7
October 12th.
Thomas Richards:
They move me into my new office. Into the Pentagon and out of Langley. I’m glad enough to see the latter behind me, but despite the E-Ring view and the executive furnishings (or because of them), I find myself wary of the evolution.
“At least you get a view, Colonel,” Burke ribbed in passing when he heard about it. He knows the glorified bunker they’re digging in Michigan is going to be even more tomblike than the Langley “basement” we’ve all spent the better part of two years living in. But the obvious implication is: I won’t be at Michigan Command. I’ll be here. Pressing flesh. Playing with the politicians and the “real” military brass.
“E-Ring… That’s pretty exclusive real estate,” Burke actually sounded impressed, however suspiciously. “The Sec-Def must have pulled strings.”
They gave me a staff—a real staff, not just the Corporate TGs and the Datascan Diva-Squad. Enough to keep me in the loop and create my own world, a thin wedge carved out of a dozen assorted offices and analyst pits, two sections over from JSOC—close enough for them to wonder what we’re up to and far enough away to keep them out of my hair.
Best part: No Burke. No Becker. And especially no Ram.
In my physical absence, Burke got pulled upwards: He’s overseeing all five of current recruit companies—the equivalent of a battalion once we get enough boots to fill all the teams—with an additional hundred-and-sixty support staff. I hope the responsibilities grow him up a bit, or at least teach him to temper his attitude.
Manning and Powell are now his sub-commanders, each managing a dozen ready teams. According to the long-view, Burke’s original Alpha Company will become its own battalion at Michigan Command, while Manning and Powell each get assigned a coastline. This means I’ll see Manning the most—his Company will be stuck under Langley until they get the funding to build a dedicated “East Coast Command” base (they’ve already surveyed a chunk of unused wilderness inside Fort Dix for it). I can already see him calming down, settling under the weight of what he’s bought into. He’ll be a good CO.
Powell’s Charlie Company is already setting up camp on San Clemente Island, sharing space with the Navy gunnery range and the SEALs, a deal probably negotiated in hope of selling SENTAR gear to the real special operators—this is also probably why they gave that area to Powell, since he’s got the most “respectable” record of the ex-SOF we recruited (though why he went for the transfer out of a promising career—and whatever the pervasive tension is between him and Burke whenever they share air—may tell a different story).
Ram is still out recruiting, hopping from base to base, showing off the toys, doing his little speeches. And Collins was right: he is good at it. By the time the next batch of candidates finishes VR immersion, we’ll be at 70% initial troop strength. They’re lining up for him—I can only hope he appreciates what he inspires enough to live up to it himself.
“Colonel Richards?” a soothing feminine voice chirps in as my desk screen goes live. The face is tanned, with deep, dark eyes and lean, strong features that hint at either Hispanic or Native American bloodlines. She keeps her straight dark brown hair pulled professionally back. Her uniform is sharp.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” Ava. Lisa Ava. At least that’s the name she wound up with after they secured her, after boot at Bragg and then straight to Langley for training.
“Incoming, sir. It’s General Sharavi.”
So much nicer than Datasan’s vox.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
She’s sharp, professional, and probably smarter than I am (at least judging from her scores). And tough enough to impress Burke on the Livefire course. But she took impressively to the tech and was given a mixed team of military and corporate TGs to set up what Collins named “Net-Com”: our own analyst-interface division to keep watch over what Datascan sifts from the world outside, give us the Big Picture and get it disseminated. She can sit down and have a PhD conversation with Becker, but she stays human, doesn’t get wrapped in it. So while Becker is geeking as Interface Operations Chief, feeding leet-speak to the grunts, Ava will keep the rest of us apprised of what’s happening in the real world, keeping score and advising next-moves on what Lawrence calls his “Ratings War”. She’ll make a good CO herself, probably sooner than later. (But until the Michigan base is operational, she’s assigned here, to me.)
Of course, she’s one of Ram’s finds, rubbing my nose in the fact that he doesn’t just collect hotdogs and divas. And there’s a potential Uniform Code issue: It’s no secret how she looks at him when they share space. Best to keep those two apart, or at least not in the same command chain.
“Thomas.”
“Jacob.” Ava’s face melts into Sharavi’s on my desktop—I’d almost think Datascan appreciates how disturbing the morphing effect is.
“Congratulations. I hear you have an office with a view.”
“Yes. And you can’t imagine how much I appreciate it.”
“And it’s a real office,” he grins. “Speaking of which, expect a package later. That way your security won’t think there’s something other than eighteen-year-old single malt in the bottle and confiscate it for ‘testing.’”
“Thank you, Jacob. Always appreciated. Speaking of: will you be coming local anytime to share it with me?”
He thinks about it for a moment, then shakes his head, lets me see that he has heavier things on his mind.
“Things are too busy here, setting up a proper forward base for Captain Ibrahim and his teams.”
“I hear he has six through training and a dozen more looking good in the pipe.”
“Not nearly enough,” Jacob complains with his accustomed acceptance. “But it can’t appear that we are getting any special dispensations. Agendas will be enough in question over the next several months. Speaking of: I hear you will be standing up in front of the Security Council next week to help sell the UNACT proposal.”
“Thank you for reminding me,” I bite back at him.
“Not looking forward to it?” he understates.
“Necessary evil. I’ll need that Scotch afterwards.”
“You’ll do fine, Thomas. What is it they say? ‘The product sells itself.’”
“That’s what they say.”
He hesitates a moment. He knows what he’s going to say next won’t be well received.
“I hear your Grayman will be standing up with you.”
He makes it sound like a wedding. I take an equal amount of time making my answer as professional as I can.
“By Secretary Miller’s own request: They think it will go over better if the Council gets to meet one of their potential new super-warriors.”
“Major Ram will do fine, Thomas.”
“He’s got his script,” I allow, “and he does speak well. And no, he won’t be wearing the damn outfit you bought him.”
“Still haven’t forgiven me for that, have you?” he jokes.
I don’t have anything to say on the subject that I’d put online. Besides, he knows how I feel about Ram, about this whole game they seem to have built around him.
He goes serious, fatherly in the way that he gets. “World the way it is, Thomas, there’s nothing wrong with making a hero.”
“Depends on what you make him out of.” I say it before I have time to think twice. Still, he just smiles like an old friend.
“Enjoy the moment, Thomas.”
Grayman Book One: Acts of War Page 54