by John Ringo
Now even that had come apart. The world’s greatest natural tourist trap had apparently closed for the duration as well. And that did not leave many alternatives.
“There has to be a way to find a motel or something,” she said, fingering her AID.
“We already checked for websites,” Mike reminded her, noticing the gesture. The Galactic artificial intelligence devices were connected to the Web and capable of searching it as well as or better than any human-made interface. But they could not produce shelter from thin air. “Heck, we haven’t seen a single person except that one lady working in her garden up in Largo.” He now regretted not asking directions, but at the time it had not made sense to stop.
“Hmm,” she responded noncomitally. “A-I-D?” she queried.
“Yes, Commander O’Neal?” Mike was amused to note that the AID was a baritone. Most males preferred female voices; females appeared to choose the opposite.
“There are no website listings for motels in the Marathon or Big Pine Key area,” Sharon stated. “Is that correct?”
“Correct, ma’am. There were such sites, but all are now inactive or specifically indicate that the hotel is closed. The nearest hotel that indicates functionality is on Key West.”
Sharon let out a breath and thought for a moment. “AID, is there any other source of information that indicates that an area might offer guest services?”
“Please specify a source, ma’am.” The AID actually sounded puzzled.
“Oh, police reports, news articles…”
“Infrared satellite imagery,” Mike interjected.
“Right,” said Sharon, nodding her head. “That sort of thing.”
“Commander O’Neal, you are reminded that you do not have access to civil-political intelligence gathering,” stated the AID. It was the flat, unaccented response Mike had come to recognize as security protocol response.
“Let me try.” He smiled. “AID, check my overrides and use the lowest level of intelligence necessary to derive requested information.”
The AID did not exactly sniff in disdain, but the tone of voice was distinctly unhappy. “National Technical Means,” it said, sarcastically, “indicates that the small fish camp on No-Name-Key is in operation. There is no indication of cabin usage, but it has had cabins for rent in the past. They should still be available.”
Mike picked the map back up and searched for No-Name-Key.
“That’s right next door,” he said in surprise.
“Correct,” said the AID. “In addition, imagery indicates that the proprietor has been underreporting fish harvests by about twenty percent, contrary to United States Rationing and Storage Regulation F-S-B-One-Zero-Seven-Five-Eight-Dash-One-A.”
Mike rubbed his chin and frowned. “Is that your own analysis or did you pull it out of a file?”
“That is my own analysis, Captain O’Neal,” stated the device.
“Well, lock that analysis down unless overridden and remind me at an opportune time to discuss where you developed the information,” Mike snapped. The hell if he was going to let a piece of GalJunk drop the dime on some hard-working fishermen.
“Yes, sir, Captain,” the AID snapped back.
“Well, that’s that settled,” said Sharon with a smile.
“Mom?” asked Cally from the back seat.
“Yes?”
“Do you think there will be somewhere to eat?” she asked. There was not a hint of a whine, just a simple question.
Sharon turned and looked at her oldest daughter. Cally lay against the driver’s side door, looking out at the abandoned landscape, idly tapping her fingers on her thigh. Her face was somber and grave but the eyes slid across the area outside, constantly questing. For targets or threats, Sharon suddenly realized. The light blouse the eight-year-old wore had ridden up enough to reveal the small automatic in her waistband. Taken all together the image made Sharon want to cry. It was as if disaster had already come to America and they were wanderers in some post-Apocalyptic nightmare. Sharon took a deep breath and forced herself to be calm. Most of the reaction was stress still bleeding off from the Agincourt and the disastrous visit to her parents. It would pass. It had to.
“Probably. There should be somewhere to get something. And if not we’ve got more ‘travel rations,’ ” she finished with a smile. The rations had been Papa O’Neal’s suggestion and it had been a good one.
