"I don't know, Tom,” Washington admitted then. “But maybe it's something to try to look into, one of these days when we actually have time."
Waterman settled back into his chair, trying to will his befuddled mind to settle as well. “Okay. Investigation for a future day. Maybe we can find his remains and take some of our Crispies to see them, and they can pick up something."
"Maybe. Supposedly his ashes are in a museum in Serbia. If they really are his ashes."
"That makes it easy. Now, back to our preparations. What about infantry?"
"The personal quantum shields and invisibility torcs are already in the field. We've got hand held disintegrators that are essentially duplicates of the Crispies’ rings, in pistol form,” Caleb noted, his voice indicating he was having difficulty shifting gears. “The foot soldiers will also have teleforce rifles, and each unit will be outfitted with one or more sonic concussors."
"Why just one per unit?"
"They're kind of big. Think... oh, rocket launcher, or the old bazooka."
"Oh. Okay, go ahead."
"Cavalry—to include tanks, aircraft, et cetera—will have, in addition to the biggest honking conventional shells we can handle, disintegrator cannons, teleforce cannons, and sonic concussors,” Washington declared. “Well, I take that back—it was decided not to put the concussors on airborne craft, due to the possibility of destabilizing their flight. Those will be on tanks and armored personnel carriers, though. And we might have a few hovertanks by then."
"Really? Excellent,” Waterman was pleased.
"We're working hard on it,” Caleb averred. “And we've got specialized, replaceable and rechargeable batteries for the smaller vehicles, like tanks, to operate the new equipment. It's based on a combination of Crispy and human technology. For heavy active duty—that is to say, battle—they last a couple of hours, so we have backups aboard. We have to scale up the weight of what the Crispy devices could handle for everything, but we're awfully close."
"How soon?"
"Now that we've got the regular military to help out, within a week or ten days, sir."
"Wonderful! But you're not...” Waterman began, letting his tone drop for emphasis.
"No sir. Nobody outside SFREC personnel and the top brass—and our allies’ equivalents—know the actual secrets. We're just using the regular military to help deploy."
"Okay. Good.” Waterman drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, and there was a temporary silence. Caleb Washington broke it.
"There's something else on your mind, isn't there, sir?"
"Yeah, Caleb, there is,” Waterman admitted. “Our non-allies. We promised to protect the entire planet."
"I know, sir,” Washington sighed. “We can't give them the technology because we can't trust them with it. And we can't create a planetary shield. But we've got weapons deployed in orbit around the planet, and we have starships to send out against the Snappers, and troops that can be mobilized, with high tech weapons. And if I remember right, sir, you promised to TRY, not to DO."
"Yeah, yeah,” Waterman murmured. “I hear everything you're saying, Caleb. We can only do our best. And even with all of our new tech, there's still no guarantee. Still, after seeing the video of those concentration camps... Caleb, I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy.” He paused, considering, then amended his statement. “Well, maybe on the Snappers themselves, but..."
"Yeah. I know,” Caleb said, falling back into familiarity. “But look at it this way, Tom. They seem to be focused on the Cresperian system. They might not even come here."
"Are you proposing we leave the Cresperian home world to its fate?” Waterman wondered.
"No, no! Not at all."
"Then they're going to find out about us,” Waterman pointed out. “Chances are they're smart enough to put two and two together. After all, we've already had a scout ship come to observe from the edge of our system."
"True,” Washington argued, “but if we suddenly show up on their flanks at Cresperia and whup some Snapper ass—and I'm talking about total eradication, which I believe we can achieve—they might not have a chance to figure it out, or even get out a distress call. And they'll definitely think twice before coming after us in our home system, even if they do."
