“Because,” I carefully pulled the laptop back from teetering on the edge of the desk. “This could solve our latest problem.”
“Oh. OH,” he added, as he caught onto what I was thinking.
“In the future, when you think there is something I really need to read, please lock all the games on my phone and tablet until I read it.”
“Done.”
“Uh, I didn’t mean now. I did read this report.”
“All of it?”
“Crap. No. Can you forget what I just said?”
“Hee hee,” he chuckled. “What do you think?”
Smythe was with Kapoor in the middle of a training session, outside the ship in powered armor, when I called him. Our STAR team commander was more irritated than his usual British stiff-upper-lip cool. “Sir, we are rather busy at the moment. Could this possibly wait?”
“No. Like you told me, time is not our friend. Besides, I know you’ve run that exercise a dozen times recently, let Kapoor handle it. I need your advice.”
There was an unspoken weary sigh in his reply. “Yes, Sir, right away.”
When he got to my office, his hair matted down from being under the helmet, and still wearing the suit liner, he stomped rather more loudly than necessary. On his new bionic legs, now that he had gotten used to them, he could walk more softly than ever before. The high-tech legs had shock absorbers built in that not only protected his organic body from impacts, they could mute the effect of footsteps. It was my guess that he had adjusted the settings, to subtly let me know how annoyed he was with me.
One minute later, he was annoyed no longer. “Sir,” he looked up briefly from the tablet, then back down to study details. “This is, rather incredible.”
“Fortuitous,” I said the unfamiliar word slowly, “is how I would describe it. This is like pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”
“With the exception, Sir, that these rabbits may not want to leave the hat.” He looked up at me again. “You know my objections. This could be considered kidnapping.”
“No,” I shook my head once, emphatically. “It’s not kidnapping, it’s, uh, we will be requisitioning them. I checked the legal stuff with Skippy. I have the authority to commandeer these people from their current mission.”
“Authority?” He squinted at me. “From UNEF Command on Earth?”
“I know it’s sketchy.” Thinking about it made me squirm in my oversized chair. “Skippy said that if I have to, I can invoke the Stop-Loss provision. You know what that is?”
“I know it is a damned underhanded thing to do to a volunteer force,” he frowned.
My question had been prompted because I wasn’t sure if the British Army used the same terminology. Stop-loss was a policy that allowed the military to extend a soldier’s enlistment past the original end date. In the US, it had been used to involuntarily keep vital personnel on active duty during wartime, or whenever the Pentagon declared an emergency. Something like that, Skippy had tried to explain the legal history but I wasn’t interested. All I cared about was whether I had some sort of legal cover for what I wanted to do.
The key part of Stop-loss is ‘involuntary’. A soldier who was counting down until the end of enlistment, and making plans to transition to civilian life, suddenly was told that he or she was remaining on active duty, with no definite end date. That sucked when it happened in Iraq, and it sucked every time it happened.
When we signed up to leave Earth with UNEF, we were told the term of our enlistments had been extended to ninety days past the end of the current conflict, which essentially meant forever. We all knew that, and it didn’t much matter at the time, because none of us realistically expected to come back home.
When we brought the Flying Dutchman to Earth the first time, there was a debate about whether soldiers stranded on Paradise should continue to accrue pay and benefits. That might seem like an irrelevant question, but it was important to the United States government. Probably the other governments of the Expeditionary Force also. The world economy was still recovering from the impact of Columbus Day and from the ravages inflicted by the Kristang. Those governments were paying out checks to the families of the soldiers on Paradise, with no end in sight. It seems like a rotten thing to do, but all five governments cut that pay by up to eighty percent, with vague promises that the missing pay would be restored if official contact with Paradise could be reestablished. Which would only happen if our secret was exposed, and aliens were about to turn Earth into a radioactive cinder.
