by Ian Douglas
The UCMJ laid out sharp restrictions on what he, the commanding officer, could mete out as punishment. He could reprimand them, confine them for up to thirty days, have them forfeit up to half their base pay, reduce their rank, or hand them extra duty . . . and that was about it. He thought, however, that he saw some wiggle room, here. Confinement was hardly a punishment when the two of them were confined to the ship for the duration of the mission. Same with forfeiture of pay; what did they have to spend it on? He could take their rockers—meaning break them both one pay grade—but, frankly, with so few men, Hunter needed them where they were.
But . . .
“Okay, gentlemen. You’ve both agreed to accept my decision in this matter. Chief Brunelli, I must say that I am surprised and unhappy with your behavior. You were clearly in the wrong. You let a stupid remark get to you, and you threw the first punch. I ought to bust you back down to first class!”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“And you, Coulter—you were as stupid and as insensitive as Brunelli. You made a deliberately provocative statement to him. He saw you as a stereotype, yeah, but you were just as bad, seeing him as a target for your straight-baiting, making fun of him. I’ve seen Brunelli in a fight. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you! Now I don’t give a fuck about your sexual orientation, okay? But I will have a disciplined and a smooth-running unit here.”
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”
“You’re damned right it won’t. If it does, I’ll have your ass!”
Brunelli actually smirked.
“Did you say something, Brunelli?”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Here’s how we’re going to do this. I can’t space the two of you. I can’t afford to lose the manpower. Therefore: Brunelli, I’m transferring you to Alfa Platoon, effective immediately. I will ask for a volunteer in Alfa to give up his billet and go over to Charlie.
“You and Coulter will be assigned to the same cube in the same section. For the next thirty days, you will live together, eat together, shower together, and sleep together, and since you’ll be in my platoon I can keep an eye on both of you and make certain my orders are carried out. I want to see the two of you together at all times. When we sound off in twos for training or calisthenics, you two will always be on the same team. Mutt and Jeff! Bert and Ernie! Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“After thirty days, we’ll reevaluate. But until then, you two are going to be shadows to each other, and each of you will damned well get to know the other one as a person. Not as a stereotype! Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The two of you shake hands.”
They did so. Hunter watched for some sign of reluctance, but saw none.
“Dismissed.”
He wondered if he’d handled it right. A simpler, safer solution would have been to separate the two, make sure they never came in contact with one another, but that wouldn’t have addressed a basic character issue—the fact that both men were dealing in stereotypes, not with each other as people.
This way, they would be forced to work together.
Assuming one didn’t kill the other during the next thirty days.
After they’d left, he made some notes in their personnel records, then touched an intercom button. “Lieutenant Bader?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send in the next case.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The second mast—or set of masts, rather—were Thomas Taylor and Ann Seton. The two entered the office and came to attention.
Taylor spoke. “Engineman First Class Taylor and Staff Sergeant Seton reporting for captain’s mast as ordered, sir.”
“Very well. The two of you have agreed to appear before me together. Is this still the case?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“What do you have to say for yourselves?”
“Sir . . . we . . . I mean . . . sir, we love each other, sir! We want to get married!”
Hunter leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and inwardly groaned. Oh, God . . .
“Couldn’t this have waited until you got back to Earth?”
“We don’t know how long we’re going to be out here, sir,” Seton told him.
“I . . . see.”
There were various rules and regulations that could be thrown at the two of them, but Hunter wasn’t eager to do so. Men and women cooped up together tended to find their own balance, and while it would have been different if Taylor had forced himself on the Marine, right now he was inclined to let them off with a warning.
Because love would find a way.
He couldn’t even nail them for fraternizing across ranks. First class and staff sergeant were the same—pay grade E-6—and so far as he’d been able to learn they’d both been off duty when they wandered off for their rendezvous in the storage locker.
“What the hell were you two thinking?” he demanded, raising his voice to a shout. “Staff sergeant, what happens if you get yourself pregnant?”
“I . . . we plan to get married, sir.”
“Uh-huh. And if something goes wrong out here, and we can’t get back to Earth for nine months . . . what do you do? Run ops pregnant? Have a baby out here? Are you completely insane?”
“Sir,” Taylor said. “It was me. And I’ll take full responsibility—”
“No. You both had a responsibility—to your shipmates, to me, and to this mission. Now, the fact of the matter is that I can’t really nail you two with anything. ‘Conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline,’ I suppose. Or being out of uniform . . .”
Seton burst out laughing at that.
“You have a problem with that, Marine?”
“No, sir!”
“Okay. You get off with a warning this time. Next time . . . don’t get caught.”
“Yes, sir!”
“No, sir!”
“Dismissed.”
Again . . . had he done right? The real problem here was not their rendezvous, but the trouble intimate personal relationships in a small, active-duty military unit could cause. The Navy didn’t talk about it, but it had been wrestling with this problem ever since women had first been assigned sea duty. Women and men locked up together with no way to let off steam. Things . . . happened.
But in fact, he wished both of them well.
And thought about Gerri.
