by John Bowers
"Apparently isn't worth a shit! I'm sorry, Henry, but I'm scared. This situation is getting worse every day!"
"I know. But we've got to keep a grip. The Federation's best people are working on it."
But back in his own office, Henry Wells had to pour himself a drink. He was shaking almost as hard as Rice, and the scotch didn't immediately help. Foremost in his mind was, did Regina have anything to do with providing that information? And at what risk? God! If anything happened to his little girl …
He finished the drink and poured another. This job was getting him down. He finished the second drink and put the bottle away. It was Sunday. He would just go home, watch a solarball game, and try to put it out of his mind. For a few hours, anyway.
He needed the rest.
Monday, 8 June, 0229 (PCC) - Polygon, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
Monday morning was a shock. Wade arrived at his office to discover that General Willard had already called a strategy meeting; all senior planners and their aides were ordered to attend, no exceptions. Kamada looked worried as he and Wade headed upstairs to join Admiral Boucher.
"What's it about?" Wade asked. "The next session wasn't supposed to be until Wednesday."
"No idea," Kamada said. "Something must be up."
"Has this ever happened before?"
"Not recently."
The Strategy Room was tense as they entered, a buzz of conversation indicating the uncertainty felt by all the planners. Not until everyone was present and seated did General Willard make his entrance, and he looked more forbidding than Wade had ever seen him. He didn't have to ask for quiet — the room fell silent immediately. Willard stopped at the head of the table and looked around. Without preamble, he told them.
"The enemy knows about Gang-Bang," he said.
A hundred pairs of eyes stared at him in shock. No one even breathed.
"I don't know how they found out," Willard continued. "But FIA has developed the information and they swear it's accurate."
He paused a minute, seeming to struggle with his anger. His face turned almost purple.
"If I ever find out," he said in a low, menacing growl, "that anyone in this room, or on any of this staff, delivered that information to the enemy, even unintentionally … I will personally shoot the son of a bitch! I mean that. I'll take the star-court and sacrifice my career!"
Wade sat listening, barely hearing the words. It was too horrible to contemplate. How could the Sirians possibly know? Who could have leaked the information? It had to be a leak — there was no other possibility.
"I was in teleconference with the President and the Defense Committee chairman most of the night," Willard went on. "The President feels we have no choice but to continue with Gang-Bang. We have to invade those worlds sooner or later, and the longer we wait the more time the Sirians will have to prepare. They know we'll try it sooner or later, so we have no choice but to go ahead."
"Do you think that's wise, General?" a senior planner dared ask. "Perhaps we should …"
"I said the plan is a go!" Willard bellowed.
The questioner fell silent, coloring under the verbal bludgeoning. No one else spoke, and Willard seemed to control his rage with an effort. "Operation Gang-Bang kicks off on One January, as originally planned. You all have work to do, so this meeting is over."
He turned and stalked out of the room.
Wade walked back to his office on wooden legs. Boucher looked pale, Kamada inscrutable. It was a nightmare, and Wade had the feeling he might never wake up.
Ten minutes later, Kamada called him in and closed the door.
"Sit down," he said.
Wade sat uncertainly.
"Admiral Boucher just called me," Kamada said. "When he got back to his office, he had a call waiting from General Willard. Willard has moved the timetable up. It isn't One January, it's Fifteen September."
"What!" Wade was stunned — September 15 was only fourteen weeks away. "Why did he change his mind?"
"Apparently, he didn't. He got permission from the President last night to move the operation up, but he thinks we have a leak somewhere on the staff, so he told them the date hadn't changed."
"I'm confused," Wade admitted.
Kamada grimaced. "General Willard doesn't trust anyone right now. But since our office came up with the operational plan, he's telling us the real date. Nobody knows except you, me, and Admiral Boucher. And we are sworn to secrecy. Understand?"
Wade nodded.
"Fifteen September is the date. Which means we have to get our asses in gear and solve the supply problem. It's up to the three of us. We can't even tell the others in our own office." Kamada peered at him intently. "Are you up to that?"
