Hangfire

by David Sherman

  "Headquarters Marine Corps doesn't make such mistakes," Sturgeon said firmly. "The Marine Corps is a small organization. Everyone in the Corps knows where each unit is. It's easy for us to keep track of our people. As you said, all transfers are funneled through your division. That's a lot to keep track of. It doesn't at all surprise me that a small unit in an out-of-the-way place could get overlooked."

  "But my dear Brigadier..." The general brushed his hand over a contact spot on his desktop and a display and keyboard morphed out of its surface. He tapped several keys and watched the display come to life. His smile morphed into a moue and his eyes from blank to confused. Slowly, he looked at the Marine. "There is no record of orders for change of duty for anyone in 34th FIST entering the system in the past eight months." He pulled himself fully erect and said with the sincerest gravity he could muster, "Brigadier, I'm afraid your 'small organization' did indeed manage to lose track of some of its people."

  Moments later, a very dissatisfied Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon was following a guide through the warren of hallways and pedestrian streets in the Hexagon, on his way back to the tube. He was very annoyed by his meeting with the Second Deputy Director of the Assignments Division of C-1. They had to have somehow lost the requests that came to them from HQMC. The Marines never made such mistakes. Never.

  He'd go to G-1 at HQMC and get hardcopy of the orders. Then take them back to the Hexagon and wave them under the nose of that supercilious Brigadier General (Select) Wolford M'Bwabor-Onorosovic IV—though he'd rather not have to deal with that ass again. He snorted. For all of his bonhomie, M'Bwabor-Onorosovic had kept the formality of them calling each other by rank, instead of using first names as flag officers more commonly did in private.

  I guess he likes being called General, Sturgeon thought. As a brigadier general (select), his actual rank was colonel, but he was in a flag position. Sturgeon knew he outranked him, but M'Bwabor-Onorosovic was not in his chain of command. He snorted.

  Brigadier Sturgeon had no trouble finding a seat; the tube car he rode in was almost empty. At the first stop along the way he looked out the window on the opposite side of the car and saw crowds of people waiting on the platforms leading into Fargo. He glanced at the time: It was after 1600 hours, quitting time for government workers. Too late to find anyone in G-1. Then he finally noticed the rumbling in his stomach. He'd been in Fargo for six hours. How long was it since he last ate? He remembered breakfast on the Admiral Stoloff, nothing since. No wonder he was hungry; he hadn't had lunch and it was near the dinner hour. What to do: Get off at the next stop and head back into the city? Come back in the morning, maybe make an appointment instead of just dropping in as he did at the Hexagon?

  His stomach rumbled again. No, that would take too long. He'd only been a commander on the one other occasion he visited HQMC, but he remembered there was some sort of flag officers' mess. Surely his uniform and ID would get him into it for an early dinner, even though he wasn't headquarters personnel.

  The Fargo tube system had gaily decorated stations, each unique, often with colors and designs representative of their location. Stops in residential areas usually had murals of the neighborhoods, images of children playing in parks and the like. A mural at the main campus stop for the Confederation University of the Worlds displayed ivy-covered walls and cap-and-gowned people striding along flagstone pathways, even though no ivy grew on the university buildings and nobody wore caps and gowns any longer, even at graduation ceremonies. The HQMC stop was no exception. Sturgeon was almost the only person who got off the tube car, and he paused to take in the mosaics.

  The walls had scarlet and gold tiles in the form of the Confederation Marine Corps emblem, a rampant eagle standing on a globe floating on a starstream. Off to the sides the various campaign medals Marine units had been awarded were picked out in brightly colored tiles. A frieze along the base of the walls displayed the colors of the many enemy units the Confederation Marines had defeated in battle. At both ends of the platform were the emblems of the two Marine Corps directly ancestral to the Confederation Marines: the United States Marine Corps and the British Royal Marines. There were more campaign medals and enemy colors depicted than the last time he visited. He recognized most of the medals—he wore several of them—and there were a few colors he had helped take. His chest swelled and a lump formed in his throat at the sight.

