Solfleet: The Call of Duty

by Smith, Glenn

  “Even now, Mister MacLeod, after all that has happened?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why?”

  “For the same reason we’ve always kept it classified, Madam President. As the esteemed professor here pointed out, time-travel can be an extremely dangerous business, theortetically at least. Therefore the Portals represent an extremely dangerous technology. If the rest of the Coalition were to find out there’s a functioning Portal aimed directly at the Earth, the possibilities of the wrong person gaining access to it would be greatly multiplied. And if that wrong person somehow did gain access to it, who knows what he might use it for?”

  “I see. So what you are telling me, Mister MacLeod, is that the council wants me to make this decision on my own, without any input from any of our allies.”

  “I’m afraid so, ma’am. The way the council sees it, this is nothing less than a matter of planetary security.”

  “That is not going to be easy.”

  “No, ma’am, it’s not. And they understand that most clearly. Nevertheless, they insist that you do just that.”

  “Oh, they insist, do they?”

  MacLeod raised his hands in self-defense. “I’m only the messenger, Madam President. I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”

  She exhaled loudly, then turned to Hansen again. “We’ve barely heard a peep out of you since you got here, Admiral,” she commented. “What’s your opinion on all of this?”

  The weathered, fifty-three year old officer drew a deep breath as he carefully considered his answer. He hadn’t seen his old friend face to face in over three months—the both of them were always so busy—and had been looking her over closely since the moment he sat down. She looked thinner than before. Not emaciated by any means, but gaunt enough that he worried her health might not be what it should. And her close-cropped black hair had begun to gray at the temples and around behind her ears. After all these years, the pressures of her office were finally beginning to take their toll. What she needed was a little moral support.

  “I am, first and foremost, a soldier and a patriot, Madam President,” he said. “My duty here is to receive and act on your orders. My personal opinion on this matter is completely irrelevant.”

  “That is nothing but recruit dogma, Admiral, and you know it,” she scolded, clearly disappointed with his response, “and recruit dogma has no place in this meeting. I want to know where you stand with all of this.”

  He combed his fingers through his thick, graying, sandy blonde hair and gave his scalp a scratch, then dropped his hands back to his lap and explained, “You know me, Madam President. I’m a realist. All this time-travel stuff is beyond my desire to even try to comprehend. It’s not my area of expertise and I won’t pretend to completely understand one theory or another. I’m sorry, but I really am here just to receive your orders. If you tell me to send an agent on this mission, then I’ll send one. If you tell me not to,” he hesitated, just for a moment, “then I won’t.” With a shrug of his shoulders and a slight cock of his head he added, “It’s as simple as that, ma’am.”

  “Not quite so simple as that, I think,” she disagreed. She knew him far too well to believe for one second that he’d blindly follow his superiors’ orders simply because they were his superiors’ orders. He had an opinion, no doubt a very strong one, one way or the other. But she accepted his answer, at least for the moment, out of friendship and respect. He obviously didn’t want to say anything more about it.

  “Let me ask you this, then,” she moved on. “If you do send someone back, would that person be able to return home again?”

  Hansen cringed, but only internally. Of all the questions she could have asked, why did she have to ask that one? He said, “Perhaps the professor would be better suited to answer...”

  “I’m asking you, Admiral.” She knew the value he placed on the lives and well being of every one of the men and women who served under his command. If there were any doubt as to the possibility of the traveler returning home, he’d be the one to tell her.

  She had him cornered. He had no choice but to answer. Damn. “Well, Madam President, as the chairman indicated earlier, we know that the ancient Tor’Rosha who created the Portals used them for two-way travel, so...”

  “We also know the Tor’Rosha didn’t interfere in the development of the worlds they visited in any way,” Professor Verne piped in. All eyes turned to him. “Ah, they went strictly as observers, and never revealed themselves to anyone.”

  “That we know of,” MacLeod pointed out.

  “As I was saying,” Hansen continued as he threw the other men a brief but very clear message—‘do not interrupt me again’—with just a stern expression. Then he turned his attention back to the president. “I’m inclined to say yes, ma’am. I personally don’t know the specific procedures, but there is apparently some kind of recall device that he’d have to carry with him. Once the targeted moment in history has passed, he’d need only to activate this device to be pulled forward to the present again.”

  “Yes, but to which present, Admiral?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “To which timeline would he return? Would he return to the professor’s unaltered flow of river water that’s already passed the fork, to the home he knows? Or would he return to an altered present and find himself stranded in a less familiar world?”

  “Since we have no way of knowing which if any of these theories is correct, there’s no way I can answer that question, ma’am.”

  “So you may run the risk of losing your time-traveling agent forever,” the president concluded.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And have you found an agent willing to risk his or her own life on a mission based solely on these theories of yours? Willing to risk everything he or she holds dear to carry out this mission that the Chairman has already planned so efficiently?”

  They weren’t actually his theories of course, but that was beside the point. “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? What does that mean?”

