"I won't, I won't," he assured her quickly, "Let's see those tomatoes."
The tomato fields, which were near ripening, stretched for nearly a kilometer in all directions around the farmhouse. Supported on frames, the plants stood more than a meter high, and the red fruits hung down from the stems like balls bigger than a man's fist. Each plant seemed to support a dozen or more of them. After walking a few meters down one of the rows, they lost sight of the farmhouse completely.
Dean pulled Hway close to him and they embraced; they kissed; they melted into each other. The next thing Dean knew, they were kneeling between the rows of plants, his equipment belt hanging from a nearby tomato frame. Dean had not had sex with a woman since before the deployment to Elneal, and that was with one of Big Barb's girls back in Bronnys, on Thorsfinni's World, nothing like the passion that gripped him now. When Hway reached out to guide him in, he lost it instantly. "Sorry, sorry!" he gasped. He sat down, his legs entwined with Hway's, and tried to catch his breath. Hway's chest heaved too and her face was flushed. "My great big Joe," she whispered. After a while they did it the right way.
They lay in the dust between the rows of tomatoes, chests heaving.
"First time?" Dean asked. He'd never had a virgin before, so he had no idea what sex would be like with one.
"No," Hway answered nonchalantly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Joe was instantly disappointed to know he was not the first man in her life. He almost wanted to demand to know who the man was, but as quickly realized he couldn't ask a question like that. "How about you?" she asked.
"Uh, no, no." Dean realized then how foolish he was to be disappointed that Hway had been with someone before him.
As if she sensed what was going through his mind, Hway laughed. "Who was it?" she asked bluntly.
Astonished that she would ask. Dean faltered. "Um, a couple of girls I knew back home. Nothing serious." He was not about to tell her of the whore back on Thorsfinni's World. "And you?"
"Oh, just a local boy. A very pleasant boy, Joe, but nothing like you." She patted Joe's extended leg. "He's dead now," she added matter-of-factly, and Dean felt relief, then was ashamed of himself for it. After a few moments she said, "Joe, we'd better be getting back. Won't they miss you at your office?"
Dean was putting his equipment back on. "Huh? Oh, yeah, let me help you up." Awkwardly, they got to their feet and rearranged their clothes. They stood facing each other, she with a wayward strand of black hair hanging down in front of her face, a small rivulet of perspiration working its way slowly down one side of her jaw. Impulsively, Dean grabbed her again and pressed his body hard against hers. He could feel his pulse beating rapidly again. He covered her mouth with his own. She moaned and returned the kiss but then pushed him away.
"Joe, I don't want you getting into trouble over me."
"Don't worry about it," he told her, brushing dust off his utilities and straightening his belt. He glanced at his watch. He should have been back at the Stadtpolizei headquarters an hour ago.
"Joe, before you leave, have one of these." Hway offered him a medium-size tomato she'd plucked from a plant. "Maybe it'll cool you down." She laughed. It was warm from the sun and felt heavy in Joe's hand.
"How do you eat these things?" Dean asked, turning the tomato curiously in his hands.
"Bite into it through the skin. Be careful! They're juicy!"
Dean bit into the red orb. Instantly, his mouth was filled with the rich pulp and its tangy juice. He took another bite and then another. It was the most wonderful natural vegetable he'd ever eaten. Hway laughed as she watched him consume the whole tomato in only four bites. He leaned awkwardly forward, so the juice wouldn't get on his uniform. '
"They're grown using a method developed by the famous agronomist Dawid Canfil. He could take ordinary fruits and vegetables, Joe, and turn them into miracles. Take some back for your friend, Clayton," Hway said, and she picked three more. "One thing, Joe, they're very rich and they can go right through you until you get used to them." Dean had no idea what she meant but didn't want to show his ignorance by asking. They walked back to the farmhouse, Hway carrying the tomatoes in her dress and Dean trying to look unruffled, as if they'd just spent the last few minutes talking casually about the crops. Self-consciously he worked at brushing the dust off his uniform.
