by John Bowers
"Lieutenant!"
Onja's head jerked around. The same ensign who'd taken her to see Hinds the day she arrived was motioning to her.
"Captain Hinds wants to see you."
Blood surged through her veins as she followed the ensign out of the Gunnery Pool. Good news or bad, at least something was happening!
If Hinds was pleased to see her, he managed to conceal it. His expression was just as hostile as it had been at their last meeting. This time he let her remain at attention, leaning back in his chair to glare at her.
"Major Landon has decided to release you from house arrest," he said bluntly. "You are no longer restricted to quarters."
Onja blinked, staring at the wall above his head.
"Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me. Major Landon has decided you're not a security risk. Apparently some of the gunners who trained with you satisfied him that your training record is accurate."
He threw his stylus on the desk and sucked air into his lungs, expanding his chest like a balloon.
"Personally, I'm not convinced. There's still the matter of your Vegan birth and your claim to be Norwegian —"
"Captain —"
"Shut up! I did not invite you to speak!"
Onja's cheeks burned red. She clenched her teeth and tried to control her anger.
"You still could be an enemy agent," Hinds went on more calmly. "The Sirians use hypno-tech extensively, and you could be conditioned. If that's the case, we wouldn't get the truth out of you even under torture."
Onja's eyes darted downward to meet his malevolent green gaze. She didn't try to hide her hatred.
"There's also the matter of your drill instructor," Hinds said slowly. "We didn't talk about that the last time you were here. Care to tell me about that?"
"It was an accident, sir. He lunged at me, we both tripped, and I fell forward. The bayonet went through his chest."
Hinds glared at her for ten seconds, then nodded slowly.
"Just like you rehearsed it, eh?"
"There was a board of inquiry, Captain. I was cleared."
"Yeah. So you were."
He leaned forward and picked up the stylus.
"You're restored to duty status. You'll receive daily assignments with the rest of the pool gunners."
Onja blinked in surprise. For just a moment she forgot she was supposed to be at attention.
"Sir, I'm not assigned to a squadron?"
"Never, Lieutenant. Major Landon may trust you, but I don't. As long as I'm making crew assignments, you will not fly." He shook his head grimly. "Ever."
Friday, 22 June, 0221 (PCC) — Lunar Base 9, Luna
Luna 9 was one of fourteen military bases on the moon, located on the far side so that Terra was never visible. Johnny Lincoln arrived on the parabola shuttle on 22 June, but saw little on the surface because it was in darkness. Where Luna 1 had been huge, housing Star Marines and Federation Infantry camps in addition to the Space Force, Luna 9 was cramped and Spartan. Aside from four fighter wings and support personnel, the only other military presence was a battalion of Star Marines for defense.
Johnny was tired when he arrived. He'd been in transit most of the day and had slept little; the parabola shuttle was weightless for most of the trip and he found sleeping difficult without gravity. After landing, the shuttle was lowered beneath the surface to a pressurized terminal. Johnny stepped off with only a space bag in his hand, saluted the colors, and followed the yellow line through a series of airlocks to his destination.
Fighter squadron ZF-213, one of twelve combat squadrons at Luna 9, was located several levels beneath the surface. Each section of the base was compartmented, with separate life support; access was gained through airlocks. A bomb hit might destroy one section, but the others would remain intact. Johnny arrived shortly after 1500 local time and went directly to the CO's office.
The squadron clerk smiled at him as she quickly reviewed the chip containing his orders. "Welcome to the 213, Lieutenant," she said a moment later, returning the chip. "Major Dunn is expecting you." She nodded toward the door behind her:
~
Maj. Charles Dunn
Commanding Officer
~
Johnny knocked once on the door and stepped inside. In spite of everything, he felt his heart beat a little faster. At long last, a real squadron!