"Yes, sir. But what about the ground schedule? I can't cover all the tactical details in that time. Not even all of us working together can."
"Most of that's already been done. We were working out tac plans several years ago for each of the major planets likely to be invaded. The only changes will be seasonal details — weather patterns, changes in enemy troop intelligence, stuff like that. The ground war will take care of itself, but we've got to get the troops down safely and keep them supplied. That's going to be largely your job. Think you can handle it?"
"Yes, sir. I guess I'll have to."
"Good. I hear there's a sale on caffeine down at the super center. You'd better stock up, because you aren't going to be sleeping much for a while."
Chapter 27
Monday, 3 August, 0229 (PCC) - San Francisco, CA, North America, Terra
Henry Wells stared out the window of his office without seeing a thing. San Francisco lay under a blanket of heat that was rare in the Bay Area, the temperature in the high nineties. Hover traffic choked the streets below and people bustled about, but he hardly noticed.
He felt listless and lethargic, definitely unlike him. He'd been this way for months, ever since his conversation with Peter Miller in Washington City. There'd been no word from Regina since then, and Miller hadn't contacted him — not that Henry expected him to. Henry hadn't seen her in thirteen months, or was it fourteen? He couldn't even remember. He'd met her surrogate twice, but that only upset him more. The alternate was a nice enough girl, he supposed, but she wasn't his daughter. Goddammit, she wasn't his daughter!
Henry knew he was letting this get him down. He wasn't doing his job properly, and he knew people were starting to notice. How could they help it, after all — Henry Wells, the most dynamic, energetic man in the Senate, for thirty years the champion of the armed forces and defender of the Federation, suddenly lying down on the job. It was only weeks until the election, and he'd barely begun to campaign. He simply didn't have the heart for it.
"You're going to lose this race, Henry!" Yvonne had scolded him during one of their late-night arguments. "Your opponent is calling you a dinosaur, says you're slowing down. He's trying to convince the people they need fresh blood, and you're giving him all the ammunition he needs!"
Henry had just shaken his head in frustration.
"Yvonne, I don't much give a damn any more!"
"How can you say that! You've poured your life into this job! For three decades you've beaten, badgered, and threatened people until you got the results you wanted. If you hadn't, we'd have lost this war already, because it was you that got the appropriations the military needed to arm itself. How can you just turn your back on them now?"
"I'm not turning my back on anybody!" he'd shouted. "The Congress is behind them now. They don't need me any more."
"And you think you're not feeling sorry for yourself?"
"No! It's not me I'm worried about — it's Gina. Why in god's name did she let herself get roped into this thing?"
Yvonne lowered her head to control her own emotions, then reached out and took his hand.
"Henry, you raised her on a diet of patriotism. So did I. The Federation was everything in our lives, and it still is. The real question is, how could she have turne
d it down?"
"She promised me!" he shouted. "She promised me she wouldn't enlist!"
"She kept her promise. She didn't enlist. And she's not a member of the military."
"This is worse!"
"How do you know that? How can you say it's worse? Sure, there's an element of danger involved, but she's undercover. The enemy doesn't know who she is, and as long as they don't find out, she's perfectly safe. If she were in the military, she'd be wearing a uniform and be a clear target for every enemy who saw her. At least this way her exposure is minimal."
Henry blinked at the window as his eyes started to mist. Heaving a sigh, he turned back to his desk and settled into his chair. He considered pouring himself a drink, but it was still early afternoon. He had enough problems without becoming a lush. He enjoyed a casual relationship with alcohol, but had no desire to become dependent on it. He had an appointment in a few minutes, but was in no mood to keep it. He needed something, he realized, but didn't know what. Things couldn't keep going the way they were, that much was for sure. He had to shake off this depression, but how?
He needed to talk to somebody, he decided. Somebody who could relate to his feelings. After a moment of reflection, he realized there was only one person he knew who might possibly be able to talk him out of his depression. He keyed the office intercom.
