Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(24)
“Sure, I’ll come,” I say. “As soon as our Alliance friend is in his berth and I’m done chaperoning for this watch.”
“Hell, just bring him with you,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick says. “He can watch and learn how the SI does in the hand-to-hand business. It’ll be a cultural exchange.” He takes a pack of training magazines, loads one into his rifle, and puts the other ones into the pouches on his armor. “’Course, we grunts ain’t got much in the way of culture to exchange.”
I snort a laugh and leave the staff sergeant to his impending battle with imaginary faceless enemies.
Dmitry doesn’t object to joining me down in Grunt Country a little while later. If anything, he seems eager for some variety after days of boredom staring at the bulkhead in a berth the size of a closet.
When I open the hatch to the rec room in the back of the module and step across the threshold, none of the eight or nine grunts in the room take much notice. Some are working out on benches or heavy bags, someone is doing pushups in a corner of the room, and two of the SI troopers are sparring on a square of training mats in the center of the room. When Dmitry walks into the room behind me, however, the moderately busy din in the room dies down gradually as the grunts become aware of the SRA trooper’s presence. He has been around at mealtimes and in the corridors of the ship, so his presence isn’t a novelty anymore, but I’ve never brought him down here into the SI’s only private sanctum on this ship.
“Grayson,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick calls from the back of the room, where he has been doing pushups. He hops to his feet and walks over to us. “Come on in, join the fun.”
“Don’t mind if we do,” I reply. “You’ve met Senior Sergeant Chistyakov.”
“Senior Sergeant.” Philbrick nods at Dmitry, who returns the gesture. The SRA trooper looks a little apprehensive, which is understandable. I sure as hell would be if I were in their boots right now.
“Sergeant Chistyakov dropped with me when we did the Fomalhaut b drop last week,” I say. “He knows his shit.”
“What’s a senior sergeant rank?” Philbrick asks Dmitry. “How does it compare to ours? E-5, E-6, what?”
I’m pretty sure that Staff Sergeant Philbrick has a general idea of the rank structure of the SRA military—we learned stuff like that in our OPFOR-recognition classes—but I appreciate his effort to break the ice.
“Senior sergeant is like your master sergeant,” Dmitry replies. “Is different, though. In company of garrison, stárshiy serzhánt is at desk, helps out company officer. Administration,” he says with an expression of strong distaste on his face. “I am battlespace coordinator, not administrator. Drop ship and rifle, not desk and paperwork.”
“We speak the same language after all,” Sergeant Philbrick says with a grin. “We’re just doing some friendly sparring down here. Feel free to hang around.”
The SI troopers go up against each other in quick one-minute rounds of contact sparring in protective gear. Staff Sergeant Philbrick is a good fighter because he is tall and lanky and has a lot of reach with those long arms of his. I watch as he goes up against a stockier but stronger-looking dark-haired corporal. The corporal tries to get in underneath Philbrick’s defense, but the staff sergeant uses his longer reach to keep his opponent at bay and out of grappling range. At the forty-second mark of the round, the corporal gets a little careless, and Philbrick takes him down with a sweeping kick to the lower legs that sends the corporal crashing onto the mat. The other SI troopers clap and hoot their approval.
“You gotta learn, Nez,” Philbrick tells the corporal when he helps him back up onto his feet. “You get too hasty and leave yourself open.”
“Yes, Sarge,” Corporal Nez replies.
The SI troopers swap gel gloves around, and another pair of troopers step onto the mat for a quick bout. I watch Dmitry as he watches the unfolding fight. Dmitry has his arms folded across his chest and a slight smile on his lips. He looks like a teacher watching a group of first graders playing around at recess.
I pick up a pair of nearby gel gloves and put them on. Then I grab another pair and call Dmitry’s name. He looks over to me, and I toss him the gloves. He extends one hand almost lazily and snatches them out of midair.
“You want to go a round? Show the SI how the Russian marines do it?”
Dmitry chuckles. Then he puts the gloves on his fists and pounds one into the other with a muffled thump. They look a lot tighter on him than mine do on me.
“Andrew, my friend,” he says, “that may not be best idea you have today.”
One minute doesn’t seem like a long time when you’re doing fun stuff, but on a fighting mat, it’s damn near an eternity, especially when you are getting your clock cleaned comprehensively. Dmitry is roughly in my weight class, and he doesn’t look much more muscled than I am, but he punches much harder than a guy his size ought to be able to hit. I probe his block with a few left jabs, then follow up with a right cross, which he deflects with both gloves. Then his response combination comes. I block his straights in return, but his cross plows right through my defenses and makes me hit myself hard in the mouth with the side of my own glove. For a moment, I see stars. I throw out a low shin kick to the side of his legs, but it’s like kicking a bulkhead. He lands another left-right combination. I lash out blindly with a straight that clips him on the jaw. Twenty seconds into the fight, my skull is ringing, and I feel like I’ve run a half marathon. At the end of the minute, he has landed three hits for every one of mine, and he’s never even tried to use his legs. When the timer sounds its little electronic trill to signal the end of the round, I am thoroughly worn-out, and my mouth tastes like fresh blood. Dmitry looks a little sweaty, but otherwise not half as rumpled as I feel.