by John Bowers
He was about to register and check into his room when he realized that he was completely on his own for the next few hours. No one would come looking for him or press duty upon him, and if he didn't want to go to his room right now he didn't have to. And what he wanted at the moment was something to eat. So he turned into the restaurant that opened off the lobby and found an empty table. The place was full of uniforms and he saluted a couple of officers, but other than that no one bothered him while he feasted on solid food for the next half hour.
Feeling better, he decided on a drink, and moved from the restaurant into the adjoining bar, a dark, smoky place like the bars at home, with some kind of exotic music he'd never heard before — no doubt from another star system.
He took a seat at the bar near the wall and dropped his space bag at his feet. Except for the music the place was fairly quiet; a corner table was home to a pair of fighter crews — two men and two really knockout women — and a couple of aging merchant spacers were having a drink at another table farther away. The only other person at the bar was a woman in a fleet uniform. The bartender was an owlish little man who must have been close to a hundred years old; he shuffled over and stared at Rico until he ordered a tequila. The drink arrived seconds later and Rico paid with the military scrip he carried, then took a hefty sip of the burning yellow liquid.
He finished his drink and ordered another, sitting quietly trying to figure out the beat to the music. It was nice to be alone for awhile, with no platoon around him and no sergeants bellowing threats. His life had been so hectic since enlistment that he'd hardly had any time to himself, and the leave he was just returning from hadn't been much better, what with all his relatives and friends clamoring for his attention day and night. The shuttle had been elbow to elbow and this was the first time he'd been really alone since … he couldn't remember when. Even his hospital time on Mars hadn't been restful.
Inevitably, his eyes settled on the woman seated four stools away. He sat facing her and could watch her without seeming obvious. She was a little older than he was, he decided, maybe thirty. She looked Latina, or maybe Italian. Black hair, shiny and glorious, a dark olive face, and the most gorgeous midnight eyes he thought he'd ever seen. Sensuous lips. Smooth cheeks. He couldn't see her legs, but her uniform was cut in such a way as to emphasize her breasts, which seemed to strain at the fabric. ¡Madre de dios!
She was wearing captain's bars. Rico had been in the service long enough to know all about military protocol. Officers didn't fraternize with enlisted, and that included sexual matters. The only exception, as far as he knew, was the Domestic Service, in which most of the women were enlisted, but even there, the officers visited different girls than the enlisted men. Rico rarely visited the Domestic unit, and then only when he felt desperate. He wasn't a prude, but his Catholic background was rigid enough that he felt it was somehow immoral.
But this woman … God! What a beauty! And what a shame she was an officer.
He ordered his third drink, sipping it slowly. Something was wrong with this picture, he decided. An officer shouldn't even be drinking in the same bar with an enlisted man. But this wasn't a military club, so those rules didn't apply, did they? Perhaps, in the face of a little persuasion, other fraternization rules could also be relaxed. At the very least it was worth a try, and what were the odds that she would put him on report?
At that particular moment, the woman lifted her finger to order another drink. The old bartender refilled her without a word, but before he could take her money, Rico spoke up.
"Bartender! The lady's drink is on me."
The old gentlemen peered at him as if he didn't understand, and Rico held up the money for him to see. The bartender shuffled toward him and took it. The woman also looked at him, her black eyes expressionless. Rico managed a smile and lifted his own drink as in a toast. She looked away without a word and sipped her brandy, gazing silently at the counter as she'd been doing for the twenty minutes he'd been watching her.
Well, what the hell had he expected? She didn't know him, after all. She wasn't even a Star Marine. The uniform was Space Force. He ignored the slight and sipped his drink, thinking it over. He could forget about her and consider himself lucky she hadn't pulled rank on him. Or he could consider it a challenge, and try a little Latin charm on her.
Maybe he was getting drunk, he decided five minutes later, but what the hell. He stepped down from his hoverstool and walked the ten feet to where the black-haired beauty sat. Placing his half-empty drink on the bar next to hers, he slid halfway onto an empty stool and rested his elbow on the bar, studying her from two feet away.
