by C H Gideon
Nervous laughter briefly filled the room, but a stern look from Zhao silenced it.
“On Benjamin Akinouye, the insignia and uniform were like license plates on a car. They were afterthoughts or, at most, embellishments on something that required none. When Ben would walk into a room, it didn’t matter who was in it,” the admiral continued. “It didn’t matter what insignia they wore, what office they held, or how successful they thought they were at whatever they did. One look at him could make even me feel small and insignificant. And I can assure you that the rest of my panelists reacted the exact same way to his presence.”
The court’s members nodded in genuine and unanimous approval.
“So when I learned that General Benjamin Akinouye had fallen in the line of duty, I knew that one of humanity’s brightest stars had gone out and that we would never recover from his loss. Shortly after learning of my friend’s death, the wormholes went dark, and I received a full and uncensored mission profile for Operation Antivenom, sent by Colonel Lee Jenkins and delivered by my once-estranged son,” Zhao continued heavily. “Ben was a hothead. A maverick. Even a rebel.” The admiral chuckled. “But despite his obvious flaws, which he wore like badges of honor instead of hiding behind an insincere veneer, I would never second-guess that man’s strategic judgment.”
In the hours and days since returning to New America, the bulk of which Jenkins had spent in a prison cell awaiting this court-martial, Jenkins had never once thought that Admiral Zhao would sound sympathetic to the Legion’s cause. Forgetting the fact that he had been completely unaware of a personal relationship between Zhao and Akinouye, Jenkins’ read of the admiral had led him to believe that Zhao would push as hard as he could in pursuit of justice.
But instead, it sounded like Zhao was about to unleash the biggest surprise of Jenkins’ life.
“You were in an impossible situation, Colonel Jenkins and Captain Xi,” Zhao said with overt sympathy, which marked the very first time in Jenkins’ dealings with the man that he had manifested such emotions. “Never before in human history has so much responsibility been shouldered by so few people. And despite your charitable appraisal, Captain,” he added with a pointed look in Xi’s direction, “I’m not convinced that everyone on this court would have done as you did. I like to think we would have, but a lifetime of hard-earned experience has taught me to temper my optimism when it comes to certain facets of human nature.”
Heads bobbed grimly up and down the court, surprising Jenkins and Xi as they exchanged looks of poorly-veiled bewilderment.
“The Terran Armed Forces employs a command structure,” Admiral Zhao continued in a raised voice as whispers throughout the courtroom rose well above a low murmur, “that affords certain degrees of latitude and operational command authority to be vested in its officers throughout the chain of command. Those officers are selected by men and women like us,” Zhao gestured to his fellow jurors, “after they have displayed their merits to their superiors. Some of those merits are technical in nature, some are social, and some are tactical, but chief among them is the ability to make hard calls in difficult situations. That’s precisely what the Metal Legion did under General Benjamin Akinouye’s…unique brand of leadership.” He grinned. “And it’s what I expect his beloved Legion to continue doing long after we’ve given him a proper send-off. There are some who will say that Operation Antivenom was an example of a good outcome despite a bad process. They’ll say that the chain of command was violated by insubordinate officers, and they’d be partly right. They’ll say that maintaining operational security was given dangerously high priority by those officers, and they’d be partly right about that, too. And they’ll say that a more rigid system with increased transparency would have prevented the possibility of Antivenom resulting in accidental catastrophe, however well-intentioned that catastrophe’s operational commanders might have been. And I’d say,” Zhao silenced the room with a sharp increase in his volume, “that those people don’t belong anywhere near the Terran Armed Forces.”
A cheer arose from the back of the room, surprisingly bolstered by the Solarian delegation, and despite Zhao’s deepening scowl, that cheer persisted for several seconds after the admiral stood from his chair. Putting his knuckles down on the bench, he glared at the assemblage and, fortunately for all involved, the cheers quickly subsided.
