Steel Walls and Dirt Drops

by Black, Alan

  "Okay, Chief. But, why not keep a needler handy?"

  "History, Misha. The AMSF is a direct descendent of Earth One's North American Air Force. They were originally only atmospheric aircraft, but they eventually moved into the upper atmosphere and from there into satellite control. It was a short jump to commanding spacecraft."

  "I was in the AMSF for four years. Nobody ever told me that."

  Chief Brown smiled, "It was a short four years. We have a lot of history and tradition our founders brought with them from their old forces. That was almost eight hundred years ago. Pilots are a superstitious lot. Some changes may never come."

  "Great. That tells me why it is called the tarmac. That is tradition, right?"

  "Yep. That was what atmospheric pilots called the area where they parked their fixed-wing aircraft."

  "One more question before I let you put me to work. What is FOD?"

  Brown laughed. "That is a secret we usually don't let anyone in on until they reach at least an E-7 pay grade. F.O.D. is Foreign Object Debris. It used to mean any trash that might get sucked into an atmospheric craft's air intake and wreck the engine. Now it is a reminder to watch for things that don't belong. You know, keep your eyes out for what is unusual. And what is unusual might be dangerous or deadly. Now, are you ready for work, young lady?"

  The next few hours passed so quickly Misha completely lost track of time. She took all the readings from the last jump. She analyzed, categorized them and wrote a mission report on each one. She completed all except one that baffled her.

  Misha called out, "Hey, Chief?"

  "She left an hour ago, Third," Buzz answered. "Got a problem?"

  "Not really, Major, I have dumped the comms analysis mission reports into your database."

  "All of them?" Buzz sounded surprised. "Hell, it would have taken anyone except Chief Brown or me about a week to complete that load. It’s a big squadron out there, must be a ton of communications going on."

  "Yes, Major. But, most of it is pretty routine except I got one that I can't read. I am not sure if it even qualifies as comms."

  "Well, better safe than sorry. I'll buzz Chief Brown to come back and take a look. If the meantime, show me what you got."

  Misha called up the unusual reading. It was out of the range of standard familiar communications. The data analysis module ruled out all known human protocols as well as all previously recorded alien communications, specifically noting it did not conform to any Binder recordings.

  "Looks like space static to me, Third," Buzz said.

  "That is what I thought at first, but I have never seen static so consistent in tone and tremor. Plus, it died too fast. It didn’t fade away, it was just no longer there, you know?"

  "Well, Third. I think you have sat at that console for too long. Maybe you should show Chief Brown what you got when she gets here and then go take a break."

  "I don't know, Major. Something isn't right with this."

  "With what?" Brown said as she came through the vault hatch.

  Misha explained the readings and her concerns again. "I know that I sound overly paranoid, but…" Her voice trailed off with a shrug.

  "Paranoid is good," Brown smiled as she flashed through a readout of Misha's completed reports "The rest of these misreps are fantastic. You do good work, Misha. When you get done playing warrior with your APE buddies, you come see me. I will put you back in intel."

  "Thanks, Chief."

  "I got to say, Misha that I am a bit intrigued by this comm signal. I’m not sure we have enough info to puzzle this out…yet. Let’s see if we can do something to scrounge up a bit more data."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Colonel Britaine looked at the two men standing before him. He shook his head. It had to be that damned APE McPherson again, not to mention that pain in the ass Chief Brown. He was amazed at the massive amount of information those two women had gathered on the system their squadron was cruising through. The next jump was still many hours away, but he would have to delay his jump for days if he was to read every piece of this data.

  McPherson and Chief Brown had even queried every other spacecraft communications collector in the squadrons. Most of the other intelligence offices hadn't yet completed their mission reports. But, he doubted that Chief Brown would have trusted their misreps to report such unusual activity. The woman was a professional paranoid.

  "Dammit," he thought. "I wouldn't have relented and let the APES into operations functions if I had knew it would put those two together. Still, this might be one more nail in the coffin of that uppity grunt. Why couldn't that frigid bitch be an airlock maintenance tech? All it would take is be one quick mistake and poof." He knew he had to control himself. She would self-destruct soon enough or her luck would run out when she went dirt side on Altec.

