Eye of the Storm

by John Ringo

  "It is," the Tir said. "But this is not a standard budget item."

  "Look, fix it," Mike said, getting annoyed. "This is a necessary item, according to the experts, for construction of the flagship of the new Fleet. I don't care if you commandeer one, kill somebody to get one or buy it. But if the price is jacked up artificially, heads will roll. And get it here fast. I take it the codes or whatever can be sent over the interstellar commo net."

  "No, actually, they cannot," the Tir said, then held up a hand. "I mean they can not, not that I'm not willing to. AIDs are specifically programmed not to be able to transfer key codes. None of the system will. It's going to have to be hand-carried from the nearest major Darhel branch bank. The last time there were any anywhere near Earth they were stolen."

  "That must have been embarassing," Mike said with a complete lack of sympathy.

  "No, the embarassing part was having an entire clan go into lintatai over it," the Tir said with a grimace. "They somehow ended up in your daughter Michelle's hands. With a bare nine she managed to take down the Epetar clan."

  "No wonder you're flinching," Mike said, grinning. "But just as you don't get to mess with us, Michelle don't get to mess with you. Get her the code key so she can get to work on the Des Moines. Anything else from the list you have problems with?"

  "The rest is simple," the Tir said. "As simple as anything is these days."

  "Marta," Frederick said, hugging the girl to him.

  He and Marta had been an "item" since they were barely teens. The tall, blond and popular star of the football—soccer, to Americans—team had been considered an odd match with the quite small, dark and thoughtful bookworm. But he'd loved Marta as long as he could remember. He fell in love with her the first time they met when they were just starting school. If anything, he had had to chase her rather than the reverse.

  Both of them were in their first, training, year so normally they would have had no time together. But the tradition of a three-day pass for the newly promised, and a five-day leave when wed, was fairly ironclad. And in Freiland, a society that firmly intended to repopulate Europe, a bride going to the altar with a bulge in the tummy was considered a bonus. The pair was going to be afforded as much privacy as possible.

  They'd taken that privacy to a small and carefully tended copse of woods near the Rhine. Inside the perimeter it should be safe from Posleen. How it had survived the Posleen, who had clear-cut most of the woods in the area, and the retributory fire of the Fleet, was the real question. It was perched on a steep hillside and between that and the woods they had enough privacy.

  "Did you like the bonding party?" Marta said, shrugging out of his embrace and opening the picnic basket.

  "I thought it was nice of everyone to come," he replied. Fortunately it had been potluck. If Marta's father had had to pay for it, Herr Schnaffer would have had a stroke. As it was he was looking at paying for the weddings of five daughters.

  "I'm glad that Hagai was able to come," Marta said. "Although I thought his toast was in bad taste."

  "Everyone needs one friend to embarrass them," Frederick said, grinning. "Hagai is mine."

  "You were very deep in conversation," Marta said. "What about? Everything was so hectic I could barely get a chance to talk to anyone."

  "He's worried about the Hedren," Frederick said. "Do we really need to talk about this?"

  "No," Marta said, laying out the food. Cold chicken, bread, cheese . . . There was even a bottle of wine, which was still a rarity. The vines were just starting to produce well. "Yes," she said.

  "He thinks that there will be war," Frederick said, shrugging. "That that is why the Generalfeldmarschall was called away. And who has to fight the wars of this Federation?"

  "The Federation," Marta spat. "What has the Federation ever done for the Fatherland? For Freiland? Nothing but toss us into the wilderness."

  "If we are conscripted we must go," Frederick said, shrugging. "That's the way of things."

  "So you could be going soon," Marta said softly.

  She was in the same Bruederschaft but not in one of the active support units. But if there was a conscription, she might be plucked up just as he.

  "If Hagai was right," Frederick said, shrugging. "But you know how he is."

  "Yes, I do," Marta said. "He always knew the answers to the questions before the test. Did you know that?"

  "Yes," Frederick said. "And he'd never give them to me!"

  "If Hagai says there will be war and we will be summoned, then he is probably right," Marta said, looking him in the eye. "We may not even have the three days."

  "Oh," Frederick said, his eyes lighting. "Then you mean . . . ?"

  "We can eat later."

  "It's really simple," Jake said. "We just walk in and report."

  Jacob "Jake the Snake" Mosovich was one of the few people in the galaxy who could look old despite being rejuved. That might have something to do with the fact that he'd been pretty old when he was rejuved.

  A veteran member of the U.S. Army special forces going all the way back to Vietnam, he had been one of the first humans ever to encounter the Posleen and live. Back when aliens were still something from a B movie, he'd been ordered to report to the Vice Chief of Staff of the Army, informed that not only were aliens real but that they were getting ready to invade and, oh by the way, he was going to lead a recon team to go check them out.

  In many ways he was still trying to come to terms with that.

  "Says you," Mueller snarled, looking at the door marked "Incoming Auxillary Personnel." "I've yet to see paperwork one that says we're not wanted criminals."

