“What’s wrong with him?” Jack asked.
“I think he’s discovering that I’m not quite the nice girl he was thinking it would be fun to fall in love, or at least infatuation, with.” Then Kris switched to the business at hand and briefed Jack on what she could see from the tower.
“You tell me to be careful when I sneak out in front of our main line of resistance, and then you climb to the top of the main target in town. No wonder Ron is shaking the dust of you from his sandals.”
“I’ll get down before Hank gets too close, which is more than I can say for Ernie. He’s staked the place out for himself and his favorite mistress. They’re plotting sex games for tonight based on who does the craziest thing up here.”
Ernie’s beaming grin did not disagree with her.
“I got to quit hanging around you, girl. I got to. Okay, I’m going to keep the watch here. There’re a couple of crazy teenagers who want to help. I’ve frisked them for switch-blades, guns, relativity bombs, the basics, and I’m letting them ride skateboards on the berm. They’ll let us know when Hank’s close.”
“He has a brass band.”
“Hank does? Still, he might let them have a break. And who knows how long this land line hookup will work.”
“Send the kids out. Make sure they know to get gone when the sailors show up.” Kris rang off, picked up her binoculars and checked. Hank was halfway down the review line of troops.
“This waiting is going to be the pits,” Ernie said. “Maybe we could send him some busses.”
The chief raised his eyebrows in a knowing smile. “Yes, professionals know that. Keeping your courage for hour after hour of waiting, that is the hard part. Dancing on adrenaline for a minute or two. That is easy. That is what we humans have been doing since we first killed mastodons. But waiting for the beasty to wander down to the water hole. That is the hard part.”
Kris sat on the shady side of the room; it still smelled of smoke from its last training run. “You have a family, Chief?”
“Wife, boy, girl,” he said. “If you’d let me run down to the booking room, I’d get my wallet. Pictures.” He grinned.
“Nope, you’re staying right beside me. And please don’t make me shoot you by trying to escape.”
“Ever killed anyone?” the chief asked. Ernie quit studying the sailors getting ready to march in and glanced at Kris.
“Does Greenfeld add Vs for Valor on campaign ribbons when they’re earned in a fight?” Kris asked.
“No,” the chief paused. “No, come to think of it, some of the recent, ah, antiterror campaigns have had Vs added to them for those who were involved in combat. Yes, there are those.”
“I don’t notice any Vs in the salad on your chest.”
“Nope. I’m just a sailorman’s sailor.”
“Have you checked my collection?”
The chief squinted down at Kris. Then sat down in the shade across from her, careful to stay away from the soot on the walls. “Aren’t you rather young to have all those. And that Devolution Service Medal. I was there, swilling beer. Nobody earned a V.”
“I guess it’s a clerical error.”
“I’ve heard stories about how slipshod things are in the Longknife Navy,” he said, but it was clear from the way he studied Kris now that something had changed in him. He was no longer dismissing her as a “girl” or a spoiled brat of the wealthy. “What’s that gold trinket?” he said.
“Earth’s Order of the Wounded Lion.”
He leaned back, lost in thought, not noticing that he was smudging the back of his coat. When he leaned forward, he eyed Kris hard. She gave him steel for steel. “They give you that because you’re the Longknife brat?”
“On Greenfeld, do they hand out a lot of fruit salad to Hank because he’s Peterwald’s brat?”
“And if they did?”
“That’s Greenfeld. I earned mine.”
He leaned back again, seemed sunk in thought for a long, long time. Finally he roused himself and eyed Kris. “You intent on slaughtering my sailors?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Not like you did those sailors in the pirate battleships that attacked Wardhaven.”
There it was again. The canard. Kris let her anger show as she shot back. “First, you’re an experienced Senior Chief. You know as well as I do that Magnificent-class battleships don’t pop out of empty space. They need bases to build them. They need bases to operate them. I haven’t heard of any pirates big enough to operate more than one ship, and a tiny one at that. They get bigger, we come out and take them down hard. At least that’s what we do in Longknife space.”