Papa O’Neal had been paying more attention to conditions across the United States than either Sharon or Mike. When they had stated their plans to take a car trip down the Florida Peninsula he had demurred. Even though they had access to unlimited fuel supplies because of the “cache” items Mike had ported along, he pointed out other problems. Without stating anything other than vague reports of lack of services in south Florida he had suggested that staying at the farm would be the best plan. But when Sharon and Mike had been insistent he had made a series of startling suggestions. He had been so adamant about them that the couple had finally given in, figuring that the additional items fell under the category of “better safe than sorry.”
Thus, attached to the spare tire on the back was a five-gallon can of gas and a shovel. In the morass of material in the back were three cases of beer and two other cases of mixed liquor. There were more cases of smoked and tinned meats, gathered and prepared on the farm, along with sealed containers of flour, cornmeal and a variety of dried fruits. If they did end up on a desert island they could live comfortably for nearly a month on the stored provisions they had packed along.
In addition to food and liquor, Papa O’Neal had strongly recommended taking along “trade goods.” The very thought of taking such ubiquitous items as hooks, heavy monofilament and rubber tubing for sling spears to the Keys was ludicrous. Looking around at the surroundings Mike had had more than one occasion to bless his father’s foresight. The Old Man had spent years in Third World hellholes and now it looked like the Keys just about fit that bill. Even if no one was willing to take Galactic credits for room and board, Mike was willing to bet dollars to donuts a case of six gross Number Two hooks would open doors.
“Well, let’s go find out, shall we?” said Mike, putting the Tahoe into gear. He deliberately steered to crush the tumbling palm frond, metaphorically spurning the depression caused by the desolation around them. As they turned down the side street towards No-Name-Key, the wind caught the shattered palm frond and tumbled the pieces onto U.S. 1. The hard wind whistled through the abandoned buildings and erased the marks the vehicle had made on the drifting sand in the parking lot.
CHAPTER 22
Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA, United States of America, Sol III
1400 EDT October 2nd, 2004 ad
“Teri, you have got to stop getting into pissing contests with enlisted men.”
Teri Nightingale sighed deeply as Ernie Pappas’s strong, oil-covered fingers dug out the tensed muscles on her back. The first sergeant’s thumbs rolled up along both sides of her spine, smoothing away the accumulated stresses of the day. At the accusation she could feel the muscles try to tense, but forced calm into her system. It was no good getting angry; he was right.
“I know,” she said with another resigned sigh. “I know. But I was so goddamn mad at Stewart I couldn’t stop myself.”
“And now you’ve ended up looking like an ass,” said Pappas with toneless brutality. “And such a nice ass it is,” he added, giving it a little pat as he rolled off her back and propped himself up on one fist.
The tiny motel on the outskirts of Hummelstown was as far as they could reasonably get from the post. But Pappas was fairly sure a few of the company suspected something. Which must have really confused them when he quietly corrected his lover after her latest outburst.
The Old Man had left a list of missions to work on in his absence, missions that he specifically felt the unit was weak on. Earlier that day, practicing an envelopment maneuver, the entire exercise fell apart. The Posleen had attacked with more ferocity than normal and
exploited a gap between First and Third platoons to roll up the company.
Stewart, in the after-action review, had injudiciously pointed out that proper employment of the reserve would have plugged the gap and saved the maneuver. They still would have taken more casualties than their “norm,” but less than the total wipeout they had experienced.
It was the casual remark of a young man who was rapidly turning into a brilliant tactician. The formal training of the military had taken an untutored but febrile mind and rocketed it into areas of genius. He proceeded to outline four other simple steps that, either before or during the engagement, would have saved the company’s ass. It was a given that he had thought of them in the thick of the action and not as a “Monday Morning Quarterback” reaction after the drill. He was only trying to be helpful, but the XO had taken it as a direct attack and responded at length.
When the harried XO, in front of most of the leaders of the company, had finished describing her opinion of the comments she went on to discuss Stewart’s parentage, unfortunately probably with more truth than she realized, education and probable future. Before she realized what she was doing, she had thoroughly poisoned the well.