Anyway, why this mattered was that, along with cutting pay and benefits for the troops stranded on Paradise, those people were declared to be transferred from active duty to the reserves, or the equivalent for each nationality. So, technically the active-duty enlistments of everyone on Paradise had ended. Fortunately for me, Skippy the legal beagle had found an obscure clause in the UNEF charter, that anticipated the Force might cycle between active and reserves while offworld. The Stop-loss policy applied to reserves also, and allowed the ‘relevant authority’ to recall reserve forces to active duty at any time, for any reason.
With both Paradise and our two ships cut off from Earth, the ‘relevant authority’ was me.
“I don’t like invoking Stop-Loss either. I’m hoping it won’t matter.”
“How so?”
“These are special operations troops. Would any of your people hesitate to join up, if we explained the mission was to rescue a group of humans who had been kidnapped off Earth and were being starved?” That last part was not entirely true. While the Kristang were negotiating to sell the humans to the Thuranin, Skippy expected the lizards would give their slaves at least minimum care, to protect their investment. “Especially if the op might save the lives of every human on Paradise?”
“As Adams stated, the Thuranin could develop a bioweapon even without the human prisoners from Rikers.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
I looked at him in surprise.
There was a ghost of a smile on his face. “No,” he added. “None of my people would hesitate to join up. Joining us would be tempting to any operator. The action that truly matters is out here, not with this Legion.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. I promise you this: anyone who doesn’t want to join us, we will drop them on Avalon at our first opportunity. Or Earth,” I added. “Whichever comes first.”
Smythe gave me a nod that just lifted his chin slightly. “Anyone who does not want to join us, I don’t want anyway. Colonel, this all looks good, but, there will be a substantial amount of work to integrate a new force. These people have a different set of tactics. They have been using Ruhar skinsuits, instead of our Kristang hardshell power armor. These skinsuits,” he looked back at the tablet. “They do have advantages.”
“Maybe,” I cautioned him. “Compared to regular Kristang mech suits, Ruhar skinsuits have plusses and minuses. Overall, Skippy thinks,” I paused, expecting the beer can to join the discussion, but he didn’t. “He think the Kristang suits we use, that he has modified, are substantially superior to skinsuits.”
“It all depends on your cover story, Sir,” he said flatly.
“Huh?” I was lost.
“Whether we employ Kristang or Ruhar suits,” he explained patiently. “To plan a rescue operation, I need to know whether your cover story will be that we are Kristang troops, or Ruhar. We have to assume we will be detected at some point.”
“Cover story?” I hadn’t gotten that far along in my thinking. Skippy had pointed out the need for a cover story to explain why anyone would risk military action to take a few hundred worthless humans off an unimportant planet. “Oh, yeah. Why,” I tilted my head quizzically. “Would we pretend to be Ruhar?”
He continued to be patient with me. “The bioweapon is a threat to a Ruhar world. And to a military force led by the Ruhar. They would of course have an interest in assuring the humans on Rikers are not used to develop a bioweapon.”
&nbs
p; “Craaaaap. Yeah, I see your point. Problem is, the hamsters would likely hit the camps from orbit to eliminate the threat, instead of rescuing our people.”
That prompted a raised eyebrow. “You think the Ruhar are that callous?”
“I think this is a deadly serious war for survival. I think the hamsters take care of themselves first, and that to them, we are primitive alien pain-in-the-asses. I can’t imagine any Ruhar commander parking a starship in orbit and deploying a landing force, to rescue a small group of humans. And based on how quick the hamsters were to sell out UNEF on Fresno,” I knew Smythe had read Skippy’s report. “We can’t expect them to risk their furry necks for us.”
“Agreed. Sir, it is likely that a rival Kristang clan would also use an orbital strike. The problem is that no one, other than us, has an interest in seeing those humans leave Rikers alive.”
“No one but us, and the Thuranin,” I muttered.
“Sir, I couldn’t hear that?” He had been given bionic legs, not bionic hearing.
“I said, the Thuranin also have an interest in getting those people off the planet alive.”
“The Thuranin. Hmm. That adds a wrinkle. Colonel, to begin planning a rescue, I need to know the cover story we have to sell.”