“That’s what we do in Greenfeld space,” the chief said with a frown. He was coming with her. Not happy about where this conversation was going, but he was too honorable a man not to see the truth when his nose was rubbed up against it.
“So where do six humongous battleships come from?” Kris demanded. “And after they’ve killed my best friends, don’t you think I’d want to know the answer to that? Don’t you?”
Slowly, the chief nodded. “I would.”
“Well so did I. But every last sailor or officer was dead in his pod. Not a few of them, but all of them. Dead men tell no tales. You tell me who got the benefit of that silence.”
“The sailors are coming up to the berm,” Ernie said.
Kris stood and refocused her glasses. “Yep, there in the lead is your commodore. He must be sweating horribly in blues. Everyone else is in whites. Strange that?”
The chief came to stand beside Kris. “He took a dress-for-success course once, or had a consultation, I don’t know. Anyway, he says the camera will always focus on the person in the darker suit over those in lighter ones. He does love his blues.”
There was no military value in what the chief said, but it told Kris volumes about what the junior officers and senior NCOs thought in the privacy of their own whispered spaces.
Kris watched as the kids skateboarding on the berm waved at the parade coming up, then did one last rad ride down before taking off for points well out of firing range.
“Good marching,” Kris said for the chief. “Better than in most vids. At least everyone is in step. Well, most everyone. I think your commodore is out of step with the music.”
“No, ma’am. Everyone is out of step with him.”
Kris weighed that and found it interesting. Especially the “ma’am” part.
“What are you going to do with those Marines?” Kris asked, studying the column.
“Is that question directed at me?” Chief Meindl asked.
“No. I don’t intend to ask you anything that will cause you trouble when you are returned to Greenfeld control.”
The chief frowned. “And the ones in the jail?”
“Unless something goes horribly wrong, all should see Greenfeld again. Remember, I don’t shoot prisoners.”
“Aren’t you worried about a riot when they hear the band?”
Oh, now you have given me something. Was that intentional?
“I kind of expect one, Chief. There are sleepy grenades rigged on both floors. No one should be hurt, but they won’t be causing us any trouble, and they won’t be in any shape to pick up a rifle and join their liberators in mowing us down, either.”
The chief nodded.
Kris refocused the glasses. “Yes, yes, he is doing something smart for a change.”
“May I ask what?” the chief said.
“He’s deploying his Marines as flankers, sending some of them up the berm to have a look and report back. Ernie, can I borrow your phone.” Kris listened for a dial tone, then said, “The forward scouts please.”
While she waited to be connected, she turned to Meindl. “Chief, if you cause us any trouble now, I’ll have to put you down hard. Should I return you to your cell, or can I have your word that you will not attempt to communicate with your forces?”
“It’s my duty to try to escape,” he said.
; “Gale, love, I need for you to escort someone down the tower,” Ernie called out to below.
“But I think my duty to Greenfeld is better served if I observe you and report what I see to intelligence. I will not attempt an escape until shots are fired.”
“That’s good enough for me, ’cause if this comes out right, there ain’t going to be any,” Kris said. “Jack, there are observers on the berm.”
“We see them. We’re falling back from the first line of businesses. How much longer are you going to hang yourself out there for anyone to shoot at? Do I have to come back there and personally drag you down?”
“Not much longer, Jack. Good thing you’re out of that first row. Hank just ordered Marines to trot over and look them over. He’s covering his flank with Marines.”
“Smart, but slow. He’s already coming up on the second row if the phone calls we’re getting are right. We’ll hold the flankers three rows out. I just wish I knew if his own radios were being jammed by this.”
“No way to tell. Take care, Jack.”
“Now ain’t that a joke coming from you. Get down from that tower. Your hair’s not nearly long enough to climb.”
“Rapunzel is leaving the tower,” Kris said and hung up.