When she finished, the young NCO had stood up, stone-faced, and left the room without a word. And also without asking permission, which was a legally objectionable action. No one had suggested that he stay. Or be charged for that matter.
Pappas’s comment had been pithy, succinct and to the point: “Lieutenant Nightingale, with all due respect, that was a stupid thing to do.”
Their discussion of how to rectify her mistake had drifted to bed, as many of their discussions did. The relationship had taken both of them by surprise, but when Nightingale put her hand on his neck the first time and hesitantly drew him towards her, Pappas’s sixty-year-old brain had been run over by his freshly rejuvenated twenty-year-old hormones. Although he had been faithful to his wife during his entire previous enlistment, the current situation was just too tough. For Nightingale, the combination of nearly a half century of sexual experience and a twenty-year-old’s body had been an intensely pleasant surprise. Pappas not only knew some of the oddest tricks, he was back in condition to be able to use them.
He now ran a finger down her perfect back, hooked a thumb into her armpit and turned her to look at him. He pulled her to him, tucking her leg over his and slid his hand down her back. “You had better get a handle on this, soon, or the Old Man will turn you to paste.” He gently caressed her inner thigh then slid his hand upward.
She made a hissed inhalation and arched her back. “I know,” she said with a little gasp. She paused for a moment then went on, panting slightly. “I just cannot get a handle on…” She paused again, making little inhalations through her nose. The nostrils fluttered in and out prettily.
“On?” asked Pappas, waiting for her to try to answer.
“On… uhm…” she said as he moved his hand slightly to the side. She stopped trying to talk.
“Are you listening?” he asked, backing away slightly then sliding forward. Docking was abrupt and perfect.
“Umm-hmm,” she murmured. “Definitely.” She slid her leg up to hook over his hip.
“Stop fighting with Stewart and listen to him. He’s better at this than anyone else in the company besides the Old Man.”
“Okay,” she squeaked, starting to rock back and forth.
“I’m serious,” said Pappas, giving a little gasp of his own as well-trained muscles clamped. He was on the losing side of the battle now.
“I’ll make up to the shrimp,” she said pushing his shoulder to roll him over on his back. She grabbed his short thick black hair in both hands. “Now hang on.”
* * *
Duncan popped the top off the unlabeled beer bottle with a K-bar combat knife and wordlessly handed it to Stewart. The younger NCO was staring unseeingly at the wall of his tiny room. He took a swig without looking at the product, then stopped and stared at the bottle.
“Damn,” he said, looking up at the recently arrived staff sergeant. “I thought I had balls. Raiding the Old Man’s home brew is a capital offense.” Beer was getting harder and harder to find. Materials such as barley and hops were strictly controlled under emergency rationing and storage plans. The easy accessibility of the materials to the company commander was a closely held secret of the company.
“He’d understand,” said Duncan, slipping a pack of Marlboro Reds out and lighting one. “He’s good people.” He took a deep drag on the butt and blew smoke at the ceiling.
“Unlike certain unnamed stuck-up bitches,” snarled the younger NCO and clenched both hands. His arms were shaking in anger.
“Who is currently getting her ass fucked off by Top,” noted Duncan, with a wry smile.
Stewart shook his head. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Well, he’s a good-looking guy…” said Duncan.
“No,” interrupted Stewart with a grimace. “I was talking about Top fucking her, not the other way around. I mean, damn, the Gunny was always such a straight arrow!” Only then did he realize that the other NCO was jerking his chain.
“Well,” mused Duncan with another puff on the cancer stick, “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers.”
Stewart snorted. “Yeah, neither would I. Gotta admit it. Great set of knockers. Prime slice any way you cut it.”
“So,” asked Duncan with a smile. “Is your anger with Gunny Pappas because he is fucking your Public Enemy Number One, or because he’s getting some and you’re not?”