  Over half of the misreps from the other eighty spacecraft didn't report this or any other unusual activity. Most of the other reports that did show this activity listed it as static or garbling caused by solar flares or sunspots. Only about ten percent listed the communications as unknown or marked it for further study.

  Chief Brown was convinced enough to classify the data on an official report. She then badgered Major Krandiewsky into taking the report up the ladder to Colonel Britaine.

  "And now," Britaine thought, "that office weenie is up here badgering me about this. Plus, that Marshal Service data pusher hasn't been any help. I call him in here to back me up and he is so non-committal he’s useless."

  Britaine said, "Nothing. I don't see why this is even officially classified. Look at these other misreps. Major Krandiewsky, are you going to tell General Gurand that a grunt, a ground pounder, is better at intelligence gathering than his own command staff intelligence officers? I sure as hell am not."

  "I agree, Colonel. I wouldn’t want to tell them they missed finding important data. However, if Chief Brown is right and there is something out there, we should find out what it is," Krandiewsky said, emphasizing it was Brown who was pushing for more data. "Surely a couple of probes might get enough data to show if there is anything here or not. It wouldn't take a lot of probes. We have enough readings from other comm collectors for a good triangulation on a possible point of origin."

  "Might? Maybe? Possible? No, Heiro," Britaine said, not realizing he mispronounced Buzz's real first name for the hundredth time. "There is not enough data here to go on an empty space chase just to prove something doesn't exist. Sergeant Forrester, don't you agree?"

  "Well, Colonel. As you say, there is not enough data here to make a determination one way or another. Third McPherson does have a knack for the unusual, sir. More data might be indicated," Forrester said.

  Britaine, despite his attempts to control his emotions, colored at the mention of McPherson's name. "Spoken like a true bureaucrat. Sorry, Sergeant Forrester, but the AMSF is an action-oriented force. We don't jump at shadows. Neither does the APES. Maybe Third McPherson isn't as suited for command as some would believe. Dismissed, Gentlemen."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chief Brown frowned, "Where the hell is Buzz? It’s been an hour. I doubt if it was worth a cold early-morning fart to send that report up to Britaine. He may be a damn good man to have in a dogfight, but he wouldn't know what to do with real intelligence information if it came up and bit him in the butt."

  "Well, Chief," Misha said. "We do what we gotta do. What the higher ups do with what we do is their business."

  "And that is a lot of do-do," Brown said.

  The vault hatch opened. Krandiewsky and Forrester popped through the hatch and closed it behind them. "Good afternoon, ladies," Forrester said. "Been busy I see."

  "Gan, what are you doing back here?" Misha asked.

  "Britaine called me in to consult on your discovery. Sorry, Chief, don't get riled up. It wasn't my idea," Forrester held his hands up defensively. "And yes, Buzz put forward the info as viable data. He didn't burn you on the report."

  "Of course I didn
't burn your research," Krandiewsky said with a hint of hurt in his voice.

  "Oh, hush, Buzz," Brown said. "I never thought any such thing. What did Britaine say?"

  "What could he say?" Krandiewsky replied. "There isn’t sufficient data and it’s probably sunspots. That’s how General Gurand's flag intelligence staff reported it."

  Brown snorted, "Flag intel. Ha! Those political pukes couldn't intel their way into the mess hall without an empty stomach to lead them."

  Misha said, "Okay, Gan. What do you think?"

  "Well, I don't know. I will agree there were some strange readings that we can't round peg into a known round hole. But, so what?" Forrester said.

  "The 'so what' is that we are running a huge squadron operation, Sergeant Forrester. I don't know about you Marshal Service guys, but if you ain't paranoid, you ain’t intel. This makes the hairs on my neck stand up and mambo," Brown said.

