by C H Gideon
Later that day, Jenkins greeted the last member of his team who, like Xi and Podsy, was in sickbay.
“Captain Murdoch,” Jenkins greeted, “a moment?”
“Commander,” Murdoch replied stiffly. His wounds looked to have been largely healed, and to Jenkins’ eye, he was fit to be discharged from sickbay. But the inveterate sandbagger was playing true to form, milking the situation for all it was worth in order to increase his personal comfort quotient as much as possible.
“First off,” Jenkins said, turning a chair around before sitting in it, “I know you and I have had our disagreements, but you’re a fine soldier. You played a key role in our victory down there, and I’ve been lucky to have your expertise and experience under my command.”
Murdoch eyed him warily. “Thank you, sir.”
“Fleet Command has given surviving members of the battalion a choice,” Jenkins explained. “You can either sign out of the service or take a step up in rank and formally transfer to Fleet. Either way, your criminal record is expunged, and your jacket will read as clean as the day you signed up for service.”
Murdoch nodded. “I’m taking the promotion.”
“I expected as much.” Jenkins nodded approvingly. “You’ve got a long career ahead of you. Fleet will be lucky to have you. Have you thought about where you’d like to be stationed?”
The captain shook his head. “Not really.”
It was clear that Murdoch didn’t want to go into any greater detail, so Jenkins said, “You’ve already spoken with Admiral Corbyn, so you know that the events of Durgan’s Folly are classified. Correct?”
“Yes,” Murdoch sneered, “I’ve spoken with the admiral.”
“Good.” Jenkins nodded. “Good. Then I just want to say that it’s been an honor serving with you, Captain Murdoch.” Jenkins proffered a hand invitingly.
“Permission to speak freely, sir?” Murdoch grunted without acknowledging Jenkins’ outstretched hand.
“Granted.”
“You’re a loose cannon, sir,” Murdoch sneered. “You put all our lives at risk with every single decision you made down there. We’re lucky any of us got off that rock alive, and the fact that some of us are still breathing is due to nothing but dumb luck.”
“Come now, Captain,” Jenkins deadpanned, fighting to keep his expression flat as anger slowly filled him, “tell me how you really feel.”
“How do I feel?” Murdoch scoffed. “I feel like I just charged into the mouth of Hell, Commander, and that my CO’s only concern was finding just how far down we could make it before that fiery maw swallowed us all.”
“When you’re going through Hell—” Jenkins smirked, quoting one of his favorite historical politicians. “Keep going.”
“Is that what you’ll tell him when he wakes up and finds his legs are gone?” Murdoch demanded, thinking of Podsednik's tortured body. “This is all some kind of game to you, isn’t it? Or are you still obsessed with proving the merits of your precious armor experiment? What is it, some kind of catharsis for a life spent at the bottom of a bottle—a bottle that cost you everything you ever loved?”
Jenkins stood from the chair and looked down at the bedridden captain, doing his best to keep his voice from rising while rhythmically pumping his hands into fists. “That’s enough, Captain Murdoch. You’ve made your point. Now I’ll make mine. I meant what I said about it being an honor to serve with you. I don’t have to like you to know that down there, you stood as tall as anyone when the shit hit the fan. Did we have our disagreements? Yes. But frankly, you’d still be busting rocks on a penal colony if I hadn’t given you a chance to redeem yourself. And you did!” he snapped, unable to control himself any longer. “You did redeem yourself, just like I thought you would when I dragged your sorry, supply-stealing ass out of that cold, miserable cell. And if taking fire down there was enough to rattle you beyond the ability to conduct yourself with a little dignity, I hope Fleet finds a nice, cushy desk for you to hold down in some quiet, safe corner more to your liking than the cockpit of a combat mech. I also hope that, like me, you’ve learned the error of your former ways and choose to make the most of this well-earned fresh start. Men like us are rarely lucky enough to receive second chances.” He shook his head in disgust before turning on his heel. “Good-bye, Captain Murdoch.”
