Survivors Excerpt

Survivors (SSG Vanhorn Series Book 1)

Onboard the Rihla en route to the Leonis system

Everything was ready when the first Marines appeared, swaggering over to my window with an attitude. I remembered the feeling: being the best of the best, the most feared operators in the corps, gave a person a sense of ownership of their surroundings. I started scanning slates and issuing weapons to the Marines sporting their TAC battle armor, a lightweight shell with adaptive camouflage. Each took a rifle and clipped it to the harness that hung from their neck and around one shoulder. They slipped the batteries into the pouches on their belts after checking the power display to ensure the LAR wasn’t already loaded. The pistols went into thigh holsters, and the clips of ammunition slid into loops on the opposite hip.

Most of the Marines nodded politely, but few spoke to me. I didn’t expect them to—I knew who they were and what they were there for. Besides, I had enough to focus on. Passing out the weapons and making sure each one was scanned so that we had a record of exactly what I’d issued took time, and I didn’t rush. The last thing I wanted was to make a mistake during my first day in the armory.

I was almost finished when Sergeant Barker stepped up to the window. The same evil grin split the lower half of his square head. A dark swath of unshaved stubble covered his cheeks and chin, which surprised me. A Marine under my command who forgot to shave would have made up for it in training, but Barker didn’t seem to care, and it certainly wasn’t my place to point it out.

“Staff Sergeant Vanhorn, it looks like you found a hole to hide in,” Barker said.

“A hole full of guns,” I replied without looking at him as I scanned his slate. “Just the way I like it.”

“I’ll bet you do,” he sneered. “You could probably use some of those sniper rifles as crutches.”

“Maybe,” I said, ignoring the verbal jab.

He leaned in the window and lowered his voice as I handed him a LAR. “Tell the truth: how much of you did the Orcs chew off? Just your—”

“Sergeant, shut your yap and get your gear,” a stern voice shouted. “You’re holding up the line!”

“Yes, First Sergeant,” Barker said, his eyes sparkling with glee.

Marines like him, I mused, enjoyed drawing the ire of their superiors almost as much as they derived sadistic pleasure from torturing those below them in rank. I was officially Barker’s superior, but it was clear he thought of me as someone unfit even to shine his boots. I could ignore most things, but I didn’t want to encourage Barker to keep coming after me.

“Next,” I said, as I pushed the rest of Barker’s allotted gear across the window toward him.

What happened next almost made me laugh. He jerked toward me, as if he were going to jump through the window and attack me. At the same time, he barked like a dog. It was a test, a gag intended to make me flinch so that he could laugh about it with his cronies. I didn’t move; my eyes never left his. If he thought he could intimidate me by threatening me with bodily harm, he was sadly mistaken.

“Barker!” the first sergeant called out.

“I’m moving, First Sergeant,” he replied with a forced chuckle.

I watched him go, realizing that at some point I would have to show Barker that I wasn’t as infirm as he seemed to think.

After handing out weapons to two more Marines, I was met at the window by a vaguely familiar face. At first, I couldn’t place it; then it dawned on me.

“Orange rocker—I guess you’ve seen a few things,” Phil Carney said. The familiar man was older than me by nearly ten years, with deep lines that appeared around his eyes as he smiled. He had a thick beard and a bald head that distinguished him, but it was the tattoo on his bare forearm that brought the memory back.

“A few,” I replied.

“You don’t remember me,” he said.

“Corporal Carney—how could I forget?”

“That was a long time ago. First sergeant now,” he said.

His own rocker was green, denoting six combat engagements. In my mind, Phil Carney was the perfect TAC operator: solid muscle, a fearless attitude, and a knack for killing things. We had been in the same platoon, although in different squads, right after I’d completed my TAC qualifications. The two units had friendly competitions that deepened our acquaintance, but Carney had been transferred, and over the years we’d lost touch.

“My first platoon out of Q-school,” I said. “I never heard where you went.”

“They needed TAC operators for a recruiting tour,” Carney explained. “Someone thought I looked the part.”

“They were right. You still do.”

The rest of the platoon was heading back down the stairs, but Carney lingered. “I heard about Luyten C. That must have been tough. I’m glad to see you made it back.”

“Most of me,” I replied, then waved at the racks of weapons around me. “And now I have a lovely new home.”

Carney shook his head. “These green kids coming up today don’t get it. They don’t have the mental toughness that it takes to hit the wall and keep going. There’s too much political influence in the corps. They’ve even watered down Q-school enough that anyone can make it. Hey, listen, speaking of which—I’m sorry about Dog.”

“Dog?” I asked, but in the back of my mind, I had the feeling I knew who he was talking about.

“That’s Sergeant Barker’s call sign. Clever, eh?”

“It fits him,” I said.

“Sure does—all bark and no bite. He should know better. The kid doesn’t even have a combat engagement under his belt, and he thinks he can run through a brick wall.”

“I’ve known the type,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’m not taking it personally.”

“I just wanted to let you know that he doesn’t speak for the rest of us.”

“Sure,” I agreed, but privately I thought that Barker probably represented more of his platoon than Carney wanted to admit. 

“We should get a drink and catch up,” Carney said.

“Sure, I’d like that,” I agreed politely, but I could tell that Carney didn’t really mean it.

The first sergeant nodded, then hurried after his platoon. It took me a minute to shake off the unsettled feeling that had come over me. Although I barely knew him, I could tell that Phil Carney was a good guy and a good operator; after all, he had risen to first sergeant, which was no easy feat. He had been friendly with me, yet I got the distinct impression that he didn’t like seeing me any more than Barker did—probably because I represented the worst possible outcome for someone like Carney. He could face any danger and do any job, no matter how terrible or what the odds, but he would rather die in the field than live through what I’d endured. No one whose entire adult life had been built on overcoming physical challenges wanted to face the reality that they could lose that in battle and end up relegated to sidelines. 

No, Carney wouldn’t seek me out, and I wouldn’t go looking for him. We had been brothers once, but that was in a different life, and I didn’t need to relive the past.Better that I put it behind me and move forward, I reminded myself. That’s what we had been taught on the TAC teams: always keep moving forward.