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Atumbi’s life, followed by the longest hour of PT in the ’verse. For a full sixty mikes, Private Race Atumbi ran around the perimeter of the Saint Sykes training field, his rifle held high and his gun held low, chanting at the top of his lungs:
    â€œThis is my rifle.
    This is my gun.
    This is for offing targets.
    This is for fun.”
    After Victor Company dispersed, Promise waved the gunny over and offered him a cup of hot caf.
    â€œChit for your thoughts, Tomas. Here, it’s just the way you like it.”
    Ramuel took an angry sip. “Ma’am, I apologize. What you witnessed was disgraceful. We are barely what I would call a company. We will work double-time to shore up our deficiencies. I take personal responsibility for—”
    Promise raised her mug of caf to cut him off. “Tomas, I know. Relax and drink yours while it’s hot. A lot of our privates and PFCs were rushed through boot camp and the School of Infantry. BUPERS’s decision to cut weeks from both schools is coming back to bite us in the tail. What do they expect us to do? Teach them to shoot properly, at distance, after we deploy?”
    â€œThey need more time, ma’am,” the gunny said after gingerly sipping his caf. “Even a few weeks could make a huge difference. I’ve paired each greenhorn with a veteran and ordered extra range sessions. I’m seeing improvement, but they shouldn’t have been sent to the fleet in such a poor state of readiness to begin with. They don’t all deserve the title of Marine. Not yet.” Ramuel scowled. “This isn’t the Corps I came up in.”
    â€œThis isn’t the Corps of five years ago, Tomas. Did you hear about Vermont?”
    â€œYeah, I nearly punched a wall,” Ramuel said. “Five hundred Marines, dead and gone. How did a hovtruck laden with micronite get through the gate at Fort Clark?”
    Fort Clark was on the northern continent of the planet Vermont, about seventy klicks from the planet’s capital. The Fifty-First Regiment called Vermont home; almost five thousand Marines, with supporting LAC wings, and a full task force of battleships and battlecruisers in orbit, and that didn’t count Vermont’s militia and system defense forces. Vermont had joined the RAW seven years ago and the vote for incorporation hadn’t been close. Over two billion souls. Seventy percent of Vermont’s population had turned out, and sixty-four percent had checked yes. A sizable minority had said no and some had picked up arms to make their point clear.
    â€œThe preliminary report looks pretty damning,” Promise said. “The Marines at the main gate didn’t do a thorough inspection of the vehicle. The driver’s I-dent was forged. The truck floated up to the south barracks and detonated its payload shortly after midnight when everyone was asleep. It was a massacre.”
    Promise saw Atumbi rounding the far side of the running track. “We’re trying to mass-produce Marines, be too many places at once, garrison planets when we’re designed to fight small wars. Don’t blame yourself, Tomas. Do what you can. Keep them training. Keep the pressure on and look for reasons to reward them. They need us covering their six even as we kick theirs.”
    â€œYeah, I know you’re right, ma’am. But I don’t have to like it.”
    â€œNope. But you have to love the suck.” Promise punched him lightly in the shoulder. “I’m visiting Kearsarge at the end of the week, and then reporting to the colonel. I’ll take the matter to him personally and see if I can buy us some time, okay?”

 
    Four
    APRIL 19 TH , 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 1003 HOURS
    REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD
    RNS NITRO, PARKING ORBIT WHISKEY-ECHO 6
    Lieutenant Colonel Price Halvorsen, commanding officer of Charlie Battalion, Fifth Brigade, Twelfth Regiment, stood at ease in his