"There are flying lizards, large," said Ariela, flashing a photo of one onto the screen. "They're about twice the size of the Shizzle, and seriously not to be trifled with. The good things are, they don't breathe fire, and the Shizzle don't control them, so they're not a Shizzle auxiliary air force, or anything like that. The bad thing is, in the mountains, we'll be on their turf, but as we understand it, they generally stay away from the shrine."
"Generally?"
"Usually." Ariela shrugged. "A couple thousand years ago, a negotiation was interrupted because a dragon flew through the shrine, killed both ambassadors, and only later was it discovered the strange oval stone they were using for a table was the dragon's egg. Not much is known about the dragons' life cycle or reproduction, and up till then it was assumed by the Shizzle the dragons also gave live birth. No Shizzle had ever seen one of their eggs."
Wolff, interested, asked, "What happened to that negotiation?"
"Other than both sides deciding it was an omen for them to continue fighting – elsewhere, after a brief truce period to reposition – it ended with the ambassadors' deaths."
"You've really done your homework."
She shrugged. "It's easy when you have a fifteen-billion-year-old quantum quaternary computer willing and eager to send it all to your holotab, collated, categorized, and cross-referenced for convenience."
"Do you suppose," mused von Barronov, "it's doing the same thing for the other side?"
"I would imagine so," replied Ariela. "It would hardly be fair to do otherwise."
"In any case," Wolff refocused the discussion, "that's the op plan, I expect it to go to hell like all op plans do, and I really don't like this entire idea and would rather we tried again to get them to see things our way – but I guess I don’t have any say in that."
"Nope, you don't," agreed Buford. "Not that I like it any more than you do; if it were up to me, State wouldn't have a say in this at all."
"Now, General Buford," started up one of the two representatives from Foggy Bottom.
Buford pointed at him. "Don't start, Jimmy. We've already had this discussion. With the President, and the Secretary of State. What we've been talking about here is the implementation of the compromise we hammered out. This negotiation is going to be so dangerous, you really don't want to be the dude with the target painted on your chest. That's why we're sending Space Force Marines, and why the Ambassador herself is someone who knows how to take care of herself in a scrap."
Jimmy – Undersecretary of State for Extrasolar Affairs James O. Cavendish, very recently appointed to that brand-new position at Foggy Bottom, so new in fact the paint had barely dried on his new corner office door – subsided, frowning. "All right, John," he said, "you've got a point."
"Insert obligatory joke about hats, here. All right. Jimmy, is there anything else we need to get straight?"
The Undersecretary shook his head. "I've been around long enough to know what we pounded out was pretty comprehensive. We both hate it, so it must be fair." He grinned, suddenly. "John, I don't disagree with you at all on the 'dangerous' part, and you may well end up being right about this being something best handled by military officers with a strong grounding in the history of diplomatic affairs – which Major Wolff is well-known to have."
"Thank you, sir," acknowledged Wolff.
"Not that he is known as a diplomat."
"Thank you again, sir," laughed Wolff.
Buford looked at Cavendish, with new respect. "Jimmy, I never heard you talk that sort of sense before, back when you were just a chief cookie-pusher. Keep it up, you'll be SecState someday."
"I guess I was never an Undersecretary of State before," laughed Cavendish. "Frees me up to speak more of my own mind. And as for being SecState, no thank you; this job alone is plenty for two or three of me. My wife liked the bump in pay, but she's not happy about all the overtime." He turned to Wolff. "The President and General Buford are right; this is an area of diplomacy no human has ever ventured on before. It's more like an armed truce to decide whether or not to keep fighting – though in our case, it's more like deciding whether or not to fight in the first place. I know this is what you studied, years ago, and I have confidence you'll do fine handling the military aspect. I have a military history minor myself, so I get it. If you need any assistance or would simply like to talk about any finer points, I am at your disposal."
Wolff blinked. "Thank you, sir. I sure wish you'd been around State back in 1993."
"Somalia. Yes. Well, I know your history there. Shan't dive into it right here and now, but that medal was well deserved, Major."