  “All right,” Krandiewsky agreed, “Something was out there. The Third did a damn good job of picking it out. I’ll make sure that it’s noted in the daily logs. But, I don’t see what else there is to do about it. Chief, reset your communications collectors to check for the signal throughout this system until we jump and then watch for it after the next jump. We can’t do anything more without additional data. Does that make sense?”

  "Yes, sir," Brown replied.

  "Do you agree, Gan?" Misha asked.

  "Not my call. Sorry, I am just a Marshal’s office bureaucrat," Forrester said.

  "Sorry?" Brown said. "It damn well is your call. I know you have the security clearance to see everything we do. Personally, I don't see that you have the need-to-know levels. But, that isn’t for me to say. It is your call since Britaine asked you in on this."

  "Okay, okay. I agree with Buzz. We don't have enough information to make a valid diagnosis on the signal. Britaine agrees. He doesn't see the need to bust his chops asking the general for permission to send out an expensive horde of deep-space probes looking for something that might be a solar flare. And frankly, Colonel Britaine does not appear to be the type of officer who would share the information even if you get enough data."

  Brown nodded, "We live by data and we die by data. Okay, Misha, I’ll get some people to keep looking. Later, we can see what we can put together. I assume you are planning on coming back? We didn't work you too hard on your first day?"

  Misha laughed, "No. I appreciate your letting me get in here. Except for a bit of frustration at not getting this puzzle solved, this has actually been quite restful."

  "Hey, Chief, you should go to the APES training bay if you want to watch Misha really work," Forrester said.

  "Not me," Brown said. "I break out in hives if I even see someone else sweat."

  "Gan, don't you have somewhere else to be?" Misha said. "Why is it that every time I turn around I am bumping into you?"

  "Maybe you’re just clumsy?" Forrester asked innocently. "Besides, I’m just hitching a ride on the Kiirkegaard. Britaine has me bunking with a couple of second lieutenants. So, where else am I going to go? I can't work out with your guys all the time. I’m liable to get killed. Your APES broke my arm last time. What would be next? And I can't just hang around the intel shack doing nothing."

  "Damn right," Krandiewsky said. "You and Chief Brown get to telling old war stories and nobody gets any work done."

  Misha nodded. "Tell you what, Gan. Since I owe you a small favor for the broken arm, why don't you move into my day office? It has a bunk set up and it might give you some privacy. I will code the hatch and the dataport for you."

  "I don't want to push you out of your office," Forrester replied.

  "It’s not a problem. I don't think I’ll be using it much in the next couple of days. You’re getting off where…Gagarin system? I can live without a private office until then. I’m not going to be using the sleeping quarters even after that, so be my guest," Misha said.

  Brown said, "Okey-dokey, that’s settled. Misha, you might as well get out of here. Go take a nap or something. We’ll work on collecting more anomalous data for later study. I’ll call you if something hot shows up."

  Misha said, "Thanks, Chief. Thank you, Major. I don't think sleep is in the cards right now. Maybe a little time in the training bay would help. Do you want to work out some, Gan?"

  Forrester laughed and waved his cast, "I still have a broken forelimb. It should take another few days to get this cast off and get healed from the last beating you put me through."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "Second Aardmricksdottir, what is the problem?"

  Vark clamped her jaw shut. It was not that Third McPherson was yelling at her, but more the tone of disapproval in her voice. In fact, she would rather have McPherson yelling at her. They were in the training bay. All the other squad's armor repair techs stood out of earshot. Vark was thankful for that. At least, the others couldn't hear if she had to endure getting chewed out.

  "Sorry, Third-”

  "Sorry don't cut it, Vark," McPherson interrupted. "I don't want to hear sorry. I know you have a sorry squad with some very sorry troopers stuck in some sorry old armor, but you are a second-level commander now. You are also the senior armor repair technician for the whole unit. How sorry are you going to be when we drop dirt into combat and people die because this armor isn't ready?"

  Without thinking, Vark spat back, "That they get what they deserve for not taking care of their own gear." She froze thinking, "I didn't say that out loud, did I? Oh, stupid, stupid, stupid." She watched McPherson's face cloud up and turn a bright red. "Oh, gods!” She thought. “She is going to blow. Keep your trap shut, Aardmricksdottir. You are smarter than this. No…maybe I'm not." She said, "I didn't mean to say that, Third. Really, it just slipped out."