"Afternoon, Captain," he said casually. "Are you shipping out, or headed home?"
She didn't look at him, nor did she answer. He smiled a little more broadly, tilting his head.
"Where I come from," he said easily, "it's considered bad manners to be rude. Even for an officer."
She turned her dark eyes on him appraisingly, her expression unchanged. Her beautiful black eyes were as cold as the ice in her drink.
"At least you aren't deaf," he said, letting his smile widen even more. He held out his hand. "Rico Martinez."
She ignored the hand and stared at her drink again.
"Private Martinez," she said slowly, her voice as sultry as he'd anticipated, "have you ever faced a star-court?"
His smile faded, and his eyebrows rose.
"No, Ma'am! Not even close. I'm a war hero!"
She turned those devastating eyes on him again, unimpressed.
"Would you like to?" She spoke with a thick Italian accent.
"What? Face a star-court? No, Ma'am. Not especially."
"You're skating dangerously close to one, aren't you?"
"Why is that, Ma'am? Because I bought you a drink?"
She nodded minutely. "That's right."
Rico leaned back an inch, and sucked in a deep breath, letting it out in a puff.
"Well, Ma'am, the way I figure it, where I've been, a star-court is the least of my problems."
"And where have you been?"
He savored the view of her perfect olive face for ten seconds, letting the anticipation build.
"Titan," he said, and thought he detected a trace of a reaction, though she tried to hide it. "Thirty-third Star Marines, Ma'am. Delta Company."
She remained deadpan, but a conflict of emotions was briefly evident in her eyes.
"The Thirty-third was wiped out," she told him confidently. "They never even reached the ground."
"That's right, Captain. Except for me. I hit the ground alive."
"That's bullshit."
"No, Ma'am. I swear it's true. I sure as hell didn't get any farther than the ground, because I was royally fu … er, messed up."
"And how did you survive it, when no one else did?"
"Well, Ma'am, the word I got was that seven of us made it. Nobody told me who the others were, and I don't know why I survived. But here I am."
She stared at him a moment longer, then returned to her drink and finished it off. Without warning, she stood up and reached for a small space bag sitting at her feet. Rico got a look at her legs for the first time, and wasn't surprised that they were as exquisite as the rest of her.
"Thank you for the drink, Private," she said as she shouldered the bag. "But for my sake as well as yours, this conversation is terminated." She turned to leave.
"Wait!"
She turned back, eyeing him coldly.
"Can you … at least tell me your name?" he asked, giving her his most engaging smile. Hoping she would take pity on him.
"Of course." She didn't return the smile. "It's Captain."
She turned and walked out of the bar.
Chapter 11
Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
"It would appear," Wade Palmer said as he stood in front of Cdr. Kamada's desk, "that a number of things went wrong with the Titan landings."
Kamada's eyes narrowed. By now, mos
t everyone in the Federation knew of the slaughter of the 33rd Star Marines. Wade could have read that in the holonews.
"In my opinion, sir, portions of the operation were left to chance —"
"Chance? Are you kidding me?"
"No, sir." Wade felt his throat tighten. This had better be good. "The landing zone wasn't properly softened prior to landing. Not enough space cover was provided. I would've expected at least several days' preparation for such a landing, but the plan called for only a minimal strike just minutes before the Star Marines were launched."
He hesitated, not sure if he should keep talking. Kamada gestured impatiently.
"I realize the intention was to achieve surprise," he said, "to get the maximum number of troops on the ground before the enemy could react. But that aspect of the operation was poorly planned."
"Poorly planned?" Kamada's mouth stood open in disbelief. "That operation was planned right here, Ensign. Are you saying the finest planners in the Federation botched the job?"
Wade felt his face burn red. Kamada's eyes were like coals.
"Commander, I can only give you my honest evaluation."
