Starfist: Blood Contact by David Sherman & Dan Cragg Page A

lines. The intelligence analyst who'd prepared the report rated the information fairly reliable. It had not been shared with BHHEI or anyone else outside the Combined Chiefs, and access to the information was strictly need-to-know for them as well—neither the Commandant of the Confederation Marine Corps, a full member of the Combined Chiefs, nor the Chief of Staff of the Army was cleared for this information.
    Admiral Perry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Now if Golem was on the money... "Who do we have who can deploy to that sector in the fastest time?" he asked his monitor. General Middleburg's staff had already compiled a list of available vessels, and it flashed onto his screen immediately. It was very short.
    "We probably don't need a capital ship for this mission," he mused. He reviewed the list of available units.
    If this was a Golem hit, a combat unit would be needed; a ship's landing party might not be able to handle what could come up on Society 437 if, in fact, anybody was still there. Marines.
    "General, I see your staff recommends the CNSS Fairfax County and a contingent of Marines from the 34th FIST?" Admiral Perry thought about that for a moment. "Send the order," he sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "But, General Middleburg," he added, "specify in that order I don't want them to send more than a platoon of Marines. I'd send a corporal and two privates if I could get away with it. Damned if I'll waste the time of any more than a platoon on those people. We need to keep our deployable strength at as high a level as we can, to deal with really important things. I'm no gravel grinder, but I know even in the best of times infantry units are lucky to deploy with sixty percent of their authorized strength." He sighed again. "But 34th FIST can operate minus one platoon for whatever time it takes them to get to this place, straighten things out, and get back. Goddamn eggheads have probably all gone native or got wrapped up in their experiments. Nothing out there a platoon of Marines can't handle."

CHAPTER 9
    Marine FISTs were dispatched to tend to the business of the Confederation of Worlds when force or the threat of force was called for. As a unit assigned to a remote outpost, the 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team often went to places nobody had ever heard of. Sometimes the simple arrival on the scene of a naval flotilla with an embarked FIST was sufficient to quell whatever disturbance had attracted the attention of the Confederation. Usually, the Marines had to make planetfall and deal with it directly, and they often had to fight. So they trained, constantly. No one knew what kind of operation the FIST would next be dispatched on, so they trained for every contingency their commanders could dream up—and from time to time the commanders dreamed up some doozies.
    For now, nobody dreamed up doozies. Thirty-fourth FIST had taken the brunt of the heaviest fighting on Diamunde and had too many new men to integrate into its infantry battalion, air squadron, Dragon company, artillery battery, and headquarters units, so training was fairly basic. Even so, the Marines trained as hard as Brigadier Sturgeon and his subordinate commanders could train them, to make sure they'd be ready when they were sent in harm's way again. When Marines go in harm's way, people die, and the Marines were determined that it was the other guys who would do the dying.
    When they came in out of the field, off the live-fire range, out of the virtual-reality training chambers, and pulled liberty in Bronnoysund, they played as hard as they trained. Not much of the playing was at the level the promotion parties had reached, but enough of the Marines returned to Camp Ellis after liberty with split knuckles, blackened eyes, broken bones, and monumental hangovers to keep them satisfied and out of serious trouble.
    Then there were the inspections. It seemed to the junior men and junior NCOs that inspections were thrown into the schedule whenever the