Gust Front

by John Ringo

  It was the casual remark of a young man who was rapidly turning into a brilliant tactician. The formal training of the military had taken an untutored but febrile mind and rocketed it into areas of genius. He proceeded to outline four other simple steps that, either before or during the engagement, would have saved the company's ass. It was a given that he had thought of them in the thick of the action and not as a "Monday Morning Quarterback" reaction after the drill. He was only trying to be helpful, but the XO had taken it as a direct attack and responded at length.

  When the harried XO, in front of most of the leaders of the company, had finished describing her opinion of the comments she went on to discuss Stewart's parentage, unfortunately probably with more truth than she realized, education and probable future. Before she realized what she was doing, she had thoroughly poisoned the well.

  When she finished, the young NCO had stood up, stone-faced, and left the room without a word. And also without asking permission, which was a legally objectionable action. No one had suggested that he stay. Or be charged for that matter.

  Pappas's comment had been pithy, succinct and to the point: "Lieutenant Nightingale, with all due respect, that was a stupid thing to do."

  Their discussion of how to rectify her mistake had drifted to bed, as many of their discussions did. The relationship had taken both of them by surprise, but when Nightingale put her hand on his neck the first time and hesitantly drew him towards her, Pappas's sixty-year-old brain had been run over by his freshly rejuvenated twenty-year-old hormones. Although he had been faithful to his wife during his entire previous enlistment, the current situation was just too tough. For Nightingale, the combination of nearly a half century of sexual experience and a twenty-year-old's body had been an intensely pleasant surprise. Pappas not only knew some of the oddest tricks, he was back in condition to be able to use them.

  He now ran a finger down her perfect back, hooked a thumb into her armpit and turned her to look at him. He pulled her to him, tucking her leg over his and slid his hand down her back. "You had better get a handle on this, soon, or the Old Man will turn you to paste." He gently caressed her inner thigh then slid his hand upward.

  She made a hissed inhalation and arched her back. "I know," she said with a little gasp. She paused for a moment then went on, panting slightly. "I just cannot get a handle on . . ." She paused again, making little inhalations through her nose. The nostrils fluttered in and out prettily.

  "On?" asked Pappas, waiting for her to try to answer.

  "On . . . uhm . . ." she said as he moved his hand slightly to the side. She stopped trying to talk.

  "Are you listening?" he asked, backing away slightly then sliding forward. Docking was abrupt and perfect.

  "Umm-hmm," she murmured. "Definitely." She slid her leg up to hook over his hip.

  "Stop fighting with Stewart and listen to him. He's better at this than anyone else in the company besides the Old Man."

  "Okay," she squeaked, starting to rock back and forth.

  "I'm serious," said Pappas, giving a little gasp of his own as well-trained muscles clamped. He was on the losing side of the battle now.

  "I'll make up to the shrimp," she said pushing his shoulder to roll him over on his back. She grabbed his short thick black hair in both hands. "Now hang on."

  * * *

  Duncan popped the top off the unlabeled beer bottle with a K-bar combat knife and wordlessly handed it to Stewart. The younger NCO was staring unseeingly at the wall of his tiny room. He took a swig without looking at the product, then stopped and stared at the bottle.

  "Damn," he said, looking up at the recently arrived staff sergeant. "I thought I had balls. Raiding the Old Man's home brew is a capital offense." Beer was getting harder and harder to find. Materials such as barley and hops were strictly controlled under emergency rationing and storage plans. The easy accessibility of the materials to the company commander was a closely held secret of the company.

  "He'd understand," said Duncan, slipping a pack of Marlboro Reds out and lighting one. "He's good people." He took a deep drag on the butt and blew smoke at the ceiling.

  "Unlike certain unnamed stuck-up bitches," snarled the younger NCO and clenched both hands. His arms were shaking in anger.

  "Who is currently getting her ass fucked off by Top," noted Duncan, with a wry smile.

  Stewart shook his head. "I never thought I'd see the day."

  "Well, he's a good-looking guy . . ." said Duncan.

