Jethro 3: No Place Like Home by Chris Hechtl Page A

problem; work it out. We don't have time to hold hands and wipe your asses,” Jethro growled. “I want a meeting with the senior leadership in twenty. That means anyone Lance or higher. We've got less than an hour before the new troops start showing up so no dicking around. Get with it Marines!” He snarled as the bay exploded into action.
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    Major Forth had sent along new Marines to integrate with Major Pendeckle's Marines on Antigua. Valenko's squad was being broken up; most would head their own squad or half squad. They had a sketchy TOE, but only a list of names, ranks and serial numbers; their MOSs weren't on file. A snafu with the records department; something that had yet to be worked out.
    Jethro knew right now, any warm body would be welcome. They'd figure something out, and they'd have time to get them up to speed while in transit. At least for some things, he thought darkly. It wasn't like they could practice EVA or use explosives on the ship.
    Some of the recruits he recognized by name. He'd had a couple as boots, and he knew they were good troop. They would be welcomed to replace Fonz. Others not so much.
    Each of the Marines were catching whatever flight available from wherever they were on the planet to get to the station. Some had to transition to the main base before coming up. A few were dragging their heels. Some, however, had gotten to the station early and made a nuisance of themselves trying to get aboard while the squids were transferring cargo.
    Staff Sergeant Allen Spitterman, “Al the Allan wrench,” came swaggering onto Firefly an hour after she docked and her boarding tubes had cleared. He was as advertised, overweight with a bit of a gut. He was human, 169 centimeters tall with a regulation Marine buzz cut of black wiry hair.
    “All right people, listen up,” he bellowed into the bay. “I'm your new senior noncom. That's Staff Sergeant Spitterman,” he said, flashing his IFF. He pointed to the rank on his jacket. “Staff. You can call me Staff or god, I don't care which. We need to get this clusterfuck under control. I'll take the rack furthest from the head.”
    “We're assigning them, Staff,” Sergei said, looking at him. “Some of us were here first and can't fit on the smaller racks.”
    “Says you. I've got the rank; I'm damn well going to use it. You want to be busted a stripe?” he demanded.
    The liger got out of his rack and looked at the human with slitted eyes. Spitterman stopped abruptly and looked up and up. Way up. Sergei smiled slightly, and then picked something out of his teeth. He'd stayed in his rack to keep out of the way. Now he was suddenly filling the aisle, and traffic stopped.
    “Sergei, get your ass to work. Someone want to tell me what's going on? You're supposed to be stowing your gear,” Jethro said, coming in behind Spitterman. “We're hot racking, three to a bunk, so it's going to get friendly. Get over it.”
    “Who the hell put you in charge? I'm the noncom here,” Spitterman said, turning to glare at Jethro.
    “Who are you?”
    “He's the yahoo who came on deck and started to throw his weight around,” Sergei said.
    “Shut it you. I'll deal with you in a moment,” Spitterman growled.
    “Any time, any place little human,” the liger growled softly, deep in his throat. A few of the Marines around him looked at him in sudden discomfort.
    Jethro felt the Staff Sergeant ping him. He held off on the IFF for the moment. Like most of the Neos he wasn't wearing a jacket; it was hot in the compartment. With so many bodies in a confined space it was heating up fast. It was only going to get worse as more and more piled in. Hopefully, the squids were doing something about it. Probably not though, he thought. He'd have to look into it shortly he thought with resignation.
    “Wait; you’re that panther, Sergeant Jethro. Well, as it happens…,” the human said, turning to show his right arm. He tapped meaningfully on his rank