sure of,
but Saotome..."  She grinned.  "That kid is talented, and
has lots of skills.  He'd make a good junior officer, but I
don't think he'd make a good O-4 or above.  Keeps his cool
in a jam, cares about the men under his command...All good
leadership material.  But he lacks the organizational skills
to make it as a senior officer."

     "We'll keep him in rank for the next couple of years,
and see what happens.  How would you rate his professional
skills?"

     "Astounding, at least."

     "I note that you didn't cover his entire dossier."  The
Brigadier smirked.  "Did you get to the last page?"

     "No.  Why?"

     "Lance Corporal Saotome has some...unusual...problems.
Nothing that would affect his fitness as a Marine.  You
should read up on it again."  Enomoto paused, and added,
"Just make sure you're sitting down when you do so."

     "Yes, Sir."  Whitman looked confused.

     "Now.  His strength, endurance and reflexes border on
superhuman.  I'm willing to bet that his gee-loading toler-
ance is off the chart.  And as a long-time martial artist, I
would also be willing to wager that his situational aware-
ness is equally impressive.  I think we should consider him
for either a pilot, or a weapon systems officer."

     "Perhaps."  Whitman nodded.  "He certainly has the
right mentality."

     "In a year or two, we'll be receiving the first of the
Super Bugs.  If he can iron out the problems in his profile,
we'll test him out in Aviation."


                         - - - - -


     "The bean bags are non-lethal," said the Sergeant.
"Getting hit in the head might be fatal, if the Gods really
don't like you at that particular moment, but the people
with the guns will be aiming for chests, and you'll have
your Kevlar helmet to protect what brains you have."

     "What are they being fired from?" asked Morisato, a
former Sergeant of the JSDF Air Force.

     "Ithaca shotguns, twelve-gauge, semi-automatic with a
twelve-round drum."

     "Ouch."

     "If one of the gunners tags you, you *will* notice it."

     "Why not use MILES gear?" asked Ranma.

     "Two good reasons, Corporal.  The first is that MILES
is negatively affected by the beach conditions, and hits are
much less reliable.  Add to that the fact that the bean bags
fly a lot farther, and it improves the chances of the gun-
ners."

     "Fair enough.  And the second reason?"

     "MILES gear doesn't hurt."  The Sergeant grinned
wolfishly.  "If you get tagged, I want you to know it beyond
a shadow of a doubt."

     "So what do we get?"  This was from a Private, United
States Army.

     The Sergeant held up two rubber knives.  "Touch a gun-
ner, and he's considered dead."

     "Man!"  The Private looked disgusted.  "So we're out-
numbered, takin' a beach against heavy gunners, armed with
rubber knives, and no chance of a stealth approach!"

     "Speed and cover are your allies," said the Sergeant.
"For the last week, you've been studying bounding overwatch.
Now you'll be practicing it."

     "Overwatch implies that we've got covering fire,
Sarge."  Ranma frowned.  "We're going in butt-naked against
armed opponents."

     "Find a way.  Take the beach.  Flexibility and ingenu-
ity must carry this battle."  The Sergeant paused.  "One
good piece of news, though, that may assist you with this.
The defending team are Army, not Marines."


                         - - - - -


     "Saotome."

     "Yeah, Sarge?"  Ranma looked up from his preparations.
Not that there were a lot;  his entire kit consisted of his
body armour and his rubber knives.

     "You're the highest ranking ground-pounder in this cir-
cus."  Sergeant Morisato had been put in command of the
boots, due to his rank.  "I'm just a wing wiper.  I want you
to lead the landing operation."

     "Sarge, I'm just a Lance.  At most, I've directed a
group of five, not one of forty."

     Morisato grinned at that.  "Think of this as a learning
experience."

     "Look, Sarge, I--"

     Morisato had come to know Ranma rather well over the
last week;  the two got along well.  "Okay, I understand.
You're not up to this challenge."

     Ranma bristled.

     "Since you won't be able to win this one, I'll have
to--"

     "Shove it, Sarge."  Ranma ground his teeth.  "You want
me to lead, fine.  But if we get our asses kicked, I'm
blamin' it on you."

     "You got a deal...Sarge."  Morisato grinned.

     "Awright, Four-Oh-First!"  Ranma raised his voice.
"I've got the command.  You've seen the map, you know where
this tub is gonna insert us, and it looks like the powers
that be are givin' us at least one break.  As soon as we
beach, I want First Squad to secure the ridge."

     "Yes, Sir."

     "Don't call me that, I'm an enlisted man.  I work for a
livin'.  Second Squad, we don't know where their gunners
will be, so I want you to scout for them.  Don't get your-
selves killed, we need info more than we need dead heroes."

     "Aye aye."

     "We'll plan further from there once we have more data."

     "Landfall in thirty seconds," called out the boat's
Loadmaster.

     "Four-Oh-First, stand to."

     The landing ship shuddered as it started to plow sand,
and the front dropped, opening onto the beach.  First Squad
immediately charged out, moving to the ridge, and Second
Squad deployed immediately behind them.

