ropes, then. Lance Corporal...” He turned the proceedings over to Minh.
Lance Corporal Minh did not bother to get up from his workstation. The immaculately tailored class B
winter uniform he wore had no badges or decorations. He clearly considered the men from the FIST an annoyance, an interruption to his otherwise very important work. He had been selected for attaché duty right out of Boot Camp and had never had another assignment in the Corps except there, at the New Oslo embassy. His high intelligence, high security clearances, and close association with the Confederation diplomatic corps had given him a very high opinion of himself.
“Here are some brochures about what to do and see in the city,” he said in a voice that reflected his bored, seen-it-all attitude. He spread out the brochures in front of him. He would not lower himself to passing them out to these boondock Marines. “If you must go outside the city, you are limited to a hundred kilometer radius. There are some fine winter resorts within that limit you might want to visit while you’re here.
“We have rooms booked for you in the FIST R and R hotel downtown. They are first-class accommodations. You may stay there or anywhere else that suits you while you’re here.” He made a deprecating gesture at one of the holograms portraying a buxom young woman on skis. “In these envelopes is supplemental pay, in kroner, that you may find useful while you’re here. The uniform after dark is dress scarlets; otherwise, wear whatever in your seabag suits the occasion. You can buy or rent cold-weather gear if you need it. Somehow, I don’t think you will,” he added with a sneer.
“Transportation to your hotel leaves in thirty minutes. Please be back here at oh-five hours next Freytag, that is, five days from today.
“I want to do a quick download from your personnel records bracelets before you leave here, and I need to know your communicator call signs. If you need me, my call sign is R and R2. Please, don’t mumble that in your sleep.” Minh nodded at the captain that he was finished.
“Well, welcome to New Oslo, Marines,” the captain said. “The people here are not as rough around the edges as they are back at Bronny, but they love their beer and a good time and they like Marines.
While you’re here, though, remember the old commandment for men in port: ‘Lend and spend and not offend, till eight bells calls you out.’ ”
“Men,” Bass said to the others as they checked into the lobby of their hotel, “I know a place here where we can get started tonight. It’s eleven hours local now. Meet me down here at sixteen hours, in your reds. After tonight you’re on your own.”
In their room—the three had been assigned to one large suite—Claypoole bounced his seabag on the bed and began to undress.
“You guys ever been on R and R before?” Schultz asked.
“I haven’t,” Dean responded.
“Bullshit,” Schultz sneered, “both you dukshits were on R and R the whole time we were deployed on Wanderjahr! What do you mean, you ain’t never been on R and R before?” They all laughed.
“Yep,” Claypoole said, “while the real men like you, Hammer, were out in the boonies back there, ol’
Dean-o and me, we stayed back in Brosigville and just shot the shit out of everything that moved.” Schultz clapped Claypoole on the back and laughed with him at the joke. Despite being on detached duty at the FIST headquarters the whole time, both Marines had been promoted in lieu of a decoration for heroism during the training mission on Wanderjahr.
“Well, with Charlie Bass along, we should have a good introduction to things in this town tonight,” Dean said.
“Yeah,” Schultz grunted, “intoxication and intercourse nonstop.” Although Schultz feigned world-weary cynicism most of the time and maintained that he never felt comfortable unarmed no matter where he was, all three men were delighted their platoon sergeant had been
Lance Corporal Minh did not bother to get up from his workstation. The immaculately tailored class B
winter uniform he wore had no badges or decorations. He clearly considered the men from the FIST an annoyance, an interruption to his otherwise very important work. He had been selected for attaché duty right out of Boot Camp and had never had another assignment in the Corps except there, at the New Oslo embassy. His high intelligence, high security clearances, and close association with the Confederation diplomatic corps had given him a very high opinion of himself.
“Here are some brochures about what to do and see in the city,” he said in a voice that reflected his bored, seen-it-all attitude. He spread out the brochures in front of him. He would not lower himself to passing them out to these boondock Marines. “If you must go outside the city, you are limited to a hundred kilometer radius. There are some fine winter resorts within that limit you might want to visit while you’re here.
“We have rooms booked for you in the FIST R and R hotel downtown. They are first-class accommodations. You may stay there or anywhere else that suits you while you’re here.” He made a deprecating gesture at one of the holograms portraying a buxom young woman on skis. “In these envelopes is supplemental pay, in kroner, that you may find useful while you’re here. The uniform after dark is dress scarlets; otherwise, wear whatever in your seabag suits the occasion. You can buy or rent cold-weather gear if you need it. Somehow, I don’t think you will,” he added with a sneer.
“Transportation to your hotel leaves in thirty minutes. Please be back here at oh-five hours next Freytag, that is, five days from today.
“I want to do a quick download from your personnel records bracelets before you leave here, and I need to know your communicator call signs. If you need me, my call sign is R and R2. Please, don’t mumble that in your sleep.” Minh nodded at the captain that he was finished.
“Well, welcome to New Oslo, Marines,” the captain said. “The people here are not as rough around the edges as they are back at Bronny, but they love their beer and a good time and they like Marines.
While you’re here, though, remember the old commandment for men in port: ‘Lend and spend and not offend, till eight bells calls you out.’ ”
“Men,” Bass said to the others as they checked into the lobby of their hotel, “I know a place here where we can get started tonight. It’s eleven hours local now. Meet me down here at sixteen hours, in your reds. After tonight you’re on your own.”
In their room—the three had been assigned to one large suite—Claypoole bounced his seabag on the bed and began to undress.
“You guys ever been on R and R before?” Schultz asked.
“I haven’t,” Dean responded.
“Bullshit,” Schultz sneered, “both you dukshits were on R and R the whole time we were deployed on Wanderjahr! What do you mean, you ain’t never been on R and R before?” They all laughed.
“Yep,” Claypoole said, “while the real men like you, Hammer, were out in the boonies back there, ol’
Dean-o and me, we stayed back in Brosigville and just shot the shit out of everything that moved.” Schultz clapped Claypoole on the back and laughed with him at the joke. Despite being on detached duty at the FIST headquarters the whole time, both Marines had been promoted in lieu of a decoration for heroism during the training mission on Wanderjahr.
“Well, with Charlie Bass along, we should have a good introduction to things in this town tonight,” Dean said.
“Yeah,” Schultz grunted, “intoxication and intercourse nonstop.” Although Schultz feigned world-weary cynicism most of the time and maintained that he never felt comfortable unarmed no matter where he was, all three men were delighted their platoon sergeant had been
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