Gust Front lota-2 Page 18

  “Yes, sir,” finished Mike. “I designed it, I made it, I live it and I call it the Mask of Hell. And all who wear it are the Damned!” he ended softly.

  CHAPTER 17

  Lunar Orbit, Sol III

  2230 EDT September 13th, 2004 ad

  “Oh, I will be God damned!” If anyone had been present when Captain Weston opened the e-mail from Fleet HQ on Titan Base, they would have been amazed at her command of invective. She managed to curse for a solid pair of minutes without repeating herself once. At the end of the diatribe she cut herself off abruptly, realizing that the stresses of the new command were causing the reaction.

  In the short time she had been there, the only thing she had been able to determine was that the situation was worse than expected. She now realized that keeping the systems on-line had meant not only Herculean effort on the part of her XO, but sheer good luck. Any of the jury-rigged repairs, patches and add-ons could cut out at any time. This would make it appear that Captain April Weston was not quite as competent as some had supposed. She doubted it would destroy her career, but it would be awfully embarrassing.

  For that matter they might not have to worry too much about embarrassment. With the forward deflector screen out any Posleen missile that made it through the defenses would have a free ride. The detonation of a twenty-kiloton nuclear missile in contact with the hull would erase any need to worry about career advancement.

  The parts were bound to turn up sooner or later. And the XO was just as good as advertised at wheedling them out of Titan Base and getting the Indowy to venture out of their quarters and install them. Losing her “immediately” and without any warning for a two-week leave was not good news.

  The other side of the ledger, however, was that the XO definitely needed some time off. She had brightened up in the last few days, but it was a brittle brightness. She definitely needed some shore leave.

  So be it. Far be it from April Weston to hold someone back from their just deserts. If Uncle Al Bledspeth thought it was a good idea then it was a good idea. But when she found whoever it was pulling the strings in the background, she was going to have their guts for garters. She hated figuring out who was conspiring with whom.

  * * *

  “Nathan!” came the pleased cry.

  Monsignor O’Reilly looked over his shoulder and stood up in greeting. “Paul, how are you?”

  The short, balding, dapper man was finely dressed in a tailored silk suit shot through with threads of purple and green that caught the soft lighting in the Century Club dining room. He smiled at his old friend and shook his hand vigorously.

  “Oh, well, my friend, well.” He was accompanied by an Indowy. While they were no longer in the two-headed calf category, it was exceedingly rare to see one in public. Paul des Jardins gestured at the alien. “Monsignor Nathan O’Reilly, I would be pleased to introduce you to the Indowy Aelool.”

  O’Reilly was aware that Indowy did not consider touching to be an appropriate action. Like the Japanese they engaged in a variety of bows depending on status. Since he had no idea what its status would be to the Galactics and since he had no conception of the Indowy’s rank, trying to bow appropriately would be an exercise in futility. He settled for bowing his head fractionally.

  He also was unsure of the Indowy’s sex. They had male, female and transfer neuter to choose from and there was no discrimination. They also were difficult to discern: The Indowy did not have significant external physical sexual expression such as mammaries. And their subtle expression — their equivalent of softer skin and rounded hips — was notoriously hard to spot. After a moment’s introspection he decided that the neuter forms of speech would be best. Male and female Indowy rarely objected to an accidental neuter reference, but transfer neuters tended to treat male/female references with humor.

  The Indowy had an aura of peace and calm that was rarely found when they were near humans. Normally the little creatures were as nervous as cats in a room full of rocking chairs. This one did not even flinch at the sight of humans eating meat.

  “Indowy Aelool, I see you.” He was enough of a student of the Galactics to know their greetings. Actually he was enough of a student of the Galactics to know three of the extraterrestrial languages. He still had no idea why Paul had tracked him down at the Club. They normally used cut-outs. This was lousy tradecraft and could damage an executive cell. He was furious; Paul had better have a damn good reason for this.