The other man studied him a moment, then nodded slowly.
"All right. Explain yourself."
"Yes, sir. First of all, the stated purpose of a surprise landing was to liberate Saturnia as quickly as possible, to catch the Sirians off guard and thereby minimize civilian losses. That part makes sense, but then the plan quickly falls apart. The LZ was ninety-five miles from Saturnia, ostensibly chosen because of the favorable terrain, but overlooking the fact that to reach Saturnia the Star Marines would have to traverse the Black Ridge Mountains. The only route over that ridge was Twenty-two Mile Pass, which was two hours from the LZ. Even under the most favorable conditions, that gave the Sirians ample time to mount an armored defense before the Star Marines arrived.
"Further, the order of battle called for a massive fleet operation in the Saturn system to neutralize enemy space power. When a major task force shows up in an occupied system and takes on the Sirian fleet, only an idiot wouldn't be able to guess that an attempt was under way to retake those moons. The enemy had at least a week's warning that a landing was likely, so even had the LZ been on the main street of Saturnia, the Sirians would've been ready."
Kamada rubbed his jaw absently, still gazing at the young officer standing before him.
"All right, then, let's say you're right about all this. Why didn't the same thing happen at Ganymede? We used essentially the same plan there, with some variations."
"Yes, sir. But the Ganymede operation took place four days after the Saturn operation started. It's my guess that the Sirians had their eyes on the Saturn battle and weren't quite as vigilant as they should have been. Also, the fleet attack jumped off less than twenty hours ahead of the landings. They had a lot less warning."
Kamada sat immobile after he finished, and Wade began to wonder if he'd misread the entire situation. But he couldn't have — the documentation pointed specifically to the items he'd stated. Anyone with a logical mind had to see it.
"Anything else?" the commander asked finally.
Wade took a deep breath, and leaped.
"Yes, sir. Based on the interrogation of Sirian prisoners, I'm inclined to think it wouldn't have mattered how well the operation was planned, because the Sirians knew in advance exactly when the landing was to take place. The date, the time, the location."
Kamada leaned forward. "Exactly what are you saying?"
Wade swallowed hard, then drove in the final nail.
"I think," he said quietly, "that the Sirians were tipped off."
Kamada stood and reached for his briefcase. Wade watched in bewilderment, not sure if he'd said something wrong. Kamada came around the desk and stopped in front of him.
"There's a planning session due to start in a few minutes," he said. "I want you to sit in."
Stunned, Wade followed him into the hallway, through several winding corridors, up several floors, past four security checkpoints, and finally into another office, this one much more prestigious than Kamada's. The commander spoke briefly to an assistant, then snapped to attention as a door opened and a senior officer stepped through it. He was a little man, well tanned, virtually hairless above the eyebrows. His expression was that of a professional cynic; his features were decidedly French.
"Admiral," Kamada said smartly, "I'd like you to meet one of my staff. Ensign Wade Palmer. With your permission, I'd like him to sit in on today's meeting."
The admiral's eyes fixed on Wade's face. Wade was tempted to salute, but wasn't wearing his military cover, so he merely nodded, feeling the blood drain out of his face. This, he knew, was Admiral Boucher, one of the elite Polygon planners. Wade had always hated politics, but instinctively knew that if he were to remain on the planning staff, it wouldn't do to displease this man.
Boucher studied him a moment, saying nothing, as if the scrutiny alone were a test. Wade managed to maintain eye contact, even though he felt naked before those relentless brown eyes. Then, unbelievably, the admiral extended his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Palmer." He pronounced it "Palm-air".
Wade shook hands. "Thank you, sir."
Boucher turned to Kamada.
"Shall we?"
The Planning & Strategy Room was on the same floor as Boucher's office. When they arrived, most of the seats were already filled. The senior officers sat at a large oval table; behind each one sat his personal aide, and several aides had junior members beside them. Admiral Boucher took his chair and Kamada settled into one directly behind him. Wade sat next to Kamada.