“As a military organization and as a society,” Zhao continued, now speaking more to the crowd and the cameras than to Jenkins and Xi, “we recognized the merits of General Benjamin Akinouye, and we rewarded those merits with latitude and authority rarely vested in individual humans. It is my opinion that he correctly used those privileges on behalf of not only Terra, but also of Sol, and, I sincerely believe, on behalf of races like the Vorr and Finjou. And the two Metalheads now standing before this court, who were once General Akinouye’s pupils, are among the finest examples of the Terran Armed Forces’ proud legacy of honor, duty, and tradition I’ve ever had the pleasure and privilege of addressing.” Jenkins and Xi both went slack-jawed as Admiral Zhao gestured to the ranking officers flanking him on the court, “I’m content to let my fellow jurors deliver our official verdict now. On the charges brought against Lieutenant Colonel Lee Jenkins and Captain Xi Bao, charges for which they have offered no substantive or stylistic defense, how do you find the accused?”
With a unified voice that echoed across the entire Terran Republic, the court loudly declared…
“Not guilty.”
24
A New Direction
“Colonel Jenkins,” General Pushkin greeted Lee in his thick, Slavic accent. He proffered a hand as soon as Jenkins and Xi stepped through the doors of the Terran Armor Corps HQ. “Outstanding work.”
Jenkins took Pushkin’s hand before the general turned to Xi and shook her hand as well.
“I’m glad to see you back in public, General,” Jenkins said with feeling.
“It was a nasty bit of business with Major General Kavanaugh,” Pushkin replied dismissively. “But I knew you would prove Ben’s faith in your team was well-founded. He saw something in you that he once told me reminded him of himself. A much younger version, of course.” He chuckled.
“What’s going to happen to Kavanaugh?” Jenkins pressed as the trio made their way toward HQ’s central, hallowed chambers.
“It is out of my hands.” Pushkin shrugged. “I made my recommendations, but Admiral Zhao is right. The public and the bureaucrats are out for blood, and Kavanaugh pushed too hard in the wrong direction. She knew the risks of her attempted coup, and while I don’t think she should spend the rest of her days in a cell, I do think that her time in brown and black should come to an end,” he said with finality, referring to the Corps’ traditional colors.
“That’s unfortunate,” Jenkins said grimly. “General Akinouye entrusted her with a tremendous amount of the Legion’s administrative work. Her absence will be difficult to overcome.”
“No, it will not be difficult,” Pushkin said sourly. “It will be impossible. With so many plates spinning in the air some are bound to crash, but we’ll pick up the pieces as best we can and get back on track one way or another.”
“What about the advisory board?” Xi asked. “Are Admirals Corbyn and Zhao staying on to oversee the Legion’s restructuring?”
“Admiral Corbyn has recused himself, and Colonel Moon has temporarily replaced him on both the advisory board and as an acting member of the Legion’s leadership.” Pushkin smirked as they made their way to one of the longest hallways in the facility, which stretched for nearly half a kilometer and connected five separate sub-sections of the Legion’s HQ. “I think that with your official court-martial in the rearview, the ‘unofficial’ probes into Fleet and government personnel will commence as the depths of Jemmin influence are investigated. Many careers are about to end, and the Metal Legion’s list of political enemies is about to get much, much longer as a result.”
“You don’t think Corbyn was working with th
e Jemmin, do you?” Xi asked in shock.
“Of course not,” Pushkin said dismissively. “Neither was Kavanaugh, but each of them represented potential failure points in the system which, given the circumstances, must be addressed with brutal finality. I don’t think Kavanaugh’s career will survive the inquest, but Corbyn should be back in command after a brief respite similar to the one I recently enjoyed,” he added with a wan smile that made clear he had not, in fact, ‘enjoyed’ his house arrest.
“What about the Fleet-Legion merger?” Jenkins pressed.
“On indefinite hold.” Pushkin grinned. “I have opened lines of dialogue with several key Fleet personnel, but nothing has come of it yet. I think they’re still a little bitter about not being given a seat at Antivenom’s table.”
“So we’re without transport.” Jenkins grunted. “Which leaves us on the sidelines while the biggest war in Nexus history rages across the wormholes.”
