As soon as he left his own area, a discreet escort fell into position behind him. He might be supreme in his own bailiwick, but once outside it he was subject to regular CMC security.
Rude, very rude to barge in on the commanding general this way. In medieval times, Hammond would have used a herald with a trumpet to request a rendezvous on neutral ground where two sovereign lords could treat with each other as equals. Pace would have taken his time about considering the request and then responded via a herald of his own.
Hammond had no intention of getting medieval. He charged ahead, letting his escort fall further and further behind, and burst through clusters of frantically saluting military types like a gun dog flushing coveys of quail.
The airman serving as receptionist outside Pace’s office shot to his feet and quivered at full attention in the dazzle of Hammond’s general’s stars.
“At ease,” Hammond snapped, returning the salute. “Austin in there?”
“Um, he’s in a meeting with Brigadier Cassidy,” the airman quavered.
“Hmph. See if he’s got a spare scone for me.”
The airman swallowed and reached for a telephone, speaking softly and rapidly into it while Hammond let go a long breath and wondered suddenly if this was such a good idea after all. He didn’t mind facing down Pace; Cassidy was something else. He was willing to tear into Pace anytime, but he’d never quite understood the mild-mannered, steel-spined Canadian. Cassidy wasn’t quite British, but he sometimes behaved like the very image of the upper-crust, not-quite-all-there aristocrat—and he was assuredly both present and accounted for at all times. Hammond sometimes thought that without Cassidy, Pace would be completely lost as commander of Cheyenne Mountain. He didn’t bother to wonder what either man thought of him, of course.
He briefly considered going back to his office and going through channels after all—no, that would look too much like a retreat—when the door opened and Pace appeared, not at all surprised by Hammond’s early, if infuriated, arrival. “George, great to see you! Come on in. Ed and I were just having a little chat about things.”
“Scone, George?” Cassidy offered hospitably. The Canadian was attired in semi-dress uniform, with epaulets and ribbons galore. The creases in his trousers could cut glass. His black shoes gleamed with a mirror finish. By contrast, though Austin Pace could pass inspection by the most critical U.S. master sergeant, the American general in his uniform looked just the least bit disheveled.
Hammond nodded, deciding not to be put off, and took a chair across a low table from the other two men. He could play civilized with the best of them. “Thanks. Skipped breakfast this morning.” The scone disappeared quickly and efficiently, taking just enough time for Hammond to observe the twinkle in Cassidy’s eye, the deep-seated dissatisfaction in Pace’s.
“All right,” he said, washing down the last bit and setting his coffee mug down on the table with a decisive click. “Let’s get to the point. Austin, what’s this I hear about you letting reporters in for a tour?”
“One reporter,” Pace corrected automatically. “And that’s not what he’s coming as.”
“Yeah, Army beats Navy every single year,” Hammond snorted. “And I’ve got a pig who makes a great copilot.”
Cassidy chuckled openly. Hammond glared. Cassidy chuckled again.
“He’s going to be escorted every minute,” Pace said. “Yes, we’re doing this as a favor to his father, but he’s not going anywhere near your bailiwick. And we have a few things we’d rather not share, too, you know.” He glanced pointedly at the door to his office, outside of which Hammond’s escort waited patiently. Need to Know cut both ways. “I don’t intend to lose control of the situation, George.”
Hammond grunted, not yet sure he was mollified. “You’re taking all precautions, of course.”
“Naturally,” Pace said frostily. “Kinsey will be under escort at all times. We’re not interested in turning loose a reporter any more than you are. Particularly this one. He’s got a reputation as a good reporter, been in action. I’ve talked to some of my colleagues, and they say he’s had the opportunity to blow operations and knew when to keep his mouth shut. But he’s also fried a couple of commanders for breakfast for stupid decisions, cost them their careers. You heard about the Pinxley scandal? That was Kinsey.”