The office was tight and compact. Dunn's desk sat only four feet from the door, and the major was seated behind it. He didn't look up as Johnny entered, but continued to scowl at a data screen on his terminal. He was a short, portly man who looked more like a warehouse manager than a fighter pilot. Thin strands of brown hair webbed his scalp. Johnny stood at attention and fixed his eyes on a holowindow behind the desk; the window portrayed a desert scene.
"Second Lieutenant Johnny Lincoln reporting for duty, sir."
Dunn didn't respond, and Johnny stood there for thirty seconds. After a moment he began to sweat, wondering if Dunn was really busy or just plain rude.
"So." Dunn was still staring at his screen. "The hero of 9 August, eh?" He sat back slowly in his chair and shifted his eyes toward his visitor. "I've been reviewing your record, Lincoln, and I think you and I need to have a little talk."
"Yes, sir!"
Dunn appraised him for another few seconds, letting the silence stretch. His eyes were cold, his expression close to a sneer.
"You don't follow orders very well, do you?"
"Sir?"
"You're a glory hound. You like headlines, love to see your face on the holonews."
Johnny's heart sank, and his blood ran a little cold. So that was how it was going to be.
"Nine August, you get lucky and shoot down five Sirians. Eleven August, you join the Space Force, but instead of boot camp you go on a tour of the continent, flying your own fighter. Publicity and pussy. Six December, you go after the headlines again, disobeying explicit orders and leaving your flight leader behind. Again you get lucky, take out a few cruise missiles, but you also destroy your fighter and get yourself wounded. More publicity. More pussy. Am I right, Lincoln?"
Johnny frowned. It was the most cynical representation of his actions he'd heard yet, but — technically, it was correct.
"Yes, sir," he said. "Except for the pussy, sir."
Dunn snorted, his body rocking slightly.
"Look at it from my perspective, Lincoln," he said. "I have a squadron to run and a war to fight. I need disciplined pilots, men who not only succeed in combat, but obey orders and cover their wingmen. Morale problems I do not need. I don't like hotdogs and I won't tolerate them. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"How you skated past a star-court after that last fiasco I can't imagine," Dunn went on. "You must be sucking some very large dicks. But you are a rich kid, aren't you? So maybe your daddy is sucking dicks on your behalf. Whichever it is, I don't care — you will not get any free passes in this squadron. You won't get any warnings, either. I'm putting you on notice right now, and if you fuck up even once, you are out of here."
Dunn glared at him, as if trying to control his anger.
"Any questions, Lincoln?"
Johnny struggled with his own anger, but managed to keep it in check; only his flaming cheeks betrayed his emotion.
"No, sir!" he said finally.
"See Sergeant Moses outside for your housing assignment. Your gunner has already been assigned. She's a veteran and you'd do well to heed her advice. Dismissed."
Dunn returned to his data screen, as if Johnny had already departed. Johnny spun on his heel and stepped through the door. The minute it closed behind him, he released his breath in frustration. Dunn hadn't even looked at his orders.
He stood there a moment, trembling, then realized the clerk was watching him. He stepped over to her desk.
"I'm supposed to see you about my housing assignment," he said.
She smiled sympathetically. "Rough time?"
"Rough enough."
&n
bsp; "Don't let it get you down. Major Dunn makes friends everywhere he goes."
Johnny managed a grin, grateful for the slenderest kindness.
"Your quarters will be suite 19. That's one level down in the dormitory section. Turn left from the lift and you can't miss it."
"Thanks."
She handed him a paper packet. "Review this as soon as you can. It contains general rules and orders everybody needs to know. There will be a squadron meeting at 1800 in the ready room. Don't be late."
Asteroid Base 131, Solar System
"Permission to speak to the Major, sir?"
Landon had just reached his quarters. It was close to designated midnight and Onja had been waiting over an hour. He stopped ten feet short of her with a weary expression, as if his day had been too long already. He looked tired, she noticed. She could see it in his eyes.
"Am I going to enjoy this conversation, Lieutenant?" he asked, returning her salute.
