McClendon's Syndrome (v1.1)

by Robert Frezza

  “Bunkie! What gives? There’s nothing in the papers about the Rats!”

  “Oh, the story is in there, sir,” Bunker said, “look on page three.”

  “What do you mean, page three? This is an eight-page newspaper, for God’s sake.” I flipped down to page three.

  Bunkie shrugged one shoulder. “Sir, we’re competing with an election and a dog who plays the accordion by tapping on the keys with his paws. Reporters tend to be a little sceptical about anything that the government reveals voluntarily, so I expected them to downplay it a little bit.”

  I stared at her. “You mean, unless some reporter overhears it through a keyhole, we don’t make page one?”

  “That’s about the size of it, sir. You haven’t studied public relations, have you?” She patted her terminal. “I’ve prepared a news release for Commander Hiro stating that we have the situation well in hand, and there’s absolutely nothing to worry about. That ought to bring them running.”

  Catarina pulled me away to help find crews for the missile launchers and watch-standers for the Scupper.

  When I counted the jobs, I ran out of fingers. When I counted the people we had, I had a few fingers left over. “Just hypothetically,” I asked, “what if we did it by the book?”

  Catarina stared at me cross-eyed. “At a minimum, we’d need two shifts. Beam said the launchers are AN-33s, which means a crew of two plus someone else to man the acquisition system. That’s twelve people, plus two people in command, two executive officers, six watch-standers for the Scupper, and two people for communications down here. Call it twenty-four people at a minimum.”

  “Let’s see, counting Kimball and McHugh—she’s in the reserves—we’ve got seven,” I thought aloud.

  “The two Marines, Sin and Trujillo, have some shipboard training. That makes nine. If we pushed it, we’ll need four or five for the space station, eight or nine more to run the ship, and Bunkie down here. The missile launchers don’t have to be manned continuously, and we only have to keep one person conning the Scupper until Genghis shows up and we go to action stations.”

  “After that, things will be over with quickly, one way or another.”

  “We need Spooner and Dykstra if we can get them to volunteer. I’ll take care of that—it isn’t something I’d ask you to do. We probably have a few naval reservists on the planet—Bunkie can check the records. As soon as Clyde gets back, I’ll send him out to round them up. Maybe some of them have something resembling the qualifications we need.”

  I nodded. “What about training?”

  Catarina gave me a tired and dispirited look. “We’d better call Beam. She’s more familiar with the AN-33 systems than I am.”

  Bunkie, of course, already had the call ready.

  Piper appeared on the screen with a smudge of lubricating oil on either cheek. She pulled a rag out of one of her side pockets and wiped it away while she listened to Catarina.

  She thought for a minute. “Well, the usual training courses for these systems is about five months. By the time we get everything mounted, I figure we’ll have about five days. If nothing goes wrong. Of course, something always goes wrong.”

  “We may have to shorten the course. No weekends off,” Catarina said with a ghost of a smile.

  “The instruction manuals are all written in Rodent, but we won’t have time to read them anyway,” Beam said agreeably.

  “Do you need more people up there now?”

  “Not yet,” Piper said judiciously. “There’s not enough room here to swing a small cat. Tomorrow, Roger and I ought to start working on the ship. Send Clyde and maybe one or two other people.”

  “They’ll be there.” Catarina thought for a moment. “We need to start laying mines by the day after tomorrow at the latest.”

  “One slight problem there.” Piper grinned. “Ken’s ship doesn’t have a friend-or-foe identification circuit for the mines to recognise—it’s not what you’d call top-of-the-line as warships go. I wouldn’t recommend that we get close to them after we lay them. Talk at you later!”

  She blanked the screen. “Does this mean we have as much chance of being blown up by our own mines as the enemy does?” I asked Catarina.

  Catarina wrinkled her nose. “Not really. They have more ships than we do.”

  Hiro reconvened his council of war, and Catarina briefed him on the status of things.

  Hiro stroked his chin. “We are honour-bound to protect this planet and uphold the navy’s reputation.” He asked with the faintest note of doubt in his voice, “Do we truly need to call up reservists?”

