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One by one, the grunts filter into the mess hall for chow, finding
Moore and Fleming already seated, pecking at their breakfasts. It's
obvious they've both been briefed already about the assignment, but
trying to read the sergeant's face is impossible; he always wears an
intense, worried look. Fleming, on the other hand, has on his "don't
talk to me" face, and glares at the troops while pushing eggs around
on his plate.
Today the autochef is serving up its usual mystery menu: ersatz eggs
that are runny and crumbly at the same time, imitation bacon, half
frozen biscuits and lumpy gravy. At least the orange juice tastes
like orange.
"This is bullshit," says Sabo, punching in his breakfast order on the
autochef. He pours himself half a cup of coffee and fills the rest
with sugar substitute.
"You should be thankful you even have a meal to eat," Morrison says,
punching up his own order. He pours himself a cup of juice, wincing
at the acidic smell of the preservatives.
He and Sabo find seats along the main table, close to the Sarge and
Fleming. Sabo looks at Fleming and sticks his tongue out, his mouth
full of half chewed egg.
PFC Patwardhan picks at her food before taking a few tentative
bites. "You know," she says to the Marines nearest her at the
table, "when I first joined the CMC I was a little worried about
having to violate some of my religious dietary restrictions." She
holds up a lump of egg speared on her fork, studying it as she would
a lab specimen. There are tiny chunks of green and red that might
represent peppers. Juevos rancheros?
"It's nice to know that no animals were involved in any way with the
making of our meals." She then pops the suspicious morsel into her
mouth and chews it with some reservation.
"So how's everybody feeling?" she asks nonchalantly, but still with
the tone of a doctor speaking to a patient.
Berliner takes his seat
next to the medtech, overhearing her question. "Actually, Doc," he
begins. "I've got this unusual swelling in my genitals. Do you think
you could take a look at it?"
"You've probably contracted some kind of fungal infection from a
sheep on Ketta. Do you have similar swelling on one of your hands?"
she says, dead pan.
Brimstone laughs at Berliner and turns to him. "Sounds serious,
soldier. Last I heard, the creeping crud's been infecting under-used
penile tissue."
She looks across the table at Patwardhan and gives her a sly wink.
"Actually, Brimstone, I think it's getting worse now that you're
here," Berliner retorts with a smile.
But Brimstone's got more in her arsenal. "We better get scrubbed up,
Doc. I believe the only cure is amputation."
Sabo giggles, slapping his fist on the table and splashing coffee
into his food tray. Berliner looks pleased with himself as he shoves
a biscuit into gray soup.
Morrison, sitting across the table, mixes his eggs around into a pile
of mush and lets the stuff trickle through his fork. "Are you sure
this stuff won't kill us eventually, Doc?"
Without waiting for an
answer, he downs a mouthful of the stuff.
"I'll tell you how to eat around here, Morris," Duarte offers. "Don't
go for anything that's a primary color."
"What's the fucking reasoning behind that?" Sabo says, annoyed.
"What color are those eggs?" asks Duarte, pointing.
"Yellow."
"That's a primary color. I wouldn't touch them."
Fresh out of the shower, sporting his cammo fatigues and a scrim
cloth tied around his head, pirate style, Booths makes his way to the
autochef. A casual glance at the menu evinces a mental shudder.
Punching in a selection, he retrieves a tray and begins looking for a
seat.
McKenzie grabs his meal from the autochef with a grimace and finds a
spot at the table. USCM boot camp has been tough, and the memory of
it was still fresh in his mind, but at least the eggs had come from
some kind of actual bird.
"Say, Doc, is this stuff really part of a balanced diet? I mean, does
it meet my daily requirements of vitamins S, H, I, and T? After all,
I am a growing boy."
"You're already full of shit, McKenzie," goes the medtech. She
smiles, remembering what it was like to be the newbie. Not too long
ago she learned the hard way that you've got to give what you've got
to earn your share of respect. "What's a kid like you doing in the
CMC, anyway? They knock some time off your sentence?"
Booths suppressed a grimace and plopped himself down next to
McKenzie. "Well, at least we know that the food is truly bad: Mr.
Green here seems to be enjoying it."
The rivalry between the smartgunners is friendly enough, if only just
enough to keep them from fist fighting. Booths picks up a biscuit
and, declaring it safe, stuffs it into his mouth, swallowing as much
as possible without tasting it too much.
McKenzie shrugs and dives into his meal heartily enough, too stoked
about the possibility of seeing action to care what the others think.
Besides, he's got a feeling that if the shit really came down, their
opinions of him would probably improve a little. He might even get
out of the shadow of that KIA he replaced.
"Didn't the UN ban this," Booths says, holding up a forkful of runny
eggs, "in POW camps? Right along with high school cafeteria food?"
Shaking his head, Booths steals himself, and begins to slurp up the
eggs, keeping it down with strong doses of pseudo juice and bites
from a biscuit.
Vitelli grabs a plate for himself, smelling the eggs as the steam
rises up. He walks over to the table and takes a seat across from Doc
Patwardhan.
"This shit they call food could kill you, man," he says to no one in
particular, scrunching his face. He uses his fork to play with the
food, but only eats the biscuit.
Looking down to where Fleming and Moore are sitting, Vitelli
says, "Hey, Sarge, what's it gonna be this time?"
Moore doesn't answer the question right away, and when he does, it
lacks enthusiasm. "Ghost ship. Some numbnuts off course with a busted
comm array. Eat up."
McKenzie pipes up, "What? What did you say? Ghost ship? Did I
accidentally join the fucking Coast Guard or what?"
The warrant officer Leon enters the mess hall from a corridor leading
to the comlab. He sits across from Moore and Fleming and delivers his
report.
"I sent the call out. We should hear back in about 40 hours. Still
nothing from the Korea. Rodina confirms a negative as well, with no
change on the heading."
Moore nods slightly. "Thank you," he says, before calmly getting back
to his breakfast.
"What about the long range scan? Anything else in the area?" asks the
lieutenant.
"No," Leon says. "We're the only ship that responded. The Sulaco,
incidentally, is en route to LV-426."
"Related?" Fleming asks, between bites.
"Unknown, but I would assume so."
Moore doesn't like to jump to conclusions, and works to change the
subject. "Let's wait to hear what HQ says, okay? To tell you the
truth, I just want to baby this ship into port and go home. My kids
are probably starting to miss their dad."
Sarge takes a bite of a biscuit, and chews noisily. "Somebody needs
to do something about the goddamn autochef."
Vitelli leans into the conversation. "Maybe they've got better food
over there." By this time, the eggs on his plate have cooled off, but
the rest of the meal is gone. "I hope they have some women on that
ship. It's been too long since I've had an R&R where I wasn't stone
cold and not breathing."
The comtech throws the rest of the food away and takes a pack of
cigarettes from his shirt breast pocket. Guaranteed tobacco free. He
shakes two smokes out of the pack, popping one in his mouth and
slotting the other behind his right ear. He produces a silver
lighter, and is soon blowing smoke as he moves to sit down beside
Fleming.
"By all means, lieutenant, continue," says the private.
Fleming waves a hand in front of his face. "You'll hear about it
during the briefing. Finished with breakfast? I'm sure there's some
drills you can run in simulation, Vitelli."
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