Chapter Fourteen
By 1984, MJ-12 must have been in stark terror at the mistake they had made in dealing with the EBEs. They had subtly promoted Close Encounters of the Third Kind and E.T. to get the public used to “odd looking” aliens that were compassionate, benevolent, and very much our “space brothers.” MJ-12 “sold” the EBEs to the public, and were now faced with the fact that quite the opposite was true.
John Lear, former CIA pilot, 1987
10 March 1981
“The EBE Gray aliens, Mr. President, have become extremely dangerous. They have violated the terms of the treaty signed with them in 1955. They have been abducting our citizens. We fear that they may soon move against us openly. We must act!”
President Ronald Reagan looked across his desk at the director of the National Security Agency and frowned. “Isn’t this all just a little . . . overly dramatic? The public has heard almost nothing about any of this. I’ve heard almost nothing about any of this, and I’m the President!”
Vice Admiral Bobby Ray Inman shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was a genuine patriot, a man who loved his country and the principles on which it was grounded, and he despised pulling rank on the leader of the free world. But . . .
“Nevertheless, Mr. President, the threat is real and it is extremely grave . . . a clear and present danger. MJ-12 wants to take immediate steps to contain the situation.”
“That’s what my advisors keep telling me about the Russians in Afghanistan.”<
br />
Inman waved that off. “Two years ago, Mr. President, there was a clash, a battle, actually, between some of our soldiers and the aliens working with some of our scientists in an underground base in New Mexico. The aliens . . . withdrew. But we believe they may be preparing a response. An armed response. An open and public response.
“Believe me, Mr. President, compared to this, the Soviets are nothing. If the EBEs make themselves known openly, we have reason to believe it might well end civilization as we know it.”
“Which means you and I would be out of our jobs,” Reagan said, his characteristic gentle humor cutting through the tense atmosphere in the Oval Office. “Maybe I could go back into acting.”
Inman opened his mouth, then shut it again. He wasn’t sure of how best to reply.
“What is it you want, Bobby? Sorry—what is it MJ-12 wants?”
“A fleet, Mr. President. An independent space fleet. Something with enough muscle to send the EBEs packing if we so need.”
“And you need my authorization to build this fleet?”
“Actually, Mr. President . . . no. Not exactly. The program has already been in place for several years. Research and development began in the early `70s after the Apollo encounters on the Moon. Last year, we laid the keels for the first two of a new class of spacecraft. Very large spacecraft, with radically new propulsion systems.”
Reagan stared at Inman for a long moment.
“Okay,” Reagan said at last. “So why are you even telling me this now? What do you need me for?”
“Sir, MJ-12 has decided that we must expand our operations, and quickly. We will be working with a large number of US corporations—and some foreign ones as well—to design and build an entirely new generation of weapons. High-energy lasers. Particle beams. EMP beam weapons that can be employed successfully against EBE craft. Black budget funding will handle much of the cost, but some is going to come from auditable sources, and the money will be going into the public sector where . . . questions might be asked. We will need your authorization to develop and produce these weapons. And we will need your help, your visible help, to sell the idea to the American public. We are suggesting this program be presented to the public as a strategic defense for use against incoming Soviet missiles.”
“I see.” Reagan shook his head. “Sounds more like Star Wars to me.”
“The idea, Mr. President,” Inman said, “will be to avoid a real Star Wars. . . .”
The Hillenkoetter and her four escorts dropped out of light drive and drifted into the star system known as Zeta 2 Reticuli. Following Insertion Plan Bravo, they pulled apart until twenty thousand kilometers separated each vessel from her sisters, the better to begin a systematic survey of the system. Hunter was in the Tactical Command Center, the “TC-squared,” as it was known, with his platoon leaders and other senior personnel, along with both Major Powell and Dr. McClure. Dr. Brody was there as well to talk to them about the astrophysics of whatever they might discover in the new system.
Powell was a Marine and Hunter respected him, though they’d seen little of one another until now. The rank of major normally commanded a full battalion—depending on the organization anywhere from three hundred to twelve hundred men. 1-JSST, with its forty-eight men and women divided into three small platoons, was about the size of a single Marine platoon, which normally would be under the command of a more junior officer, typically a second or first lieutenant.
On the other hand, 1-JSST was far too important to be put under the command of a mere lieutenant, and, in this case, the position was organizational rather than a direct combat command. Powell’s official rank on the Hillenkoetter was that of brevet major . . . meaning it was honorary and temporary, and, in fact, Hunter outranked him. First Lieutenant Powell, however, had served with the Marine Raiders, the USMC’s primary combat unit under USSOCOM. With two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, Powell had chewed some of the same dirt as he had, and Hunter probably had as much confidence in the man’s combat acumen as he did for any officer who wasn’t a SEAL.
It would help, though, Hunter thought, if the Marine didn’t look so damned young.
“What,” Hunter asked, leaning forward in his chair, “am I looking at?”
The seven of them were gathered around a large-screen monitor, on which two nearby stars gleamed like gems against the darkness. One was much brighter than the other, and showed a small disk. The other was dim by comparison, but still far brighter than anything else on the screen. Together, they formed a spectacular sight.