“Who says I’m not getting any?” snapped Stewart, machismo aroused.
“Well, I know you’re not getting any from Nightingale, although the way you two fight…”
“Oh, fuck you,” said Stewart, trying not to laugh.
“And Arnold has already nailed up Lieutenant Slight, so she’s right out.”
“No!” gasped Stewart, starting to double up in laughter. “Jesus! Arnold and Slight? Are you sure?”
“Well, I suppose he could have been demonstrating mouth to mouth…”
“Oh, shit!” laughed Stewart, finally letting go of the tension of the argument with the XO. “So when are you and Boggle gonna do the dirty deed?”
Duncan’s face took on a look of deepest sorrow. “I fear never,” he said, placing a hand on his chest in simulated despair. “Methinks that Sergeant Boggle pines for Lieutenant Fallon!”
Stewart laughed so hard that nut-brown ale spurted out of his nose and he started gasping. The battles between the Second platoon leader and his female platoon sergeant were as legendary as his own with the XO. The image of “Boggle” Bogdanovich and the West Pointer wrapped up in Eros’s embrace was as implausible as… the XO and Top.
“Jesus,” he swore again, after regaining control of himself. “You don’t think?”
“Well, not yet,” said Duncan, leaning forward and taking the home brew for a swig. “If you’re just going to waste this blowing it out your nose…”
“So,” said Stewart with a smile as he wiped beer off his chair, “who are you planning on getting a leg over with?”
“Oh,” commented Duncan, handing the bottle back and waiting for Stewart to take another slug, “I was thinking about… Summerhour.”
Beer blasted across the room again. Summerhour was a nearly seven-foot, not particularly bright, fairly ugly, male, heavy weapons private. Since Stewart was fairly sure Duncan was straight, the choice could not have been more unlikely.
Stewart finally wiped up the mess, wiped his eyes and gave up on drinking. “You think the Old Man knows?” he asked soberly.
Duncan shook his head. “Everybody thinks I’m some sort of expert on Captain O’Neal. I was only with him for a couple of days. You guys have been training with him for over a year. You answer the question.”
Stewart thought about it. “Probably. I’ve never seen anything surprise him.”
“I have,” admitted Duncan. “But only when the enem
y pisses all over his battle plans. He gets really angry then. Really angry.” He shook his head and finished the brew to the yeasty dregs. “You don’t want to see him when he’s angry.”
CHAPTER 23
No-Name-Key, FL, United States of America, Sol III
1440 EDT October 2nd, 2004 ad
Mike was trying very hard not to get angry. “Sir, I understand that you’re out of the hotel business. I can even understand you being unhappy with tourists. But I’ve got my wife and daughter with me and we need someplace to put our heads down.”
The man behind the counter was in his fifties, his long graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. He stared down his nose at the short, massively built soldier and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Look, buddy, you’re right. I’m out of the hotel business. There ain’t any tourists anymore. How the hell did you get leave when everybody else is locked up on a base or working their ass off?”
Mike threw his hands up in despair. “I pulled every string in the book. Is that what you wanted to hear?” In fact, every string in the book had been pulled behind his back. But that would take more explanation than it was worth.
The proprietor’s face worked. “Look…”
“Harry,” said a female voice from the office at the rear. “Calm down.”
The No-Name-Key Fish Camp consisted of eight ancient, wooden bungalows bleached gray by a half century of sun, a few rickety docks surrounding a small but deep embayment, a brand new cinder-block icehouse about thirty yards long and the office, a single-story wooden building protruding over the small harbor. The buildings all surrounded an oyster-shell parking lot. The parking lot had a motley assortment of vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, parked at every angle. Most of the trucks appeared to have been abandoned where they sat, palm fronds and dirt encrusting their hoods. The racket of a large diesel generator sounded from somewhere behind the icehouse and an overwhelming scent of fish and rotting weeds was being carried away on the strong southwest wind.
