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

again. “I've got you by date of rank,” he said smirking.
    “Yes...and no, Staff,” Jethro said, noticing the Marines had quieted in the bay. He'd rather not have had this particular pissing contest in such a public venue, but he hadn't chosen it or the timing. He'd tried to catch the Staff before he'd come on board, and he'd even e-mailed him. Apparently, the human hadn't gotten the message, or if he had he'd ignored it.
    “Point of information since you didn't get word. Yes, I was recently promoted to Staff, but since there was bound to be some confusion over the command chain and since I'm the one with combat experience, the powers that be decided to do a little something about it,” Jethro said. “I'm now a rank above you. A brevet promotion for now,” the panther said. He pointed the index claw on his right hand to his left shoulder patch and tapped it meaningfully as he pinged his own updated IFF.
    Spitterman stared at him, clearly off balance and aghast. “They can do that?” he demanded, wide eyed. “That's not fair!”
    “Damn right they can. So soldier on,” Sergei said in passing. Jethro shot him a dirty look. The Liger shrugged but kept going.
    “Spitterman, why are you here?”
    “Are you kidding me? A combat ticket in my dossier, something to put in my memoirs and a sure fire way for promotion and glory!”
    “Ah hell,” Jethro sighed.
    “Never be in a foxhole with a hero; ten to one he'll get your ass kilt,” Harley quipped in a text message. Jethro flicked his ears in appreciation of her humor.
    “Look, Spitterman, we're going into full-on combat.”
    “I know that! That's why I'm here!”
    “Yeah well, if you're going to keep up, you've got to lose some kilos. And hell, I don't know where to start. We're going to do assessments one everyone and training twenty hours a day, every day until we actually do see combat.”
    “Oh shit. Are you serious?”
    “Yes,” Jethro said with a feline smile. He was starting to enjoy seeing the fat tub of lard sweat. He knew he wouldn't enjoy the smell for long though. “And here is the kicker, we could very well die if the ship gets blown full of holes. But if we survive that, then well, we get sent into a ship filled with pirates hell bent on killing us. And if they realize they are screwed, well hell, they might just hit that old self destruct...”
    Spitterman was as pale as a ghost when Jethro petered off. He gulped a few times, and then took out a marine hanky to wipe at his sweaty brow. “I...um, never thought of it that way,” he muttered.
    “Well, the good news is, you've got a long time to think about it. When you're not exhausted or too busy busting your tail to do so. So, for now, get squared away and then hit the noncom meeting.”
    “Meeting?”
    “I'm calling one ten minutes after the last noncom is on board. Training is Sergeant's work, and we've got our work cut out for us.”
    ---( | ) --- ( | )---
     
    Jethro recognized a few familiar faces in passing. Lars Owens, Betty Paige and Zebo were welcome faces. All were veterans of the First Agnosta Marine Expedition, so apparently someone somewhere had scrounged them up from whatever rock they had been hiding under. Apparently Zebo and Paige had been demoted recently though, both had been Lances when he'd last seen them, or so he thought. He nodded. He knew they wanted to chat, to find out what the hell was going on, but now was not the time. Jethro motioned them to keep moving. Lars nodded and poked the others into motion.
    A few familiar faces Jethro could do without. The human Presley was okay, but he was another shooter. He was a hell of a brawler in the bars though, he'd been up and down the rank a bit. His IFF said he was a PFC.
    It was the familiar Samoan that got a groan out of the panther. “I know right?” PFC Keoni Nahele said, eyes crinkling in humor. “Good to see you too...gunny. Hell, we'll catch up some other time bro,” he said in passing, shouldering his sea bag