"Julie, cancel my appointments for the afternoon," he said. "Call the spaceport and order the Lear for a six o'clock departure. Tell them we're going to Colorado. Then put through a call to Oliver Lincoln III."
Lincoln Enterprises, Denver, CO, North America, Terra
It was just dark in Colorado when the Lear rocket dropped out of a clear summer sky and touched down on the LincEnt runway. Henry stepped down at the general aviation apron and grinned as his boyhood friend strode forward to shake his hand. Oliver Lincoln III was three inches taller and seventy pounds heavier than Henry, who stood only five feet six. The bigger man grabbed his hand and almost shook him off his feet.
"Goddamn, Henry! I thought you'd forgot about me!" Oliver exclaimed. "Where's Yvonne?"
"She didn't come, Ollie. This is personal business."
"Well, too bad. Rosemary will be disappointed. Look, have you had dinner? Hobbs is laying on a special feed. I called him as soon as I got your message."
"I'm looking forward to it."
"Then let's go. My car is right over there."
They crossed the apron to where Lincoln had left his hovercar, and minutes later were skimming above a narrow highway that wound its way from the spacecraft factory to Lincoln's private mansion higher in the mountains. Henry watched the dark landscape shoot by with pleasure; he'd always enjoyed his visits to Colorado. It was too dark to see much, but it didn't matter. He would see it in the morning.
"This is an unexpected pleasure, Henry. What's the occasion?"
"As I said, Ollie, it's personal. I need a pep talk."
Oliver raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"You need a pep talk? That's a first. The way I remember it, you were always the one coming to my rescue!"
The friendship between Henry and Oliver dated back to their teenage years. Their fathers had been college buddies, and though Henry was three years older, the boys had become bosom friends as well.
They arrived at the Lincoln mansion, and Henry met Rosemary Lincoln at the door. She was a lovely brunette and a gracious hostess. She was almost as close a friend as Oliver, and greeted him warmly.
"Henry! It's so good to see you!"
She hugged him and he kissed her cheek.
"Good to see you, too, dear. How are you holding up?"
Rosemary smiled bravely. Her only son had been killed in action seven years earlier, in combat against a Sirian carrier force.
"I'm surviving," she whispered, still smiling. "You and Yvonne were a tremendous support." She frowned and looked toward the car. "Didn't Yvonne come with you?"
"No, I'm sorry. I came rather on the spur of the moment."
They enjoyed a quiet dinner together, keeping the talk light. After brandy, Rosemary sensed that the men wanted to be alone, and excused herself. Henry kissed her again and she headed up the stairs, then Oliver led him into his study. They settled down on deep leather cushions. Oliver poured scotch. Henry looked around at the opulently furnished den, feeling reluctant to jump in just yet. Instead, he eyed his old friend with a smile.
"How's the new fighter coming, Ollie? Got a production date yet?"
"Six months, maximum." Oliver grinned. "We've got a few bugs left, but we're getting real close. Already got the new assembly line tooled up, and when it goes online we'll retool the other two as well. In the meantime, we have to finish the order we're working on now."
"And what did you say the new ship is called?"
"The PulsarFighter. Faster, meaner, longer range, and it has two gun turrets instead of one. But still carries a crew of two."
Henry nodded in admiration. Oliver's enthusiasm for his product had never waned.
Oliver put his drink down and leaned slightly forward.
"Henry, you didn't come here to ask about my PulsarFighter. What's going on? You look troubled."
Henry smiled weakly. Now that he was here, he felt a little sheepish. He'd always been there for Oliver to lean on, even when Oliver didn't want him. Now the shoe was on the other foot.
"Ollie … I've got a dilemma, and you're the only man I know who might understand what I'm feeling."
"Good! It's about time I got a chance to pay you back for all the free advice I got from you over the years."
Henry smiled again. Oliver's life had been a roller coaster of triumphs and tragedies, from his personal involvement in the defense of Vega during the Sirian invasion to his most recent loss, the death of Johnny Lincoln. Henry had been his big brother through it all.