Cassidy added, “We’re told he’s doing a review piece for the Washington Observer on the current state of space defense. I think we’ve got more to worry about than you do, George.”
Hammond doubted that—the existence of NORAD, at least, wasn’t any secret—but he decided to borrow a tactic from Sun Tzu and change directions, at least for the moment. Kinsey might have precipitated his coming up here ahead of schedule, but they did still have an agenda for this meeting, and he wanted to get those issues sorted out too. “All right. I’ll take your word for it for the time being—let’s not borrow trouble. As long as I’m here, let’s get to business. We’ve got some other problems to talk about—they’re on the memo I sent up earlier.”
“Oh, challenges, surely, George? Let’s not characterize them as problems before we’ve even had a chance to look at them.” Cassidy set his cup back on the saucer with a discreet clatter of porcelain. The Canadian supplied his own cup; both Pace and Hammond preferred mugs for their caffeine, the larger the better.
“Well, I must say it certainly was a challenge to find out how you proposed to refit your entire internal communications system at Blue Book’s expense.” Hammond settled back into his leather chair to begin battle. He could feel his initial anger at the identity of the reporter ebbing as they moved on to more mundane issues. It wasn’t NORAD’s fault, after all. And maybe it would turn out to be only a tempest in a teapot after all.
Pace coughed as a swallow of scone went down the wrong way. Cassidy smiled peacefully, maintaining a position as neutral observer, rather like a judge at a tennis match. Point to Hammond for the unexpected serve.
“You admitted that it was your project that practically brought the mountain down around our ears,” Pace volleyed back once the obstruction in his throat had been cleared. “And our memorandum of understanding when you moved in clearly stated that you would assume all costs of…”
“And we have. We fixed our little problem. Haven’t had any vibration for, oh, months. Have we?”
“The damage still exists. And you have an obligation to assist us in maintaining our battle readiness—”
“Which I have done, and continue to do. Those repairs were made, Austin, and you know it. What you’re asking for now amounts to a complete upgrade of internal communications for the whole damn mountain, and that’s unreasonable.”
“I see no reason why—”
“I do. We’re very much aware that you’ve been a gracious host, and we’ve tried to be a cooperative guest, but the fact that we’ve had a shakedown cruise”—he ignored Cassidy’s snort of amusement at the pun—“in no way implies that you can use us to justify your brand-new bells and whistles.”
Pace glared. “George, are you sure you’re not a Navy man?”
“No, but I can swear like a sailor if you want me to.”
“All right, all right.” Pace lifted a hand in defeat. “I’ll have my financial people look at the numbers again. It’s possible they could have misplaced a decimal point.”
Hammond just barely refrained from expressing raw skepticism. It was rather more than one decimal point. He’d won, though, and he knew better than to gloat. Next time it would be Pace’s turn, and Hammond would be the one having to back down on an issue. Best not to leave ill feelings behind.
“All right, then. We may be able to contribute something to the communications interface. I’ll see if I’ve got anything left in the budget that will help.” He was feeling downright generous now, and decided to close one more loop on the original subject while he was at it. “Oh yes, one more thing about our unexpected visitor. I’d like a full itinerary sent down to my Chief of Staff’s offic
e, if you don’t mind, so I’ll know where to keep my people away from. And some information about his escort, too.”
“Well, that part shouldn’t present any problems.” Pace was visibly relieved at the relaxing of tension in the room. “The escort has already been fully briefed and knows the ropes. He’s one of yours, in fact.”
“Oh?” One brow arched high. “How do you mean, one of mine?”
“Yes,” Pace went on, warming to the concept. He actually leaned forward across his desk, clasping his hands together. “The escort used to work for you right here in the Complex, in fact. It’s Bert Samuels. Lieutenant Colonel Bert Samuels.”
“Major Morley.” Janet Frasier’s soft voice demanded Morley’s attention as he sat numbly at the table. The rest of the meeting had long since packed itself up and headed to its respective next stops. Even Frasier had left. He was the only one with no place to go. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting, but it didn’t matter, did it?