Uncle Emil did not seem to notice the smudges and dust spots on his niece's clothing. Helga noted the signs but said nothing, only nodded at her niece. Dean took his leave of the old people politely, promising to return soon. Carrying the freshly picked tomatoes in a sack, he climbed reluctantly into his landcar and, waving to Hway, who stood demurely between her grandaunt and uncle, he drove back down to the main highway.
All the way back to Stadtpolizei headquarters Dean whistled and sang. He couldn't wait to tell Claypoole about his afternoon and share the tomatoes with him. But Claypoole threw cold water over everything.
After he'd determined that it was Dean who'd started the fight, Chief Long dismissed Claypoole and told Dean to sit down. He asked for an explanation, and Dean told him everything.
Chief Long scratched behind his ear and let out his breath. "You screw up like this one more time, laddie, and I'm sending you back to Brigadier Sturgeon. You know what that would mean? It would mean you'd spend the rest of your enlistment at the depot on Thorsfinni's World, kicking boxes and counting energy packs."
Dean squirmed in his seat. He knew what the chief was telling him was true. Oh, Brigadier Sturgeon liked him, had even promoted him, but AWOL was a court martial offense, and so was misuse of Confederation property, which he'd also done when he used the landcar for personal business without permission. What he'd done that afternoon was a lot more serious than the joyride he and Claypoole had taken the time they went to Juanita's, and Dean knew it. "I know, sir," Dean answered.
Chief Long regarded the young Marine for a moment. "Maybe you think working for me is a snap, lad? Maybe you think because I'm a policeman I'm a lot easier to tolerate than your FIST sergeant major?"
"No, sir!" Dean answered quickly. "It's just that I had the chance to go see her and..." He paused and thought for a moment. "Yes, I thought I could get away with it, sir. I didn't think you'd find out, and you wouldn't have if Claypoole and I hadn't gotten into it out there. But, sir, I never thought working for you would be any kind of picnic."
"I knew where you were all the time, lad." Chief Long sighed. "All our police vehicles are tracked whenever they're on the road. Commissioner Landser knows Emil Keutgens well. He practically lives at the tomato farm."
Dean's mouth fell open at the news. "Sir, then why didn't you—"
"I was going to talk to you about it at some point, but then you and Claypoole started flinging snot at each other out there. I was going to wait and see if you'd make the same mistake twice. Will you?"
"No, sir! But, sir, I don't know what to do! I love Hway! I know I do! I've never felt like this about any girl before. What do you—"
Chief Long held up his hand. "Stop. I will not give you any advice, lad. You've got to work this out for yourself. I'm sorry. That's another part of growing up. You've proved you're a brave young man. Now prove you can control yourself, or you'll never make a good cop or a good Marine. What did Hway tell you to do, by the way?"
"She said she didn't want me to get into trouble over her."
"Then she's a lot smarter than you are, laddie. All right, Dean, I'm going to tell you two things, and you listen very carefully. One: we have a lot of work to do and little time to do it in. I need your promise you'll give all your waking hours and some of your sleeping ones to Lieutenant Constantine and me. You don't, you're out. What do you say?"
"I give you my promise."
Chief Long nodded. "Two: we may have a lull from time to time. When we do, I'll let you take a police car and you can visit your girl. Now go, and sin no more. And make up with Claypoole."
Dean stood up and gave Chief Long a smart hand salute.<
br />
But making up with Claypoole was not that easy.
By the time Dean returned to their work space, the swelling above his right eye was both very noticeable and painful, and Claypoole's lip was swollen. Several times Dean was about to strike up a conversation with Claypoole but hesitated. Problem was, Dean realized Claypoole had been right, and he felt stupid about starting the fight, but it was hard for him to admit it. So they spent the rest of the day working at their stations, communicating only in monosyllables and avoiding each other's eyes.
Since neither was scheduled for duty at FIST HQ that night, they went straight to their quarters before curious Marines could ask them where they'd collected their recent wounds. They were still not speaking when it came time for lights out. Dean lay in his rack for a long time, staring up at the darkness. He tossed first to one side, then the other.
"Rachman," he said at last. "Are you asleep?"
"Not now," Claypoole replied sarcastically.
"Well, youumwere um, rightumboutallthat."