No matter how brave a front he had put up, Murdoch’s blow had struck truer than Jenkins wanted to admit. Maybe he was obsessed. Maybe it was nothing but some misguided quest for redemption for misdeeds of years gone by. He didn’t care anymore, because after fighting down on Durgan’s Folly, he had learned one crucial thing that transcended everything else.
He had found something he was good at: fighting armor.
And he had no plans to stop.
22
Lipstick on The Collar
“Attention on deck!” barked the Paul Revere’s XO, Lieutenant Commander Bashir, as the airlock began its final cycle.
Jenkins stood just behind the XO, having expected the arriving VIP since before stepping off Durgan’s Folly.
The airlock opened, and a pair of figures stepped through, followed by Marines in dress uniform. The left figure wore a high-end business suit that probably cost more than a year of Jenkins’ salary. He was pale-skinned, medium build, had a half-bald head of gray hair and quick, calculating eyes—eyes which immediately found Jenkins before scanning the rest of the corridor.
“Permission to come aboard?” asked the right-hand figure, an elderly man with deep brown skin and a brown dress uniform displaying more military regalia than seemed possible.
“Permission granted, General Akinouye,” acknowledged Commander Bashir. “Welcome aboard the Paul Revere, sir. We weren’t informed of your visit, or Rear Admiral Corbyn would have…”
“It’s all right, son,” the general interrupted. “What’s the point of a surprise inspection if it’s not a surprise? Where can I take my things?” he asked expectantly.
“We’ve assigned you a berth on D-deck,” Bashir replied promptly. “I’ll have my people take your things…”
“No, that’s quite all right,” General Akinouye—the oldest serving member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—assured him before gesturing to Jenkins. “I’ll have him collect my bags and show me to my quarters.”
Bashir hesitated before nodding. “Very good, General.”
“You do know the way, don’t you, son?” Akinouye asked, and even at the ripe age of a hundred and ten, the general’s commanding presence made Jenkins feel small as a mouse.
“Yes, General.” Jenkins nodded, collecting the man’s bags.
Akinouye turned to the ship’s XO. “I’ll conduct my inspection in a few hours. Traveling through wormholes takes a toll at my age.”
“Yes…of course, sir,” Bashir said, his eyes nervously flicking back and forth between Jenkins and Akinouye as he began to understand the nature of the general’s visit.
“Good.” The general nodded before looking around in mock bewilderment. “Well…don’t you people have jobs to do?”
“Company,” Bashir snapped, “dismissed!”
The assemblage quickly dispersed, and Jenkins wordlessly led the general to his assigned berth. Once inside, and with the hatch closed, he turned to the ranking member of the Terran Armor Corps and said, “General, I appreciate your taking the time—”
“Cut the bullshit, son,” Akinouye interrupted. “I don’t know how you did it, but you made the Senior and Junior Tim Trappers sit down and speak for the first time in two decades.” He held up a pair of fingers. “Truth be told, I wasn’t convinced you had the brains—or the balls—to do anything but get yourself killed riding one of our half-rusted-out mechs into combat against the rock-biters. And frankly, I’m still not,” he admitted with an indifferent shrug before shaking his head in bewilderment, “but somehow, you made those two intractable sons of bitches actually talk to each other, so I thought to myself, ‘this man might actually be more than meets the eye, and
not the walking disgrace I’ve been repeatedly assured he is.’ I trust you’ll do your utmost to let an old man cling to that fleeting hope as long as possible?”
Jenkins had expected a prickly greeting, but he was still wrong-footed by the general’s full-frontal assault. “General,” he rallied, “as of two hours ago, I, and roughly half of the men and women under my command, collectively agreed to formally resign our current commissions—"
“Glad to hear it,” the general interrupted. “The TAF needs as few cowards and sandbaggers as possible on the rolls. I trust you’ll find a career in retail more to your liking…”
“Concurrently,” Jenkins interrupted, “we’ve tendered a proposal for your review which, upon approval, would more than double the Terran Armor Corps’ current active-duty roster with the only men and women in the TAF fit to crew mechs.”