“To decide on a cover story, I need an operations plan first.” He looked pained like he had just read an announcement that breakfast, lunch and dinner would be boiled Brussels sprouts for the next week. “Smythe, I need to know what is possible. Give me a list of options, and I’ll dream up a bullshit cover story for whichever option is best.”
“You may have to choose from the least bad option, not the best,” he warned.
I shrugged with a grin. “Standard Operating Procedure again, huh? Ok, before you do that,” I turned my laptop around so he could see it. “We need a plan to bring aboard a possibly reluctant group of trigger-happy special operators.”
“I don’t suppose we could post an advertisement for a luxury cruise across the galaxy, Sir?”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
“Hey, Joe,” Skippy appeared on my office desk. “I have good news and bad news.”
“Oh, man, Skippy,” I whispered, dramatically craning my neck to look toward the open door. “Bad news is so yesterday.”
“What?”
“Bad news is out. I thought you knew.”
“Um, um-” he sputtered, flustered.
“You do want to be one of the cool kids, right?”
“I’m not?” He screeched.
“Well, yeah, you are now. But, people can turn on you like,” I snapped my fingers. “That, you know? If people found out, they would be all like, did you hear what Skippy did? You know how people love gossip.”
“Oh. Shit. So, I can’t tell you any bad news? Even if it’s important?”
“It’s up to you, but,” I held out my hands, palms up.
“Ok, Ok. Um, how about I say that I have good news, with a complication?”
“People hate complications.”
“True, true,” he muttered. “Aha! Joe, I have good news, and it’s even better than just good, because it comes with a challenge. The go-hung nutjobs aboard this ship all love challenges, right?”
Damn it, he was right. He had beaten me again. Score: beercan One, monkey Zero. “Ok, what is it?”
“You asked me to look for an isolated team of Alien Legion special operations troops.”
“Human troops,” I reminded him.
“Right. That’s the complication.”
“Shit.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“I sure as hell do not want to hear it, but tell me anyway.”
“In most ways, it is kind of a perfect set-up, Joe. There is a team of human operators, the Legion calls them Commandos by the way, in a star system that is one wormhole transition away from Paradise. It’s a red dwarf system, where the Commandos are being trained in spaceborne assault tactics, diving from orbit, all the sort of craziness that Smythe and his team of lunatics enjoy. Anywho, part of the training is for stealthed Dodo dropships to practice assault and boarding operations on asteroid bases. The Dodos are flown by human pilots, and the troops are human.”
“No Verds? I though the Legion wanted humans to train with the friendly lizards.” That concept still made me uncomfortable. Trusting a Kristang in combat would be a difficult skill for me to learn, though I knew that UNEF had worked successfully with Verds on Fresno.
“That is the goal, Joe. However, the Ruhar want the human Commandos to demonstrate they are effective as a team, before they attempt to integrate teams from different species into the Legion. Also, neither UNEF or Ruhar know what tactics and equipment will work best for humans, so the training is mostly a learning exercise.”
“That makes sense. Ok, so, human troops on a Dodo flown by humans, and no Verds involved. What’s the complication?”
“Observers, Joe. Each Dodo carries hamsters to observe, advise and train the humans.”
“Aaaand, we risk making enemies of the Ruhar, if we Shanghai their people along with ours.”
“Shanghai? Joe, that remark was culturally insensitive and-”
“Oh, bullshit. It’s not about the Chinese at all, you moron. Back in the day, shipping companies would kidnap people from the West coast to fill crews, of ships sailing to places like Shanghai. My Uncle Edgar told me about it, apparently one of my ancestors was a sailor who jumped ship to join the California Gold Rush. But he got kidnapped on the West Coast, my uncle figures he got stinking drunk and they dragged him aboard a ship. He went all over the Pacific before he signed onto a ship going around the Horn to Boston.”
“So, this is kidnapping, Joe? You told Smythe this was a Stop-Loss action or some other bullshit like that.”