  "No," interrupted Stewart with a grimace. "I was talking about Top fucking her, not the other way around. I mean, damn, the Gunny was always such a straight arrow!" Only then did he realize that the other NCO was jerking his chain.

  "Well," mused Duncan with another puff on the cancer stick, "I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers."

  Stewart snorted. "Yeah, neither would I. Gotta admit it. Great set of knockers. Prime slice any way you cut it."

  "So," asked Duncan with a smile. "Is your anger with Gunny Pappas because he is fucking your Public Enemy Number One, or because he's getting some and you're not?"

  "Who says I'm not getting any?" snapped Stewart, machismo aroused.

  "Well, I know you're not getting any from Nightingale, although the way you two fight . . ."

  "Oh, fuck you," said Stewart, trying not to laugh.

  "And Arnold has already nailed up Lieutenant Slight, so she's right out."

  "No!" gasped Stewart, starting to double up in laughter. "Jesus! Arnold and Slight? Are you sure?"

  "Well, I suppose he could have been demonstrating mouth to mouth. . . ."

  "Oh, shit!" laughed Stewart, finally letting go of the tension of the argument with the XO. "So when are you and Boggle gonna do the dirty deed?"

  Duncan's face took on a look of deepest sorrow. "I fear never," he said, placing a hand on his chest in simulated despair. "Methinks that Sergeant Boggle pines for Lieutenant Fallon!"

  Stewart laughed so hard that nut-brown ale spurted out of his nose and he started gasping. The battles between the Second platoon leader and his female platoon sergeant were as legendary as his own with the XO. The image of "Boggle" Bogdanovich and the West Pointer wrapped up in Eros's embrace was as implausible as . . . the XO and Top.

  "Jesus," he swore again, after regaining control of himself. "You don't think?"

  "Well, not yet," said Duncan, leaning forward and taking the home brew for a swig. "If you're just going to waste this blowing it out your nose . . ."

  "So," said Stewart with a smile as he wiped beer off his chair, "who are you planning on getting a leg over with?"

  "Oh," commented Duncan, handing the bottle back and waiting for Stewart to take another slug, "I was thinking about . . . Summerhour."

  Beer blasted across the room again. Summerhour was a nearly seven-foot, not particularly bright, fairly ugly, male, heavy weapons private. Since Stewart was fairly sure Duncan was straight, the choice could not have been more unlikely.

  Stewart finally wiped up the mess, wiped his eyes and gave up on drinking. "You think the Old Man knows?" he asked soberly.

  Duncan shook his head. "Everybody thinks I'm some sort of expert on Captain O'Neal. I was only with him for a couple of days. You guys have been training with him for over a year. You answer the question."

  Stewart thought about it. "Probably. I've never seen anything surprise him."

  "I have," admitted Duncan. "But only when the enemy pisses all over his battle plans. He gets really angry then. Really angry." He shook his head and finished the brew to the yeasty dregs. "You don't want to see him when he's angry."

  CHAPTER 23

  No-Name-Key, FL, United States of America, Sol III

  1440 EDT October 2nd, 2004 ad

  Mike was trying very hard not to get angry. "Sir, I understand that you're out of the hotel business. I can even understand you being unhappy with tourists. But I've got my wife and daughter with me and we need someplace to put our heads down."

&
nbsp; The man behind the counter was in his fifties, his long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. He stared down his nose at the short, massively built soldier and wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Look, buddy, you're right. I'm out of the hotel business. There ain't any tourists anymore. How the hell did you get leave when everybody else is locked up on a base or working their ass off?"

  Mike threw his hands up in despair. "I pulled every string in the book. Is that what you wanted to hear?" In fact, every string in the book had been pulled behind his back. But that would take more explanation than it was worth.

  The proprietor's face worked. "Look . . ."

  "Harry," said a female voice from the office at the rear. "Calm down."

