“You acting like this thing is a saddle-whinnie, Chalmers,” Jackson said as he removed his pack and settled it behind the rear passenger seat. The cargo area was small, and he had to move the strap of a come-along to get it in place.
“Am not,” Chalmers said. “Though I would pay money to see you try to ride, city boy.”
“Look at you, talking shit like you some kinda John Wayne or something.”
“Naw, just a part-time redneck. We like gears and engines more than steers and horses.”
“That why you rednecks have all them broke-down cars and refrigerators and shit on your front lawns?” Jackson asked as he loosened another come-along strap to make room so Chalmers could drop his pack next to Jackson’s own.
Chalmers chuckled. “Must be.”
The combined communications and GPS—or whatever—unit attached to Jackson’s pack pinged.
Jackson glanced at Chalmers, who nodded. The sergeant unclipped the carabiner securing the device to his bag and held it up. A touch of his thumb activated it.
“Gentlemen.” Murphy’s voice was clear and cool, like the pre-sunrise air. “Are you ready?”
“As much as we can be, not knowing where we’re headed,” Chalmers said, keeping his tone as light and non-confrontational as he could, even as he wished for video so he could read Murphy’s expression.
“Sorry about that. OpSec has to be very tight on this one.” The major made a point of pausing.
Jackson and Chalmers both perked up at this, making a check of their surroundings. No one was close enough to listen in without being obvious about it or using vanishingly rare electronics.
“You’re to meet with a couple of the kinsmen from the Sarmatchani tribes. They’re from the next tribe over and have more contact with the settled peoples we are eventually going to have to get on our side. The tribesmen will help you make contact with the people of Clarthu.”
The device in Jackson’s hand lit up with a map and coordinates.
“Orbital SIGINT intercepted a radio transmission during our last movement near Clarthu. The same guys decoded the message, and it was a fairly accurate report of our movements and numbers during and since we started seizing cached Kulsian vehicles and equipment.”
“Shit,” Jackson muttered.
“The indig tribesmen we’ve been dealing with say the villagers are predisposed to support us, too, which tracks generally with the HUMINT the SpinDogs have been sharing with us. Therefore, both intelligence streams believe it’s only one, or possibly two, collaborators.”
“But how much can we trust the SpinDogs?” Chalmers asked.
Murphy paused again, clearly aware their hosts would know exactly what he was saying over their own comm system. “While the SpinDogs have been…less than entirely forthcoming on certain matters, they have fully supported the mission. I think this particular situation might have something to do with the RockHounds faction or the friction between the Expansionists and the Hardliners. Frankly, I don’t know.” A thoughtful pause. “There’s a lot of political complexity up here, and we’ve only begun to scratch the surface.”
“Poles,” Chalmers said, equally thoughtfully.
“What’s that, Chief?” Murphy asked.
“Just thinking we have to be wary of being used up like the Polish Paras in WWII,” Chalmers explained.
Murphy was silent for a long moment, then said, “There could be some parallels to Operation Market Garden, but I hope to keep everyone from dying because we over-extended and reached for a bridge too far. Or further.”
Chalmers smiled weakly. Murphy still intimidated the shit out of him, but it was good to hear the major recognize the quality of his assessment.
“At any rate, gentlemen, I need you to collect your tribal guides, obtain their best assessment of who might be radioing in our dispositions and why. With that information in hand—or not—you will then proceed to the village where you will locate and confiscate any radio equipment before our next movement. You will accomplish this while minimizing any damage to our future relations with the villagers as potential future allies. I am told that Bruce—er, Captain Lee—is done with her shakedown flights of the new, replicated Hueys and will be standing off for emergency extraction during the meet with the Kedlak.”
“You suspect the Kedlak’s people will give us trouble?” Chalmers asked, relieved there was some kind of plan to get them out if things dropped in the shitter.
“No, but I know I wouldn’t want to meet with a tribe of unknowns without some kind of extraction team, and I won’t send people to do things I wouldn’t do myself.” The major paused. “And before you ask, I considered having Bruce loiter near the meet, but we don’t know precisely where the camp is, and I don’t want to spook them.”
“Spook them?” Chalmers asked.
Jackson shot a look at Chalmers the latter interpreted as, “Why don’t you pay attention to the briefings?”
Murphy, unaware of the silent byplay and apparently willing to overlook Chalmers’ ignorance, said, “The only people with air power on R’Bak are the bad guys, and we don’t want our first impression to be tainted by that association.” Murphy then added, “Look, I know this mission’s a dog’s breakfast, but I need you to execute, copy?”
“Copy that,” Jackson said.
“Any questions?”
“What kind of toast you want with that order?” Jackson asked.
“Blackened rye,” Murphy drawled.
“And how long do we have to accomplish the mission?” Chalmers asked, glad the major was cozy with one of them, at least.
“Oh, I’m sure two crack investigators like you can sew this up in forty-eight hours. In forty-nine and one-half hours, the lead elements of our force will be transiting the valley in full view of the village. Gentlemen, I would really hate to level a village because of one asshole. Find the radio. Find the operator. I’m not too concerned about the condition of either. Stopping the transmissions is priority one. Hooah?”