After they'd finished the meeting and left the SCIF, Wolff, von Barronov, and Ariela accompanied Buford back to his office at the Pentagon. The two majors had always liked the room; kind of scruffy and messy and scratched and dented, a room that clearly was a working office. Ariela had never been there before.
"I should have known it would look like this," she said, with a grin.
"I have a nice dress office for official meetings and shit," said Buford. "It's down the hall. Nobody ever goes in there except the cleaners, once a week, so it's pristine when I have to pin a medal on or entertain a visiting fireman or something like that." He sat down behind the desk, and waved the others to the chairs and couch that faced it.
"So anyway," continued Buford, with a sense of finality, "I have enough for the release, now."
"The release?" asked Wolff, with a sense of dread.
"Yep. Press release. 'Decorated USSFMR Major Will Lead Space Force Liaison Group To Shizzle Negotiations.'"
Wolff started laughing.
"I have to point out," he said, between guffaws, "I'm not leading this thing. She is," and he pointed to Ariela.
"Impossible," riposted Buford. "She's only a butterbar, how could she be leading a Space Force Liaison Group?"
"She's the ambassador?" tried Wolff.
Buford shook his head. "You're in charge of the Space Force Liaison Group that's supposed to protect her. Well, and also, that sort of makes you something like a military attaché, if there are any behind-the-scenes negotiations to be done with their military establishment – and I'm sure they have one."
"Okay, but – "
"And," continued Buford, "you're right – she's Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary, so she speaks with the voice of the President and the Secretary of State. And is, in fact, in command of the overall diplomatic mission – including the Liaison Group." He smiled, slightly.
"Which is the point I was trying to make," insisted Wolff.
"Which takes nothing away from the fact you're in charge of the Liaison Group," replied Buford. "Look – if I put out a press release saying anything else, SecState would be all over my ass. Ariela is working for State in this instance. That's why we had State representatives in the SCIF. So I can't put out a release that says my newest butterbar, who just happens to be the Lion of God, is going to be the ambassador to the Shizzle and oh, by the way, her dad is going to be her right-hand man and top Marine officer on the ground with her. If I did, even the President would slap me down."
"Aye, aye, sir. Don't have to like it."
Buford's comm buzzed. "My apologies," he said, "I've been waiting for this call." He picked up the device and activated it. "Go for Buford." Pause. "I see." Pause. "Yes, that's exactly what I was hoping. Thank you, Senator. Still on for golf next Friday? Great. I'll see you then. And thanks again. Goodbye." He clicked off, set the device down, opened his desk drawer, rooted around for a moment, then pulled out a small padded envelope and closed the drawer. He tossed the envelope to Wolff, who caught it. "Congratulations."
Wolff looked at the non-descript envelope with a sense of dread.
"Are you going to open it?" asked Buford, with a grin.
"You just got off the line with a senator," said Wolff. "You were happy with what he told you. You tossed me this envelope after you hung up. I don't know if I should open it, or run screaming from the
room." He looked up at Buford. "John, you know I'm just a grunt gunny. Why do you keep doing this to me?"
"'Cause you were a damn fine gunny and you've made a damn fine officer. Only thing you're afraid of is praise. Open the damn envelope, you coward."
Wolff sighed, rolled his eyes, and tore the end off the envelope, dumping the contents onto the table. Two silver oak leaves.
"Talk about minimum time in grade," he groused. "Whom did I screw over for this promotion?"
"Nobody. There was an extra slot. This is the Space Force Marines, we never have all the slots full." Buford kept grinning. "So, my reluctant and resistant friend, let me be the first to address you as Lieutenant Colonel John Wolff, United States Space Force Marines Reserve. And to let you know those were my LTC oak leaves, many years ago."
He picked up his comm again, hit a speed dial code, and waited. "Janet. Buford. Make sure 'major' is changed to 'lieutenant colonel', and send out the release. Thanks, bye." He hung up.
Wolff sighed. Ariela patted him on the shoulder. "You know," she said, conversationally, "what the reward for a job well done is."
