by John Bowers
Once the bases had been restored to a livable state, Palmer's plan called for at least a skeleton crew of technicians to staff them until additional crew could be brought on board. One fighter squadron would remain as the combat complement, with more to follow. Quartermaster personnel would inventory each base, drawing up supply requisitions which would be filled by the nearest available facility.
Kamada shook his head in disbelief. Never had he seen a green junior planner come up with such detail, such a grasp of a situation. It was unreal. Palmer had even identified which squadrons should be involved with the reclamation of each base, and which should remain after the job was done — and which grunt units should make each assault. He'd footnoted his reasons for some of them, each one a morale issue. For example, he believed ZF-111 should assault and remain on board AB-131, as that squadron had been stationed there before the base fell. And he felt the 33rd Star Marines should take part in the operation, as he believed the unit needed a morale boost after the Titan disaster.
Kamada finally leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. His office windows were dark, but he was hardly aware of the time. Releasing his breath in a weary sigh, he reached for the vidphone at his elbow and punched in a preprogrammed number.
"Get me Admiral Boucher at home," he said.
Luna Base 4, Luna
Rico Martinez felt like a bastard child. He'd spent two uneventful days on ice at regimental, hidden away from the troops by his company commander because his presence might threaten the morale of Delta Company. He didn't mind it so much, because if Capt. Connor wanted to be a prick, then he didn't want to be in Delta anyway. But after three days Lt. Hackman showed up and gave him the latest developments.
"Martinez," Hackman said a little sheepishly, "the Captain sends his regrets. The transfer request was denied."
Rico didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He stared at the tall lieutenant and didn't say anything.
"Uh — the Captain hasn't decided what to do about you," Hackman continued. "He still feels that your presence might — well, you know."
"Yes, sir."
"So, for a few more days at least, he wants you to stay here. Delta Company is off limits to you."
Rico was jolted. He'd never heard of such a thing.
"What am I supposed to do, sir? Just sit around all day?"
"More or less, yes." Hackman managed a grin. "That won't be so bad, will it? No sergeants yelling at you?"
Rico shrugged. "Guess not, sir."
"It won't be too much longer, Martinez. Captain is gonna talk to some other company commanders, see if he can arrange a trade."
"Sir, I thought …"
"The request to transfer you out of the regiment was denied. But the regiment has the freedom to move you around within the unit. We do it all the time."
Rico compressed his lips and frowned. He just nodded. Hackman seemed uncomfortable.
"Do you have a problem with all this, Martinez?"
"Well, sir, it seems a little funny to me, is all."
"Funny? In what way?"
"Well, sir … the Captain seems awfully concerned about the company's morale …"
"That's right, he is. That's the only reason he's doing this."
"Yes, sir. But — what about my morale, sir?"
Hackman frowned, as if the thought were revolutionary.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, sir, if you'll pardon me for saying so — I am Delta Company, sir. I mean, I'm all that's left of the old Delta. Now I come home and nobody wants me. Sort of like you live in a house all your life, then you leave for a few days, and you come home to find somebody else living there. And they throw you out." He gazed into Hackman's eyes without wavering for ten seconds. Hackman slowly turned crimson.
"Martinez, that's crazy! I never thought I would hear such crybaby talk from a Star Marine!"
Rico felt his own face flush with anger. He clenched his teeth until his jaw bulged, took one step back, and snapped off a salute.
"Thank you for informing the private of his status, Lieutenant!" he said grimly. "The private will remain here until the Captain has time to sort it all out."
Hackman glared at him for a moment, not sure if he was being mocked. Finally he nodded, and returned the salute.
"That's better, Martinez. This will work out for everyone. You'll see."
"Yes, sir. The private is certain it will. Sir!"
Hackman turned and left the barrack. As the door closed behind him, Rico turned and kicked his rack with all his strength.
"
Chingader'!"
April 0228 (PCC) - June 0228 (PCC) – Washington City, DC, North America, Terra
If Regina Wells had wondered what she would do after the information holovid was finished, she needn't have worried. The holovid was widely distributed throughout the services, beginning with those units stationed on Terra, then Luna, and within a few weeks to the troops in the rest of the system. Regina herself was sent on an "inspection" tour of more than fifty military bases scattered all over Terra. Her arrival in most cases coincided with the initial showing of the holovid, so that the troops saw her within a few days of seeing the vid itself.
The reaction was astonishing, not least of all to Regina herself, who was totally unprepared for it. She was an instant celebrity; thousands of men whistled and cat-called her, stomping their feet and cheering as she finished speeches that were little more than a rehash of what they'd already heard. At first she didn't understand why she'd been sent on the tour, nor did she see the value of it. Until someone pointed out that the troops' reaction was clearly unrehearsed, and seeing her was a boost to their morale.
Still, she didn't understand it — she was no movie star, didn't sing or dance or strip, and had never particularly understood when someone made a fuss over her looks. But the simple fact she came to accept, mystified or not, was that, for some unfathomable reason, the majority of the fighting men she saw seemed to drool over petite redheads with green eyes. This, in spite of the fact that, on some occasions, roughly twenty percent of her audience was female, which meant the men weren't particularly starved for the sight of a woman.
