by Anne Fox
“You’ve just got to be careful around him,” they heard Hank say. “He likes to smack you on the butt with his cane.”
“I only do that to you, Hank,” they heard the man say, laughing.
“Sounds like this guy and Hank know each other,” Edge said.
The people in the hallway fell silent as they passed through Honor Way, the sound of their footsteps pausing slightly. The rest of the team knew that fingers were being tapped on the shutters of the three niches where the team’s fallen were inurned, the silent ritual a constant tribute to the three team members who had died during their time on duty with the unit. The sound of hands slapping on stone told them those in the hallway had reached the half-way point along Honor Way, where the words “Mission First” were engraved on the shutter of the forever-to-be-empty niche.
Hank came through the doorway, followed by Doc Rich. The architect came next, followed by Cloud and Crow.
“Everyone, I’d like you all to meet Allen Chelon,” Hank said, introducing the man.
The members of the unit stood to shake hands with the architect.
There’s something familiar about him, Spud thought as he moved forward to shake his hand. The man smiled at him through a bushy beard, and he sported hair down to his shoulders. Looking into the man’s eyes, Spud had a sudden sense of recognition.
“Turtle? Turtle? What the hell!” Spud grabbed him in a hug, slapping his back. “My God! I wondered how Hank got permission to bring you here.”
“I told you someone would recognize you through all that hair,” Hank said.
The others who had been in the unit when Turtle had served all gathered around, none of them having recognized him, the men all slapping him on the back and the women garnering hugs and kisses.
“Alright, alright,” Allen said. “We can drop ‘Turtle.’ It’s Allen Chelon these days. Architect and owner of Chelonian Design and Construction.” He pulled business cards from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and handed them around.
Chelonian Design and Construction, Inc. Designers and builders of unique homes for the discriminating client. The card sported a turtle for a logo. Spud smiled as he read the card, recognizing that “chelonian” was a synonym for “turtle.”
“You’re based in Raton, New Mexico, I see,” Spud said.
“Yeah, I was told before I left that the place had good potential for an architectural and construction firm. Plenty of space to expand facilities in, and good proximity to Albuquerque, Santa Fe, and Pueblo, Colorado. The firm has been gaining a reputation, and I now have clients asking me to build them something in Scottsdale, Denver, and oddly enough, in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska.”
Allen walked around the room, pausing when he reached Amigo. “You must be my replacement.”
“Amigo,” Amigo said by way of introduction. “I replaced the guy who replaced you.”
“So Hank, you wore out another spotter before Amigo here joined the team?”
“Kind-of a story, that one,” Hank said. “One best reserved for another time. Amigo’s a fine spotter, and almost as good a sniper as I am. We’re a good team. Over dinner, we’ll have to tell you about the training exercise we just did out in Roswell.”
“I’d have thought you would have already told him on the way here,” Edge said.
“No, actually she wanted to know all about my business,” Allen replied. “She did spill the beans about the two of you getting your private pilot’s licenses, though. Kind-of had to.”
“Cloud and I scared the shit out of him when we had her sit in for Cloud for a while on the flight back,” Crow said.
“I knew you were going to sneak in some logged hours in the Latitude,” Edge muttered.
“Half an hour dual, and what I learned was that the autopilot does most of the flying, so I just handled radios,” Hank said. “That, and they’re right about the seats being more comfortable. The ones in the back are still the most comfortable ones, though,” she added. She noticed Spud trying to stifle a laugh and said, “Spud, will you kindly shut up?” getting the entire room of personnel laughing.
“I can’t get her to wear her wings,” Spud countered, chuckling and getting everyone laughing harder.
“You don’t wear yours, either,” Voice observed to the continued laughter of those gathered.
“Some kind of inside joke?” Allen asked, perplexed.
“Pretty much,” Spud replied, his grin ear-to-ear. “I’ll never tell, but I’m betting someone in this room will clue you in before your stay is over.” He shook his head. “At any rate. Did you want to give us a preliminary look at what you’re planning for the Nebraska headquarters?”