"Yeah," grumbled Wolff, "another, bigger, goddamn job."
Von Barronov handed him a crystal tumbler full of amber liquid he'd obtained from the nearby sideboard. "Shut up and drink the General's bourbon."
Wolff took the glass. "Sounds like a plan to me!"
Buford just smiled.
Chapter 15
Off To See The Lizards
Constellation came out of her final rotation right where she wanted to be – Xzl5!vt's L3 point, with the planet's star sitting firmly between them.
"I know we're not hiding from anyone," acknowledged LaForrest, "but this just seemed like the best place to pop out, just in case they're a little trigger-happy."
"It's not like they didn't know we were coming," replied Wolff.
LaForrest nodded. "True. Well, like they say, toss your hat in before you enter the room. We'll run over there at Warp One shortly. Before that, though," he hit the 1MC, "All hands, this is the Captain. Perform readiness checks and report through channels to the XO. Captain out." He let up on the 1MC and looked at Wolff. "My orders, Colonel."
"No problem here, sir," Wolff agreed. "It's your ship."
"Captain," said Tactical, "I've got two ships on long range scan, approaching at low speed and decelerating . . . looks like they'll be at zero speed relative to us about ten thousand klicks before an actual intercept could occur."
"Good," said LaForrest, approvingly. "A welcoming committee, one hopes."
"Two corvette-size vessels, sir." Space Force didn't actually have corvettes, or any other ship class other than frigates at this point, but the class indicated "smaller than a frigate, bigger than a drop ship". Drop ships, which were armed and could carry half a platoon of Marines in addition to their assigned crew of three spacers, were considered fast attack craft as opposed to landing craft or shuttles – but could, of course, perform the same duties.
"Send out Drop Five and Drop Six to hold formation with Constellation," ordered LaForrest. "Weapons cold, repeat, weapons cold, guns in and hatches closed."
"Aye, aye, sir," came from Operations.
"Sir," called Communications, "I have a signal from one of the corvettes – but it's in plain English, sir, I have no idea how that's happening."
"Belay dropship deployment."
"Aye, aye, belaying deployment," agreed Operations.
LaForrest looked at Wolff, who said, "Same thing when we arrived in HD 167818 the first time. I can only assume our friend Simmy is doing a two-way translation. I don't know how that will work on the ground, since we only ever talked with them over comms, not in person."
"Hmm," said LaForrest, thoughtfully. "Comms, what are they saying?"
"Basically, welcome to . . . sir, I can't pronounce that."
"Don't worry about it, son, no human can wrap their mouth around that language. We all call them the Shizzle."
"Aye, sir. Well . . . then they are saying welcome to Shizzle, and they will be happy to escort us into geosync over the meeting place."
"My compliments to their commander and you may reply in the affirmative; we will match course and speed to theirs. Operations, stand down Drop Five and Six; we'll deploy them if necessary, but right now it's probably prudent not to do so."
"Aye, Captain."
"Think we're faster?" inquired Wolff.
LaForrest shrugged. "If we are, we are, if we aren't, we aren't. If they decide to show off, we'll just rotate into orbit and wait for them. It's not like we don't know where we're going."
"You got me there, sir," chuckled Wolff.
LaForrest permitted himself a thin smile. His comm buzzed, and he picked it up. "Go for LaForrest. Hi, Pete." He listened for a moment. "No, as I told Ops to tell you, you can hold off scrambling those drop ships. Sorry about that, they commed us literally seconds after I gave that order. It's all good. We'll be following them into orbit. Anything else?" He listened again. "I can't let him come down right now, Pete, but when this job is over, I'll make sure he gets down there for a chat. You have my word on that . . . thanks, Pete, talk to you later." He clicked off. "General Harris would like the pleasure of your company when you get back from this negotiation, so he and his band of wild Space Marines can toast your promotion."
Wolff snorted. "Sir, if we have any decent whisky left after we get back, I'll be happy to comply with his request."
"I'll let him know."
"Sir, they're heading back to the planet at about sublight zero point five," reported the XO. "We're conforming to their movements."