"Don't try to understand it," her female bodyguard told her during a flight between appearances. "It's just the nature of the soldier. Take him away from home, make him sleep with a bunch of smelly other men, and show him a picture of a pretty girl. Then let that same girl show up in the flesh, and he'll get an instant hard-on. It doesn't make any sense, except to prove that basically they're all animals."
The tour consumed nearly six weeks. At each stop Regina endured the adulation, delivered a stand-up lecture that she wondered if anyone was listening to, and then mingled with the troops for a few hours at a banquet in her honor. She was heavily guarded to make sure no amorous soldier got more than a close look at her, and then it was off to the next stop. It was a whirlwind experience — fun and flattering, but extremely tiring.
When it ended, she was very relieved.
She returned to the Polygon on a Saturday evening, landing at Andrews SFB in an electrical storm that buffeted the rocket all over the sky. Frightened, emotionally drained, and utterly exhausted, she wanted nothing more than a hovercab to her apartment, and about twenty hours of oblivion. But as she entered the terminal building at the VIP gate and stood dripping on the carpet, she was stopped by two cryptic looking men in trench coats who regarded her with blank expressions.
"Regina Wells?" one of them asked in a clipped, no-nonsense voice.
"Yes."
He flashed her an ID badge, and her eyes widened in surprise.
"Federation Security, Miss Wells. Would you come with us, please?" He phrased it as an order, not a question.
"Hold on a minute," the bodyguard said. "What's this about? Miss Wells is on Polygon business."
"So are we, Ma'am. Who are you?"
The woman flashed her own ID.
"Special Agent Flanagan, Federation Security Forc
e. Miss Wells is in my custody."
"Not any more, Agent Flanagan. You are hereby relieved."
Flanagan's face flushed red, and she thrust her jaw in his face.
"The fuck I am! You aren't taking her anywhere until I know why!"
The faceless man stared at her a moment, making no move at all.
"You're exceeding your authority, Agent Flanagan," he said quietly. "I suggest you stand down."
"Or you'll what? Shoot me?"
"No, Ma'am. But I will arrest you."
"Who the hell is your boss? I'm filing a complaint!"
Regina stood listening to this exchange with hammering heart, a thousand thoughts kaleidoscoping through her head.
"Stop it!" she shouted, pulling Flanagan back. "What's going on? Has something happened to my father?"
The FedSec man looked blank.
"Your father, Miss?"
"Senator Wells! Has something happened to him?"
"I have no information about that, Miss Wells."
"Then am I under arrest?"
"Miss Wells, my orders are to intercept you at the spaceport and escort you to the office of the Agency. No one told me why. I just follow orders."
"And so do I!" Flanagan snapped. "If you take her anywhere, I'm going, too."
The two men exchanged glances, then the one doing the talking nodded.
"Very well. But first surrender your weapons."
"I will not!"
The men exchanged glances again, and for an instant Regina thought they might actually do something violent. Instead, they simply shrugged.
"Let's go."
Regina was puzzled and frightened. Someone else in her party promised to deliver her luggage to her apartment, and moments later she found herself squeezed into the backseat of a hovercar with Agent Flanagan. Soon they had crossed the Potomac and were skimming across Virginia. The storm hadn't abated; if anything, it was worse, buffeting the hovercar violently. After several nerve-wracking minutes, the car set down on the roof of a building Regina couldn't identify, and more security men opened the doors for them. After ID's had been checked, they took a lift down into the building.
It was Saturday night, a storm raged outside, and the building they had entered seemed almost as big as the Polygon. The place was all but deserted, almost spooky. Corridors were dimly lighted and voices echoed for what seemed like miles. The two FSF men flanked the women as they marched them down one long hallway after another, seeing no one except guards at various checkpoints, their boot heels echoing on the hard marble floor.
After what seemed forever, they arrived at a corner office and were subjected to a weapons scan, then walked through what looked like an airlock, passing through two doors, neither of which would open until the other was closed. They found themselves inside a spacious office where two more men awaited them. Regina stared at them without comprehension; neither was in uniform, and she'd never seen them before.
The man behind the desk stood and smiled. He was short and thin. He spoke to Regina's bodyguard.
"Special Agent Flanagan, isn't it?"
"Who are you?"
"My name isn't important," he said. "All you need to know is that I'm on your side."
Flanagan didn't look convinced. "Why all the cloak and dagger shit?" she demanded.
"Wartime security, Agent Flanagan. It's our job."
"Fine. My job is to deliver Miss Wells back home in one piece. I've spent six weeks watching over her, and until I'm relieved by my own boss, I'm not leaving her. I don't know who the hell you are, and you won't tell me. But I don't much like the way you operate!"
"I apologize if my methods displease you, Agent Flanagan. But there is a war on, isn't there? And none of us can be too careful these days."
"Okay. You want to talk to her, go ahead. But I'm staying right here."
"I'm afraid I can't allow that. You aren't cleared for this conversation."
As they bantered back and forth, Regina felt like a fly on the wall. They talked about her as if she weren't even there. The whole thing was a little unnerving.