"You know better than that, Caleb. First off, we haven't gone up against a Snapper force of this magnitude before. There's no guarantee, as you pointed out. And you know the old adage: ‘No battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy.’ Second, even as fast as things seem to go in a battle—and remember, I served, when I was younger—there's always somebody whose job it is to send out that distress signal IMMEDIATELY. It only makes sense. The Snappers may be ruthless, but they are obviously extremely intelligent. So they won't have neglected that duty. Third, we don't know for certain that we have a good line on ALL their weaponry. And last, if they're as egotistical and empire minded as they seem, they're going to see an ass busting as a challenge, not a deterrent."
A sigh came from the other end of the phone. “I know, Tom. I know everything you're saying is true. But I have to believe my scenario is at least a possibility. Otherwise, I'm throwing away good men and women, and possibly two entire planets as well, on what amounts to no more than a massive suicide mission.” There was a silence on the line. “We've already started tactical planning for a mission to Cresperia here. It can be mounted within about a week of the return of the Starskipper. We've code named it Snap, Crackle, Pop. What's the word on our allies in that regard?"
Waterman shook his head, fully realizing that Washington couldn't see it, but unable to stop the expression of disgust. “They'd have been ready days ago if we hadn't had to delay for... a certain diplomat."
"Well... maybe the delay was worthwhile, after all,” Washington soothed. “We're getting some really good intelligence information out of this mission."
"We are, that,” Waterman admitted. “Is Captain Preston annoyed that his ship went out without him?"
"No sir. He—and his handpicked crew—understood the dynamics of the situation, especially once they saw the makeup of the volunteer crew. In fact Preston took the time to give Lieutenant Anderson a rundown of command functions."
"That's a mark in his favor."
"He's a good man. He'll be a good starship commander too. He's got some experience—sea-based, but experience, just the same. And he understands the notion of a three dimensional battle better than some Air Force officers."
"All right, Caleb, I won't take up any more of your time. Thanks for keeping me in the loop."
"Any time, sir."
Waterman hung up.
The next day, the USSS Starskipper returned home safely with all hands. They debarked, decidedly solemn, and Lieutenant Anderson formally transferred command of the vessel back to Captain Preston.
"Good job, Anderson,” Preston murmured. “You AND your crew."
"Thank you, sir,” Anderson replied. “We... had a vested interest."
"I understand entirely. And thank you for taking good care of my ‘girl.’”
Hand grinned slightly. “I would have said it was the other way around, Captain."
The two men chuckled.
"You have to understand, Tom, emotionally they're pretty stressed,” Admiral Terhune explained to President Waterman in the president's private office. “It was a helluva mission. Not only did they have to be on constant alert, running a gauntlet of literally thousands of enemy ships—I have it to understand that none of the crew got any sleep for... well, for about as long as Cresperians and enhanced humans CAN go without going over the edge. But they also had to deal with the horrors of seeing what had happened to Cresperia and its people. And some of the crew ARE its people, and all of the rest have emotional ties of at least friendship, and in half the cases, mating. They're hurting."
"How much rest have they gotten?” Waterman asked, concerned.
"The trip back took about half a day. They split that up into two shifts, so by t
he time they landed, everyone had had about six hours of sleep. And they're all sleeping on the trip in to the Enclave. Now, how restful that sleep has been is another question..."
Waterman nodded in grim understanding.
"Can the debrief wait until tomorrow?” Terhune pressed.
Waterman gazed somberly at Terhune. “You know better than that, Wayne. If we're going to save Cresperia, we have to move soon. It's already almost too late, according to what I've seen."
Terhune slumped. “You're right, of course."
"But what we can do,” Waterman continued, “is to video conference them in from SFREC. Saves them an additional trip, as well as the stress of being face to face with... certain people."
"It's a plan,” Terhune agreed. “I anticipate their arrival in about two hours. Give ‘em an additional half an hour to freshen up, and we'll hold the meeting."
"No,” Waterman countermanded firmly. “I want Sandra to see the hell they went through, on their faces. Bring them straight to the conference."
"Yes SIR."
Sixteen very tired and distressed spacefarers arrived back at the Brider Enclave. Immediately they were met by General Washington's staff and ushered to his video conference room. Washington was there waiting.