Akinouye grinned, and the expression was so savage it sent a chill down Jenkins’ spine. “You arrogant son of a bitch. Appealing to my vanity, is that your angle? Playing on an old war dog’s eroding sense of dignity rooted in the branch he’s faithfully served for ninety-one years while, slowly but surely, it crumbled all around him as funding went to every leaf and twig of the TAF but his. You’re about to promise me one last, heroic charge into the teeth of the enemy, riding mechs, singing battle hymns, and clearing guns that haven’t seen proper use in decades. You aim to paint the picture of a romantic end or, dare one even think it, a new beginning for my beloved Armor Corps.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Have I got it about right, son?”
Jenkins didn’t hesitate. “That’s precisely it, General.”
The general regarded him critically, during which time Jenkins felt sure he shrank twelve centimeters, before finally chuckling. “All right, you’re cool enough under fire. Walk me through this proposal of yours—slowly, though,” he added, wincing as he carefully lowered himself to the dinette. “I feel like there’s a pulsar in the middle of my brain. You wouldn’t happen to have a drink, would you?”
“Nothing but water, sir,” Jenkins said firmly, clearly taking the other man’s meaning.
“Good,” Akinouye grunted, and Jenkins proceeded to make his pitch.
Two hours later, after a thorough grilling from General Akinouye during the pitch, Jenkins made his way to the berth assigned to the second VIP from the shuttle.
He rang the chime outside, knowing that if the meeting with the five-star general had been difficult, this one would be even worse.
“Enter,” came the calm, collected voice of the man on the other end, and Jenkins swung the hatch open to reveal the same pale-skinned, half-balding man who had been first off the shuttle. “Ah, Commander Jenkins,” the intense, mid-statured man greeted with perfunctory courtesy while scanning the contents of a data slate. “I have to admit I’m more than a little surprised to receive your summons, especially now that I come to find the planet below is under strict military quarantine. Hardly what we agreed to, no?”
“My apologies, Mr. Durgan,” Jenkins said with grave sincerity, “but that call was out of my hands…”
“Taking cover behind your superiors?” Durgan quipped. “That doesn’t sound like the man who came to me eighteen months ago offering nothing but a tax write-off in exchange for the mechs in my war museums—” He tossed the slate to the bunk and finally fixed Jenkins with those cold, calculating eyes. “—along with a raw, unyielding passion for a project that no one—not even myself—considered likely to succeed. What’s changed, Commander?”
Jenkins had anticipated this measure of candor from a man who served on the board of Durgan Interstellar Enterprises—acronym almost certainly intentional—and was prepared with the best he could possibly offer. “You misunderstand me, sir. I’m not hiding behind my superiors’ decision; I agree with it one hundred percent.”
“Betrayal then?” Durgan nodded in disdain. “Well, you’ve had your fun, got your free ride out of me in furtherance of a once-stalled career arc, and I’m sure in the process pleased a number of your superiors who are only too eager to trumpet this situation at my shareholders’ expense. So if there’s nothing else…”
“I didn’t betray you, Mr. Durgan,” Jenkins interrupted. “In fact, without violating the terms of an agreement I just signed on behalf of all my people—an agreement which gave me not a whit of pride to enter into, but as CO I felt it was my obligation to do so—the most careful and deliberate way I can describe what happened down there…” He drew a steadying breath. “…is as the most important break Terran humanity has ever received in its war with the Arh’Kel.”
“Truly?” Durgan said witheringly. “You are a changed man, Commander Jenkins, from the ambitious, if none-too-bright, officer who came to me in an hour of desperation. I admit…” His quick, cold eyes narrowed. “I’m ambivalent about the changes I see in the man before me. But to say that what happened on planet EO-1162 was the ‘most important break’ in the history of the Arh’Kel Conflict, well…you understand if I’m reluctant to take you at your word.”
“You know more about my psyche profile than I do, Mr. Durgan,” Jenkins said bluntly, “so let me ask you a question: am I the type of man given to fits of hyperbole?”