It was an impressive layout. Suspended above the table was a detailed holo of the Solar System, with military units, bases, and known enemy positions identified by color code. Each of those at the table had a small console that could be used to access the holo.
Wade watched in silent wonder as men and women shuffled in and out in preparation for the meeting. After about fifteen minutes, the assembly came to order. Only nineteen of the senior planners were present, but the room nevertheless contained at least a hundred people. In spite of everything, Wade felt a thrill of excitement.
The meeting was called to order by the Chief of Staff, General John Willard. Without his uniform, Willard could easily have been mistaken for an escaped mental patient. Tall and rawboned, he had a shock of white hair that, combined with the slightly crazy look in his eyes, gave him the look of a madman.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Willard began, "it's time to talk about the next step. I don't have to tell you what that means. We've survived so far simply by the grace of God and a few courageous kids who've laid everything on the line. Now it's time to get serious." He scanned the table briefly. "As you've all been advised by now, the Outer Worlds are officially secure. Late last night, the Sirian garrison holding the Oklahoma Mountains on Europa finally surrendered. They were the only thing standing between us and total victory."
Wade nodded silently. He'd seen the memo this morning. Though the Outer Worlds had been liberated weeks ago, a few desperate enemy units had continued to hold out, conducting a running gun battle with Federation Infantry that chased them through desolate and unsettled terrain. Officially, the Oklahoma Mountains group was considered "Sirian forces", but in reality they were Sirian allies from Beta Centauri. Vicious fighters, they'd resisted long after the Sirians themselves had given it up as a lost cause.
"So," Willard continued, "the question now is, where do we go from here? We've already established the ultimate goal of winning this war, which is the invasion and capture of Sirius itself. But the Confederacy has been expanding its perimeter for decades, and we have a lot of ground to cover. I'm open to suggestions."
A ripple of laughter swept the room. General Willard was well known for getting his own way, and no one doubted that he already knew what he wanted to do next. Suggestions were merely a formality, perhaps to let Willard decide if he'd overlooked anything in his own
mental planning process.
"General," said another aging officer, "I think it might be appropriate to review the known enemy installations that still exist in the system. The Outer Worlds may be secure, but we all know Sirius hasn't left the Solar System."
"Correct," Willard said. He keyed his console, and two spots on the overhead holo began to flash in yellow. "We know of at least two enemy installations still in the system." He went on to enumerate them, one each on Pluto and one of the Uranian moons. They'd been in place for more than four years, and subspace traffic suggested they were still manned, though no Federation military strikes had been attempted in over a year.
"Everything they transmit is in code sequence," he continued, "so we're pretty sure they aren't computer generated. Also, they're receiving signals. Just how well defended they are, we don't know at the moment. But my feeling is they aren't particularly important; without manned bases closer in, they can't pose much of a threat.
"However — I want them out of there. But not necessarily tomorrow."
He called for more input. Another planning officer spoke up.
"Sir, before we go charging off across the galaxy, I believe we should consolidate our system defenses. I refer specifically to the asteroid bases. We started the war with about three-dozen of them, and we have only eleven left. I think we should rebuild and restaff them, in case the enemy tries another assault on us. Concurrent with the ongoing prosecution of the war, of course."
"Definitely concurrent," Willard agreed, his eyes piercing the speaker. "We aren't going to sit on our hands while the enemy is out there licking his wounds. Any further comment on the AB's?"
There was, and it consumed forty-five minutes. From there, the discussion moved to possible targets for future aggression. At the top of most everyone's list was Altair, a Federation ally that had been invaded and partially conquered by the Sirians. Also mentioned was Alpha Centauri, which the Sirians had completely conquered, and was near enough to Beta Centauri, an enemy ally, to be used as a staging area for an assault there. But Altair was still fighting for its own freedom, and the preponderance of opinion held that it should receive aid as early as possible.