“Your boyfriend?” the chief asked as they headed down.
“Why is it that everyone thinks that except him? No, he’s the scourge of my life, the head of my security. The one man that can tell me what to do and I have to do it.”
Ernie snickered. “Gee, I hadn’t noticed him being any more successful than I am with Gale.”
“Or Gale is with you,” came from below.
“A woman does what a man tells her to do,” the chief said.
Kris doubted words could change the chief ’s mind; with him in the lead, she went down fast and walked quickly to the Fire Training Center. There were lots of trigger pullers looking out the windows; glass was going to fly if bullets did.
“Where’s Ron?” Kris asked as they passed a sandbagged machine gun behind the wide glass doors.
“Upstairs.”
She found him in the second-floor conference room, dividing his time between the map on the table, a phone, and the window that barely offered him a view down the road.
“He’s coming,” Ron said as Kris entered.
“He wants to present Chance to his dad on a silver platter.”
“Yeah. At college, his dad seemed to come up a lot,” Ron said. “I shrugged it off then. I’m rethinking it now. Oh, you still have the chief?” He left the rest of the question hanging.
“Yep, we’ve been looking at what we’ve got set up for Hank.”
Ron shook his head. “Whatever you want. I guess.”
Kris, Ron, and the chief watched the coming parade, the band getting closer and louder. “Chief, is there anyone you could talk to in the jail to cancel the planned riot?”
The chief shook his head. “No one would listen to me.”
Kris called the jail. “You have the sleepy grenades?”
“Yes.”
“Please use them on your Greenfeld prisoners. They’ve been ordered to riot when the music gets loud enough.”
“Ah, can I talk to the mayor?”
Kris handed Ron the phone. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, do it.” “Yes, I know it’s against our articles, but this whole mess is against it. Do it. I’ll be running for reelection next month. You want to run against me?” Ron said, and hung up.
From across the yard came the popping of sleepy grenades. There were shouts, a scream, and quiet very soon. Ron rubbed his forehead. “I’ll be doing good to stay out of that jail, Kris.”
“It’s either prison or a medal,” the chief said.
They watched as Hank continued his march. “Good Lord, but that boy cannot get in step,” the chief muttered as they watched the flags whip in the slight breeze, the band play, and everyone but Hank march in step.
The phone rang, Ron answered, but quickly passed it to Kris.
“We’re falling back slowly. The Marines have a problem,” Jack chortled. “We’re locking all the doors behind us. Most are old-fashioned key locks. Apparently, the Marine’s orders don’t allow for just kicking in the doors yet. They had to find a lock pick. I’m going to fall back now to your location.”
Kris hung up and went back to the window. Her view really wasn’t good enough to command the situation, but she had no communications to command anything anyway. This was almost prehistoric. A bit of poetry came to mind. “The shot heard round the world,” she muttered.
“Huh,” Ron said. The chief eyed her with a slight smile.
“A shot fired in a situation very much like this at Concord or Lexington. I don’t remember which. British Red Coats marched up, formed ranks in the open. Militia formed up across from them, near a bar, I think. No one knows who fired the first shot. By the time the last shot was fired, years later, a new country was born. But that day, the militia got massacred.”
“That’s what I was taught,” Chief Meindl said.
Ron went over to the phone; dialed. “Greta, do a last call around. Remind folks we do not want to fire first. Yes, I know you already did that. Do it again. For me. Thank you.”
Ron came back to the window. “Now what do we do?”
“You wait and sweat,” the chief said.
“I don’t like this,” muttered the mayor.
“That is why we win,” the chief said.
Five long minutes later, they watched from behind the glass doors at the entrance of the Fire Training Center as Hank marched in; flags flying and band playing. Sailors moved in precise drill as their chiefs wheeled them right and left, to fill up the square. It was a drill designed long ago to show off the skill of the army you faced, to inspire fear and terror.