  “Yes, sir,” Catarina said. “Unless we can find some reservists with at least rudimentary gunnery training, we have no chance whatever.”

  She carefully avoided saying what our chances were if we did find the reservists we were looking for.

  “Well, as Napoleon said, ‘The morale is to the material as four is to one.’ We have that in our favour,” Hiro said, trying to convince himself that we could take on a Phoenix-class cruiser and a couple of armed merchantmen with morale alone. He paused and added reflectively, “It’s a shame Napoleon wasn’t a navy man.”

  Beaver woke up with a start. “Did somebody mention my demi-cousin Napoleon?”

  Hiro turned to him. “Dr. Beaver, has Genghis had any military training?”

  “Oh, dear! I’m afraid that I can’t tell you very much. We were never very close—we had different mothers and that sort of thing. I believe he enrolled in one of your command and general staff colleges by correspondence, but our family never discussed grades,” Beaver confided.

  Clyde said gloomily. “Commander, I hate to ask this even hypothetically, but shouldn’t we consider the possibility of surrendering?”

  Hiro had difficulty following. “Well, Witherspoon, if Genghis sued for peace, I’m sure we’d accept.”

  “Sir, I was thinking more along the lines of our surrendering to Genghis, if we could get good terms—maybe a promise to spare the Scupper’s crew. Purely to spare the civilian population the hardships of war, of course.”

  “Dr. Beaver?” Catarina asked while Hiro digested this little bit of heresy.

  “I do wish Cheeves were here,” Beaver said. “Genghis was always appallingly violent as a child, and I fear that he would hardly be likely to accept any surrender conditions. I am sure that he is looking forward to this, and he would be so disappointed. He could hardly go home without at least landing ground forces and conquering the planet.”

  I suppose it would be a bit much to expect from somebody who picked the name Genghis.

  “In that case, the navy can hardly surrender, can it?” Hiro said firmly. “I wonder if Lieutenant Commander Stemm could tell us what tactics Genghis will employ. Has anyone seen him since he arrived?”

  “Lieutenant Commander Stemm had a very rough journey here aboard the mailship, and he is still recuperating,” Catarina said, far too quickly.

  “Lindquist, what have you and Ensign Mickey worked out as a plan of defence?”

  “The Rodents’ primary objectives are Rustam’s Slipper and the city of Schenectady. If we orbit the Slipper over the city, the space platform can provide it with supporting fire. I expect Genghis to make his approach from out of the sun. The solar wind will degrade our sensors enough to give him an additional advantage—that’s textbook. I recommend laying the mines in a standard stacked triple-vee along that axis,” Catarina told him.

  “You don’t think Genghis will try a diversionary landing elsewhere on the planet, do you?” Hiro asked, pursing his lips.

  “Sir, ninety-eight percent of this planet’s land surface is uninhabited. As Ensign MacKay aptly pointed out when we discussed the matter, if they land out in the sticks, it might be a while before anyone notices.”

  Clyde spoke up, “Uh, ma’am, what if they decide not to come at us out of the sun? If this guy Genghis took the command correspondence course, he ought to figure that we’d defend against the textbook solution.”
>
  “Clyde, we only have so many mines. If Genghis doesn’t use a textbook approach, the best we can do is give him a failing grade on his exam and ask him to do the problem over.”

  “I hope stupidity runs in that family,” Clyde said glumly. Nobody else present had any other thoughts to contribute.

  “Well, darn it! We’re just going to have to do it!” Hiro pounded his fist on the table with more enthusiasm than most of us felt.

  “As Bucky says, ‘It’s always darkest just before the dawn, which often has a silver lining,’ “ Beaver said cheerfully. As we broke up, he confided, “Bucky really didn’t say mat, but I felt it was appropriate anyway.”

  Hiro laid a hand on my arm. “Mickey, I just wanted to make sure you understand.” He searched for words. “I’ve been in the navy for twenty-one years. I knew that this was going to be my last duty station. But just once...”

  He broke off the sentence without completing it, patted my arm awkwardly, and left. I’ve seen people who retired long before they filed the papers, and—all things considered—I figured I was lucky that Hiro hadn’t gone that way.

