by John Bowers
What he did know was that the impact had fucked him up royally. His left leg was splintered and his back had suffered three compression fractures. As if that weren't enough, he had a granddaddy of a concussion. He'd been in a coma for days, and had wakened on a hospital ship, UFF Claire Chennault, during its cruise back toward the Martian orbit. He'd been in terrible, excruciating pain, in spite of the drugs he took. At first he'd thought he was dead, certainly in hell from the feel of it, but gradually his head cleared to the point that he could recognize the reality of his situation.
It hadn't been encouraging.
"Hell-o, Private Martinez!"
Rico turned from the window at the sound of the girlish voice behind him. Her name was Lita and she was at least thirty-five, but her visits always cheered him up in spite of his pain. She smiled brightly as she came around the end of his bed with a medication tray in her hands, setting it on the table as she favored him with a beaming smile.
"And how are you feeling this morning?" she asked. "Ready to take me dancing?" Her dark eyes sparkled wickedly.
"More than that," he grinned. "Soon as this leg heals, we'll skip the dancing and go straight for the nightcap."
"Ooh, you naughty boy! I thought they gave you Marines something to take the edge off."
"Not around here, they don't," he replied. "I think they send you in here to torture me, so I'll get well quicker."
"Looks like you've figured us out," she teased. "But, as soon as you get back on your feet, it's back to battle for you. So you just get those evil thoughts out of your head." She smiled wider as she leaned forward and arranged the pillows behind his back. "How's the spine today?"
"Hurts like a bitch," he sighed truthfully. "You got something to make it stop?"
"Actually, the hypno-sedation was supposed to do that. But it doesn't seem to work on you, does it?"
"No, Ma'am. Sure don't feel like it."
"I'll ask Dr. Wisener if I can increase your medication. We don't want to overdo it, but we don't want you to sit around hurting, either."
Rico winced as she finished with the pillows, then heaved a sigh as the pain subsided a little. He gazed at her with slightly dulled eyes.
"Any more word about survivors from my unit?" he asked.
Her cheerfulness vanished for a moment, and she shook her head.
"I'm sorry, Rico, I haven't heard anything else. I made a couple of inquiries, but the Star Marines have put a lid on it. Nobody's talking."
"God damn." He bit his lip briefly, wondering if he was the only survivor of Delta Company. Since his rescue, he'd heard exactly nothing about the fate of his friends.
"Don't worry," Lita said, reviving her cheerful smile just a little, "I'm sure some of them must have got out. You did."
"Yeah. Maybe."
She was silent a moment, then forced the sunshine out again.
"Can I get you anything? Anything you need, or want?"
"Just something for the pain."
"I'll talk to Dr. Wisener right away." She reached for the tray and picked up a vidchip and a viewer. "You got mail," she said. "I don't know how old it is. It just arrived this morning."
He brightened just a little as he took the viewer and chip. He hadn't had mail since shipping out to Titan.
"Thanks, Lita."
"My pleasure. Look, I'll leave you alone for a little bit. You hang in there. The doctor will be around to see you soon."
He nodded, and she breezed out of the room. He frowned against the pain and fumbled with the viewer, sliding the chip into it. A moment later he pressed the play button and gazed at the tiny screen in his hand. It was his sister, Angela.
"Hi, Rico. It's me. Today is September twenty-first. God knows when you'll get this, but I hope it doesn't take too long." She stopped, smiling sadly. "I wish I could see you. I haven't had any news since your letter from July, so I hope everything is okay. We heard about the Outer Worlds battle, and that Titan was retaken. I assume you were there, or maybe you still are. The Star Marines aren't telling us anything, so I don't even know if you're still alive."
She bit her lip briefly, apparently fighting her emotions.
"Mama is doing better, but she isn't up to making a video right now. She doesn't want you to see how she looks, she said, so she said to tell you that she's okay. And she really is doing better. It's a day-to-day thing with her, you know. She isn't getting any younger.
"I'm doing good, too. I'm not supposed to talk about my work, because it's defense and that makes it classified, but I'm still at the same place. My boss likes me and I think I can probably work there for as long as I want.
"Johnny is almost six. He's at his grandmother's right now, but I'll have him say something the next time I write. He asks about you all the time, and he prays for you every night."
Angela talked on for ten minutes, telling him as much news as she could about his hometown, his friends, people they both knew. Though she was cheerful and smiled a lot, Rico sensed she was forcing it. He detected a strain in her voice. He knew she worried about him, though she didn't say so. She'd tried hard to talk him out of enlisting, but once he did she'd been completely supportive, as if she were afraid that by talking about certain things she might jinx him. Even when her son's father had been killed, she barely mentioned it, though Rico had already heard.
She concluded the letter at last.
"Rico, be careful. I pray for you, too, every day. Write to me when you can. Let me know how you are."
She stopped talking for a moment, her eyes glittering. Then she smiled.
"Hasta la vista, 'manito. Te amo."
The picture faded, and she was gone. Rico stared at the blank screen for a moment, then took a slow breath and looked out the window again. He felt a pang of loneliness as he wondered if he would ever see her again.