Kris glanced down at a young man and woman manning a machine gun. They didn’t look terrified. No, if Kris read them right, they were determined fighters defending their homes.
Hank, you miscalled this, Kris thought. The only question left is how many people have to die for your blunder.
Hank kept eyeing the upper levels of the jail, as if expecting something that wasn’t there. He turned to Captain Slovo at his rear often, to talk about something. Kris had a pretty good idea what that was. Beside both of them the squadron’s Command Master Chief stood motionless.
Kris did a quick count. There were twelve blocks of sailors not quite a hundred each. Machine gun and mortar teams trailed each. As columns halted, mortar teams unlimbered to the rear, MGs to the flanks. She faced close to a thousand sailors. The ships must be on a minimum watch. It was tempting to call Steve. Kris revised her greeting to Hank.
The music stopped on a signal Kris missed. The Command Master Chief, at a nod from Hank, ordered, “Squadron.” That was answered by “Ship,” and followed by “Division” in perfect order. “Fix. Bayonets.”
The troops answered with a mighty shout as metal scraped on metal. It was a horrible sound. The type of sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. And your sphincter go weak. The young woman who knelt ready to feed the ammunition belt into the MG whispered, “They do look fearsome.”
“They won’t look nearly as good a second after I pull this trigger,” the gunner beside her said.
Jack joined Kris. He smelled moldy; she was surprised how relieved she was to have her nanny back. “I miss anything?”
“Not yet, but I think Hank’s about to raise the curtain.”
Hank drew the sword at his side and took a stepped forward. “Ron Torn, you have taken sailors of Greenfeld hostage. I declare you a terrorist, acting outside the law, and demand you release them to me or face intergalactic justice.”
“I better go talk to him,” Ron said, taking a step.
Kris grabbed his elbow. “You go out there and you are dead. You stay here. I’ll go.”
Ron glanced back at her. “You think you can settle this, Longknife to Peterwald?”
“Better that she try i
t first,” Jack said.
“And I thought you’d try to lock me in a tower,” Kris said.
“Only tower around here is at the top of everyone’s target list,” Jack said, opening the door for Kris.
“Chief, you’re with us,” Kris said, leading the way.
“Oh good,” Jack muttered. “Three is the charm.”
“If you think my presence is going to keep you alive, you’re very wrong. We do not negotiate with terrorists,” the chief said.
“I am Commander, Naval District 41, Chief. By definition, I can’t be a terrorist. Says so in some book I read.”
“You sure it wasn’t a fairy tale you were reading. One of those cheap fantasy romances?” Jack asked.
“Might have been,” Kris agreed.
They were in line now, the chief in the middle, and had naturally fallen into step. He eyed Kris first, then Jack. “Why do I have the sick feeling we are all doomed?”
“You’ve never been on an operation with the princess, here,” Jack said. “You always feel that way at the start of things, and are amazed to be alive at the end.”
“Hush, boys, this fairy princess has just one chance to do this right. Hand salute on my order. Hand. Salute.” The three brought their right hands up in perfect cadence. Four steps later, Kris was as close as she wanted to be to Hank. “Group. Halt. One,” she whispered.
In front of two thousand rifles, loaded with intent, Kris’s small detail performed the ancient ritual to perfection.
“Commodore, we need to talk.” Hank waved his sword in what might have passed for a salute in some military circles. Kris whispered “two” and her detail dropped their salute.
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Hank snapped back. “I demanded that Ron Torn, the hostage taker, come out here. What? Is he hiding behind your skirts?”
“The lawfully elected mayor of Last Chance has asked me to serve as an intermediary between himself and the armed troops that have disturbed, without warning or permission, the quiet of his city. So far, there has been no additional violation of the peace. He would like to keep it that way.”
“I want the sailors he’s holding hostage released at once.”
Hank was firing answers from a playbook he’d probably put together that morning. You need a better writer, Kris thought. This shindig is way off your script, haven’t you noticed?
Kris Longknife: Resolute Page 31