The Fleet05 Total War

by David Drake (ed)

  If it were some plan of Grant’s, he couldn’t shoot the other guy. Not if there’d be an Eight Ball Command inquiry. And not if one, or both, of these rifles were as live as his felt.

  Profanity came through his dual-com, then: “Asshole! What do you think, I’m an enemy simulation?”

  “Don’t point your gun at a superior officer, sonny, ever—not under any circumstances. Now, Omega Leader: You wanted me. Here I am. Let’s take the tower.”

  Right then, the tower opened, and a nightmare’s worth of counterforce poured out of it.

  English hit the deck and called on his C&C car for air support: “Smart, fast, all the missiles you’ve got. Level the thing.”

  And the simulation ended abruptly.

  Toby English was lying facedown, his chest heaving, the rifle butted against his shoulder, in an empty bay that showed clearly through his grid-hashed faceplate.

  The Omega Leader was lying beside him. English thought: He’s a little guy, this Cleary. He said: “What the fuck was that?”

  His dual-com bead lit and Cleary said, “The end of the Ten Simulation, I guess. Never got this far before. Just let me stow my gear and shower, and I’ll buy you all the drinks you want, Delta Two.” Rolling sideways with a grunt, Cleary offered a gloved hand.

  After only a slight hesitation, English took it. The youngster just hadn’t been in combat enough to know you don’t point a gun at somebody like that.

  “You bet,” said English. “Shower and drinks.”

  Trotting through the white, pristine, empty bay with his rifle over his shoulder, English could see the holo projectors. And a couple places where the walls looked like something had impacted them pretty hard. But it wasn’t his job to worry about bay damage. His gear was getting heavier by the moment, the way it always did after action.

  He kept ahead of the little Omega leader. No need for Cleary to realize how hard English’s suit was working to keep him cool inside it.

  Once he’d checked his gear and stowed it in his locker, he picked up his clothes and headed for the shower. Cleary’s locker must be in another part of the station. This was the first time that English had seen anybody from the other teams rumored to be training.

  He was stiff, his antistatic jockstrap and undershirt—even his socks—were soaked. He hung them on a blow-drier and slapped it onto full before he got into the shower, where steam was already rising.

  “Hey, Cleary,” he said as he opened the door—and stopped talking.

  Water from the shower head sprayed him in the mouth and reminded him to shut it.

  Nothing for it but to get the rest of the way in, close the door, and tough it out.

  You bet Cleary was little. Cleary was a woman.

  Bent down, washing her legs, so that only her white ass was truly visible, she said, “Yeah, what, Delta Two?”

  He couldn’t think of a damned thing to say. He didn’t usually come out of a shooting situation, pumped up beyond measure, and find himself unexpectedly confronted with a white, wet ass in primo physical shape.

  He’d been going to piss in the shower. Which meant he wasn’t exactly in the right state to greet a colleague, either, unless that colleague was as pumped as he was.

  He said, “Nice simulation,” lamely, and reached for some soap on the ledge, trying not to look at her slick butt.

  He couldn’t see anything else.

  “Thanks, Delta Two,” she said. Her voice was throaty, deep; over the com it had sounded like a guy’s. But then, he’d been expecting a guy.

  She wasn’t short, for a woman; she was finely made, narrow but round where it counted, and her skin looked altogether too soft.

  He stepped in under the shower head next to hers and turned it on full bore, not caring much how hot or cold it was. Just keep busy.

  There weren’t any women in the 92nd. There wasn’t any reason for that, not really. They were half the strength of most companies. . . . He pissed when the tepid spray hit him and started soaping his blond hair. Even with his eyes closed, he could still see that first sight of her bottom. He could probably cup both her buttocks in his one spread hand and put his fingers inside her at the same time; she was tiny.

  He couldn’t seem to think the things that would get his body under control. His breathing was still too deep when she said, “Damn,” and her soap dropped on his foot.

  She reached for it.