"Sorry to do this, ladies and gentlemen,” he apologized softly, seeing the pallid faces. “D.C. wants to see you soonest. We're hoping your personal reactions will help influence... certain parties... to cooperate."
"Gotcha,” Kyle Leverson nodded his tired understanding. “But can we hurry this up? Otherwise you're liable to have a sleeping crew on your hands, and that wouldn't look good at all..."
"Assuming any of us could actually sleep,” Bang muttered.
"Counseling and anything else you need, including medication, is only waiting on the end of this video conference,” Washington offered gently. “Are you all ready?"
Sixteen weary nods.
Washington nodded at the conferencing technician in the corner.
In a secure room in the Pentagon, the Joint Chiefs, the Vice President, the President, and his defense and diplomacy advisors on the Cabinet, met together as the video conference feed came up. “Are our allies here?” Waterman asked.
"United Kingdom."
"Canada."
"Australia."
"Belgium."
"Germany..."
When the roll call had ceased, Waterman nodded. “Is everyone obtaining the video?"
"Yes, President Waterman,” a Belgian official noted. “All allies, NATO and adjunct, report in that they are receiving the feed well."
"Then let me turn this meeting over to my Secretary of Defense.” Waterman took his seat, and the Defense Secretary rose.
"The first thing I'd like to show,” Martin Singletary, chairing the meeting, declared, “is the evidence brought back from Cresperia by the covert team."
Without further preamble, he clicked a button on the remote control in his hand. An image of a beautiful green, gold, and blue world appeared. “This is what Cresperia looked like during the visit of the Galactic,” he declared. He hit another button; a scorched and devastated planet appeared, black and brown replacing the serene blues and greens. “This is what it looks like now."
The planet spun at an accelerated rate, allowing those observing to see the entire surface in a matter of mere moments. Several obscenities were murmured beneath the level of hearing of those present, by those present.
"Now let me show you the planet up close and personal,” Singletary said grimly, clicking another button.
A montage of images flickered by: A huge crater, its bottom filled with ruined buildings. Half a mountain range, ravaged of foliage; the other half of the range had been replaced with a series of craters. Once lush fields, now blackened and bare. A dry river bed, full of dead water creatures, its ancient glacial water source obliterated. Ten more cratered remains of cities. Fields strewn with Cresperian bodies beginning to rot.
And the concentration camps. More than a dozen; each depicting some new horror. Mass executions, some swift via laser; some less so, as the indigenous populace were crowded into a tiny, fenced space and left outside in the elements with neither food nor water. A few tiny animals were seen to scurry out through the fencing, and one or two of the audience more knowledgeable of Crispies privately wondered if these were truly animals, or morphed Crispies escaping while they could.
But it was the video of the lab that turned everyone sick. John Tomlinson had managed to spot a surface building with a large skylight in its roof, and used his spy equipment to peer through it. Inside were rows of tables, a Cresperian strapped to each. Snappers with what appeared to be medical implements stood over them.
As they watched, Sandra Fellowes suddenly screamed. “Oh my God!” she cried. “They're dissecting them alive!"
"And conscious,” Singletary pointed out, “with no discernible anesthetic. It's called vivisection, technically."
"Mein Gott,” a soft, horrified German voice came through the audio feed. “The Nazi regime vas bad, but..."
"L'olam lo suv,” another voice responded firmly. “Never again."
"There's one last thing you need to see,” Singletary said, as the video continued to play.
Suddenly it was depicting the fierce battle between a Snapper contingent and a large group of Crispies, backed by Major Bennett's Cresperian deployment of Space Marines. Gradually they beat back the Snappers, eliminating the enemy unit, before disappearing into a lush green forest.
"They are learning to fight, then,” a crisp English voice noted.
"They are,” Singletary agreed, “of necessity. Note that the Cresperian force was twice the size of our Marine force, and was taking the lead in the fighting. It has been dubbed the CRF—Cresperian Resistance Force—by our observation crew. I have been told that one of the Crispy crewmembers remarked on the planet's ‘loss of innocence.’ Here is the proof of that."