"What I'm about to reveal to you is top secret," he said quietly. "You simply can't tell a soul. Not even Rosemary."
"You've told me secrets before, Henry."
"Yes, but this one could get my daughter killed."
Oliver's eyes narrowed in disbelief.
"Did you say your daughter? Is Regina in some kind of trouble?"
"I don't know. I don't think so, but … " He sighed. "Maybe I'd better tell you from the beginning."
Henry talked for twenty minutes. Oliver listened closely, asked an occasional question, and finally it had all been said.
"Jesus H. Christ!" Lincoln breathed in amazement. "God damn!"
"I feel silly, Ollie, coming to you like this. After all, as far as I know, Gina is alive and well. I'm sure if anything happened to her they would tell me. I feel like a wimp; your son is dead, and I'm crying over my daughter without knowing that anything has happened to her."
"Bullshit. You're entitled. When it's your kid out there, you worry, and it's the not knowing that's the worst. At least with Johnny, we know. The Fighter Queen came here herself and told us exactly what happened. This is different."
Henry lowered his eyes, but said nothing.
"I think Rosemary would be a greater help to you than I am," Oliver was saying. "She went through something similar when I was on Vega. For nearly a year she didn't know if I was alive or dead."
"I remember. But we can't tell her about this. It wouldn't be fair to her to lay a Federation secret on her illegally."
"No, of course not. And I won't tell her, I promise you that. What exactly are you feeling?" he asked.
"You mean beside the worry? I have no energy. I'm not doing my job any more, and it's election year. I've got a contender out there who's thirty-one years old and has vidstar looks, and he's calling me a dinosaur. On top of that, he's a veteran. He was wounded in the first year of the war, and his campaign is selling him as a hero. I need all my concentration to beat him, but I just don't have the energy."
"Your record speaks for itself."
Henry shook his head.
"You're wrong there, Ollie. Voters have a short memory, and they'r
e suckers for good looks. The people who kept me in office all these years are being replaced by their children; they look at me and see a fat little man with grey hair. Why should they vote for me when the other guy is closer to their own age, and sexy besides?" He grinned. "I wasn't very sexy, but I won my first election on my youth, too. That, and talking about you fighting for freedom on Vega."
Oliver regarded him solemnly, trying to think of a solution.
"Do you want to stay in the Senate? Hell, after thirty years, you're entitled to retire."
"I could retire," Henry admitted. "Maybe I should, in fact. But somehow I'd like to see this thing through. The minute this war is over, I'll be ready to get out, but I hate to quit before then. I've got another decade in me, if I can shake off this lethargy."
Oliver stood up and refilled their brandy glasses, then sat down again. He pinned his friend with intense grey eyes.
"When Johnny was killed," he said slowly, "the only thing that saved me was work. It was the hardest thing I ever did in my life, but it was the only option I had. We were just prototyping the new fighter, and I threw myself into that. I told myself those kids out there needed it, because it would save more young lives. And that's how I did it." He grimaced. "What you need, Henry, is a project."
Henry's eyebrows lifted. He spread his hands.
"Got any ideas? I'm listening."
Oliver nodded slowly, sipping his scotch.
"The election is, what, fourteen weeks away? Fifteen?"
"That's right."
"There's another election next year, isn't there?"
Henry frowned, not quite understanding.
"What … ?"
"Why don't you run for President?"
Chapter 28
Saturday, 15 August 0229 (PCC) - Wallace Plantation, Texiana, Sirius 1
Scarlett Wallace and General Martin Vaughn were married on August 15 in a lovely, lightly attended ceremony in the garden behind the Wallace mansion. Capt. Davenport stood in as best man, and the serf girl Kim was Scarlett's bridesmaid. Scarlett's cousin Boyd gave her away.
It wasn't the grand wedding she'd always dreamed of, but she understood perfectly that the demands of the war came first, and every citizen must make certain sacrifices. No doubt they would one day be able to rededicate their vows before a much larger gathering.