Durgan cocked his head, seeming to study every pore on Jenkins’ face before finally replying, “No, Commander, you are not particularly prone to hyperbole. But you will agree that without some evidence to corroborate your alarmist claim, I can hardly act based solely on your word.”
“I understand that, for a variety of reasons, I’m not the most trustworthy source on this issue,” Jenkins said, pushing past the wave of shame he felt as those reasons flitted through his mind. He then produced a data slate with an order originating from one of the Joint Chiefs himself. “But do you trust General Akinouye’s judgment on the matter of EO-1162?”
Durgan glanced down at the slate and scoffed. “He wasn’t privy to the details upon arrival. I know, because he and I have a clear line of communication,” he added pointedly. “Unlike certain other officers with whom I’ve previously transacted.”
“I understand that your security clearance gives you access to certain details of highly-classified operations—” Jenkins nodded, holding the slate unwaveringly as he spoke. “—which is why the general thought you might want to see this. It contains every bit and byte of intel your level of clearance permits you to access regarding the operation below, previously code-named Operation Spider-Hole.”
Durgan glanced down at the slate once again before, somewhat reluctantly, plucking it from Jenkins’ fingers. “I sincerely hope you have not wasted my time, Commander. My sudden disappearance has already cost my shareholders point-three percent of their stock valuation,” he said, flicking a look Jenkins’ way that sent chills down his spine. “I dislike answering for losses incurred for actions not resulting from my decisions. Doing so vexes me,” Durgan said casually before finally reviewing the slate’s contents, “and I can assure you I’m unpleasant when I am vexed.”
Jenkins knew that to speak further would only dig his own grave, so he kept his mouth shut as one of the most powerful private citizens in the Terran Republic perused the sparse contents of the slate.
“No mention of troop strength beyond the engagement body counts.” Durgan snorted in disdain. “No itemization of Arh’Kel material assets encountered, not even a prospectus detailing future FGF deployments. Everything of value on this slate is redacted!” he snapped, tossing the device to the deck with a clatter. He held up a warning finger. “You are testing my patience, Commander Jenkins.”
“That was not my intention, Mr. Durgan.”
“Perhaps not,” Durgan snarled, “but it is your achievement, and it is perhaps the last one of note in what might have been a productive career in service of allies who know how to repay their debts, of all varieties.”
Jenkins clasped his hands behind his back. “Consider for a moment the level of security clearance required to redact that information even from you, Mr.
Durgan. Your company provides more arms and armaments than any other private entity in the Republic; you’ve built every APC and dropship in TAF service today, and Durgan micro-fusion generators power nearly every mobile platform in the Republic, be it military or civilian. Your company’s contribution to Terran security and prosperity have been rivaled only by the contributions made by the various military branches which ride and carry your weapons to war in defense of humanity.”
“Get your tongue out of my ass, Commander,” Durgan seethed, “and make your point. Quickly.”
“General Akinouye personally redacted that document, Mr. Durgan,” Jenkins said simply. “Check the distributions markers…" He stooped to collect the slate.
“Stop,” Durgan snapped, freezing Jenkins mid-motion where he remained, half-stooped, for a long moment before the businessman finally, and with great deliberation, moved past him to collect the slate off the deck.
Jenkins resumed an upright posture while Durgan scanned the slate’s file headers. After a moment, Durgan’s eyes narrowed significantly before a glimmer of realization seemed to dawn. “This was addressed directly to me…” he mused.
“Correct, Mr. Durgan,” Jenkins agreed. “For your eyes only.”
“But without any of the relevant information—” Durgan shook his head, though Jenkins suspected the other man already knew the answer he clearly expected Jenkins to provide. “—of what use is it to me?”
“It indirectly tells you how grave the situation was down there, sir,” Jenkins replied promptly, “and it tells you that General Akinouye wanted you to understand the gravity of Operation Spider-Hole, even though you cannot know the specifics.”
“As the local ranking officer, Corbyn knows…” Durgan mused, his eyes snapped back and forth in calculation, “and clearly the Joint Chiefs, represented by General Akinouye, are authorized to receive the operation’s details. But redactions at this level have only been issued once before…”