  “Commander Royer—my executive officer,” he pointed out for the professor’s benefit—“has been involved in the planning of this mission almost since it began, and she’s come to me with a recommendation. It’s a little unorthodox, but I believe has merit.”

  “And what is that?”

  “When Captain Graves took command of the Excalibur he was married and had four young children—a girl and three boys. One of them, the middle son, is currently a squad sergeant with the Solfleet Marine Corps Rangers stationed on Cirra.” Had the chairman and the professor not been present, he could have been more specific as to the squad sergeant’s exact assignment, but they were present and that information was classified, so pointing out that he was a Marine Corps Ranger would have to suffice. At least for the moment. “When Commander Royer first told me about him, she asked me a question that I think makes a very good point. Who among us would be more highly motivated to prevent the Excalibur’s destruction than one of its captain’s own children?”

  “But he is not one of your agents,” the president said.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then does he not lack the specialized training and experience that someone assigned to such a mission would require?”

  “Sergeant Graves has only been with the Marines for about two years. Before that he spent about seven years with the Military Police Security Forces and something over a year with the Criminal Investigations Division. He’s also worked at least one major undercover operation before, which I understand he performed very well. If he were to attend the S-I-A Academy, he’d gain the skill set to accomplish this mission and he’d know how to use it. We’ve already sent an agency recruiting officer to see him.”

  The president’s eyebrows climbed halfway up her forehead. “Oh? Have you really?”

  “Yes, ma’am. About three and a half weeks ago.”

  “I trust your recruiting officer doesn’t know anything about this resol
ution?”

  No, ma’am, of course not.” As well as she knew him, how could she even ask such a question? Perhaps the pressures of her office were taking more of a toll on her than was already apparent. “All we told him was that we’re interested in bringing Sergeant Graves into the agency, and that’s all he was sent to talk to him about.”

  “And has Sergeant Graves expressed an interest in joining?”

  “No ma’am. Not according to the latest report,” Hansen answered hesitantly, “but we’re still working on it.”

  “Why not just order him to join?” Verne asked.

  “That’s not the way the agency operates, Professor,” Hansen explained, “or the rest of the fleet for that matter. Due to the nature of the job, our agents are recruited strictly on a voluntary basis. If we were to make an exception to that practice for one individual it would draw too much attention.” He looked back to the president and added, “The most we can do is to put a little pressure in him, quietly, but in the end it will have to be his decision.”

  “Yes, well, I will leave that to you.” She let out a long, slow breath. “Well, gentlemen, this is certainly one that I am going to have to sleep on for a while. I am obviously not up on all of these time-travel theories myself, and there is an awful lot to think about. I sincerely hope that we will never find ourselves in the position of having to seriously consider taking such a drastic step, but if we do find ourselves in that position, and if I ultimately decide to authorize this mission, I will transmit that decision to you in plenty of time for you to carry it out. Now please, excuse me. I have a lot of research to do. Thank you for coming.”

  As Hansen and Verne stood up to leave, Chairman MacLeod took it upon himself to offer the president one last piece of unsolicited advice. “Consider this point as well, Madam President, if you would. Our latest estimate puts the Veshtonn armada at our doorstep within six to eight months. The longer you take to make your decision, the more campaigns the Veshtonn will win and the closer they’ll get to this system. And if they do reach Earth again, we’ll fall quickly and we’ll fall very hard.”

  “I believe I just told you, Mister MacLeod, that if it becomes necessary, I will give you my final decision in plenty of time for you to set your mission into motion...if I decide to authorize it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” MacLeod said with a submissive nod as he stood with the others. “Thank you, Madam President, for your time.”

  Verne had wanted to make one last comment as well—a comment that might very well have swung the president’s thinking over to his side of the argument for good. But in view of how she’d just responded to MacLeod, he reconsidered that desire and quietly followed the chairman out of the office.

  Hansen fell in behind the others as they left, but as he passed through the doorway, the president called after him, “Just a moment, Admiral, if you will.”

  “Certainly, Madam President,” he responded. He stepped back in and let the door close the others out, then started back toward her desk, but she raised a hand, halting him in mid stride.

  “First, I want to apologize for snapping at you,” she began. “You didn’t deserve that, and I was wrong for doing so.”

  “No apology necessary, ma’am. With all the pressure you’ve been under...”

  “Nonetheless, I do apologize.”

  “Then I accept,” he said, nodding graciously.

  “Secondly,” she continued, “why didn’t you tell me about the Albion?”

  “As Chairman MacLeod pointed out, ma’am, that information was unconfirmed, and still is. But I would have told you this morning, if he hadn’t done so himself first.” The president gazed at him for several seconds without saying anything more, so he asked, “Was there anything else, Madam President?”

  “Yes,” she answered after another moment. “I trust your judgment without reservation, Admiral,” she told him. “I always have, but I have to ask. Wouldn’t it make more sense to send one of your properly trained and more experienced agents on a mission like this? Why this Marine Corps sergeant? Are you really that confident in him?”