  Alone, Sturgeon faced the Royal Marines emblem and saluted it. He about-faced and saluted the emblem of the United States Marine Corps. He knew that without them the Confederation Marine Corps would not exist as the premier fighting organization in human history, and he would not have the Corps as the family he loved so deeply. Moisture formed in the corners of his eyes, and he wiped it away as he turned to head for the lift into the HQMC building complex.

  At the surface was a small plaza that split into several walkways headed in different directions. He took the one that went straight ahead to a gate watched over by a small guard-post. A few people trickled out through automated side gates that checked their identification.

  A lance corporal with a military police band wrapped around the upper left sleeve of his dress reds overcoat stepped out of the gatehouse and stood at parade rest. He carried a hand-blaster in a shiny white holster hanging from a white Sam Browne belt, a sparkling brass whistle was suspended from the lapel of his overcoat, and a scarlet and gold aiguillette was wrapped around his shoulder. When Brigadier Sturgeon approached within a few paces, the lance corporal snapped to attention and saluted with a white-gloved hand.

  Sturgeon came to a halt in front of the MP and returned his salute.

  "Sir, how can I help the Brigadier?"

  "I'm visiting Earth on leave, Lance Corporal, and have been eating civilian and navy food for the past couple of months. I'm here hoping I can come aboard to get some good Marine Corps chow," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  The lance corporal repressed a laugh. "Good Marine Corps chow" sounded like an oxymoron to him. He said out loud, "I believe that can be arranged, sir." He gestured to the gatehouse.

  Sturgeon stepped inside, removing his hat as he passed under the lintel. Almost immediately he saw the ID verifier. He stepped close to it and stripped off his black leather gloves while the MP, who hadn't removed his hat, went to the comm unit and called the sergeant of the guard to report the visitor.

  "Been stationed here long?" Sturgeon asked when the lance corporal completed his call.

  "Six months, sir." The lance corporal faced him, again standing at attention, with a small table between them.

  "At ease. This is your post. You don't know me."

  "Thank you, sir." He slipped easily into parade rest but didn't lock his hands behind his back. Though unlikely, there was always the possibility that the brigadier was a spy or saboteur and that the guard would have to go for his weapon. Strange brigadiers simply didn't show up at 1630 hours very often.

  "Good duty?"

  "You know it, sir."

  Sturgeon chuckled. "Actually I don't. I've spent my entire career in FISTs or on Fleet staffs. This is only my second visit to Fargo."

  "Yessir, I can see the Brigadier's been around." He nodded toward the ribbons on Sturgeon's chest.

  The small talk was necessary. Sturgeon knew it would take a few minutes for the sergeant of the guard to get the officer of the guard, and for the OG to reach the gatehouse to check his ID. Talking passed the time and prevented the buildup of tension. Military protocol required that an officer, not a junior enlisted man, verify the identity of a high-ranking officer whenever practical.

  In minutes the officer of the guard, a lieutenant, arrived. Like the MP, he did not remove his hat as he stepped inside. He came to attention and saluted. Sturgeon nodded and the lieutenant cut his salute.

  "Sir, I'm Lieutenant Ehrhardt. Welcome to HQMC." He stepped to the ID verifier. "If you please, sir."

  Sturgeon put his wrist inside the sleeve on top of the apparatus. "Brigadier Theodosius Sturg
eon, Commander, 34th FIST." He pulled up his left sleeve to expose his ID bracelet then slid his forearm into the verifier sleeve. The OG studied the data that appeared on the verifier's small display.

  "How can I help you, sir?" Ehrhardt asked, satisfied that the visitor was indeed who he said.

  "As I told your very efficient lance corporal"—he hadn't missed how the MP positioned himself with a table between them and maintained alertness—"I'm on leave and have been eating civilian and navy food for a couple of months. I'm hungry for some good Marine Corps chow."

  Lieutenant Ehrhardt wasn't as good at controlling his face as the lance corporal. His mouth twitched; he also considered the phrase an oxymoron. But then, he'd heard that the Henderson Flag Club had excellent chefs for its dining room. Maybe the chow there was better than what he ate in the junior officers' mess, or what he used to eat in enlisted mess halls.

  "Certainly, sir." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "I don't believe the dining room at the Flag Club will be open for dinner for a short while yet, but the bar that adjoins it should be open by now. If that's acceptable, sir."