"What?"
"I'm sorry! You were right to chew my ass out! I was wrong to swing at you. I'm a fucking idiot. Jeez, Rachman, I am sorry, I really am."
"Light!" Claypoole said. His reading light came on. He swung his feet over the side of his rack. "Well, I shouldn't have talked about your girl that way. I'm sorry too." He got up, opened the cooler, and took out two one-liter bottles of Reindeer beer, passing one to Dean. He then retrieved two of his precious cigars and gave one to Dean. They sucked on the beers and lit up. "What am I going to do, Rachman?" Dean asked. Anguish was clear in his voice and on his face.
"You've got to do your duty, Dean-o. As long as you wear that uniform, you're a Marine, and that's it. Listen, I've seen plenty of other guys take the big fall because of a girl." Actually, he hadn't, but he'd heard about such things from older Marines. "And I don't want to see that happen to you."
"I wish we'd never been sent up here by the Old Man."
"Yeah. But we're here just the same. Besides, Commander Peters was one hell of an officer, and this old cop ain't half bad, is he? And on top of all that, you got us promoted." He gestured at the new lance corporal's chevrons on the utilities hanging on the wall. "It was you got us promoted, Dean-o, all I did was follow along to cover your ass."
Dean laughed. He was already feeling better. It wasn't all due to the beer and the tobacco either. "Ah! I got something here for you!" he said, remembering the tomatoes he'd brought back from the farm. He handed one to Claypoole.
"I heard of these," Claypoole said, examining the fruit. "They're supposed to be good. Never ate one."
"Careful, they're full of juice," Dean warned.
"Gawdamn!" Claypoole exclaimed as he bit into the tomato. The juice ran down his chin and dripped onto the floor. He ate the entire tomato, including the stem, in several huge bites. Finished, he wiped his mouth with his undershirt. Dean ate one, then Claypoole finished off the third and belched contentedly.
Dean stepped across the narrow space that separated their bunks and stuck his hand out. "We watch each other's back from now on, Rachman."
Claypoole stood up. "Right! Like we've always done. Like Marines do it!" They shook.
Later, just before drifting off to sleep. Dean was snapped back into full consciousness by a roar from Claypoole's bunk.
"Ah, ah! Damn! Damn!" Claypoole shouted. "That fuckin' tomato!" he screamed.
"Whaa...? Omigod, what's that smell!" Dean sat bolt upright in his rack.
"I went to fart and, and—lookit my rack! Oh, gawdamn sumbitch!" Cursing and dragging his bedsheets along behind him, Claypoole stumbled into the head.
Dean laughed so hard the tears streamed down his face. It wasn't so much that what had happened to Claypoole was so funny—it was—as that everything was now back to normal between them, and the relief Dean felt was enormous. He would work their situation out with Hway somehow. "Omigod!" Dean gasped after a moment, then rushed after Claypoole into the head. Alas, he was too late.
Chapter Eleven
"Commander!" Lieutenant Pincote burst into Hing's temporary command post. Less than ten kilometers from the 257th Feldpolizei GSB, the side tunnel was part of an abandoned mine complex where two raiding companies of the Che Loi Brigade were in hiding.
Hing looked up from the computer. He'd been feeding variables to the situation map, testing the plans his staff had developed for a raid on the Feldpolizei headquarters while the Marines were taking the bulk of the force out on patrols. He signed for her to speak.
Pincote grinned and light glinted off the sharp points of her teeth. "The oligarch's lackeys have gone on patrols," she announced breathlessly. "Two companies of them, the same as before." She stood erect and swelled her chest. "They have gone without their Confederation Marines."
A small part of Hing's mind idly considered how impressive Pincote's chest was when she stood that way. But only a small part. Most of his mind was occupied with the implications of what she said. "How good is your information?" If the Feldpolizei were patrolling without the Marines, he could quickly have the brigade in position to do them serious injury.