“Sure.” Allen took out a tablet. “Voice, can I get you to allow access to the monitor for me?”
“No problem. Hal, display visitor tablet on Monitor L1.”
The monitor flickered, and then an architectural diagram came into view.
“This is the current Lockridge Farm complex,” Allen said. “I gather everyone is familiar with it?”
“We were there for a mission recently,” Amigo said.
“Camp Chaos. I figured that was you guys,” Allen said, grinning. “And I take it this facility is the actual Camp Chaos complex.” He advanced to another slide in his presentation.
“I guess we can’t hide every mission from everyone,” Cloud said.
“At least not from a former unit team member,” Edge added.
Allen went back to the first slide. “Relatively speaking, converting this facility is going to be fairly easy. My proposal for it, and the property surrounding it, is to turn it into a sportsmen’s facility, with the silo complex being converted into a hotel and the property being used to build firing ranges. This will entail the purchase of this quarter section, which probably won’t be that difficult, given the economic state of agriculture right now. Make a fat offer to the farmer who has the remainder of this quarter section and you’ll have eight hundred and eighty yards total available in the western half, and over four hundred and forty yards available north of the silo area. You could do long-distance shooting on your western half, and tactical shooting on the eastern half.”
“So, build it and sell it?” Amigo asked.
“Heck no,” Allen said. “Build it and keep it. Use the money it makes to offset operational costs for the unit. Promote it correctly, and it will fall into that ‘build it and they’ll come’ category, with groups paying very good money to use it. Plus, you’ll have the ranges for unit training as well. You might not get a lot of folks paying to use the ranges in the winter, but you could still run the hotel. I’m figuring turn Level Eight into hotel rooms and you’ve got eight levels with four rooms on each for thirty-two rooms, plus a nice lobby and breakfast area in the launch control center where Medical is now. You’ll need a staff, of course, but they don’t need to know about the unit, given the two facilities would be over seven miles apart. Get rid of the grain bin that sits atop the silo and you could even put a nice circular sunroom up there. Like a big greenhouse, maybe with a pool. Here’s how I’m thinking it will look when completed.”
Allen started going through slides, showing the layout of the rooms, redesign of passageways, surface appearance, the range complex, associated parking, landscaping, etc.
“That’s awesome,” Amigo said. “I’d be there all the time, assuming I could afford it.”
“And that’s the thing,” Allen said. “You put this together and you promote it as a unique property, worthy of the attention of well-heeled clients.” He shrugged. “You might even want to devote a little area to shotgun facilities to attract that crowd. Have a nicely-engineered sporting clays range. Then see what you can work out with some of the area farmers for dove and pheasant hunting after the fields are harvested. I understand you’ve gained approval for a second runway at York? Promote the airport, too. ‘Come, fly in, stay with us, have a good time.’ That will please your neighbors in York. They’ll be seeing an increase in touris
t business. And tourism is practically free money. You get one spot like this making a name for a community, and the next thing you know you have shops and restaurants popping up, and more money for everything from infrastructure to schools.”
“That would give you more money for your aviation business, too,” Crow pointed out to Frank Hughes.
“Which reminds me,” Allen said. “I’ve got some plans here for housing for unit personnel as well. I’m assuming that the team will still be living underground. But face it: York isn’t a buzzing metropolis compared to Quantico. Get me another parcel of land, and I can build a housing development for the support personnel. I’m thinking this area about five miles south of the new headquarters. You’ve got some nice trees, it’s near a fairly good access to other places via US 6, and Sutton is right there with schools and good amenities for support families. US 6 to US 81 to I-80 and you’re in Lincoln.
“Is everyone relocating?” Allen asked.
“We have authorization to move the entire unit, including family members,” Crow said.