  Clyde and Bunkie had turned up four reservists, and Catarina and I sat down to screen them.

  McHugh was the first. Bunkie brought her in and sat her down across the table from us.

  McHugh started off breezily, “Oh, hello, Ken. Hello, Lieutenant Lindquist. Does this have anything to do with your investigation? The woman who called me didn’t say.”

  “I understand that you quit working for Harry,” I said, evading her question.

  “Harry is a pig! I can’t stand that man.” McHugh narrowed her eyes. “What’s going on?”

  “The Rodents are invading us,” Catarina said with some small show of compassion. “We need to recall you to active duty.”

  It was the first time I’d seen Annalee lose her composure. “Oh, shit...” she said weakly.

  “We need you, Annalee,” I said.

  “We’re primarily looking for people who can operate the AN-33 missile launcher and a Gremlin detection/acquisition configuration,” Catarina explained, tapping McHugh’s file, which said she was familiar with both.

  “I’ve worked with the Gremlin a little,” McHugh said warily. “I thought the AN-33 was obsolete.” She knitted her brows. “Where are you getting launchers like that?”

  Catarina and I exchanged glances. “We picked up two that were on their way to the Rodents. We’re mounting one on the space platform and another on the Scupper. We also have some mines,” I told her.

  “And what have the Rodents got?” McHugh insisted, beginning to fidget.

  Catarina shrugged. “A Phoenix-class cruiser and a couple of armed merchantmen.”

  “Shit. Shit! It’s not Mr. It’s just not fair!” McHugh wailed. “It’s just not fair!” She folded her arms in front of her and started pounding her head on the table.

  Bunkie walked in without being bidden and gently helped McHugh up. “Come on, we need to get your records updated,” she said, leading an unresisting McHugh away.

  “Well, that was easy. I hope they all go that well,” I told Catarina.

  “The day is young,” she said confidently.

  The next reservist through the door was someone named Halsey. He came through the door wearing full dress uniform. As Bunkie led him in, I said incredulously, “Harry, what are you doing here?”

  “Petty Officer Harold W. Halsey, reporting for duty.” Harry stopped in front of us and snapped off a nice salute. “ I am proud to bear arms in my planet’s defence.”

  Catarina leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Take off your jacket and roll up your sleeves.” Some saliva went down the wrong pipe. Catarina pounded me affectionately on the back. “Harry, why don’t you sit down? Somehow I had the impression that you were no longer in the reserves.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Harry obediently lowered himself into our little chair, which trembled slightly. “I’m still in, ma’am. I’ll be navy blue until the day I die,” he said with a perfectly straight face.

  “We need people who can operate the AN-33 missile system and Gremlin detection gear,” I said, pulling his file away from Catarina.

  “Sir, I cut my teeth on AN-33s, sir.”

  I stared across the table at him and waved his qualifications printout in the air.

  “Well, maybe I didn’t exactly cut my teeth on AN-33s, but I flossed them a little. Honest, Ken, I can help,” Harry said helplessly. He hunched over and looked at me, crushing his cap in his hands. “This means more to me than you’d believe.”

  I looked at Catarina and shrugged. “Harry, did Bunkie tell you what the odds against us are?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you, Harry,” Catarina said. “We’ll let you know in a couple of minutes. Please wait outside.”

  After Bunkie led him off, I turned to Catarina. “Catarina—I mean Lieutenant—what do you think?”

  “I think Harry is a genuine patriot, and he bleeds navy blue. I suppose tending bar does get a little tame for him at times.” She tapped the personnel folder I was holding. “According to this, he does know a little fire control.”

  I leafed through. “He was only on active duty for a year or so. He was kicked out for what sounded like aggravated assault, but his discharge sheet seems to have gotten wiped off the system somehow. How did he ever get into the reserves?”

  “He may have forgotten to mention a few things,” Catarina said. “Did you read his last fitness report?”

  “How bad is it?”

  “He maxed out in enthusiasm, which pulled the rest of his marks up to what you would expect from slime mould. There’s only one written comment: ‘This sailor will spend the rest of his life pushing on doors marked Pull.’ “

  “Can we afford not to take him?” I asked.