Pincote looked like she wanted to laugh, but she didn't. "I didn't believe the information, so I went to see for myself. It's true. Arschmann's lackeys are patrolling in platoon strength. I saw no Marines with them." By the time she finished saying this, she was no longer standing with the impressive chest, she had leaned forward with her fists planted on Hing's desk. A manic light shone in her eyes. "If we move soon enough, we can ambush one platoon before it settles in for the night, then strike at another one when it leaves its bivouac in the morning." She threw her head back and stared into that never-never where people look when imagining great possibilities. "We can easily kill two platoons and take their weapons. Then every fighter with us can have a blaster, and there will be more to take back to our base." She lowered her head and focused on Hing's eyes. "The lackeys are moving in the formations the offworlders have been teaching them. Think what it will do to their morale, and to their confidence in the Marines, when two of their platoons are wiped out while doing what they have been taught!"
The sequence of ambushes, the capturing of weapons, and the effect on the Feldpolizei were exactly what Hing had been thinking. Still...
"How certain are you the Marines aren't with them?"
"I watched for a long time. I followed one platoon for two kilometers. I saw no sign of the Marines. Then I went to the headquarters to see for myself that they have no aircraft, none of the hoppers the Marines use, or the so-called Raptors. The only aircraft there were the base commander's hopper and a small, civilian cargo carrier."
Hing thought for no more than three seconds, then jumped to his feet, shouting orders as he went.
Lance Corporal Hammer Schultz didn't feel naked the second time he went out on a patrol with the FPs, yet he was even less comfortable and confident than the first time. He didn't have to feel naked this time, because he was wearing his chameleons, the proper Marine uniform for combat. He should have felt more confident, because this time the FPs weren't bumping into each other or wandering off or tripping over things a blind man could see in the middle of the night—they actually looked as if they had a fair idea of how to patrol quietly and alertly. And he should have felt more confident because this time he wasn't the only Marine on the patrol. They weren't patrolling by shifts either, they were in platoons. Corporal; Leach and Doyle were with him. Hell, three Marines should be able to deal with anything that came up. Especially if the guerrillas had thirty FPs they could see to shoot at instead of spending their fire trying to hit Marines they couldn't see. Even if the use of chameleons was not restricted to Confederation Marines, the Marines didn't have enough to issue them to the Feldpolizei. This patrol was set up as a double trap for the guerrillas. Not only were the Marines in their chameleons, they weren't directly running the patrol. When a Marine had to give an order, he gave it to the shift leader—platoon commander, in Lea
ch's case—who then gave it to the men. The real object of the patrol was to see if the junior officers and noncommissioned officers of the 257th were learning anything.
Schultz didn't care about that. As far as he was concerned, the FPs were still too incompetent to live. But it bothered him that he couldn't quit wondering what kind of animal would prey on that cow he saw the last time out. When he dwelled on the question too long, his bowels began to feel loose, so he tried not to think about it. But he couldn't help himself.
It was an unusual way for Schultz to feel. He'd been on many operations during his nine years in the Corps, and in more firefights than he could remember. His life had been in serious jeopardy many times—he'd seen so many friends killed, he no longer made friends. There had been several incidents when he believed he was quite literally about to die. Yet he'd never been terrified, and hardly ever more frightened than could be described as mildly apprehensive. Now he was afraid. Actively afraid with the kind of fear that slows a man's reflexes, blunts his senses, prevents him from thinking clearly and acting decisively. That bothered him.
Lance Corporal Schultz needed a good firefight, one that would snap him back to reality, that would let him put his focus back on the human enemies he expected to face, distract him from the predator he'd probably never encounter. At least he hoped he'd never encounter it.
Normally Schultz liked to use his own eyes and ears to observe his surroundings, but the last time out he was so distracted that he didn't see that huge animal until after it moved, even though it had been standing among trees that weren't dense enough to hide it. This time he wasn't taking any chances on not seeing something so big and obvious just because its colors blended into the background. This time he wore his infras in place—if there was anything warm blooded out there, he'd see it right away. So what if the infras didn't allow him to enjoy the beauty of the landscape he moved through? He never wasted attention on beauty anyway. Anytime a man in a hostile situation paused to smell the roses, he risked getting himself killed. Schultz wasn't about to die over aesthetic considerations.
School of Fire Page 18