"Sad,” Salter shook his head.
"Now,” Singletary said, “I'm going live to the starship crew that risked their lives to slip into the midst of the Snapper fleet to obtain this imagery, as well as tactical data and information that may aid us in freeing Cresperia.” He stared at Secretary of State Fellowes, who flinched under his gaze and dropped her head. “Ladies and gentlemen, are you there?"
The image flickered and changed to the room where the Starskipper's former crew sat in the Enclave. “We're here, sir,” General Washington noted. “They're a bit the worse for wear, emotionally as well as physically, but everyone's here and safe."
The camera panned around the room, depicting the weary, pale, disturbed faces.
"Are there any questions for the crew?” Singletary asked.
"What are your feelings right now?” Waterman wondered.
Lieutenant Anderson stood. “Hank Anderson, Lieutenant, White Horse. Sir, I think I can speak for everyone when I say that we're...” His voice cracked, and he broke off for a moment, then resumed. “We're upset, horrified, haunted, and flat dead on our feet. But sleep isn't so good right now...” He stopped, opened his mouth to speak again, then closed it and sat down.
"You're soldiers,” Fellowes pointed out. “Surely you're used to seeing death."
Bang gritted his teeth, then rose. “Gunny Sergeant Edward Bangler, White Horse,” he declared, deliberately allowing his pride to come through in his voice, not caring whether Fellowes recognized him or not. Judging by her blank expression, she didn't, which didn't surprise anyone. “Ma'am, excuse me, but no one ever gets ‘used to’ seeing death. And NO one can deal with seeing it in that magnitude, and with that degree of callousness. In addition to which, about one fourth of our crew were converted Crispies, not soldiers. Watching... feeling... their pain... was almost as bad as what we saw on the planet."
"But surely these are just aliens to you,” Fellowes probed. “It isn't like you were witnessing humans being killed. Why are you humans so perturbed?"
"Says the master di
plomat,” Terhune noted sarcastically out of the side of his mouth.
"If I may,” Gordon Stuart broke in, standing, and Bang sat down.
"Yes, Mr. Ambassador,” Singletary said, overriding whatever Fellowes had been about to say. “Please."
"Just before the Snapper invasion of Cresperia, my wife, Dr. Mai Le Trung, and I made an important discovery. We haven't had a chance to follow through on it. But as fully another quarter of the crew are either mates or significant romantic interests of the Cresperians on board... and are enhanced... I would like to ask the crew a question."
"Please, proceed,” Singletary said.
"Jeri, Sira, Piki—when was the last time you had to... ‘update'... the enhancements on your men?” Gordon wondered.
Jeri and Sira both blinked. “Not in a long time,” Jeri realized. “A LONG time."
"Not since well before the wedding,” Sira added.
Piki pondered. “I have not been with Bang-bang as long as the others,” she said, “nor has our... relationship... been as close. But it has been several weeks since I had to ‘fix’ him."
"I submit as a working hypothesis that their genetics have adapted to the new configuration, as we Crispies had originally intended, but which information was evidently never properly passed on to them,” Gordon suggested. “They have, in essence, accepted their new ‘programming’ and are now maintaining it on their own."
Bang raised a hand. “Could it be more than that, at this point?"
"What do you mean?” Gordon asked.
Bang shook his head. “On the Starskipper,” he began, “when we first started seeing scenes of the... the slaughter... and you got upset...” He broke off and flushed. “For a few seconds there, it was like I... like I knew what you were feeling."
"Yes,” Piki declared then. “I have noticed it in you of late, Bang-bang. You are a naturally gentle, sensitive man, and I believe you are developing a weak perceptive sense."
"I've... been doing the same thing,” Kyle volunteered a bit reluctantly. “And for... oh, shit, maybe a year or so now. Half the time, Jeri and I don't even need to talk these days."
The Cresperian Alliance Page 20