Edge saw Doc Andy get a slightly startled look. “Everyone’s family members, Doc Andy,” he said. “That includes your partner.” He chuckled a little. “Yeah, we’re seven kids in a dysfunctional family with some normal aunts and uncles, a mom, and two dads – one of whom is gay. Given we’re supposed to be the kids, we’re not quite sure how the gay dad works into the mix, but hey – he’s family.” The entire group of unit personnel laughed.
“Then what I’m going to ask of each of you in Support is that you take a look through this.” He opened a portfolio case he’d brought and took out a thick pad of blueprints. “These are blueprints and architectural drawings of individual family homes. Look through them and let me know which one you’ll want for your house. Don’t fret if you want something tweaked. That’s what my firm specializes in: custom homes. These blueprints and drawings will just give you an idea of what I can do. If you don’t like anything you see here, then we’ll sit down and talk, and I’ll show you a rough drawing when we’re done. After that, I’ll draw up the drawings and a blueprint for your approval. Sound good?”
A murmur went around the room, with the unit’s Support personnel all expressing a degree of excitement.
“Looks like it sounds good,” Allen said.
“Are those of us still living in the Mole Hole going to have similar latitude when it comes to our quarters?” Voice asked.
“That’s more problematic, especially given you won’t be living there forever,” Allen said. “But with two hundred by eight hundred feet to work with in the largest module they built, there’s a lot of space to play with. What I’ve planned is for seven units that will house a single team member, and three that can house a couple. I figure with seven team members, the most you’ll have is three couples, and I’ve got floor plans that can all fit on a single one of the two hundred foot by eight hundred foot floors. So, seven identical single team member units and three identical couples units. Single team members will have a little over twelve hundred square feet of space, and our married duo here will have a little over two thousand square feet.”
“That’s the size of a decent-sized house,” Amigo said.
“That’s the idea,” Allen said. “I based the units on a couple of my single-floor house plans. I know what it’s like to live in the Mole Hole. Been there, done that. I figure you guys have as much right to live comfortably as the unit personnel living above deck, maybe more. Plus, the layout will allow for something you don’t have here. Landscaping.”
“How do you manage landscaping underground?” Voice asked.
“With specialized lighting that will mimic sunlight. Then I can put in grass, trees in containers, shrubs... you name it. The windows in your residences will actually look out on it, and the light will be timed to sunlight above deck. No more fake windows with fake scenes of the outdoors backlit by LED panels.”
Allen looked over to Doc Rich. “I’ve got something a little special for you, besides what can be legitimately called a hospital, Doc Rich. The first floor of the module where I intend to house the team members is fairly close to the surface. Do you know what a walipini is?”
“Never heard of one.”
“It’s a greenhouse built in a pit.” Allen pulled another drawing from his portfolio case and spread it out in front of her on the floor. “If I take the earth off the upper floor of the large module, then remove the roof, I can replace the roof with glazing and turn it into a greenhouse. I was told the unit would have a farmer here growing organic produce for you and raising animals for food as well. The walipini will allow you to grow produce all year ‘round. With a decent hydroponic set-up, you can cram a lot of garden into two hundred by eight hundred feet.”
“This whole plan is amazing,” Doc Rich said.
“Sesogo was kind-a whack, but his plan to put a lot more people in that facility than he actually had when we stormed it looks like it’s going to really work out well for the unit,” Crow said.
“This is only the tip of the iceberg,” Allen said. “There’s so much space down there in that one big module alone that, at the moment, you can’t use it all. Notice I haven’t even talked about the launch control and silo areas.”
“Is the government going to fund all of this?” Edge asked.
“They pretty much gave me a blank check,” Allen said. “I guess they really like you guys.”
“I guess they seized a good chunk of Sesogo’s money to pay for it all,” Spud said.
“Asset seizure can be a marvelous thing,” Crow remarked.
9
Voice sat reading the newspaper, as usual paying particular attention to the Classifieds. He suddenly sat up, and, grabbing his ever-present pencil, started decoding an ad.