And now the doctor was back. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to deal with the chief medical officer again.
“Major.” She wasn’t going to go away.
“What do you want?” He didn’t bother to open his eyes to look at her. It was nice and dark and safe behind his eyelids, and he didn’t have to see the looks on the faces of the others, the contempt, the disgust, the pity. He saw enough other things behind his closed eyelids to punish himself with; he didn’t need the so-called empathy of his so-called peers on top of it.
“I’d like you to come back to Medical with me,” she said.
He could hear the rustle of her crisp slacks as she slid into the chair next to him. One cool hand covered his intertwined fingers—without pressure, without anything other than simple human contact. Behind his eyelids, he could feel the burning of salt.
“I know that you’re profoundly upset,” she went on. “I’d like to prescribe something to help you through the next couple .of days. Nothing long-term.”
He inhaled sharply, the force of it lifting his head up and back, and then let it go and got up, pulling his hands out from under hers as he shoved back his chair and moved around the table to stand by the window wall that overlooked Level C-2. Almost two stories below, he could see figures moving around the Stargate and its metal ramp, like ants cleaning up around their nest or scavenging for food. A series of probes were lined up like patient donkeys, waiting their turn to be used. Technicians were still giving them last-minute checks.
The Gate belched open abruptly, and he flinched at the roar and billow of blue plasma. By the time the roiling energy had settled into the shimmering surface that was the entrance to the wormhole between worlds, he had recovered himself. He was peripherally aware of Frasier standing beside him, watching as the first probe rolled forward, into the shimmer, and vanished.
“Amazing, isn’t it,” she said. She was watching the activity below them, as technicians began recording data about the probe’s journey through the warp of space and about its nearly instantaneous arrival at its destination, lit by a sun unimaginably far away. Several of the technicians were gathered now around the main data console, pointing out details to each other from the various displays. The probes gathered information ranging from atmospheric and meteorological to visual scans of its immediate vicinity and transmitted them back to Earth—the only kind of transmission that could be sent through the wormhole in reverse.
“Yeah,” he answered at last. “Amazing. It sure is.” Nothing in his tone reflected the sense of his words. “People ought to know about it.”
“I used to dream about going into space,” she remarked wistfully. “Rocket ships and Stand By For Mars! Did you read science fiction when you were a kid, Major?”
He shook his head abruptly, as if casting off some minor irritation. “Still do. Brin, Clement, Pournelle. But it’s nothing like what’s out there.” He turned away from the window as the Gate closed. The sudden cessation of noise rang in their ears.
The technicians below would try to contact the probe again later, assuming the doughty little machine survived. Meanwhile, there were others waiting to go as soon as new coordinates and new worlds could be located. “What’s out there is just like here. Just as bad. War is war no matter where it is.”
Frasier’s brows arched in surprise. “Surely not? They’re alien worlds, after all.”
“They’re war zones,” he snapped. “The weapons are a little different, maybe, but that’s all. Maybe the things using them aren’t…” He stopped abruptly.
She tilted her head, thinking about it. “I don’t agree. The teams have told us about too many different worlds, different people. They’re not all humans, seeded by the Goa’uld. There are adventures out there.”
For the first time he looked her full in the face, the overhead light catching the bruises on his face and making them stand out with brutal clarity. “There’s death out there, Doctor. Death and a war we can’t win. We ought to shut the damn Gate down and forget about poking sticks at the System Lords and everything else out there. One of these days we’re going to poke too hard. They’re going to come after us sooner or later, and when they do they’re going to win. We might as well just get ready for it.”
“Rather defeatist, don’t you think?” she said mildly.
“Realistic,” he snapped. “And forget about drugging me up, Doctor. I don’t need any chemical help to know what day it is. We ought to be protecting our own turf, building up our own defenses. People ought to know what’s going on. Because one of these days the Jaffa are going to arrive and catch this whole world flat-footed, and people are going to die just like my team died.”