“That was a way of sugar-coating the issue, and Smythe knows it. We’re going to take these people aboard our ship, and not give them a choice about it. They can choose not to serve with a STAR team-”
“Oh, like that’s gonna happen,” he scoffed. “You will give the Commandos a chance to play with shiny new toys. No way will they refuse.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m counting on. Still, they won’t be happy that we can’t allow them to go back to Paradise, or even contact anyone there. By now, they may have families on Paradise. Legally, I do have authority to commandeer UNEF assets as needed, and we sure as hell need those people. No matter how nicely I wrap it in legal language, it is kidnapping. That sucks, and I wouldn’t do it if we had a choice.”
“A better choice, you mean. You could choose to abandon the people on Rikers.”
“No. That’s bullshit, Skippy. I could decide a rescue operation is not worth the risk, or won’t ultimately save thousands of lives on Paradise. No way at this point could I choose to abandon the people on Rikers.”
“Because Margaret asked you to?”
“Whoa. That’s a rotten thing to say, Dude.”
“It’s a legit question. You are kidnapping people, and taking everything we have into a risky operation. The motivations and emotional state of the commander are a legitimate concern, and you know it. Are you doing this for yourself, for her, or for the poor people on Rikers?”
“Oh for- All three, if you want the truth. If you want the full truth, Margaret asking me to rescue that little girl made me less likely to approve an operation on Rikers.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I don’t want to kidnap people and take everything we have into a risky op, just to make Margaret like me. Believe me, every step we take down this road, I’m asking myself if it’s really worth it. Whether I’m thinking clearly about it.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. If you think I’m doing something rash and stupid, call me on it. Hell, I do enough stupid things anyway. Besides, there’s another reason we are pulling our people off Rikers.”
“What is that?”
“We’re doing it for us. The Merry Band of Pirates has been making s
acrifices out here, bleeding and dying out here, for years. All to serve Earth, to keep the people on our homeworld safe. This one, we’re doing for us. Because this crew can’t let those poor people die there, without at least trying to rescue them.”
“Even at the risk of exposing our secret, and putting Earth in danger?”
“Skippy.” Elbows on the desk, I cradled my head in my hands and rubbed my face. “Earth is toast. We had a good run, but it’s over. Earth would be safe, except Emily freakin’ Perkins got visited by the Good Idea Fairy and couldn’t keep her mouth shut- No, wait. That’s unfair to her. If I were in her shoes, I would have done the same thing.” Except, I told myself, I might have screwed it up even worse. “The Maxolhx will learn soon enough that their battlegroup isn’t coming back, and they will be sending even more ships. Sure, we seriously hosed their C3 by making them think the Bosphuraq hacked their pixie network, and that has them on the defensive. Maybe that buys Earth a few more years. Maybe you’ll get the Backstop wormhole positioned near Earth and we can evac a couple thousand, a couple hundred thousand people to Avalon before big bad aliens drop the hammer. We’ve done all we can out here for Earth. Now, we’re doing something for ourselves. Our crew needs this rescue operation. We need to try, you understand?”
“I do understand, Joe. My question was whether you understood that.”
“Oh. Was that you using your mad empathy skills?”
“Do not make me regret this, Dude.”
“Sorry. Ok, show me details.”
“Even if it’s bad news?”
“Especially if it’s bad news.”
As a change of pace, Simms and I scheduled our morning meeting in the galley. With such a small crew, breakfasts were ‘fend for yourself’ meals, no one was assigned to cook. Once in a while, I baked cinnamon buns, or made pancakes for everyone. It was a special treat that boosted morale. And it was a way for me to deal with the guilt I felt, for getting everyone stuck far from a homeworld we might never see again.
Anyway, that morning, Simms was there first. She had made a fresh pot of coffee. One item we were not running low on was coffee, because she had made sure the Flying Dutchman had practically a lifetime supply before we left Earth. The saying used to be that the Army ran on an ocean of gasoline, diesel and jet fuel. The Army also requires coffee, so does any military force. The aliens we knew of all had their own form of stimulant beverages. Wow. Just thinking about that made me wonder what a bleary-eyed lizard soldier looked like before he had his coffee-equivalent in the morning. Ugh. I would not want to see that.
Valkyrie (Expeditionary Force Book 9) Page 42