San Francisco, CA, North America, Terra
The congressional chamber was closed to the public and the press. In time of war, certain democratic rights were necessarily sacrificed for the greater good of the Federation, and one of those was the public's "right to know".
Thirty members of Congress sat in a semicircle, looking down on the witness table. At the table sat two men in business suits, neither of them known to the public at large. The only others in the room were a handful of Federation security officers, all with top security clearance. No one else was present; the senators didn't even have aides.
Henry Wells couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so depressed, so very close to hopeless. As chairman of the Defense Committee he'd called the session and directed the questioning. He didn't like the things he was hearing. The thin, frail man at the table was the Director of the Federation Intelligence Agency. Seated next to him was his personal assistant. Both men looked grim as they answered questions.
"I don't know what else to tell you, Senator," the director was saying. "At this point, we have more questions ourselves than answers."
"I understand that, Mr. Director," Henry said tiredly. "Please, bear with me. This is a matter of extreme concern to the members of this committee, and I want to make sure we understand the context of the problem. None of us wants to have only a partial grasp of the situation."
The director nodded unhappily. He sensed he was going to be here for a while.
"To clarify the situation as I understand it," Henry went on, knowing he was being redundant, "and to make sure none of us has missed anything, I want to start back at the beginning. Please feel free to interrupt me at any time, to add or subtract."
"Yes, sir."
"Okay." Henry took a deep breath and started off. "Prior to the Outer Worlds campaign, did you or anyone in the Agency have any indication of a security problem?"
The director stared at the mahogany table for perhaps ten seconds before he answered.
"Not an indication, Senator. No."
"All right …"
"However … "
Henry stopped. "However?"
"There was a suspic
ion. Maybe not even a suspicion, but … I don't know — call it an intuition."
"Please explain."
"Back in '21, we lost an asteroid base. AB-131. It wasn't the first one we lost, but it was the first one from which we had survivors. The executive officer of that base ordered his fighter cover to evacuate before the Sirians arrived."
"You're speaking of Major Robert Landon," Henry said.
"That's correct. Major Landon had advance warning that his base had been compromised. He elected not to defend the base, in order to spare his fighter crews for future operations."
"I remember."
"When they arrived at Luna 1, some of those fighter crews mentioned an anomaly, if that's the right word. They told of several incidents in which their patrols had been ambushed by enemy fighters. No Ladar emissions had been detected, no powered ships were detected. They were ambushed where they themselves lay in ambush, and their logs indicated that it shouldn't have been possible.
"Further, when the Sirians located the asteroid base itself, one of their fighters slipped in completely undetected and opened fire on the hangar bay, laying waste to the entire complement of fighters, except those on patrol. Once again, nothing was detected. The Sirian got in as if he were invisible, or cloaked."
Henry was frowning, but remained silent.
"At that time, Senator, red flags went up at the Agency. We didn't know what that meant, but it sounded bad. Maybe the Sirians had new technology, or maybe they had intelligence. We still don't know what happened there, except that we lost that asteroid base. It still hasn't been recovered."
"I see. Were there any other incidents? Prior to Outer Worlds?"
"No, sir."
Henry nodded, took a sip of water, and continued his narrative.
"The Outer Worlds campaign ran pretty much according to plan," he said. "Until the Titan landing. At that time, what was expected to be a surprise landing on the planetoid was in fact met with extreme resistance, resulting in severe casualties and a necessary alteration of the order of battle. Correct?"
"Correct."
"Enemy space power appeared as if by magic, barely minutes prior to the launch of the first wave of ground troops. That space power had not been detected, even though our own space cover had already scanned the landing zone. It didn't appear until the transports were nearing the launch point. Still correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Federation space cover," Henry continued, "engaged the enemy force, but without sufficient strength to destroy it. As a result, those enemy fighters shot down a number of landing ships and at least four transports. In addition, laser fire from the landing zone itself took out still more landers."
The director nodded continually.
"When the Star Marines finally did reach the ground, they found the landing zone under heavy fire, and had to fight their way clear before succeeding waves could be landed. Further, they had to fight all the way to Saturnia, which was their primary objective, and which they had intended to liberate within hours after landing. That liberation actually took more than four days to affect."
"Yes. That's exactly right, Senator."
Henry took a deep breath, and kept doggedly at it.
"After the battle, captured Sirians admitted to our forces that they'd been ordered into the LZ two days in advance. The enemy destroyed computer records, so there's no hard evidence of advance warning. But we know damned well there was." He peered at the director closely. "Is that correct?"
"Word for word, Senator," the director said wearily.
"Is there anything else you can add to this testimony, Mr. Director?"
The director grimaced and shook his head.
"If there was, Senator, I would probably have the dilemma solved. But at this time we have nothing else."
Henry sighed, puffing his cheeks.
"Thank you, Mr. Director. At this time I yield the floor to further questioning."
Senator Rice had been waiting, a defeated look in his eyes. He immediately pressed his desk button. The green light under his name glowed to indicate that he had the floor.
"Mr. Director," Rice began, his voice strained, "I believe I understand everything you've told us so far. But I have several points of confusion. Perhaps you can clear them up for me."