  Sturgeon nodded. "That's quite acceptable."

  "If you will come with me, Brigadier, I'll escort you."

  Sturgeon looked at the lance corporal. "Stay sharp, Lance Corporal. You're doing a good job."

  "Thank you, sir." This time the lance corporal couldn't prevent the flicker of a smile; it had been his experience with officers above the rank of captain that they generally ignored junior enlisted men. He wasn't accustomed to such politeness.

  Ehrhardt opened a door in the back of the gatehouse and Sturgeon stepped through and waited for the OG to take position to his left.

  "This way, sir." Ehrhardt pointed. Sturgeon stepped off and the lieutenant adjusted his pace to walk in step with him. They passed a few structures built in generally uniform military architecture. Ehrhardt stopped in front of one that was different; it was constructed of rough-cut stone and had window frames and doors that looked like real wood. A red-on-gold sign set in the spacious lawn in front of it said:

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL

  ARCHIBALD HENDERSON

  FLAG CLUB

  FLAG MESS

  HEADQUARTERS MARINE CORPS

  (members and guests only)

  "Here we are, sir."

  Sturgeon looked at the sign. "I don't have a membership," he said softly, annoyed at himself for not anticipating a membership requirement.

  "Yes you do, sir. The nova on your collar gives you admittance. I believe there is a nominal membership fee, but they'll have to tell you about that inside."

  "Well, thank you, Lieutenant Ehrhardt. I guess I can find my own way from here."

  Ehrhardt came to attention and saluted, then about-faced and headed back toward the officer of the guard office when Sturgeon returned the salute.

  Sturgeon looked at the sign again and wondered why a Flag Club was named after a lieutenant colonel. It suddenly came to him. Archibald Henderson had been the fifth Commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps, a legend.

  As Sturgeon approached, the door to the clubhouse opened, not on automatic, which he might have expected, but by a live human being who held the door open and gave a shallow bow as he stepped in, all to Sturgeon's startlement. Since he'd been close to flag rank, he'd never been assigned anywhere that had a flag officers' club; he wasn't prepared for the high degree of personal service given to generals and admirals.

  "Are you a guest, sir?" the man asked when he straightened from his bow.

  "I'm afraid not, I'm merely visiting—and looking for some dinner."

  "Certainly, sir. This way please." The functionary, dressed in an archaic black suit with starched white shirt front and white gloves, led him to a small but ornately carved desk and indicated he should sit at it. A data screen and keyboard morphed from the surface of the desktop. "I'm afraid I must ask you to fill out a membership form, sir. Simple visitors are not allowed, but the form and a nominal fee will allow you full Flag Club member's benefits for the duration of your visit."

  "Thank you," Sturgeon said, and read the membership form and club rules.

  The functionary, in response to a signal Sturgeon neither heard nor saw, went to the door to open it for new arrivals.

  Sturgeon was vaguely aware of the voices of the new arrivals as he began filling out the form—and yes, the fee was nominal, less than he'd expected.

  "Ted!" a voice interrupted him. "Ted Sturgeon, is that really you?"

  Sturgeon looked up, surprised. He was even more surprised when he saw that the man addressing him wore a single gold nova on the collars of his tunic.

  "General Aguinaldo!" he said, jumping up to stand at attention.

  Aguinaldo strode to him, clapped him on the shoulder and warmly grasped his hand. "It's not ‘General’ in here, Ted. Here we're on first-name terms, from the assistant commandant on down to the newest brigadier." He chuckled. "The Commandant, of course, is the Commandant. What brings you to Fargo? Wait, I forget myself." He turned to the men who'd entered the room with him. "Ted, I'd like you to meet Sam Saoli and Hank Tui." Sam Saoli wore the three silver novas of a Marine lieutenant general, Hank Tui the two novas of a major general. "Gentlemen, I want you to meet Ted Sturgeon. His FIST was the first wave to cross the beach on Diamunde, and he was one of my Corps commanders there."

  Admiration was evident on the faces of the two generals.

  General Saoli stuck out his hand to shake. "I've heard about you, Ted. Pleased to make your acquaintance. That was a hell of a job you did." He shook his head and added with a touch of envy, "I've never had the opportunity to command a Corps myself, you'll have to tell me what it's like."