“Come now, Colonel.” Pushkin put a dramatic hand over his heart and feigned disappointment as they reached the Legion’s main conference room doors. “I may not be General Akinouye, but it is deeply hurtful to find that you think so little of me.”
Jenkins, wrongfooted by Pushkin’s banter, moved silently through the doors after the general opened them to reveal a small gathering already seated at the theater’s main conference table.
“You already know Admiral Zhao.” Pushkin gestured to the fierce-browed Fleet officer. “And his son, Captain Chao, along with Captain Guan of the Red Hare.”
Jenkins and Xi moved to an indicated pair of chairs opposite those occupied by Zhao, Chao, and Guan, while Pushkin assumed his rightful place at the table’s head. Beside Jenkins was Colonel Moon, who shook Jenkins’ hand as soon as he arrived at his suggestively-angled seat.
“Yes,” Jenkins agreed after shaking Moon’s hand and making meaningful eye contact with the trio across the table. “In one form or another, we’ve been through life and death together.”
“Well said,” Admiral Zhao stated. “We’ll make this short: Fleet’s not going to be available to taxi Legion assets for the foreseeable future. We’ve got enough problems dealing with potential moles and security leaks, and like it or not, the firefight in the Nexus worlds is out of our league. We don’t have the assets to spare.”
“Which is why,” Captain Guan interjected, confidently stroking his thigh-length beard, “after speaking with General Pushkin, my government has renewed its offer of material support. The Red Hare is at your immediate and ongoing disposal, although I fear it is the only drop-capable warship Terra Han can spare.”
“Not just the Red Hare…” Pushkin grinned knowingly.
“Certainly not.” Captain Guan seemed offended at the general’s suggestion. “Lotus, Orchid, and Clover battalions, each at full strength, are now Armor Corps assets.”
Jenkins’ brow shot up in surprise, and a savage grin spread across Xi’s lips that seemed to infect everyone except Admiral Zhao. “That’s…outstanding,” Jenkins allowed. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.” Pushkin waved dismissively. “There were some…administrative details to work out, but we came to a productive and mutually beneficial agreement.”
Jenkins smirked. “Terra Han still wants operational oversight.”
“Which they are now fully aware they will not receive,” Pushkin said matter of factly, drawing an approving nod from both Chao and Guan. “They will, however, retain tactical command of their assets, as well as direct rank transfers from the Terra Han Colonial Guard. It was a concession,” Pushkin shrugged, “but one we were happy to make.”
Jenkins’ mind raced at the implications of that last bit as Admiral Zhao intently studied him. Jenkins knew that the rank transfers would inject captains, majors, and possibly even colonels into the Terran Armor Corps leadership. Viewed uncharitably, the rank issue could be seen as a not-so-subtle takeover attempt aimed at the Metal Legion’s suddenly leadership vacuum. Even charitably, the transfers created serious administrative concerns he suspected would fill his coming days and weeks as he scrambled to come up with creative ways to retain local control of the Terran Armor Corps.
“On that front,” Admiral Zhao said, seemingly satisfied by whatever he saw during Jenkins’ silent contemplation, “we’ve drawn up a fresh round of promotions that require your approval to push through. The timing of some of these will raise eyebrows, and possibly even cause legitimate trouble within the Metal Legion’s hierarchy, but the training wheels are now off for you people. It’s time to step up and fill Ben’s shoes or get out of the way so someone else can.”
Jenkins accepted a data slate that Captain Chao slid across for his father, and after scanning it, he found himself nodding along in approval until reaching the final item on the list. “I can’t—”
“You can and you will,” Zhao barked unyieldingly, “because you must.”
Jenkins wanted to object, but he couldn’t argue with a single promotion’s value to the Legion’s framework going forward. Still, he thought he needed to make himself perfectly clear on one point in particular. “I didn’t do any of this for personal gain. I did it because it needed to be done.”
“Which is why you must accept the promotion to full colonel,” Pushkin soothed. “And why Captain Xi must accept the promotion to major. You two are the new faces of the Terran Armor Corps, but the Legion doesn’t just need a few pretty faces for the recruitment drives.” He snorted. “It needs battle-experienced veterans with hard heads, and yours are as hard as any in the Metal Legion’s history.”