“Got something for us?” Cloud asked.
“Apparently, for just one of us,” Voice replied. “It’s from the base gunny. Message reads, ‘Who shot the coconuts?’ Any idea what that’s about, Hank?”
“Oh, shit. I told Luigi we should have gone and picked those up. He insisted the wildlife would carry them off.”
“Well,” Voice said, a cryptic grin on his face, “apparently the base gunny would like to meet you. Message continues, ‘Report to office of the commander at 1000.’”
“Oh...fuck...it. Edge, I need your help.”
Edge set his coffee down on the table. “Here’s the deal, Hank. You’re being asked to report to an officer, in all likelihood. Even though it’s indoors, this is the exception to the ‘no saluting indoors’ rule. You will salute and remain at attention unless and until he or she tells you otherwise.
“Don’t show up in cammies. Put on your Service Cs.”
“Great. That means I’ll need my tit flattener and hip straightener as well. Otherwise, it’s ‘who’s the guy with the tits and hips?’”
Edge laughed. “At least you won’t have any problems standing at attention.”
“Oh, fuck off, Edge.”
Hank made her way down to her quarters. She started dressing, cursing the undergarments that made her look male instead of female. Like walking around in a fucking straightjacket.
Spud walked in as she was putting on her pants. “Did I miss something? What’s with the Service Cs?”
“I’ve been ordered to the base gunny’s office,” she said.
“Really? He wants to see you above deck?”
“Apparently so,” she said with annoyance, buttoning buttons.
“What for?”
“Luigi’s fucking coconuts.”
Spud shook his head in that ‘gotta clear the cobwebs’ kind of way. “Ok, I was lost enough at you being ordered to see the gunny, but what the hell do coconuts have to do with it?”
She grabbed her cap, took a look at her shoes, and said, “Luigi decided one day that we should try our hand at shooting some coconuts down on Range 15. I told him to go down and pick up the pieces. He told me the critters would carry them off. Apparently, they d
idn’t, because Voice decoded a message from the gunny asking who shot the coconuts and that said person was to report to him at 1000. So guess who’s got to get her tits strangled for the duration of a visit with the gunny?” She grabbed the undergarment and gave it a little tug. “Ugh, I hate this thing. I cannot wait until the new HQ in Nebraska is ready for us so I can relegate this to the back of my closet.”
She walked out the door and, as she was making her way to the quartermaster, called ahead for keys to one of the SUVs.
“Looks like a ‘come to Jesus’ meeting?” Mike asked, seeing her dressed in Service Cs.
“Luigi’s fucking coconuts!” she shouted out, in hopes the doors between the quartermaster area, armory, and gunsmithing shop were open and he could hear. She snatched the keys from Mike. “Apparently, they didn’t get carried off, and now I’ve got to go smooth things over with our base gunny.”
Climbing the stairs, she fumed the entire time. Next time, when I tell Luigi to go retrieve something, he’s going to fucking go get it or I’m going to ask for a divorce. They’ll be no more ‘Sweetheart’ for him! She got into the SUV and drove off to meet the gunny.
Walking into the building, she removed her garrison cap. Shit. “Edge,” she whispered, “what do I do with the cap indoors?”
“Hank, tuck it under your belt on the right side, emblem out.”
She looked around to see if anyone else was in Service Cs to see just how Edge was indicating it should go. Seeing a Marine walk by with the cap as Edge had described, she put hers under her belt the same way. Then she checked the building directory for the office number where she’d been told to report. Arriving at it, she noted that under the name and rank on the door placard was the inscription, “Commander, USMC Quantico.”
Oh, fuck it all! The gunny’s the base commander? I’m in deep, deep shit.
She walked through the open outer door and was greeted by an enlisted woman. “I have an appointment with the colonel at 1000,” Hank announced.
The enlisted woman checked a calendar on her desk. “I don’t see anyone scheduled for 1000,” she said.