"Sorry to bother you, sir."
"But you're going to bother me anyway. What's the problem now? You're no longer under hack, are you?"
"No, sir. Thank you, sir."
He shook his head slightly. "Didn't seem warranted after talking to people who trained with you. What is it this time?"
"Sir, Captain Hinds told me he will never assign me to a squadron. I don't think that's fair."
Landon looked bemused.
"Fair? Christ, Lieutenant, nothing in life is fair. If you want fair, you have no business in the Space Force."
"Sir, my training record is accurate. That means I'm a valuable resource to be used against the enemy. Not allowing me to fight is a waste of my training, not to mention taxpayer money."
Landon almost smiled. "You're concerned about the taxpayers?"
Onja flushed. "I can save lives, Major."
"Real combat is not a simulation, Lieutenant."
"No, sir."
"I've seen gunners who shot Expert in the simulator and then froze when the real shooting started. A couple of them didn't survive it."
"I won't freeze, sir."
"Until you've been in battle, you don't really know what you'll do."
"Yes, I do."
"Really!"
"Yes, sir." She returned his gaze evenly, her blue eyes wide and sincere. Landon sighed wearily.
"At the moment, we don't have enough fighters. I have twice as many pilots as ships, and we're alternating crews to get everyone some stick time. You aren't the only gunner who hasn't been assigned yet. You'll have to wait your turn."
"I'm the best gunner on this rock, Major."
"In theory," he replied.
"With all due respect, sir, I am the best."
"I hope that's true. If it is, when your turn comes …"
"Major …"
He held up an impatient hand.
"When your turn comes," he repeated. "Don't try to asteroid me, Lieutenant."
"Then you're telling me that Captain Hinds can't keep me out of combat?"
"Captain Hinds makes the assignments. But I am the commanding officer. Now if you'll excuse me, I've had a long day."
Onja came to attention and saluted. His answer wasn't fully satisfactory, but seemed to imply that she would eventually get into a gun turret. That would have to do.
"Thank you, Major."
She turned on her heel and walked quickly away.
Landon watched her go, his eyes following her until she disappeared around a corner. She was one persistent girl! If she was even half as good as she believed she was, she might win the war all by herself.
Of course, nobody was that good. It simply wasn't possible.
But — goddamn! She was one hell of a looker!
Lunar Base 9, Luna
Suite 19 was the last door on the left as Johnny stepped off the lift. He placed his hand over the ID plate and the door opened. He stepped through into a tiny anteroom containing two chairs, a desk, and a coffee table. A narrow door to the next room was closed. He shook his head in amazement — they called this a suite?
The inner door had to be operated manually. He shoved it aside and stood rooted in surprise — the woman inside was bent over at the waist, pulling on a pair of fatigue pants. As she pulled them up she saw him and also stopped, equally surprised. She was nude from the waist up, but made no effort to cover herself. She was black, good looking, and at least thirty.
She recovered first.
"I assume you're Johnny Lincoln?" She resumed tightening her belt, then reached for a bra. She held it a moment without putting it on, giving him a good look at her assets.
Johnny tried to speak, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"Yes, Ma'am." He swallowed hard.
She burst out laughing.
"Relax, Lieutenant. I'm your gunner, so anything you see isn't classified." She shrugged into the bra, then reached for her blouse. As she slipped it on, Johnny saw captain's bars on the shoulder.
"Denise Jordan," she said a moment later, extending her hand. "Don't sweat the captain rank; it's mostly complimentary, because I've been in the service so damn long."
Johnny dropped his space bag to shake her hand. He still felt off balance — things were moving very rapidly.
Denise finished buttoning her shirt and began brushing her long, wavy hair. It was dark red; whether natural or dyed he couldn't tell.
"You might as well know up front, Lincoln — Major Dunn assigned me to you because he thinks you need a firm hand. He doesn't much like you right now, but that's okay because everyone here hates him even more." She pinned him with a quick glare. "I didn't say that, by the way, and if you ever say I did I'll kick your ass."