  Mosovich wasn't sure exactly why he'd gotten Mueller as a constant butt-buddy for the last sixty odd years. David Mueller was one of the three members of the recon team that survived, the only one still alive besides himself, and through the decades they'd just constantly run into each other. They made an odd couple. Jake was small, slender and wiry whereas Mueller's name worked quite well for him. But over time they'd fought, drank and whored on so many planets neither could keep count anymore. There were a couple of failed marriages in there but their marriage seemed to be "til death do us part."

  When the time came, they'd even gone rogue together. Mosovich, having eventually folded and allowed the Army to make him an officer, had been appointed as the commander of the Direct Action Group, an elite team of counterinsurgency and counter-Posleen specialists. By then both of them had seen enough of the Darhel corruption of society to be pretty sick about the whole thing. On the other hand, it was the only game in town.

  So when they'd taken over DAG they'd figured it was going to be the same-old-same-old. New unit, pretty damned good one, not much polish to put on the apple, kill a few bad guys and maybe some more of umpteen billion Posleen. Servicing a target was servicing a target. Glory, honor, country, those were all things as dead as Caesar.

  Then they'd had a call-out. A group of terrorists had taken over a critical facility, taken down the security and were trying to steal top-secret materials. The orders were simple, capture who you can, kill who you must, don't let the materials get away. Easy enough. How complicated could it be?

  They'd been in mission prep when one of the in-place DAG officers had pulled them aside and explained just how very very complicated it could be. The mission had changed. The "terrorists" were, in fact, friends, well family, of pretty much the entire DAG. And the new mission was, in fact, to make sure they got away. And then disappear. Mueller and Mosovich, since they seemed to be fine upstanding people, were invited to command and control the action, under the new rules. And then they, too, could disappear. And, oh by the way, this was really going to fuck with the Darhel.

  There wasn't much time for soul searching. They weren't going to be harmed if they refused, just tied up and set aside. Which would be really fucking embarassing all things considered. Or they could join the side that at least thought they were angels.

  Treason for a possible lost-cause or
do your duty and be embarassed as hell.

  Support the guys you've commanded and trained with, bonded with, or get tied up and left for a laughingstock.

  Mosovich still wasn't sure which it came down to. But in the end he and Mueller had jumped ship into the Bane Sidhe.

  However, unlike most of DAG who it turned out weren't, in fact, the people they said they were, he and Mueller were known entities. Their DNA fit their face and their names and their fingerprints. With most of the Bane Sidhe being utter un-persons, they were a bit of a liability.

  They'd helped out a few times, done a few things, but really they'd been underutilized. Now they were being told "Everything's fine. We're all working together." And they were supposed to report back in and get put back in the assignment pool.

  Complicated didn't begin to describe it.

  "It's Mike O'Neal, Sergeant Major," Jake said, knocking on the door. "Remember him? He says everything's fine and dandy."

  "We're going to be assigned to a mess section," Mueller predicted. "Or mess kit repair. Inventory—"

  "Come!"

  The harassed looking officer behind the desk was young. Really young. After a while you could tell the difference between a wet-behind-the-ears and a rejuv. For one thing, rejuvs rarely looked this harassed.

  "Lieutenant Colonel Mosovich and Sergeant Major Mueller reporting," Jake said, trying not to wince. If he'd walked up to an office and said the same any time in the last six years he'd have been breaking rocks on the Moon faster than you could say "explosive decompression."

  "Mosovick?"

  "Mosovich," Jake replied, calmly.

  "Mos . . . Mos . . . I don't have that."

  "M-O-S- . . ."

  "Ah, Mosovich! There you are! Right . . . special ops, recon, direct action, explosives, multi-planet . . . Ah! Where's . . . Is there a Mueller?"

  "That's me," the sergeant major said, shaking his head.

  "Right, right . . . Report to Colonel Widdlebright, special ops, room fourteen eighty-six, section D," the officer said as his printer spit out a sheet. He handed it to them and then looked puzzled. "Welcome back. Where've you been? I don't see a retirement code."

  "Deep black," Mosovich said, touching the side of his nose. "Deepest."

  "Right," the officer said, nodding sagely. "Well, welcome back into the warm I think is what they say."

  As the door closed Mueller looked at Jake and snorted.

  "I'm not sure which part is funnier," Mueller said. "But you're right. We were sure in the deepest black I've ever been in! Bullshit over your head is pretty much zero-vis."

  "Oh, shut up," Jake muttered. "At least he didn't call the MPs. We need to find this colonel."

  "And that's the other funny thing—"

  "I'm Colonel Widdlebright."

  The officer behind the desk did not look harassed despite the fact that he was simultaneously talking to them and typing on his computer. He also looked to be about fourteen. Rejuv caught some people like that. If you naturally looked baby-faced you could end up appearing damned near pubescent.