  “No,” she said briefly, closing the file.

  A minute later, I got an even bigger surprise when Seaman 1/C Disler reported.

  “Dinky, I should have guessed. What are you doing here?”

  Dinky looked almost as surprised to see me in uniform. “Sir, Harry talked me into joining about a year and a half ago, sir. He made it really sound like fun.”

  “Dinky, I thought you were married and had kids,” Catarina said, cutting to the point.

  “Yes, ma’am. I am married, and I have two lovely daughters.” Dinky’s eyes glowed with pride.

  “Dinky, I really don’t think we should take you if you have a wife and a family. I know you want to do your duty, and I know you want to be with Harry, but what we’re engaged in is pretty close to being a suicide mission,” Catarina explained gently.

  Dinky hesitated and looked confused. “But ma’am, you can’t do that! Uh, Ken, sir. Can I speak to you in confidence, I mean, in private?”

  Catarina was accommodating. “I have to leave for a moment. Ensign MacKay, please take charge.”

  As soon as the door closed behind her, I told Dinky, “Okay. Make it good.”

  “Well, sir...” Dinky hesitated. “Have you ever met my wife?”

  “No,” I admitted, puzzled.

  “Sir, she looks an awful lot like Harry. With Harry joined up and the bar closed, she’d expect me to stay home nights. Under the circumstances, sir, I really think I want to be out there defending my planet. I know I’ve never served on active duty, but Harry’s taught me fire control, and we really work well together. I won’t let you down, sir.”

  “Well...”

  Dinky looked me straight in the eye. “I realise that we don’t have much of a chance of stopping the Rats, but sir, understand that death holds no terror for me.”

  “Thank you, Seaman Disler. We’ll let you know in a few minutes.”

  Dinky saluted and left, and Catarina reentered.

  “We’ve got to take him,” I told her.

  “What did he do, sing ‘The Marines’ Hymn’?”

  “No, but we’re lucky the Foreign Legion doesn’t have a recruiting office here. I can h
onestly say that I won’t be able to sleep nights if we don’t take him.”

  The last reservist was retired Chief Petty Officer Chandrasekhar, who had spent his entire career running a mess hall. We made him our chief of logistics and put him to work making box lunches.

  Catarina called Rosalee Dykstra and Wyma Jean. Wyma Jean volunteered, even after Catarina explained the odds. I asked her about Rosalee. Catarina smiled. “Rosalee is a pacifist.”

  “Hold it. Rekey the data,” I said. “Rosalee’s favourite pastime is assault and battery.”

  “Oh, Dykstra’s genuine, Ken. She’s like most pacifists I’ve met. She doesn’t believe in violence, except when it’s absolutely necessary. Rosalee is just a little fuzzier than most pacifists about defining the exact parameters of when violence is absolutely necessary.”

  “Okay, Dykstra’s out. How do we divide up our people?”

  “Our best chance is to put our best missile team on the space platform and use the Scupper as a tethered goat to lure the Rodents in. I’d like to put Sin and Trujillo there with Beam and Kimball.”

  “Lindquist Sahib, you mean you’re going to stick the Marines up there under a woman officer? They’re going to pitch a fit. Actually, I’m surprised nobody thought of volunteering me for the assignment.”

  The Marines have a proud tradition of absolute chauvinism that goes back several centuries.

  Catarina coughed delicately. “Actually, I did, and I asked Sin and Trujillo who they ‘d prefer to serve under. Sin sort of shuffled his feet and said, ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but we’d just as soon have a real officer, even if she is a woman.’ “

  I reflected. “I’m touched. Deeply touched. I keep thinking back and trying to recall if I’ve ever had amnesia because I have to believe that somehow, somewhere, I’ve done something so horrible that God would want to do this to me.”

  “Trust me. God has a sense of humour.”

  “I don’t mean to be critical, but Harry and McHugh are going to mix like gunpowder and sparks, and Clyde and Wyma Jean are likely to get along about half as well.”

  “Ken, the big children aren’t going to have very much time to think about their personal problems. And if the launcher on the space platform doesn’t score a first-round hit before Genghis realises it’s there, they’ll have even less time.”