“Hooah, Major,” the partners chorused, even though neither of them were, or had been, Rangers. The query-and-response had been ubiquitous among the Airborne guys in Mogadishu, and some things spread—and stuck in the head—like herpes.
The link went dead.
“I’m still driving,” Chalmers said, rushing around to the driver’s side of the buggy.
Jackson let Chalmers go, ratcheting the come-along until their packs were held firmly in place.
Chalmers hopped in and started the little rear-engined vehicle, which came snorting to life.
Startled by the sudden, angry growl from so close at hand, Jackson banged his head against a roll bar and spat a string of invective at Chalmers in multiple languages.
“Sorry, man.”
“You nuthin’ but a redneck fuckup, you know that?”
Chalmers kept staring ahead. Jackson’s tone had been at least three-quarters gruff banter but that’s not how he’d heard it.
Not from the moment the word “fuckup” had left the little sergeant’s lips…
* * * * *
Chapter Thirty-Three
Spin One, Five Weeks Earlier
“Chalmers, do you know how many times the words ‘fuck up’ appear in your dossier? And that’s coming from officers who are not given to profanity.”
Chalmers shook his head. “No idea, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you would. And I don’t suppose you’d care. That’s also a common theme in the assessments of your COs.” Murphy sighed. “But you’re the only asset we have who can smoke out one or more informers among our indig allies. And build rapport with the locals while you do so.”
“Rather not have to, Major,” Chalmers said, carefully suppressing a flinch as Murphy snapped an angry stare his direction. He wasn’t sure why he felt the urge to shy away. Murphy wasn’t particularly imposing, and Chalmers knew that proper command authority to back Murphy’s orders was, at the very least, way the fuck out of reach. Like, light years out
of reach.
But upon learning just how lucky he’d been waking up here and now, Chalmers had taken a sober look at his life and the shit show it had become. In light of the messes he’d made, Chalmers decided to do better. To be better. So, despite a strong natural inclination to tell the major some bullshit about being eager to take on the mission, Chalmers was not going to lie to get off the hot-seat.
Murphy’s stare was still fixed on him. “What’s that about you ‘rather not’ doing your job, Chief?” The major’s tone was not angry, but coolly detached. Which was worse.
“With respect, Major, I’d rather not be dropped in the shit again. I mean, ‘hearts and minds?’ You’ve got operators for that. Hell, from what I hear, some of the men were around when the term was coined.”
Murphy’s tone chilled from unpleasantly cool to icy. “Warrant Officer Chalmers, I’m fairly certain I didn’t ask what you’d ‘rather.’ In fact, I’m certain I give not one fuck what you’d rather.” The major paused, whether for effect or to prevent giving vent to his temper, Chalmers couldn’t say.
Despite knowing the man lacked the legal authority to do much to him, Chalmers swallowed the disrespectful response that threatened to spill from his lips. His goal of being better was not going to just happen. No one was going to just hand Chalmers the respect he’d always craved. More important in this moment, Chalmers realized he actually gave a shit what this guy—what all the men—thought of him. He didn’t like the mission, but Chalmers liked this man’s contempt even less. And he wasn’t sure what, exactly, he’d done to earn it.
Unless.
“Major, I apologize. I misspoke. W—”
“Did you?” Murphy snapped.
“My experience is almost exclusively CID,” Chalmers explained. “Criminal investigation is my area of expertise. I’ve got no experience getting people to come around to our si—”
Murphy’s waved Chalmers’ protest down, his icy demeanor taking on the weight and majesty of a glacier as he slowly leaned forward. “I don’t need you to win their hearts and minds, Warrant Chalmers. I need you to investigate, to identify, and to root out the equivalent of a local crime ring and, if possible, help us locate hidden caches of Kulsian tech before their lackeys can empty them. You do have a proven track record of rooting out such networks, of properly identifying and seizing their contraband. Your selection for this mission was precisely due to certain moral ambiguities with which you seem perfectly comfortable, given the…activities that led to your presence on the helo that was taking you out of Mogadishu.”
Chalmers swallowed a protest, knowing it would be a lie. Desperately seeking to ingratiate himself—and not entirely sure why—he ventured, “I’d be careful, Major, about how much you reveal of people’s backgrounds.”
Murphy’s wintry smile accompanied the confident regard of a man entirely indifferent to any leverage or bluster. “Is that a threat, mister?”
“Fuck, no, Major! I just meant—Look, I wasn’t on my way home, but being transferred pending the results of their investigation. An already-completed investigation. Sending me out on orders was just a face-saving measure my CO and—” Murphy opened his mouth but Chalmers raised a hand, eyes pleading as he rushed on. “I know what I did. Here and now, I ain’t denying it. But the information of what I did would only be available after we were shot down. You being in possession of that information tells a suspicious person you might be a participant in the program that kidnapped us. If you have similar information on others of us, you’ll want to be careful about what and how you reveal it. I’m telling you, I’ve interviewed enough shitheads to know they’re always looking to lay the blame for getting caught at someone else’s feet. In this case—” he shook his head “—I know the rest of the soldiers aren’t likely to be shits like me. But even for a straight GI-fuckin’-Joe, getting stuck in this whole fucked-up situation is gonna feel like they ‘got caught’…by something or someone. So, whatever you can do to keep people from automatically thinking you’re part of that ‘something or someone,’ the better.”