  “Please.” He gestured at his table. “Sit down.” The damage, if any, was done. Might as well play the hand.

  “I’m glad you were here, Nathan,” said Paul, taking a seat. One of the hovering waiters came forward and replaced the high-backed leather chair with one designed for Indowy. Nathan had not been aware that the club had them, but he was not surprised. The Century Club was one of the most exclusive clubs in Washington. Since it catered to the highest class of clientele, it undoubtedly had preparations for every type of Galactic visitor. “The Indowy Aelool is heading off-planet shortly and I wanted you to get a chance to meet him.”

  “There was so much to do,” said the diminutive alien in a soft, high voice. Monsignor O’Reilly suddenly realized that the Indowy had spoken English rather than use an AID translator and was surprised. As far as he knew, no Indowys spoke the language or any language but Indowy. It was generally believed that their vocal resonance cavities could not form human-style words. What other capabilities might they be hiding? “My team has just completed the armoring of the First Battalion of your Five-Fifty-Fifth Fleet Strike and I was to head back to Irmansul immediately. However, my good friend Monsieur des Jardins insisted that I meet you. As he said, ‘A stitch in time saves nine.’ ”

  O’Reilly paid no attention to the code phrase, simply nodding and taking a sip of the fruity Washington State Beaujolais the waiter had delivered earlier. As he did his mind raced and a series of pieces fell into place.

  Apparently Paul or someone high among the Fellowship had decided that the Indowy was the perfect conduit into the Galactics. And he was sure enough to possibly burn his sole contact to O’Reilly’s Société. The Fellowship and the Société had similar aims, but O’Reilly was, as far as he knew, the sole link. If this little meeting exposed him it would set back the work a decade. On the other hand, access to Galactic technology was imperative. Both groups were hampered by imperfect knowledge of the Galactics’ surveillance capabilities.

  And the Indowy always insisted on a face-to-face meeting before any serious alliance was joined. From what he had been able to glean from current study, and on the basis of Société records, he could understand why. The Darhel had owned the electronic information systems of the Galactic Federation for thousands of years. That gave them the ability to create any illusion they chose using those systems. Face-to-face was the only way to be sure you were talking to an actual contact.

  The logic complete he nodded to himself internally. The risk was worth the action. He would have to sever himself from Paul as a contact for some time to come. However, they would still be able to use intermediaries. And there was always the Internet. The chaotic system still seemed to have the Darhel confused; they depended upon filtering proxy servers for information control and the American Supreme Court — bless those nine unknowing fools — had recently ruled them unconstitutional.

  “Well, Indowy Aelool, if this Yankee dandy felt it necessary, I suppose I have to agree.” He delivered the countersign with a broad but toothless smile. A toothed grin was the sign of a predator to the nervous Indowy. Something about this one, though, made him suspect that it could take a full-toothed grin without a flinch. “Will you join me for dinner?”

  “I think not,” said the alien, his face wrinkling in a complicated expression. After a moment Nathan realized that it was an attempt to copy a smile. The closest Indowy expression was actually a motherly expression of disapproval. “I have a ship to catch. But perhaps we shall meet… anon.” Again the odd grimace. In this case a few broad ra
tlike front teeth were exposed.

  Nathan thought for a moment. Then he wrinkled his nose as hard as he could, pulled back his upper lip and crossed his eyes. At the incredibly silly expression Paul nearly choked on his own recently delivered wine but the Indowy simply copied it in surprise and emitted a series of high-pitched whines like a kitten with its tail caught in a door. He clapped his furry hand over his mouth but was unable to stop. Heads throughout the room turned at the odd and annoying sound.

  “Where did you learn that?” asked the Indowy, having finally managed to stop whining. The sound was Indowy laughter and was as infectious and difficult to stop for them as laughter was for humans. “That was the best human copy of ‘ironic agreement’ I have ever seen.”