  The No-Name-Key Fish Camp consisted of eight ancient, wooden bungalows bleached gray by a half century of sun, a few rickety docks surrounding a small but deep embayment, a brand new cinder-block icehouse about thirty yards long and the office, a single-story wooden building protruding over the small harbor. The buildings all surrounded an oyster-shell parking lot. The parking lot had a motley assortment of vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, parked at every angle. Most of the trucks appeared to have been abandoned where they sat, palm fronds and dirt encrusting their hoods. The racket of a large diesel generator sounded from somewhere behind the icehouse and an overwhelming scent of fish and rotting weeds was being carried away on the strong southwest wind.

  The office was a "T"-shaped building that doubled as a general store. The front area was normally devoted to food and sundries while the back area was devoted to tackle and live bait. On one side of the crossbar was the cash register and an empty cooler. The other side had a door with a sign over it that said "Keep Out." It was from beyond this door that the voice had issued.

  Both areas were barren. The live bait tanks were uniformly empty and the tackle shelves were bare while the food and sundries area was nearly empty. There were a few jars of peanut butter and some quart Mason jars for sale. Other than that the store had been picked clean. For all it was nearly abandoned, it had been well cared for. The empty shelves had been covered with plastic sheets, to keep flies and their specks off, and the floor was freshly scrubbed.

  The proprietor, propped beside his antique cash register, rolled his eyes and looked out the window as the source of the voice walked into the main area. The woman was fortyish and reminded O'Neal of Sergeant Bogdanovich. She had long, blonde hair tied in a ponytail which hung down her back and wore faded jeans and a peasant blouse. She had one of the darkest tans Mike had ever seen in his life and a nice smile.

  "Forgive my husband, sir," she said, sliding behind the counter and knocking that worthy aside with a casual bump of her hip. "He's best suited as a hermit."

  "I'm sorry to impose on you . . ." said Mike.

  "It is not an imposition," the proprietress said, with another smile. "Harry has a lot on his mind is all. But one of them is the condition of the cabins and about that I've got to be frank—"

  "They're a wreck," said Harry with a slight snarl. "We haven't had a visitor for nearly a year. There's only one that the roof doesn't have a leak!" He thought about the admission. "Well, two."

  "And those we offer," stated the proprietress with a tight smile.

  "We've used up most of our linens for other things!" said Harry.

  "We'll improvise," said the proprietress.

  "There's no electricity!" the proprietor thundered.

  "There's the generator." The blonde smiled.

  "It's for the ice!"

  "These are guests," said the proprietress, reasonably, but with a hint of teeth.

  "No! We don't get a gas ration for guests!"

  "We'll improvise."

  "There's no food!"

  "Oh, pish. There's fish, lobster, crab . . ." She turned to Mike, who was watching the familial argument with amusement. "No one in your family is allergic to shellfish, are they?"

  "No," said Mike with a smile at the play. "Look, let me get a word in edgewise." He started ticking things off on his fingers. "One, we don't need electricity. We came prepared to camp out, so we have our own lanterns." He thought about the argument. "Two, we have our own sleeping bags, so we don't need linens. Having a bed, any bed, is better than the floor and a roof is better than a tent. We just want to spend a few days in the Keys and maybe get a little snorkeling and fishing in."

  Mike turned to the proprietor as he opened his mouth to argue. "Look, I understand where you're coming from. But let me say a few things. We're prepared to pay and pay handsomely. But if you don't take FedCreds, we brought stuff that people said was in short supply down here. I'm sorry to point it out, but I notice your cupboards are bare. I've got fifty- and twenty-five-pound monofilament, sling-spear rubber, five diving masks and two cases of large hooks."

  Mike raised an eyebrow as Harry's mouth closed with an audible clop. When he did not say anything Mike went on. "We've also got some other 'comfort rations.' So we'll be okay without all the usual amenities." He looked from proprietor to proprietress. The two exchanged a look and then Harry shrugged his shoulders.

  "Sir," said the proprietress with a smile, "welcome to No-Name-Key Fish Camp."

  O'Neal smiled back. "Call me Mike."