  It was exceedingly rare for a Marine to command a Corps-sized unit, and unheard of before Diamunde for a Marine to command one in which his subordinate commanders were army generals who outranked him. Brigadier Sturgeon had commanded a Corps with army major generals commanding the divisions that made up the Corps.

  Major General Tui grabbed Sturgeon's hand as soon as Saoli released it. "Ted, your fame precedes you. It's an honor to meet you."

  "So what are you doing with that?" Aguinaldo waved at the desk.

  "Joining the club, sir, so I can get some chow."

  Aguinaldo looked at him quizzically. "You haven't been restationed here; I'd know if you were. And it's Andy here, not ‘sir.’"

  "I'm on leave—Andy."

  "Well, why didn't you come directly to me? Don't throw your money away on a membership. You're my guest for the duration of your stay. Where are you staying, by the way?" Before Sturgeon could answer, Aguinaldo turned to the functionary. "Franz, anything Ted gets while he's here is on my tab. Understand?"

  "Brigadier Sturgeon's bills are on your tab. Absolutely, Sir."

  "Fine." He turned back to Sturgeon. "Ted, we're on our way to cocktails and then dinner. Will you do us the honor of joining us?"

  "The honor is mine, Gen—Andy." Calling the Assistant Commandant, the second highest ranking member of the Confederation Marine Corps, by his first name would take some getting used to.

  Tui laughed, draped a companionable arm over Sturgeon's shoulders and walked with him behind Aguinaldo and Saoli into the bar. "You'll get used to it, Ted. I was in a FIST when I made colonel, and stayed in FISTs until I got my second star. Then I spent a year as Inspector General for Seventh Fleet until I got assigned to HQMC. This is the first place I've been that has a Flag Club—or anyplace where I ever saw more than one or two other flag officers at a time. Even then, most were navy, and they usually didn't want a Marine underfoot. I know how strange it is the first time you address a full general by his first name, and how much stranger it is with the ACMC himself. But comfort will come soon."

  The four of them seated themselves in club chairs grouped around a table. Discreet sound baffles rose around them to provide a modicum of privacy. While they chatted and sipped drinks, a liveried waiter came around with menus. They ticked off what they wan
ted and the waiter picked up the menus on his return trip. Shortly after, a bell chimed and a sonorous voice intoned, "Gentlemen, dinner is served."

  They stood and everyone in the bar looked to Aguinaldo, the highest-ranking general present, to lead the way.

  "Gentlemen," Aguinaldo said in a voice loud enough to carry clearly throughout the room, but looking at Sturgeon, "a good commander always makes sure his people are fed before he gets his own chow. So I will enter last." Then looked around at the assembled generals and added, "Except for Brigadier da Cruz, who is responsible for making sure there's enough to feed us all."

  There was light laughter at the mention of the Deputy Director G-4, Class IV supplies, and the generals, most of whom had their wives along as guests, began filing from the bar to the dining room. True to his word, Aguinaldo was the last one in. Even Brigadier da Cruz preceded him—the Deputy Director G-4 was unobtrusively overseeing kitchen and dining room operations.

  Following the most exquisite dinner Sturgeon had ever been served on a Marine Corps installation, the four retired to the bar to continue drinking and talking. Saoli and Tui were most anxious to hear Sturgeon's account of the war on Diamunde. They couldn't quite get over the thrill of a Marine brigadier commanding a Corps.

  The hour was getting late when Aguinaldo announced, "Gentlemen, it's getting late and some of us have to report for duty in the morning. I suggest we adjourn."

  "Indeed," the others agreed, standing.

  "Ted," Aguinaldo said as they headed for the exit, "I've arranged for a car and driver so you don't have to brave the hazards of the tube." He raised a hand to forestall any objections. "It's late and a long ride back into the city. And I want you to come by my office in the morning. Is ten hours all right with you?"

  "Ten hours is splendid with me, Andy." More than enough time for him to get there. And a meeting with the Assistant Commandant! That will solve the problem, he told himself. Then I'll be able to cut my leave short and head back to Thorsfinni's World where I belong.