  He reached for her. His left hand just slid under her butt of its own accord, and the logistics were exactly what he’d thought they’d be.

  She gasped in surprise and straightened up. In that instant, he was in nearly combat-heightened awareness. There was no way to back out now, even if he could convince himself. . . .

  His right arm went around her from behind and she didn’t twist out of his grasp.

  But she didn’t say anything when his fingers found her breast. Instead, she leaned back and against him.

  All along his length, wherever they touched, his body tingled. He said into her wet hair, “Please . . . don’t tell me to stop.”

  His fingers, exploring her, were telling him he had a chance.

  Then she did twist and he let go, quick, to make it clear he wasn’t going to push this. This wasn’t any kind of assault. But he knew it was too late for that. . . .

  Then he saw her face, covered with spray, water dripping from her lips. “You better not stop, soldier, until I find out if you fuck as good as you fight.” And she took a step toward him and raised a leg high, almost over his buttocks.

  The rest was something his serial memory wasn’t capable of storing. She climbed him like a tree, he was sure of that.

  And he was sure that her heart was beating just as fast as his. And that she was everything a sex therapist wasn’t. He did remember saying, when his legs were threatening not to hold them, “Easy there, Omega. I haven’t used this thing for a long time.”

  But she just laughed and reached behind her to turn the shower off. She had black hair, blue eyes, and the softest, whitest skin he’d ever touched over muscles like a swimmer’s. “I suppose you still want me to buy your drinks,” she said, finally, and he didn’t have the heart to make her do anything she didn’t want to do.

  He said that.

  She said, “See you around the simulator,” and went off toward her locker to dress.

  So he never did ask where she was billeted.

  When he had his clothes on and went down there to find her, she was gone. And the Haig, he learned when he stumbled back to his quarters, was scheduled to dock in the morning, just long enough to pick up English’s 92nd.

  So he’d have no time to look for her if he wanted to: he had to shape up his outfit for imminent departure, new weaponry and all, and he had only seven hours left to do it.

  * * *

  It wasn’t thrilling English that the Haig was refitted with APOT guns too. And newly equipped with zero-point drivers as well, if the rumor mill was right.

  Jay Padova, the Haig’s captain, must not have been listening when the 92nd came off the Bull’s-Eye insertion, short a Beta three-team and bitching like hell about X-class weapons that got Marines killed down there.

  But it was still good to be back on Padova’s little destroyer, close quarters or not, Fleet protocols or not. Once they were under way and English and Sawyer had shoe-horned their forty-seven men back into the familiar belly of the ship, English went to pay his customary courtesy call on the captain, leaving Sawyer to check the manifest and settle-in the two new guys.

  If Sawyer, his blue-jawed line lieutenant, chose to have some private reunion with the Haig’s ranking Intel officer, one Johanna Manning, while English was gone, then that was their business.

  English didn’t have to formally disapprove their relationship unless it was negatively impacting Sawyer’s performance. Until it did, it wasn’t an
y of English’s goddamn concern, he told himself. Anyway, Manning was their lifeline to ISA, an Eight Ball Command as well as Fleet Intel staffer.

  Now that the 92nd was a Special Electro Research outfit, she was indelibly inked into English’s command chain. They might be needing Manning’s goodwill like never before.

  So he had lots of reason to make himself scarce, given that he’d gone out of his way plenty of times to let Sawyer know that he didn’t like his first officer messing around with a dual-hatted spook like Manning. If it hadn’t been so crystal clear that Sawyer couldn’t wait to be rid of him, it wouldn’t have rankled so.

  The 92nd was still English’s responsibility, wasn’t it?

  Jay Padova’s office hadn’t changed a bit, right down to the pall of blue cigar smoke.

  “Take a load off, Captain,” said Padova, once English had been admitted. “How was refit?”

  “About like yours, sir,” said English, taking a seat opposite the paunchy captain’s desk. Something wasn’t right here. He could see it in Jay’s face: the balding, jowly man’s features were too carefully arranged.

