The Next Warrior

Disembarkation - Part 10

Days passed as a massive fleet assembled outside Puerto Rico. Thousands more Marines, soldiers, and sailors were flooding bases in New Orleans and Florida on standby. Nearly a week after the order was made for the Tripoli to leave Accra, the word finally came down to the troops in their cabins, anxiously waiting for news. The waiting would be over tonight.

Caracas had until midnight to comply with the United Nations directive to allow delegations and inspection crews into cities and ports. If reasonable submission to this appeal wasn't made, the Marines would lead the way into the heart of the nation, followed by the largest military display of force seen in decades.

It had been more than a year since the Marine Corps conducted any major operations, and that mission only involved a few hundred troops, mostly special forces operators, and only lasted four months.

Minor incursions had called for troops to be deployed off and on over the last decade, but rarely had there been a situation in which Marines had been made to fire shots in anger. Not since Afghanistan had there been any fighting on the scale of this. That was the last time most Marines had the chance to see combat and it was now twelve years behind them. Romero would have only been nine years old the last time the Marines were at war. Now, as his combat instructor had predicted, he could very well be the first to see another - one about to start.

Everyone was told to do final checks on their gear... perhaps the last of a series of hundreds leading to today, and to bed down early in the afternoon. Lights were out in the squadbay at 1600. It was far too soon to sleep, but many considered that this might be the last chance for some rest before what the wise knew might prove to be a very, very long day. Some slept in their hammocks while others killed time with restless talk, played cards, or watched the news and information reports on Venezuela over the last several hours. The hard chargers and veterans, continually checked and rechecked their gear. The last, those who couldn't sleep, stirred by the thick atmosphere of nervous anticipation buzzing around, were busy whispering into vlog recorders, which they obviously weren't allowed to post to the holonet, but that could be recorded for posterity later. They were currently under a communication blackout. No social media from anyone on the fleet could go out. Still, others were recording video mail home to their mothers, brothers, or lovers, wives, and children. Romero was among these, still enticed by the girl in Ghana, he whispered a letter. Then he sent one to his mother. It was assumed they would all have the chance to have it go through once major operations had ended and they lowered the information security threshold. Estimates were that that could be a couple of weeks, but either way, they might not have a chance to do this for a while. This peaceful calm, masking a growing tension lasted until 2130 that night.

Loud footsteps, marching at a brisk pace from down the hallway clanked with an echo against the metallic corridors, a prelude to the night to come. The hatch to the squad bay slammed open as the Platoon Commander, Lieutenant Grabowski, and Gunnery Sergeant Yafante yelled an alarm cry and threw on the lights. Marines jumped to the floor, instantly awake and alert by the bellows of their commander.

"Squad Leaders," Grabowski boomed, "get everyone to the chow hall. You've got thirty minutes for an early midrats and then I want the platoon to be in full battle rattle and mustered on the quarterdeck with packs, gear and weapons checked from the armory by 2230 for inspection."

The Squad leaders responded back with the obligatory, but still excited, "Aye-aye, Sir!" and went about carrying out his plan of action.

Most of the Marines had showered before bed and made their way down to the Tripoli's chow hall. It was a mob and brimming with excitement. When they ran to the chow hall, they knew by the aroma, tonight was real. The galley had the full complement of staff on hand. At least they seemed to be aware of what was going to happen next. There was only one thing on the menu today, but it was grand. Rib-eye steak, hundreds cooked to every man's liking, ready to serve, along with whole wheat waffles, with sides of peanut butter and maple syrup, and hash browns. To top it off, the beverage for the evening was none other than crisp and cold, ice cold, bottles of beer. Coors or Budweiser with a two drink limit; that was all the choice they had, but what a feast it would be; a true warrior's breakfast. Nutrition be damned the night before a battle. Every infantrymen's boot, heel to toe, packed like sardines on the line.

As the platoon took their seats, Kaiser, the self-appointed platoon morale officer, captured the attention of everyone at the tables with a fork chiming on the glass bottle of his beer.

"My fellow Devildogs! A toast! To victory over those Vennie bastards and to the Breakfast of the Damned!"

Cheers and protests rang out over the chow hall as glasses clanked and hash browns flew at the Lance Corporal lacking in any sense of social etiquette. He took his seat again with an eager smile on his face. He expected an angry NCOs glare at him. Corporal Williams, instead, sat quietly staring. With a grandiose flare, Williams removed the cap of the bottle and raised it above them. A toast, looking to the other three to do the same.

The four Marines of Romero's fire team raised their bottles, and touched them together.

"Oo-rah, boys," replied Corporal Williams.

Together, the team replied synchronously, "Err."

All around the room, the same words were said, and bottles touched likewise. With that simple ceremony, the four ate in a kind of silence, at least, it was the kind of silence that Marines would have to expect when four hundred zealous troops feasted on the eve before battle.

"Alright boys, finish it off and put it away. We gotta' get mustered on the quarterdeck. I want all of you there geared up for my inspection by 2215. Finish the chow. Get moving."