  “Look, Deuce,” McPherson said. “I know what you’ve got in your squad. And I know what some of the other squad leaders have to work with. We are all in the same boat. They are ours. We will fix the people. But, we can’t fix them if they can’t survive combat, right?”

  Vark looked puzzled, "Fix the people? They aren't machines. I can fix armor. I got some good people in my squad. Let me get rid of Beaudry and maybe two or three others. I can do something with this squad if I can get some good replacements in here."

  "What makes you think we’d be getting replacements?" McPherson asked. "You think we’re going to pass our problems off to someone else? Not a chance, Second. You are stuck with Beaudry until he decides to leave or he gets shipped home to mama in a box. And that doesn't mean you run him off, get me? He’s a good man and could be an asset to this outfit."

  Vark couldn't believe her ears. She heard McPherson reaming Beaudry on her first day here. Surely, she didn't think that screw-up was worth saving. "Seriously, Third, Beaudry is not only bad, but he is a bad influence on a couple of other rookies in Joker Squad, especially Yorkvina and Dallas. Combined with Putinova, it is a mess."

  "Yes, Second, but it is your mess. You deal with it."

  “Come one, Third. I know you’re new at command, but you can’t believe that textbook crap about leadership,” Vark said incredulously. She thought, “Oh, gods! Why is my mouth in gear? Shut up, girl.” But, disregarding her own advice to herself, she said, “Everybody knows that you’re going to burn Slezak for trying to frag you in the sim.”

  "What everyone knows or thinks they know isn't important here, Second. I will tell you this: Slezak has been red-lined for this upcoming op. I haven't determined what I’ll do with her after that. But, whatever the punishment, I will not, repeat not transfer her out of this squad. She is my problem, just as Beaudry and Putinova are yours and by extension, mine as well. Got me?"

  Vark nodded, "Yes, sir." She started to apologize, but managed to clamp the words off.

  She almost stumbled backwards when McPherson stepped forward to within inches of her face. She had lost all of her physical inhibitions in her time with the APES, but this Third was so imposing she felt threatened.

 
"Now, Second Aardmricksdottir, once again: what is the problem with getting our armor repaired?"

  "Sir, we need more hands. This is not an excuse, just a fact. We have had such a high influx of FNGs that we’re not meeting up with the retrofit demands. Plus, the seconds who retired let a lot of maintenance slip. The armor in Joker Squad is pretty good, but that’s because I took care of it myself. Look, Third, I’m not whining, but I wasn't responsible for the armor in those other squads until a couple of weeks ago. Now suddenly, instead of just eleven suits, I've got 120 plus suits."

  “True, Second. And last week I only had one life to worry about. Now I’ve got 120 plus lives riding on my decisions. I can’t fix your time line, but I can get you more hands. Use the quartermasters, expendables clerks, med techs, general supplies clerks, intelligence techs, and even the cooks. Most of those will be untrained hands, but they will do the unskilled labor that will free up the other techs.”

  Misha continued, “You said you were having big problems with the camouflage hide-and-seek sensors, right? Well, those units are very similar to some of the comms modules. You should be able to use your communications specialists to check those out."

  Vark knew she should just say 'yes, sir’ and shut her mouth. She even told herself to keep her mouth shut. She said, "Are those the same hands you promised Park for help in repairing the skid plates, that you promised Bill…Colonel Britaine as part time help in operations and that you’re working half to death in the training bay?"

  McPherson smiled coldly, "You know, Second, I think you’re right. You are a second-level commander, what do you propose to do about it?"

  Vark wanted to slam her fist into her own forehead and shout "Think! Think! Think!" Instead, she shrugged and said, "I don't, Third. I've got other troopers over there who have been repairing armor for years. DeLaPax should be senior, not me. She has been repairing armor for longer than I have been alive. I don't know about you, sir, but I would ask DeLaPax what to do."