  Then English thought maybe he knew what it was: the SERPA dogtags his Marines were wearing these days. He reached into his blouse pocket and handed over his orders as if nothing had changed.

  Padova took them as if nothing had changed. Then the destroyer’s skipper tapped the folder on his desk, making no move to open the packet, scan the hard copy through his decrypter, or view the accompanying chip. “I think you have a right to know that we’re up way beyond milspec for the foreseeable, Toby.”

  Real stiff. And yet trying to be chatty. English said, “I heard something about that. Sir, if I may say so, I’m not sure you’re going to like this particular batch of black boxes. . . .”

  “We’ll have a chance to find out, together, unless I miss my guess.” Padova puffed on the cigar, pulled it out of his mouth, and looked at it critically. “You know I pride myself on keeping the Haig on the techno-edge.”

  Enough that she was usually pushing the bounds of what was strictly legal. Everybody who shipped with Padova was proud of his technical expertise and nearly arrogant about what their destroyer and her captain could do.

  “This tech’s real . . . unpredictable, sir. I hope they told you that the . . . human . . . effects of it are—” Shit, he didn’t know whether he had any right to be saying what he was saying. So he stopped. Stood up.

  Padova waved him back down. “We’re just keeping up with you boys, Toby. Did I tell you how proud I am that your ER company’s come out of the Haig, and that you’ve come back home with what you’ve learned?”

  “No, sir, you didn’t,” English said weakly. Oh, great. Now the 92nd was some kind of sexy, elite technocombat team, so far as the Fleet was concerned. Even if he didn’t experience severe equipment failure during his next mission, that kind of reputation by itself could get the whole outfit killed.

  “Sir, this just sort of . . . happened.”

  “We know, Toby. And every sailor on the Haig is proud to be a part of it.” Some of the masking dropped from Padova’s demeanor. The barrel-chested Navy captain leaned forward: “Once Manning and I have looked everything over and we have you back up here for your briefing, we can really talk about this. But I want you to know how important CINCFLEET thinks this next mission of yours is—to the whole war effort.”

  This wasn’t the Jay Padova that Toby English had known. This was some guy with more on his plate than he could handle, no longer the fatherly authority to whom English could turn when the 92nd’s tail was caught in a door somewhere.

  “Look, sir, we’ve got two new guys who need orientation and I ought to get back to it. When you and Manning are ready to brief me . . .” A courtesy call was just that. This wasn’t the moment to be trying to warn Padova that his thirst for leading-edge hardware might choke him, this time. Anyway, if the destroyer blew up the first time it used its new gear, English and his boys either wouldn’t be on board, or wouldn’t know what hit them.

  So he ought to get out of here, back to where he knew what was expected of him.

  “I understand you’re busy, Toby. But if you want to talk, or just compare notes, feel free to drop in on me. Anytime.”

  Surreal. Impossible. English ran a hand through his hair and got to his feet, this time less tentatively, eyeing the unopened packet on Padova’s desk. He’d never expected to come up here and not have Padova open his orders . . . .

  “Thanks, sir. I’ll do that.” He just stood there, waiting for Jay to dismiss him.

  The thick, blunt fingers of the destroyer’s captain drummed on the packet that English had brought from MAC/ASD. “Don’t worry, Toby. We’re ready for this. We’ve been thoroughly briefed. It’s my considered opinion that the Haig can handle ten times her weight in Syndicate vessels. We’ll get you where you’re going. And back. You have my word on it.”

  So Padova knew what was in English’s orders. Or thought he did. English stared at the ship’s captain and said, “Then you know more than I do. Sir.”

  Padova didn’t blink. English’s eyes began to sting. The visual game of chicken continued until Captain Padova said, “Let’s just say I know which way the wind’s blowing, like a good sailor should.”