“Zeta Reticuli,” Brody said, sounding like a lecturing professor, “is a double star. Both components are very similar to Sol, a G2 and a G3, and they orbit one another at an average distance of . . .”
“We all heard Commander Johnson’s presentation,” Powell said, interrupting. “I don’t care about the stars. What’s here in the way of planets?”
“That’s what we hope to learn from our survey, Major. So far as space telescopes in our Sol System have been able to discern, neither of these stars has any planets. But astronomers using infrared telescopes have spotted debris fields orbiting both Zeta 1 and Zeta 2, like analogues of Sol’s Kuiper Belt. Its inner edge is just 4.3 astronomical units from the star—that’s almost as far out as Jupiter back in our system—but it extends into space for over 100 AUs, which is three times farther out than Pluto, on average. It’s enormous! It’s possible that these debris fields will be a planetary system someday . . . but there’s nothing here now.”
“So,” Hunter said, “no planets? Why are we here, then?”
“Couple of reasons,” Powell said. “First of all, Zeta Reticuli has such a huge rep in the UFO community back home—the place where the Grays come from, and all of that—that I think MJ-12 wants to debunk the idea once and for all officially. And . . . it’s always possible we’re wrong. We need to know, once and for all.”
“I thought the Grays were time travelers,” Minkowski said. “You know, from Earth.”
“Maybe it’s Saurians,” Hunter pointed out. “Or maybe our great-great-great-offspring built a colony out here. Kind of tough to do if there’s no planet.”
“There is still a possibility of a planet around Zeta 2,” Brody said. “Those astronomers reported that the Zeta 2 debris field is . . . lopsided, I guess you would say. Asymmetrical, with a couple of odd lobes to it, rather than being spread out nice and evenly as you’d expect. There are several possible solutions for the mathematics of what they’re seeing. One is a planet bigger than Jupiter, 200 AUs out. Another is an inner world, tucked in at around 3 to 4 AUs, with just 10 or 20 percent of Jupiter’s mass.”
“How big is that, sir?” Minkowski wanted to know.
“Ten percent of Jupiter would be . . . let’s see.” Brody pursed his lips. “Almost thirty-two times the mass of Earth. That’s big, more than twice as massive as Uranus. It would probably have to be an ice giant, like Uranus or Neptune . . . so not a real pleasant place to live.”
“And I guess not likely as real estate for any Zeta Reticulans,” Hunter said.
“No.”
“So much for Operation Serpo, huh?” Sergeant Major Callahan said. He sounded disappointed.
“What,” Brody asked, “is Operation Serpo?”
Callahan shrugged. “I’ve read a lot about UFO conspiracy stuff, y’know? There’s this story about how back in the mid-1960s, we had a kind of diplomatic exchange going with the Grays. Twelve of our people—ten men and two women—were supposed to have gone to Zeta Reticuli, while one of the aliens stayed on Earth. They were said to be out here ten or twelve years. A couple of them died, a couple decided to stay here. The whole thing was supersecret, of course. Air Force.
“So anyway, the planet was called ‘Serpo,’ and they named the program after that.”
Hunter groaned. “Serpo? As in ‘serpent’? Don’t tell me . . . it was where the Reptilians were supposed to come from, right?”
“Nah. They’re supposed to come fro
m a star called Alpha Draconis. Ha, get it? Draconis . . . reptilians . . . Of course, lots of people get the Grays and the Reptilians confused a lot of the time.”
“I hate it when that happens,” Hunter said, shaking his head and grinning.
“Sounds like very bad science fiction,” McClure added.
“Well, things are awfully fuzzy sometimes for the conspiracy theorists,” Callahan said. “All kinds of different stories and not too many of them agree with each other. Some think the intelligence services are spreading disinformation, to kind of, you know, discredit the real story . . . whatever that is.”
“How about that, Captain?” Hunter said, grinning. “You people spreading lies within the UFO community?”
Captain Alan Arch chuckled. “I wouldn’t know if we were, sir. They never tell us anything.”
With some misgivings, Hunter had assigned Arch to be the platoon leader for Charlie. He was too senior to leave out of the command structure, so he was running the platoon. Hunter had bought some insurance, though, by putting Master Sergeant Layton in as senior platoon NCO. Layton had plenty of experience . . . though Hunter had been disappointed by his failure to safe the Brunelli-Coulter affair before it had gotten out of hand.
Still, Hunter had worked with Company men before—the term referred to the CIA. He had no reason to mistrust Arch . . . exactly. . . .
But he would keep an eye on him just the same . . . and occasionally prod him a bit just to see how he would respond.
But as for Serpo . . .
“So Serpo is a hoax?” Hunter asked.
“Probably,” Callahan replied. He stressed the word to indicate that he wasn’t entirely sure of this. “It’s subtle if it is, and it has some unexpected sources supporting it. And the people who tell the tale give lots of corroborative detail. The stories include details like high radiation levels that killed some of our people, and no nighttime so it was hard to count the days, and 107 degree temperatures, all because of the two stars. They said the sky was so bright because of two stars, they always had to wear sunglasses.”