  “I’m a student of anthropology,” said the Jesuit with deprecation. “There is nothing that says that ‘anthro’ must refer only to human beings… You ought to see me do Darhel ‘unfortunate embarrassment.’ I’ve been practicing.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Ft. Myer, VA, United States of America, Sol III

  0710 EDT September 14th, 2004 ad

  “Hangover or no, you’re giving the brief this morning,” said Captain Jackson as he sauntered into Mike’s cubicle.

  Mike turned and looked at him with one eye shut, as a piston hammered his head. “I will have you know, I have never had a hangover in my life. This headache that is currently pounding me into the ground is entirely coincidental and based upon nervousness over the briefing. It is not the result of trying to drink officers who have far more experience and training in the imbibing of hard alcohol under the table.”

  “Same for the light sensitivity and the taste in your mouth?” asked the nattily dressed aide. Mike was fairly sure that the tailored uniform had not come off the rack at the Officers’ Sales Store. Like Mike’s it was probably Brooks Brothers or Halberds. The cloth was noticeably better and the fit was immaculate.

  “Correct. Besides, in about three minutes the GalMed I just took will kick in and no more headache. To what do I owe the honor, Captain, sir?”

  “Actually,” said Captain Jackson, with a smile, “I think you have me by date of rank, Captain, sir.”

  “Ah, that would explain the confused look you perennially sport.”

  “Actually, that look comes with the position of aide.”

  “That I am familiar with,” Mike agreed with a wince. “I held the position myself, briefly. Thank God there were no real aide’s duties, though; I was basically the wild-hair guy for the GalTech program. But since there were no real aide duties it was a good place to stash me.”

  “So I’ve heard. I also heard you fought it tooth and nail.”

  “Well, the position of aide is one that is strongly political, no offense, and I’m lousy at passing canapés.”

  “Unlike us ring knockers?” asked the new aide with a raised eyebrow and an almost subconscious gesture of his right hand. The West Point ring briefly caught the light.

  “I will admit that I have met only one mediocre West Point graduate,” Mike said in oblique agreement.

  “Thanks.” The captain’s brow furrowed. “Why do I suddenly suspect that is not the outstanding advertisement for West Point it at first sounds?”

  “As I was saying, to what do I owe the honor?” asked Mike.

  “Well, first the general sends his regrets. He won’t be able to see you prior to the briefing, other items have suddenly come up, but he will see you at the reception afterwards.”

  “Tell the general, thank you, I can hold my own pecker just the same.”

  “You are really in a savage mood this morning, aren’t you?” the aide commented with a nervous chuckle.

  “Yes. Is there anything else?”

  “Do you think the damn medal gives you the right to dispense with common courtesy?”

  “No. I was a revolting SOB before I got the medal. Is there anything else?”

  Captain Jackson’s face worked for a minute. “No. But can I ask you something?”

  “You just did.” After a moment Mike relented. “Go ahead.”

  “You are about to go out in front of a bunch of goddamned senior brass, under the direction of CONARC, and tell them how CONARC — really meaning you — thinks they should handle their ACS forces. Now, if you show your ass, it’s going to reflect poorly on my boss. Since one of my jobs is to make sure that doesn’t happen, I’ve gotta find out if you’re up to this briefing, because right now I am tempted to call General Horner and tell him his fair-haired boy is even more canned than last night and not up to the briefing.”

  “That would be bearing false witness, Captain,” said Mike, casually. He obviously considered it an empty threat. He took a sip of his coffee and swished it around in his mouth. “And isn’t there some sort of unwritten code at West Point about ratting?”

  “There is a written code about reporting… questionable behavior. I would be following the written code. And good sense. I will stop this presentation if I think you can’t answer questions civilly. Trust me, I know the system and how to use it. If General Horner doesn’t pull you, there are other venues.”

  Mike smiled calmly for the first time in the encounter; it was like a tiger stretching to work out the kinks and the toothy smile was strangely feline as well.

