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Repeth’s first encounter with Marine Captain Rapplean seemed a positive surprise, after Tano’s warning. The man’s uniform was proper but not overly so, and when he invited her into his tiny office in the corner of the company barracks he unbuttoned his collar and waved her to a seat, casually returning her reporting salute.
“Take a load off, Master Sergeant,” he said. “I hear through the grapevine you’re going to be my new spear.” That terminology for “First Sergeant” was common in Europe and harkened back to the Roman legions, where “First Spear” was the senior enlisted man in a century of one hundred. The man’s smooth good looks, blonde hair and slight accent combined with his word use and name placed him as Scandinavian.
“That’s what I hear from the sergeant major, though I haven’t received any official word, sir.”
“We’ll operate as if it will happen. The colonel leaves all enlisted assignments to the sergeant major.”
“Very good, sir,” Repeth agreed, and Rapplean grunted. She raised an eyebrow in question.
“The colonel feels it’s beneath him to get into NCO business.”
An odd viewpoint, but one she could live with. Then she realized what her company commander had just done. Within five minutes of meeting a senior NCO who might or might not be working for him, he’d denigrated his commanding officer to her. Rapplean could have phrased that explanation in any number of less damning ways, but he’d immediately revealed his lack of respect for Simms. So had the staff sergeant at the desk, come to think of it, and so had the privates escorting Tano. So had the smaj, but honesty among senior NCOs in private was expected and customary.
Serious cracks always start small.
“How is the company, sir?”
Rapplean shrugged. “Fair. Staff Sergeant Botkina has been acting spear, so you’ll have to get with her. She can probably tell you more.” He reached into a drawer to draw out a clear, unmarked plastic bottle. “Drink?”
Repeth hesitated just a moment before agreeing. No need to antagonize the man now. “Skoal,” she essayed as she raised the plastic cup he’d poured.
Rapplean blinked, then smiled. “Skoal.” He downed his dram and poured another while she sipped hers. Rough on her throat, it reminded her of the homemade white lightning she had first tasted so long ago on the McConleys’ farm.
“So...” he continued, “once you get settled in, perhaps I can tour you around the base a bit? Show you where the fun’s at?”
Alarm bells began to ring in her head as she processed what he just offered. Officers, especially commanders, did not give personal walk-arounds to enlisted people they supervised. Another NCO could do that. If the boss had intended to make a quick introduction to the company spaces, he’d have simply said “come with me” and given her the nickel tour. She kept her expression bland as she replied, “Perhaps you can show my husband and me the base some off-duty day. Once we’ve settled in.”
Rapplean’s face blanked, then brightened false. “Of course. We’ll have to get together some time. Well, let’s go find Botkina, shall we?” He slammed the rest of his drink and put away the bottle, then led her out of his office and carefully closed and locked his door.
Another anomaly. Lock a desk, sure, or his quarters, but his office? What happens if his first sergeant needs to get in there for paperwork? Where is the trust in this unit?
The nickel tour materialized after all, brief and desultory – barracks, common room, dayroom. Apparently Rapplean had lost interest. She was starting to see what made him mediocre. If she was correct about her feeling, the man’s priorities ran more toward alleviating his natural boredom than attending to his command.
Their last stop was the company orderly room, military terminology for the administrative offices. Suddenly something that had been unconsciously bothering her made itself known. Usually – okay, always – a company commander’s office was at or very near the orderly room. A unit with a paper strength of two hundred or less did not need much administrative support, especially with battalion headquarters nearby, so the standard configuration had the CO, first sergeant, and a couple of admin troops in a cluster.
This orderly room had two small offices and a space in front with four facing desks for those who didn’t rate. Two female Marines and a female sailor sat there, chatting, and glanced at her as she came in. One office had Staff Sergeant Botkina’s name and rank, and the other had a corporal’s rank alongside the name “Swieu.”
Corporal? What the hell was a corporal doing with an office?
“Morning, ladies,” Rapplean singsonged at the three, and they put on artificial smiles to answer, “Good morning, sir.” The captain breezed past them, leading Repeth toward Botkina’s office.
Inside, a large woman with a broad peasant face and hard eyes stared at the two newcomers from a seated position, then stood up, as if doing so was an afterthought.