  Padova looked away, finally, down to the chronometer on his desk. “Your new technical advisor’s being billeted up here. Manning was very persuasive. What say we crack these eggs at 0100, when everybody’s nice and relaxed. Until then—”

  “Technical advisor?” This was getting weirder and weirder. Yeah, Greco’s death had left the 92nd with one empty slot, but . . . “Nobody said anything to me about—”

  “You know command decisions, Toby. The way I heard it, your Ninety-Second was going to get this advisor or a Weasel advisor, and I was very relieved that Manning politicked for a human.”

  English just wanted to get out of there, now that Padova was through with him, and hole up somewhere so he could assess his damages. “Yes, sir. Well, I guess Manning will introduce me to my new TA soldier when she’s damned good and ready. Sir.”

  Padova chuckled. “I guess she will, Marine. All right, you’re dismissed.”

  Thank the Lord.

  He wandered down through the decks, trying not to think about what Jay was implying. Of course, the Haig had had to undergo a refit to bring it up to Syndicate-fighting specs, if his 92nd was going to ship inside it with all their new ER gear.

  And of course Jay was pleased as punch, and privy to a lot more data than English was. A Navy captain and a Marine captain weren’t anywhere near parity in rank.

  You did the best you could. English decided that, since there was no funhouse on the Haig, the best thing he could do was to go to the officers’ mess and see if he could get a little buzz on—one that he could work off before his briefing.

  There wasn’t anyplace else he could think of going that he wouldn’t run into Johanna Manning. Damn meddling Eight Ball bitch.

  * * *

  The officers’ mess had a dark corner and English was half asleep there, having made it secure and defensible. His kinetic kill pistol was on the table beside a half-empty glass of beer and he was meditating on it.

  There’d been a time when he would have said that whatever he got himself into, that pistol could get him out of, one way or the other—on his feet or in a rubber bag.

  But that wasn’t true anymore. His most trusted ally, his .10mm sidearm, had failed him. You couldn’t shoot Manning and you couldn’t shoot Grant, the ISA honcho who had it in for Toby English, personally, and everybody in the 92nd because of Manning and Sawyer.

  English and Sawyer had tried to shoot Grant, and failed.

  If Sawyer hadn’t saved English’s ass repeatedly, English would have torn into Sawyer right now about getting so goddamn familiar with somebody who was handing down orders cut at Eight Ball Comma
nd level. But Sawyer had, and English couldn’t, so he settled for wishing.

  Settled for it, that is, until Manning came in with a crowd of laughing sailors and some of his troops.

  “Hey, Manning,” English called across the room. “Get over here a minute.”

  He was surprised at how angry he was. The sight of her was making his hands shake. Or maybe he was drunker than he thought.

  He checked his watch as she approached. Still had three hours until his briefing. Okay, then.

  “Hey there, Captain English. Good to see you.” Manning was a mean, little woman with a sharp face and hair habitually cut shorter than English’s own. She had people with her but English was too pumped to look at anything but her cold, brown eyes.

  “Well, it’s not good to see you, Manning. What’s this about you havin’ some tech advisor of mine stashed up on the Intel deck instead of down with my company? You think you’ve got some kind of carte blanche to change Marine rules and regulations?”

  Manning had been messing around much too much with English’s men and his command chain. It had to stop. He couldn’t let Sawyer’s situation impact his judgment.

  “English, shut it down,” Manning said, taking a step toward him. The tops of her thighs hit the table. She picked up the pistol there and pretended to examine it. “I’ve got your tech advisor with me, ready to report. I had to do a prebrief on the situation, tech parameters only. It’s all by the book.”

  “Whose goddamn book?” he muttered. Then, “You keep my people—my TA—out of my reporting chain, and you call yourself an Intel officer? Who’re you working for?” Almost a whisper.

  He shouldn’t be starting this argument. He knew it. Manning knew it too. “Look at me, English.”

  He did.

  “You’re drunk, and you’ve got a briefing in three hours. Maybe the most important briefing of your life. So we’ll forget this. You took care of me when I came a little loose. I haven’t forgotten. We’re on your side. You’ve got to realize that.”