  “Like I said, Captain, to each his own. Very well, my problems are as follows. One.” He flicked a finger up, counting. “I am about fed up with professional paper-pushers. It was paper-pushing, political, regular-Army assholes that fed me into a grinder on Diess and that probably will here on Earth. So — remember you pointed out that you are politically connected not me — you were probably the worst possible person to send to buck me up. Since Jack knows this, it was probably a test. I am in no mood for tests, which I will point out the next time I see him.

  “Two.” He flicked another finger. “I am giving a briefing for the senior commanders of America’s defense on the subject of usage of ACS. I figure that there is about one chance in ten of those senior officers paying me any attention, despite the fact that these are the recommendations of their commander. We will undoubtedly institute the strategic logistical plan. After that single bone tossed to us, the ACS will get used in one of two ways: as cannon fodder, or as a last desperate measure.

  “In the first case, ACS will be sent out unsupported by artillery or followed by conventional forces and thrown at the Posleen in movement-to-contact environments. They will be expected to make contact and stop the forces, without flank support or logistical tail. Most of the time, they will run out of juice, be surrounded and overrun. That will happen to about three battalions in the first month of skirmishing, on the East and West Coasts. This will be completely contrary to recommended doctrine.

  “In the other scenario, ACS will be sent into close-contact infernos when all other methods, except nukes, have failed. They will be in close terrain, but, again, not in prepared positions. They will be given orders to hold on like the Spartans at Thermopylae and, by and large, much the same fate will befall them. This will include the fact that the follow-on forces will be ineffectively assembled or completely imaginary. And then the strategic scenario they died for will die with them. That scenario will occur repeatedly throughout the invasion. Again, it will be contrary to recommended doctrine.

  “In the meantime, senior officers will complain that the MI are a waste of funds, that the same funds spent on conventional equipment would have given us much more capacity. The ones that complain the worst will be the most pissed off when the ACS are destroyed by improper implementation, and point to those defeats as support for their arguments. The fact that they would not even consider sending a conventional unit into the same environment will be completely overlooked. And the whole time, we, meaning the ACS, will be watching our numbers dwindle, without the ability to reinforce. It is not a pleasant scenario, sort of like suicide by arsenic: slow and painful.”

  “Well,” said Captain Jackson, shaking his head at the Fleet Strike o
fficer’s vehemence, “congratulations, you have one last chance to get them to see the light.”

  “Captain, did you ever read ‘The Country of the Blind’?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the one-eyed man did not become king!”

  CHAPTER 19

  Richmond, VA, United States of America, Sol III

  1232 EDT September 19th, 2004 ad

  “My name’s John Keene,” said the tall, distinguished engineer, taking the hand of the Green Beret sergeant who met him at the airport.

  “Sergeant First Class Frank Mueller.”

  “I could have caught a cab,” the engineer continued as they walked through the Richmond airport. It was filled with more smokers than any airport he had ever seen. In fact, the entire airport was a smoking area with the exception of occasional small nonsmoking areas. It almost made him think about having a cigar.

  “No you couldn’t, there aren’t any. Or hardly any. And anyway, I wasn’t busy. You got any bags?”

  Keene gestured by lifting the small carry-on and briefcase in his hands. “What is the Special Forces role in all this?” he asked.

  “The Richmond Defense Project?” asked Mueller, wresting the carry-on out of Keene’s grip but leaving him with the briefcase. He gestured with his head towards the front of the airport and started walking. “In the case of our team, not much. Virginia already has a Special Forces group. We were sent to beef up the local defense training program. But Twentieth group has that well in hand, so we were mainly sitting on our thumbs waiting to go back to Atlanta until the ‘Fortress Forward’ program was announced. The local corps commander knew our team chief ‘back when’ and he made us a sort of super IG for the time being. When there’s a problem, we get sent out to deal with it. Occasionally we lend a helping hand, like picking up a defense engineering specialist at the airport.”