If I didn’t know better, she stood because I am here, not because her commander walked in.
“Staff Sergeant Botkina, this is Master Sergeant Repeth. She’ll be taking over as Spear. I’ll leave her with you.” With that, the CO bolted, as if he couldn’t wait to get away. “Bye, ladies,” Repeth heard from outside.
The two women eyed each other across the room office. Repeth thought of asking about Rapplean, to establish some camaraderie, but realized immediately that to do so would risk exactly what had put her off in the first place – criticizing the leadership right off the bat.
Instead, she set her wheel cap on a chair and stepped forward with her hand out. “Good to meet you, Staff Sergeant. Sorry this is so abrupt.”
“No problem.” The other woman’s thick Slavic accent seemed to cover a certain unhappiness as she clasped palms with Repeth.
At least there was no excessive hand-crushing, despite her size. Repeth prepared herself to like Botkina if she could. Certainly no one else she’d met here had been likable, either professionally or personally.
“I see you’ve met our CO,” Botkina said, and then stopped.
Repeth just waited for her to go on, but she did not. “Yes,” she replied, but still the other did not continue. Finally she prompted, “What’s he like?”
Botkina flicked her eyes at the door, and Repeth immediately reached behind herself to close it tight. The staff sergeant then waved her to a seat. “Master Sergeant, may I be frank?”
“Of course. We’re the most senior NCOs in this company, I assume. I don’t gossip.” This last was not only a promise but an implied warning to stick to business.
“You see the orderly room is all female,” Botkina stated.
“I wondered about that.” Repeth now inferred that Corporal Swieu was also a woman. “Are female Marines sidelined in this company?” Marines continued the tradition of everyone at the line level being a combat troop. Any pure admin or support types would be collected at the battalion level or higher, and would not be fully cyber-augmented.
“No. Not the way you mean, I think. They are protected.”
Understanding dawned. “From the CO. He’s a womanizer?”
“That is correct. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Botkina looked uncomfortable. “Corporal Swieu does not need protection. Rather, I am keeping an eye on her.”
“An eye. Because...”
“Now we are drifting into gossip,” the other woman said.
“If it affects the combat readiness of this unit, I need to know. Just the basics.”
Botkina pressed her lips together, then nodded once, sharply. “It is common knowledge anyway. The corporal is a whore.” A challenging stare dared her to object to her choice of words.
Repeth leaned back in her chair to give herself a moment to think. “You’re not just expressing disdain. You mean that she is actually prostituting herself?”
“Exactly, though the currency is gifts, privileges, favors – an undeserved office, the ability to avoid work without consequence, wearing unauthorized fingernail polish and earrings in uniform – all those little deviations that add up to a Marine gone bad.”
“And you can’t rein her in because the CO protects her?”
Botkina nodded again. “The CO...and others.”
“Dear God. What kind of rotten barrel have I fallen into? No, please, Staff Sergeant. I see you are not part of the problem.” I hope. Repeth leaned forward. “Will you be part of the solution?”
Slowly, a grim smile stole across Botkina’s face. “It would be pleasure, Master Sergeant.” Apparently a surge of emotion caused her to drop her articles in the Slavic manner.
“Call me Jill if you like.” A bit of bait. Now let’s see if this rot has infected her as well.
“Perhaps in club, but not on duty. Not even behind closed doors.”
Repeth noticed the other woman did not volunteer her own first name, though undoubtedly she could find it out just by reading one of the awards on the wall, if necessary. “Very well. Oh, and why do we have a sailor assigned to us?”
Botkina blinked at the change of subject. “Like the others. Protection. She was in battalion S-1 before. Pretty, young, vulnerable to rank and power.”
Repeth let some of her growing anger leak through. “What the hell is going on around here, Staff Sergeant? I have never encountered a unit so rife with unprofessional behavior, and if this is what I see within hours of arrival, I can only think it’s actually worse. If you want me to help, you’ll have to tell me everything. That’s the only way I can try to figure out how to square this shit away. Are we clear?”
Botkina took a deep breath, then nodded once again. “Clear, First Sergeant.” The honorific was premature, but indicative of her assent. “I explain.”