"Delighted, Senator." He didn't look delighted.
"Was there any evidence of advance warning to the enemy fleet operating off Saturn? Prior to the attempt on Titan?"
"None, Senator. When our fighters hit the enemy fleet they reacted as expected. They were surprised by the assault. Due to their training and experience, they recovered quickly and put up a respectable fight, inflicting many casualties on us. But they weren't waiting for us. If they had been, I have grave doubts we could've driven them back."
"Was there any indication of forewarning in the Jovian system? Or the landings on Ganymede and Europa?"
"No, sir. Again, the enemy fought well in those battles, but once again they weren't waiting for us. The casualties in those battles — and especially in the surface actions — bear this out. Our losses in those actions were more consistent with what we expected on Titan, yet on Titan our losses exceeded expectations."
Rice stared at a sheet of paper on his desk, where he'd scribbled notes.
"Mr. Director, is there any possibility that the enemy was just lucky at Titan? I would really like to believe they didn't know ahead of time that our boys were coming."
The director grimaced again. Or maybe it was an attempt at a smile. He shifted in his chair.
"Senator, once again, I have no hard physical evidence to present to you. I wish I did, because then we'd all know for sure. I'm like you — I'd like to believe it was a fluke. But I can't afford that luxury. The circumstantial evidence points to advance knowledge, and I have to proceed on that assumption."
Rice looked unhappy, and sat silent for a moment. Henry Wells felt sorry for him, remembering his near hysteria the day they'd first read the FIA post-action report.
"Mr. Director," Rice said slowly, "assuming the enemy did know in advance of the Titan operational plan — How in the name of God did they find out?"
The FIA director glanced at his assistant in dismay, then looked up at Rice and shook his head.
"Senator, with respect, how the hell should I know?"
"I don't expect you to know, Mr. Director — at least not yet. I'm asking a hypothetical."
The director shook his head.
"Sorry, Senator. We've all been a little ragged over this thing. To answer your question, all I can tell you is that there are a million possibilities for a leak. I don't even know for certain that there is a leak. The enemy could've intercepted a subspace and deciphered it somehow. We might have a glitch in a piece of software somewhere. Someone in the Polygon might've talked in his sleep. The Sirians could have an agent — or agents — inside our intelligence community. It might be one of my people, or one of yours. Hell, it might be someone right here in this room."
He heaved a sigh.
"Right now, at this precise moment, we just do not know."
"But you plan to find out."
"Yes, sir. We plan to find out."
"If I may ask, Mr. Director — exactly what steps are you taking to find the answer?"
The director pursed his lips, and for the first time Henry sensed resistance in him.
"Senator, you'll have to forgive me, but I'm not going to answer that question."
"Excuse me?"
The director only stared at him.
"You are refusing to answer the question?"
"I am."
Henry broke in, turning off Rice's light.
"Mr. Director, would you care to tell us why you don't want to answer the question?"
"All right, Senator. I choose not to answer the question for the simple reason that I don't know where the leak is. Until I do know where the leak is, I suspect everybody."
"You suspect us?" Senator Rice blurted.
"
Everyone, sir. You, my assistant here, the President — even my wife."
Laughter burst from several members of the committee, but quickly died.
"I will tell you this," the director added. "I've already begun putting machinery in motion that will, hopefully, isolate the source of the problem. I'm working on several other options with the same intention. Until we know with absolute certainty that, one, there is no leak, or, two, the enemy didn't have advance notice of the Titan landings — until then the Agency will continue to work toward finding the answer. We will not rest until we find out.
"And that's all I'm going to say about that."
He sat gazing up at the panel with a look that was close to defiance. Several of the senators muttered among themselves, but no one challenged him. Henry Wells nodded slowly. He was tired, and in a sense grateful. There really was nothing else to discuss.
"Mr. Director," he said, "I personally appreciate your candor in this matter. I trust you will keep us advised of your progress. Thank you for sharing your information with us."
He banged the gavel.
"This session is adjourned."
Chapter 6
October 0227 (PCC) - January 0228 (PCC) – North America, Terra
Wade Palmer was twenty-three. Tall and athletic, he wasn't particularly good looking, but did possess a rugged quality that made up for it to some degree. Born and raised in Arizona, he identified with the North American Southwest, calling himself a desert rat. As a boy he rode horses across the vast wastelands surrounding Tucson, one of the wildest and most nature-addicting places on Terra. He loved the blistering dry heat, the wide open sky, the rolling miles of mesquite and saguaro punctuated sharply by small mountains that appeared suddenly like the tips of icebergs on an arctic sea. He loved the sidewinders, the tarantulas, the scorpions, and the brilliant stars that streaked the night sky like a smear of chalk across a blackboard.
And nothing on Terra could match the smell of the desert when a thunderstorm exploded over the land, turning the day prematurely dark as torrential rain gushed from the heaving sky and soaked the earth, unlocking the scents of the multitudes of plants that populated the region. As powder-dry streambeds suddenly erupted with tidal waves that flashed through the washes, creating miles of surging brown water that turned the seemingly arid plain into a veritable ocean floor.