  Hansen drew a deep breath and let it out slowly—time enough to whip up an answer she might actually buy—then explained, “I don’t know the sergeant personally, but I have had some indirect experience with him.”

  “What experience?”

  “That undercover operation I mentioned? I was referring to the Caldanran Intervention. He was one of the Security Forces troops who posed as a crewman on the Athena. More recently he was with the Tripoli Marines at Rosha’Kana. Not assigned. Just in the wrong place at the right time. Overall, his military record is exemplary. He started as one of Sergeant Walker Carlson’s products—was with him during the Tamour incident in fact. He really proved himself back then and he’s been decorated several times since. He’s highly intelligent, physically fit, and extremely dedicated to his duties. He doesn’t give up easily when things don’t go his way. And he’s not just a Ranger. He’s with our Special Ops, so he’s practiced at deceit and keeping secrets. Add to all of that the fact that the Excalibur’s captain was his father, and... I’d have to say yes, Madam President. I am that confident.”

  “For someone who’s never met him you sure know a lot about him.”

  “Special Operatives’ record jackets are extensive, and extremely detailed.”

  She gazed at him for several long seconds without saying a word, then settled back in her chair a little more and folded her arms across her chest. “Sit down, Nick.”

  Hansen hesitated, realizing that he’d fallen far short of convincing her—that she hadn’t bought one word of his explanation. Then, not wanting to make her ask a second time, he took a seat in the same chair he’d warmed during the meeting and looked her square in the eye. Several more seconds passed in silence between them before the president finally spoke again.

  “What are you not telling me?” she asked.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I know you better than that. The familial relationship between the Excalibur’s captain and this Marine sergeant of yours is interesting, but it isn’t nearly enough. Not for you. And all that song and dance about his impressive military record?” She shook her head. “Irrelevant. No. Under normal circumstances you would never entrust such a sensitive and important mission to anyone but the best and most experienced of your deep cover agents.”

  “Begging your pardon, Madam President, but the current circumstances are anything but normal,” he reminded her.

  “Granted, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? Much more.”

  Hansen drew another deep breath and exhaled long and loud, then nodded affirmatively and admitted it. “Yes, ma’am, there is.”

  “What is it, Nick? Aside from this awful war, what’s troubling you?”

  “Off the record?” he asked, almost pleading with his eyes.

  “All right, provided you tell me the whole truth this time.”

  He nodded again, then began. “As you well know, that...incident with Vice-President Harkam and his family stayed with me for a very long time.”

  “You eventually sought counseling as I recall.”

  “Command mandated that counseling, so I had no choice. But, yes, I did see a counselor regularly for several months afterwards. What you don’t know...what no one knows...is that from time to time...” Another deep breath, then, “The nightmares have returned.”

  The president’s gaze fell to her desktop. She recalled how troublesome those nightmares had been for him all those years ago. How he’d suffered from chronic exhaustion, unable to get even a single good night’s sleep for the longest time. To think that they’d returned to haunt him after so many years... She looked back up at him. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Nick,” she said, genuinely concerned, “but what does that have to do with...”

  “What does that have to do with Sergeant Graves?” he asked for her.

  “Yes.”

  Hansen stood up, folded his hands behind
his back, and stepped around to the window to gaze out at the mountains and the lake. The president turned her chair with him and gazed at him as several more moments passed in silence. She wanted to say something more. She wanted to coax the truth out of him, but she refrained. Better to let him take his time and allow him to offer it up on his own.

  “The nightmares were always the same back then,” he finally began, staring out the window but seeing only the horrible pictures in his mind. “The battle, the unspeakable horrors of what...what they did to Harkam’s family while they forced us all to watch, Harkam himself crying out in agony and begging me to stop the pain...” He paused, drew another deep but trembling breath, then continued. “And the loneliness—that awful feeling of complete and total isolation. Knowing that I’m the only survivor aboard a powerless ship full of rotting, eviscerated bodies, doomed to drift helplessly through deep space until my oxygen runs out and I slowly suffocate.”

  “Were the same,” the president quietly asked after a moment. “Has something changed?”

  Hansen nodded almost imperceptibly—she was as always an extremely perceptive woman—then blurted out, “I’m not the only survivor anymore.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  He folded his arms across his broad chest as he turned and faced her. “The nightmares returned again last month, just after the Veshtonn victory in the Rosha’Kana system.” He started pacing slowly around the room. “Everything that ever filled those nightmares still happens, but now there are subtle differences in the minor details. Someone says something in a slightly different way, or...or agrees to eat chicken for dinner instead of holding out for steak. Little things like that. And at the end of it all, there’s another survivor—one of the Security Forces troops under my command. I see his face clearly enough, but I don’t recognize him. I mean, I think I know him in the dream, but in real life I don’t.” He stopped pacing and looked at the president. “At least I didn’t, until Commander Royer showed me his file.”

  “Sergeant Graves?” the president asked, bewildered.