  * * *

  The cabin was small, old and smelled heavily of the mildew as common in the Keys as mosquitoes. A chameleon had broken off its pursuit of a large antlike insect as Mike opened the door. The cabin had two beds for the adults and another had been prepared for Cally. It was divided into two rooms, the side towards the parking lot being a combination living room/kitchen/dining room, while the rear side towards the bay was the bedroom and bath.

  The furniture must have dated from the 1960s. The chairs, gleaming yellow in the fading light from a window, were all tube steel and cracked plastic padding. The countertops and floor were cracked linoleum, the patterns so worn as to be indecipherable. Mike glanced at the nonfunctional stove, television and refrigerator. The bedroom window showed signs of once sporting an air conditioner, but here under the spreading palms and salt-tolerant oaks the wind was relatively cool. There was running water but the proprietress, whose name was Karen, pointed out that it was strictly rationed and not to be trusted for drinking. There was a certain amount of imported bottled water, but the main source for drinking water was the distiller attached to the icehouse.

  The icehouse turned out to be the center of the little community, as Mike found out when he left the cabin at dusk. The rising clouds of Keys mosquitoes drove him quickly across the parking lot to the knot of men gathered in the screened porch of the large building. It turned out that they were preparing the day's catch.

  With the exception of the baseball caps, sputtering incandescent lantern and modern clothing, the scene could have been from any time in the last thousand years. The men and women were arranged along tables, talking and laughing quietly as they expertly processed the harvest of the seas.

  How they kept up with whose was whose was a mystery to Mike as rubber tubs of fish were dumped on the communal table. The piscines would slither outward, some of them still faintly thumping, until they reached an available preparer. There they would be filleted or simply gutted.

  Mike was amazed at the speed and technique of the workers. The gutting was different from what he was used to. When he gutted fish he generally inserted the knife into the anus and cut towards the gills. Then the head could be cut off and the guts dragged out with it or the guts could be pulled out by hand and the head left on.

  The fish that were being gutted here, mainly yellowtail grunt and mangrove snappers, were being done in the opposite direction. The knife was drawn across the fish's throat just forward of the gills then the belly was slit back to the anus. A twist of the hand brought out gills and guts in a smooth motion and the fish was flipped away and the next one expertly snatched up.

  The filleting was, if anything, faster. A cut would be made across the meat of the fish, just behind the pectoral fins down to the backbo
ne. Then a cut would be made along the backbone itself. A third sweeping motion lifted the meat off, leaving a flap of skin attached to the tail. A swift slice along this flap lifted away a clean fillet. Then the fish was flipped over and the same motions cleared its other side. The remains of the fish were going into a bucket; they were useful in traps and for trolling lures. The filleters would stop after every couple of jobs and run the knives over a sharpener, then get back to work.

  Once prepared, the harvest slid down the steel table to the tubs at the end. At that point a group of children under the direction of a young teen female sorted them by type, washed them and iced them down. Whenever a tub got full it would be covered and wheeled into the icehouse, only to be replaced by another.

  After watching quietly for a few minutes Mike picked up an abandoned knife and gloves and joined in. He chose only the types to be gutted, recognizing that his filleting technique was not up to par. He tried his own gutting technique and quickly found that not only did it require more motions, it left more junk in the body cavity. So he started experimenting with the new technique.

  The conversation went on around him, much of it in such a thick cracker accent as to be nearly incomprehensible. The conversation, whether it was the norm or censored for the visitor in their midst, centered around the weather to be expected for the next few days, fair, and the fishing, fair, and the price the fish might fetch when the buyer came through in a few days, poor. Despite price stabilization supports and general inflation the price per pound of all the major fish types, even the prized black grouper and red snapper, had been going consistently down.

  Mike kept his face in its habitual frown when Harry and a fisherman called Bob got into another argument about power. Bob was of the opinion that Harry was being stingy in not providing electricity for the regular Saturday-night party at the No-Name-Key Pub. Harry pointed out the consequences of overusing fuel in a way that was so oblique as to be opaque to an outsider. Thereafter the conversation slid to less ominous topics, leaving Mike metaphorically scratching his head.