Johnny nodded, feeling a little better. He continued staring at her, with no idea what to say.
"The point is, this squadron has never been in battle. The war's almost a year old and Luna's been hit half a dozen times, but we never show up until it's time to count the dead." She put the brush down and turned to face him, leaning against the bulkhead. "Some of us are getting a little tired of that, tired of jokes in the O-Club from the other squadrons about virgin pilots and bullshit like that."
Johnny frowned. He didn't like the sound of this at all.
"Then here you come, already an ace before you even joined up. As you might imagine, certain people might feel threatened by that." She tilted her head. "I'll let you figure out the rest. Any questions?"
Johnny shook his head in confusion. "With all those combat opportunities, how come the 213 never gets into it? Just bad luck?"
Her smile was sad and ironic.
"Like I said, you figure it out. I've said too much already."
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"But first things first."
Her lips found his cheek and he felt an instant erection. His heart pounded suddenly.
"We have two hours until the squadron meeting," she said softly. "I think a pilot and gunner should get acquainted as quickly as possible, don't you?"
He blinked. "I'm supposed to read —"
"Read it later. I can tell you everything you need to know. The first thing you need to know is that I haven't been laid in six months, and you're the cutest unattached white boy I've seen in all that time. Any problem with that?"
He grinned. "Is that an order, Captain?"
"Damn right it is."
Her lips locked onto his and Johnny forgot all about Major Dunn.
* * *
Johnny felt a bit self-conscious as he accompanied Denise to the squadron meeting. A handful of pilots and gunners were already seated, and Denise began making introductions. The faces went by in a blur, as did the names — Stovall, Marcos, Burgundy, Palmer, de los Santos. Everyone was friendly and they all seemed a little in awe of him — they'd heard the stories and knew him by reputation.
"Ten hut!"
Everyone snapped to attention as the executive officer walked in. He stopped in front of Johnny and looked
him up and down.
"You made it," he said. "I wasn't sure you'd survive boot camp."
"Yes, sir." Johnny felt his scalp tingle as Capt. Walters shook his hand.
"Good. You know how to fly formation now?"
"Yes, sir. In my sleep."
"And you can follow orders?"
"Yes, sir, they were pretty persuasive about that."
Walters grinned. "What's your call sign?"
"Railsplitter."
"Computer-generated, or did you make it up?"
"I did. It's a play on the family name."
Walters nodded. "Welcome aboard, Lincoln."
Chapter 14
Late June-Early July, 0221 (PCC) — Asteroid Base 131, Solar System
Over the next month, Robert Landon led two patrols, but left most missions to his captains. He now had thirty operational fighters, which had to be shared between three squadrons; most patrols consisted of fewer than a dozen ships. No contact was made, but mines were laid in areas where sensors showed heavy traffic, and two patrols later found wreckage that indicated results. The Ladar Tank still showed signs of frequent enemy activity, so Landon knew the enemy was still out there and, apparently, growing stronger. His frustration lay in not being able to do anything about it; his own force was so small that he feared a full-scale confrontation; such a battle would very likely wipe out his fighters, leaving AB-131 completely naked.
He had more crews than he could field, but he needed ships. His chances of getting them seemed more remote every day.
"There has to be some way to draw the bastards out!" Hinds fumed one afternoon as they discussed the situation in Landon's office. "They can't possibly have a base around here, but…"
"But there's a hell of a lot of activity in the area," Landon said. "Trouble is, Jack, even if we manage to draw them out, they could finish us off. Our force is mighty thin, and even if we win, they'll know we have a base nearby."
"They already know that." Hinds's scowl darkened. "They'll find us eventually, and when they do, we're history. In which case, I'd love to fill the sky with Sirian blood before that happens."
"Go out in a blaze of glory?"
"Better than going out with a whimper."