"Very well."
"If there's nothing else, sir," said Wolff, "I'm going to go collect Madame Ambassador Ariela and see about getting prepped to go down to the surface."
LaForrest nodded, stood, and turned to face Wolff. "Be careful down there, son," he said, sticking out a hand. Wolff took it and they shook.
"Sir, I plan to be careful as a new hire at the zoo, assigned to clean the lion's cage – with the lions still in it." Wolff saluted; LaForrest saluted him back, and Wolff turned and headed for the bridge hatch. The two Space Force Marine guards there saluted him as he approached, and he paused to return the salute, then disappeared through the hatch.
LaForrest turned back to his control console with a sigh.
Wolff stepped into Berth One, where a number of boxes and, incongruously, a modernish cocktail table, were waiting to be loaded onto the Bandersnatch. "Have you seen Ariela?" he inquired of Staff Sergeant Adkins, who was supervising the loading.
"No, sir," replied Adkins. "As I understand it, she went back to her quarters to change clothes."
"Ah," nodded Wolff. Ariela had been wearing a shipsuit, as usual, which probably wasn't appropriate for an Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary, even in a situation like this. Wolff himself was wearing a set of USMC ground-pounder armor he'd requested to have sent up from Earth before they left. It wasn't quite as sleek and integrated as the SF Marines' armor, but he hoped it would make it clear he was there as Ariela's "second" as opposed to being part of the ground force being sent to match the Shizzle deployment at the negotiation site. He figured it gave him at least some parity with the scaly, clawed Shizzle, should things go pear-shaped.
He'd also ordered a similar set of female USMC armor for Ariela, but she hadn't been particularly enthusiastic about it. And that was made abundantly clear a few moments later, when she entered the berth wearing an expensively-tailored black pantsuit. But he noted, per Presidential order, the presence of her two medals hanging from her left chest, just above her breast. She also wore the diamond heart necklace she'd had for years, and on her left ring finger he saw the modest engagement ring Fred had given her. He approved. That boy has good taste.
"Well," he said, "I guess you decided against the armor."
She looked him in the eye. "I did. I don't think an ambassador should be all armored up."
"Even if the othe
r ambassador has natural armor?"
She shrugged. "We are what we are. And . . . " she hesitated, then went on, determinedly, "I'm the Lion of God. Right?"
He pointed at the 1911 holstered on her left thigh. "As long as you're not averse to carrying – and possibly using – your claws."
"That, at least, is consistent with their rules of diplomacy," Ariela replied. She looked around the berth and her eyes stopped at the little cocktail table. "Where did that cocktail table come from?" she asked, bemused. She was fairly sure she'd never seen anything like it aboard the Constellation.
Wolff chuckled. "That old thing? Borrowed it from a friend before we left, why?"
"Given what we're going to try to pull, I guess it makes sense," she said, finally cracking a smile.
"You should see some of the other stuff we're bringing."
"No doubt. I know you have a silver serving tray and accoutrements at home, I suppose carefully packed away in one of those boxes."
"Yes; and we packed all of that after getting orders to bring along enough single-malt whisky to make Caesar's legions drunk. Or so it appears." Wolff looked at Ariela. "Was that your idea? It wasn't in the original plan."
"Yes," nodded Ariela. "It's actually an enhancement of the plan. Not only will I step down from the shrine with a 1911 in hand, but I'll have a bottle of whisky in my other hand. I haven't quite figured out what I'm going to say yet, but I imagine the Lion will come up with something Biblical-sounding." She laughed.
"So, invite them up for a drink?" Wolff looked skeptical. "Ice or no ice?"
"Well, the current government and everyone on the negotiating team is supposedly from the ruling 'no-ice' party. So we won't have any ice in the shrine. But just in case, there will be some aboard the Bandersnatch." She grinned. "We can always say we forgot to bring it out."
While they were talking, the team had been moving all of the boxes and the table into the back of the Bandersnatch. Adkins popped his head out of the airlock and reported, "All loaded and secured, sir."
The Lion and the Lizard Page 20