Murphy’s right eye twitched, the only sign the major wasn’t carved of ice. Then again, it actually looked more like an involuntary tic.
“I know you weren’t party to it,” Chalmers blurted, hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying, well, those ‘Nam-era snakes did coin another term, something about, ‘fragging’ COs.”
Murphy blinked. Both eyes this time. Definitely not a tic. A moment passed. Another. The major’s sharp nod was more the calving of an iceberg than anything resembling an acknowledgement that Chalmers might have a point or had managed to thaw Murphy’s disdain in the slightest.
“Frankly, I don’t have any choice but to plug you in. If ever I discover you’ve jeopardized the mission—a mission intended to secure the survival of every single one of us—I will find a way to make certain you are put out of my misery. Besides, your ability to think around certain corners like that is just the turn of mind this particular mission requires, Chief. If you can stay on mission?”
Chalmers, noticing the major had resumed calling him ‘chief’—the honorific by which warrants were usually addressed—started breathing again. Not trusting his voice, he nodded mute understanding.
“Mission-specific briefing materials and your training schedule will be available after lunch. Language training begins tonight. Sergeant Jackson—I presume you’ll want him—will join you once medically cleared. He’ll have to play catch up.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem for him. He’s a lot better at languages than me,” Chalmers said, fighting a wave of relief that Jackson would be on his side again.
“Very good. Dismissed.”
Chalmers stood, saluted, and left.
It was only when he started reading the briefing that Chalmers realized the mission was already on the operational timetable. This kind of local shit-sifting usually took months to prepare for, but Major Murphy had acted as if they could reach a useful level of language competency in weeks.
Instead of whining to command right then and there, Chalmers read the rest of the briefing materials and in due time discovered just why Murphy thought they’d be up to speed.
Virtual language instruction at ten-to-one time compression? He rubbed his forehead. Fucking unreal, the things the Doorknobs could do.
* * *
Spin One, Ten Days Later
A gesture turned off the alarm while Chalmers tried to summon the will to rise from his rack. He’d drunk too much last night. Way too much.
Jackson had needed it. It had started out in good fun: a few drinks, some shit-talking, a few more drinks. Chalmers had been happy to be out from under the fate he’d known awaited him at the end of the helo ride. Jackson had been happy to have survived the crash but was wounded behind the eyes. The liquor had pried the pain out into the open, allowed the small sergeant to begin to express it like the rot at the center of a boil: the two kids and pregnant wife left behind, hundreds of years and more miles away than anyone without a physics degree could even begin to comprehend.
Chalmers glanced across at Jackson, who was snoring, hard, in the next bunk. There at the end, Jackson’s anger had boiled over, directionless but still volcanic in its heat.
An unfamiliar guilt washed through Chalmers, made his guts churn even more than the remnants of last night’s liquor. Guilty because he, and he alone, should have been the focus of his partner’s anger. He could only suppose that Murphy hadn’t told the sergeant why, exactly, they’d both been on the helo when they were shot down. Murphy had probably thought telling Jackson would be counter to mission needs or some shit; he might even have been right to withhold the information.
But that didn’t make Chalmers feel any better. Indeed, it tested his resolve to be better. Should he tell Jackson and blow up the only relationship he’d ever been able to maintain? Just to keep the promise he’d made? Did wanting to be better—do better—with this second chance at life give him the right to fuck with Jackson’s p
eace?
Unable to find an answer, Chalmers coughed and, head pounding, sat up. He wouldn’t have moved, but two needs drove him: to relieve his bladder and drink something to float his brain, the pan of which was dry-humping every neuron into oblivion. Carefully, oh so carefully, he got up and took care of those needs, then fumbled for the medication the SpinDogs had supplied them with. They said the stuff was harvested on R’Bak, but frankly, Chalmers didn’t give a damn. Just so long as it dealt a killing blow to the hangover that threatened to make him hurl.
* * *
Spin One, Twelve Days Later
The hatch to the bay Chalmers shared with Jackson slammed open.
“Nothing,” Chalmers said automatically, feeling as if he’d been caught with one hand in the cookie jar. “Nothing useful,” he amended, slowly returning his hands to the oddly-designed SpinDog keyboard.
Jackson snorted. “Man, you have a shit startle response.” The sergeant looked, and sounded, much better than he had before his outpouring of drunken vitriol. Since then, the virtual reality language training had pretty much consumed all their time. And time, even virtual time spent slogging through the odd complexities of devolved Ktoran grammar and syntax, had apparently healed many of the festering wounds that Jackson’s binge started draining. “In fact,” Chalmer’s roommate continued after a dramatic pause, “you may have the worst startle response of anyone I’ve ever worked with. Totally useless.”
“Might be, Jacks, might be.” Chalmers rubbed his chin and the five o’clock shadow there. “But it’s only a result of my need to protect my pretty face.”
“Keep telling yourself that, man,” Jackson said, casting a meaningful look at Chalmers’ display.
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