“In addition to the Terra Han Razorbacks,” Colonel Moon interjected, “the rest of the assets you pulled together during your latest fundraising drive have arrived or are scheduled to within the week. Combined with vehicles already in the pipeline and in various states of repair, the Metal Legion now has two full brigades,” he held up a pair of fingers, “of mechs on the roster. Given six weeks of TLC under the Legion’s suddenly-swollen roster of would-be Wrenches and Monkeys, every one of them will be ready to drop.”
Jenkins was pleasantly surprised to hear about the roster additions. He had known it was possible that the assets he had scrounged up during Durgan’s pre-planned drive would prove vital to the Legion, but he hadn’t expected them to arrive so quickly. He also hadn’t thought he’d done enough work to bring the mixed mechs up to full brigade strength. Pushkin had been a busy man, and he was right. Jenkins shouldn’t have thought so little of him.
“The Han Razorbacks can be dropped and retrieved by the Red Hare because of their uniform design,” Xi ventured skeptically. “But without the Bonhoeffer’s cans, how do we deploy all the older mixed mechs?”
“While Fleet can’t lend direct support with hull reassignments,” Admiral Zhao explained, “we can open up a few slots at the New America and New Africa shipyards to get some of your more…classic dropships out of mothballs in a reasonable timeframe.”
“The Mencken?” Jenkins asked hopefully. The HL Mencken was a Behemoth-class assault carrier of nearly-identical design to the Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the sole but key difference being its lack of the Bahamut Zero’s drop system. Along with two other derelict Behemoths, the Mencken was presently in the New America boneyard, where it had sat idle for forty years. It was by far the best candidate of the trio for refit, but Admiral Zhao’s irritably shaking head dashed Jenkins’ sudden hopes of riding the mighty warship into battle.
“Eventually,” Zhao allowed, “but that will take four to six months, even with a full refit crew and uninterrupted supplies, which will also take time to source. We can get some of the smaller ships moving under their own power and drop-capable in weeks, not months, so for now, the only combat-rated dropship you’ll have is the Red Hare.”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed.” Jenkins smirked. “But the Legion has done more with less.”
“That’s the spirit,” Zhao deadpanned before the group got down to the nuts and bolts of restructurin
g the Metal Legion in preparation for the greatest war humanity had ever participated in.
“Colonel Jenkins,” Director Durgan greeted him in Pushkin’s office six hours later, after the meeting with Zhao had concluded, “I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Director,” Jenkins responded graciously, “I suspect you were behind some of the recent heavy lifting.”
“Some,” Durgan allowed as Pushkin made his way to the minibar, where he snipped a trio of cigars and poured a round of drinks. “But not all. Mikhail is proving worthy of the big chair, as the Solar delegates suggest you are.”
“I don’t know how to take that, Director,” Jenkins told him honestly, causing Durgan to chuckle.
“Straight as ever, Colonel.” Durgan nodded approvingly. “Take it as a compliment from a society loathe to give them. You impressed them. A lot.”
“The Solarians,” Pushkin handed both Durgan and Jenkins cigars before lighting them in turn, “have made preliminary indications they will supply material assets to the Legion’s efforts.”
“Really?” Jenkins asked in surprise after drawing a long hit from the hand-wrapped stogie. It was good, with a warmth that seemed to permeate his pores, but he had never understood the infatuation with the things. “What are they offering?”
“Void fighters, primarily,” Durgan replied sourly. “But they say they’ve got a few dozen old museum pieces they’ll kick over as soon as the Nexus cools off.”
“Ah.” Jenkins nodded knowingly. “That’s where the extra mechs came from.”
“Indeed.” Pushkin nodded. “But we don’t need to talk about that right now. The three of us have something more…radical I wanted to discuss behind closed doors.”
Jenkins was intrigued, as was Director Durgan, apparently. “Well, go on, Mikhail,” Durgan urged. “The assassins only managed to hit me with a near-lethal dose of radiation back at New Ukraine three weeks ago, but it’s not like my time is worthless.”