It was always easier to admit being defeated by an invincible enemy, she thought. If failure was inevitable, there wasn’t any shame in failing.
“I know there are people who agree with you, Major. Politicians—”
“Like Kinsey. He had the right idea. Shut the damn thing down.”
“Nonetheless,” she said firmly, “I expect you in my office in the next twenty minutes, Major. I understand that this mission was a terrible blow, but you haven’t had time to build any kind of perspective about it. All I want to do is give you a head start on objectivity.”
“Objectivity,” he repeated, with a hollow chuckle. “How many casualties does it take to be objective?”
“Twenty minutes, Major.” She made a point of checking the time on her wristwatch, glanced once more at him, and then made her way out of the room.
Morley’s behavior, while more extreme than some, was certainly understandable, she thought. He was a good man, a poor leader, and had severely bad luck. None of that was his fault.
She hoped he really would show up down in Medical; she had an antidepressant in mind that would do wonders for him for the time being. Meanwhile, she’d look in on the casualties and make sure there weren’t any changes on that front.
He’d set foot on an alien world, felt the light of an alien star, and didn’t even appreciate it. Life, she concluded, wasn’t fair.
Normally George Hammond was cool, calm, and self-possessed. He prided himself on his ability to remain calm under fire.
There were some things, however, that would make him go up like a Titan rocket, and that name was one of them.
“Who?” he roared, launching himself out of his chair and slamming his palms down on Pace’s maple guest table. The tea tray bounced and clattered. He wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t hear, behind him, the sudden stillness coming from Cassidy; it was enough to let him catch hold of himself before the second stage of his temper ignited.
“Samuels. Bert Samuels. Used to be your aide, assigned here, if I’m not mistaken.” Pace wasn’t about to be pushed around. “Sit down, dammit, George, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack. What’s the big deal about Samuels, anyway?”
“That little—” Hammond caught himself abruptly. It would be poor politics—poor tactics—to admit that Samuels, who, after all, had more intimate
knowledge of Project Blue Book—as the Stargate project was now known outside its own confines—than either of the other two men in the room, was a conniving little-He sat back down and composed himself.
“Let’s just say that Samuels isn’t the person I would have chosen for the job,” he said icily. “But it doesn’t surprise me in the least. He’s been associated with the senator. It makes sense that he’d volunteer to escort the son. You’re going to find yourselves on the front page of the Washington Observer, you know.”
“While you and Blue Book hide discreetly behind our skirts.”
Hammond looked Pace in the eye. “You’re damned right.”
Pace sat back in his chair and said nothing.
Hammond took a deep breath. “All right. I don’t want him anywhere near my project, but we all understand that. I don’t like Samuels escorting him, but that’s out of our hands. How long is he supposed to be here?”
“Three hours,” Cassidy responded. The Canadian brigadier had taken the opportunity, while Hammond and Pace spoke, to review the schedule for the day. “The regular briefing in the Visitors Center, a few minutes to clear the area, and then Samuels will bring him inside. We’ll meet with him and give him the old God-Save-the-Queen, er, Republic, speeches. He should be in our actual hair for only an hour or so, from about 1300 to 1400, and shouldn’t have anything to do with you lot at all.”
Hammond nodded sharply in approval. “All right then. We’ll take the appropriate actions.” He was still seething; every time that name came up—either name in fact, Kinsey or Samuels—it meant trouble. He should never have lost it that way. Cassidy and Pace were exchanging meaningful glances over his head as it was.
He took a deep breath and tried to bring the discussion back to the regular Friday agenda. “All right, you can tell that Samuels isn’t my favorite person, but I’m going to trust you to keep him and his tame reporter where they belong. Meanwhile, let’s deal with some of the other issues on the table and see if we can get back to business. My personnel tell me they’re getting some flak from your procurement people—”
03 - The First Amendment Page 5