     The reports of the heavy shotguns were heard, and Ranma
saw one trooper go down, clutching his stomach where a bean
bag had hit him.  The gunner didn't last long, though, as
one of the privates got within knife range.  The Army gun-
ners didn't try anything funny, just safed their guns when
the Marines reached him.

     "Bulk of their forces are concentrated near the goal,"
said Morisato.  "But at least a third are in the woods,
under cover."

     "That would help them more if we had guns, but I think
it's a mistake in this case."  Ranma scowled, and thought
back to the map.  "We can follow this ridge to the breakwa-
ter, and use the rocks for cover to close to the woods."

     "The operational area is on this side of the breakwa-
ter;  if we use it for cover, we leave the exercise area."

     "Better than chargin' over a beach, gettin' ourselves
killed."  Ranma pointed towards the breakwater.  "There's
cover and concealment along this side;  it'll be riskier,
but I guess we gotta stay inside the exercise area."

     "Okay.  Orders?"

     "First and Second Squads," yelled Ranma.  "Advance for-
ward to the second ridge.  Use cover and concealment, but
don't slow down."

     "Yes, Sarge!"

     "Third and Fourth Squads, lateral move.  Follow the
ridge to the breakwater."  Ranma glanced over at Morisato.
"Sergeant, you're with that Section."

     "Yes, Sarge."

     "Corporals, advance your Squads by Lance."

     "First Lance, advance to the ridge!"

     The First Lance charged forward, moving unpredictably
and from cover point to cover point.  Bean bags flew around
them, but none were struck, and they reached the cover
point.

     "Second Lance, advance past the ridge to the rocks!"

     Second Lance had a rougher job;  once they cleared the
ridge, they were much more exposed.  The boulders of the
rock field were not as good cover, and Ranma saw another
soldier go down, clutching his face.  He swore explosively.

     "Third Lance, advance to the ridge!"

     He took his eyes off the advancement;  his Corporals
were handling that job properly.  He looked over at the sec-
ond Section, moving under complete concealment along the
first ridge.  They reached the breakwater, and began advanc-
ing through the rocks, in perfect bounding overwatch.

     Well, it would have been perfect if they'd actually had
firearms.  However, they were undetected so far.

     "Let's draw their attention away from Second Section.
Corporals, lateral movement, cover to cover, to the right."

     "Aye, Sarge."

     First Section started moving laterally now, popping up
just long enough to draw fire.  Second Section reached the
treeline, and started slipping through the forest like
ghosts.  The enemy gunners had no idea that they'd been
flanked until the troops of the Second popped up among them,
knives at the ready.

     "Treeline secure, Sarge."

     "Roger that."  Ranma waved First Section forward.
"Roving overwatch to the treeline, then we'll head for the
goal."
                         - - - - -


     "He didn't take command, he was handed it by a supe-
rior."

     "Doesn't matter."  The Colonel shook his head.  "It
wasn't his place to lead this exercise."

     "It was.  He was ordered to do so.  Therefore, he did
so, and did a damn fine job."  Brigadier Enomoto pointed a
finger angrily at the after-action report on his desk.
"Less than fifty percent casualties.  Pretty goddamn impres-
sive, considering they were outnumbered and severely under-
equipped."

     The Colonel scowled.  "I'm not arguing his competence.
I'm arguing the fact that this exercise was not meant to be
a test of Lance Corporal Saotome's competence.  He skewed
the results of--"

     "The results are, the Marines won."  Enomoto closed the
report folder.  "Winning is what we pay them to do.
Colonel, I know that this training battalion is your com-
mand, but either you approve the promotion, or I will."

     "Fine."  The Colonel deflated.  "I'll get the paperwork
started."


                         - - - - -


     No graduation ceremony for this bunch.  Training com-
pleted, and they were immediately posted to replacement
depot.  Ranma found himself assigned to the *McCrae* as a
squad leader.  He could almost feel the weight of the three
chevrons on his shoulder.

     *Man, still only a year in, and I've made Sergeant.*

     He stood at the bow of the ship, watching the horizon
as the *McCrae* moved out to join its task force.  He had
been briefed in on the mission he and his men would be car-
rying out.  Since most of the anti-Unification nations were
not willing or able to step up to the plate militarily, they
had fallen back on terrorist activities.  These terrorists
had bases on islands scattered throughout the Pacific -
their parent nations had trained them, but could not base
them out of their own countries.  If they did so, the entire
wrath of the UNEDF would descend on them like the wrath of
the Kami and ruin their whole day.

     But concealed on their islands, the terrorists avoided
detection, and allowed the anti-unification countries plau-
sible deniability.  Smashing the island bases was certainly
possible, but with no leads back to whom was funding the
terrorists...

     Ranma sighed.  The picture had gotten bigger since the
day that Akane died, and no less confusing.  The FJA might
not be among those that he and his men were loosed upon, but
they were still killers, terrorists and cowards.

     They would soon be discovering that their career choice
was, perhaps, a bit ill-advised.