  "Go ahead and laugh," the officer said, not looking up. "It's nearly impossible not to."

  "I had my sense of humor surgically removed, sir," Jake replied.

  "Now that is funny," Widdlebright said, finally looking up. "Jake the fucking Snake. I never expected to see you again. Except as a sight-picture."

  "And I've never even heard of you, sir," Jake said. "And I'm beginning to suspect I should have."

  "We have mutual friends," Widdlebright said. "I was over the wall part of the time we would have been in contact. Then agency ops. It's a small world but a black one."

  "Got that," Jake said.

  "How'd the Bane Sidhe treat you?" the colonel asked. "I considered trying to find them at a couple of points. In other words, no harm, no foul in my book."

  "Yes, sir," Jake replied.

  "Mueller ever talk?"

  "Not if I can keep him from doing so, sir," Jake said.

  "With all due respect, fuck you, Colonel," Mueller replied.

  "Be aware that you're back in the arms of the military, Sergeant Major," Widdlebright said politely. "And I can and will have you breaking rocks for things other than going rogue."

  "Sorry, sir," Mueller said. "Will happen again."

  "Probably," the colonel said, turning away from the computer finally. "I was reviewing your service records. Probably should have done that before but I've been busy. Welcome to the Strategic Reconnaissance Section. Since at the moment the SRS consists of a clerk typist, a supply private and the three of us, welcome, welcome, welcome indeed!"

  "You're going to put me behind a desk, aren't you, sir?" Jake said.

  "For about three days," Widdlebright replied. "You and Mueller. You're going to have to go into the damned nightmare the personnel system has become and dig out all your DAG guys. SRS is going to be built around your old unit. I assume most of them are still alive."

  "We . . . lost some," Jake admitted. "We were . . ."

  "Covering the extraction of one faction of the Bane Sidhe when the Darhel went freaky on them," Widdlebright finished for him. "Against ACS. That's double tough by the way. Good job. You'll be training back in Greeneville as soon as we get the full team together but it will be quick and rough. Your mission has already been assigned."

  "Which is, sir?" Mueller asked.

  "Well, there's this group of invading aliens," Widdlebright said, grinning. "And we need to recon them and get a better feel for their abilities than we've gotten from the Himmit."

  "Oh, crap," Jake said. "I think this is where I came in."

  "Yeah, well, if you think you're in the cacky . . ."

  "Hey, Chief," Bob the Postman said, walking down the pier. "You've got mail. Certified letter."

  Being a mailman in the post-War U.S. was not a job for the faint-of-heart. Not if you worked the former battle zones.

  San Diego was just such a battlezone. The city had, for a time, been a "fortress city," one of the twenty or so cities that, based on previous experience with the Posleen, were likely to get hammered but that the government had chosen to defend, anyway.

  The votes were never quite counted on whether the "fortress city" concept was a grand idea or incredibly stupid. Vital combat troops who could have been used to shore the internal defenses were, instead, stuck out on a limb and all too often lost when the Posleen sawed it off.

  San Diego was one such city. Essentially evacuated except for a minimum support force, it had been protected by five divisions. The core of the city that is; all the periphery had to be left to the Posleen.

  But the Posleen, seeing that there must be something worthwhile in there if there were defenders, had attacked and attacked mercilessly. In a bare six months the defenses crumbled and the survivors scrambled into a Dunkirk that carried them north to shore up the defenses of Los Angeles. Which also fell. The remnant then went north, again, to San Francisco which, by the skin of its teeth, held.

  Robert McCune was born in the shattered ruins of San Diego. Survivors of the Posleen enslaught in the Sierra Madres had been quick to recolonize the California coast. All the original reasons to live in California, bright sunshine and constant temperatures, were still there. With a small amount of technology, so was fresh water. And the farming and fishing were still superb.

  Bob the Postman's grandparents on his mother's side hadn't been military. They'd run a commune to the east of San Diego before the war, didn't like the military then, didn't like the military during the war, never liked the military. From what he'd heard, his grandmother had used the term "babykillers" right up to the day she'd died. They'd come down out of the hills with their children and a similar-minded group intent on establishing a new Israel free from the evil of violence and anti-alien bigotry. Escaping the hell of the Urb they found the free skies and clean air of California that they'd always wanted.

  Bob's mother had been saved from the Posleen feral that ate her parents by his
grandfather on his father's side, a former tanker who was taking his new wife down into the plains for much the same reason. But he and his group of buddies had armed to the teeth before they set out. Running across the massacre was luck as much as anything. But they'd gotten there a bit late.

  Mama Moonchild didn't talk much about that day.

  Bob had grown up outside the former town of Carlsbad, California, where his grandfather and his buddies had spread out and reestablished a nice little colony. They kept a cleared zone around it, both to spot ferals and to keep the fires off, and sold produce to the fishing colonies that had settled around San Diego harbor. It was still an interesting drive getting to Diego, but Bob grew up doing it.