"Rachel … " She licked her lips as she glanced at the man behind the desk, then turned to her bodyguard again. “I think I know what this is about. It's okay. You can wait outside."
"No way, Regina! My orders …"
"Really, Rachel. It's okay. Wait outside. Please."
Flanagan was far from convinced, but it was clear she was outnumbered here. If these men posed a threat, she was outgunned and knew it. She'd been stalling, trying to figure out what to do. Now, under Regina's gentle prodding, she allowed herself to back down.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," Regina lied. "I didn't recognize him at first, but it came back to me. Really, it's okay."
Flanagan scowled. "I'll be in the outer office. I'm not going any farther!"
"That will be fine, Agent Flanagan," the thin man smiled. "We won't be long. Thirty minutes … an hour at the most."
Flanagan muttered something, then retreated. The two men from the spaceport went with her, leaving Regina facing the thin man and his partner. The thin man had never stopped smiling.
"Please sit down, Miss Wells. I'm sure you've had an exhausting day."
He gestured to a chair, and Regina settled into it, grateful to be off her feet.
"An exhausting six weeks, actually," she said.
He nodded, then settled behind his desk and clasped his hands together.
"Tell me, Miss Wells — how is it that you recognize me? Most people don't."
In spite of her thudding heart, Regina squeezed out a sheepish smile of her own.
"Actually, I don't have a hint who you are. I just said that because I was afraid Rachel was going to get herself lasered."
The man behind the desk threw back his head and laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.
"My God!" he said after he caught his breath. "They told me you were spunky! Looks like my information was right."
She said nothing, watching him expectantly.
"I won't keep you in suspense any longer," he promised. "This gentleman is my personal assistant, Andrew Lockner. My name is Miller. I'm the Director of the Federation Intelligence Agency."
Regina's head was spinning. The FIA!
"What — what do you want with me?" she asked slowly. "Have I broken some kind of law?"
"The FIA isn't a police agency, Miss Wells," Miller said, still smiling. "If you had broken some law, you wouldn't have been brought here."
"Then I — I don't understand."
Miller kept his fingers steepled, and began to talk, reciting from memory.
"Regina Suzanne Wells, age twenty-three, five feet three inches tall, one hundred four pounds. Copper-red hair, emerald green eyes, no tattoos, a birthmark similar to an hourglass beneath the left breast. Born March 11, 0205, in Stamford, Connecticut. Father's name Henry Reagan Wells, mother's name Yvonne Starling Wells. As a child you lived in numerous locales, including Connecticut, London, Tokyo, Georgia, and California. Your grandfather, Ronald Carlin Wells, was ambassador to Vega from 0168 to 0179. Your father became an expert on Vegan affairs and became convinced in the early 90's that a Sirian invasion of Vega was imminent. Was largely ignored until the invasion did, in fact, take place; was appointed to the Federation Senate in 0195; became the leading proponent of military appropriations and led the fight to expand the Federation military.
"As your father was an expert on Vega, you became an expert on Sirius, something of an amateur but certainly far in advance of the average citizen, including your university professors. In your youth your family vacationed on Sirius a number of times, giving you personal exposure to that culture. While studying at Berkeley, you excelled in history and political science, but dropped out when confronted with a pro-Sirius professor who offended your patriotic sensibilities."
Regina gulped, her face burning. How did this man know so much?
"Have I missed anything, Miss Wells?" Peter Miller was still sm
iling.
It was astonishing. It was also humiliating. Regina felt her anger rising.
"You left out my sex life!" she retorted.
"Dated moderately in high school, rarely with the same boy twice. Had no steady boyfriend. Dated infrequently in college but kept company with Wade William Palmer, currently serving in the United Federation Fleet at the Polygon. As of your last physical six weeks ago, you were still a virgin."
Regina stood up slowly, shaking. The fear of a few minutes earlier was forgotten.
"I don't know who you think you are," she hissed, "but I am out of here. Right fucking now!"
She turned and made for the door, but it didn't open. She pressed the controls angrily, but it didn't budge. Frustrated, she pounded on it, but nothing happened. Slowly she turned and glared at Peter Miller.
"Release the door!" she demanded. "You can be sure my father will hear about this! The FIA is not above the Federation Senate!"
Miller's smile had faded slightly, though he still looked faintly amused. He gestured to the chair.
"Sit down, Miss Wells. Please. I'm sorry that you're offended; I merely wanted you to see that we've done our homework."
Regina took a step closer to her chair, but didn't sit down.
"What do you want with me?" she repeated. "Why are you doing your 'homework' on me?"
He still held his arm toward the chair, patiently.
"Please," he said. "I promise you, everything will be explained. Please, sit down."
She eyed him warily for a moment, but finally returned to the chair. She glanced at the other man — Lockner — but he said nothing. He still hadn't spoken. She sucked in a deep breath to steady her anger, then turned her clear green eyes on Miller again.
"Okay," she said. "Talk. And you'd better make it good!"
Luna Base 4, Luna
Rico Martinez's "vacation" lasted only three days. He wasn't formally restricted to quarters, but his commanding officer's desire that he not mingle with anyone from Delta Company amounted to almost the same thing. He spent the time in the VIP barracks, bored and frustrated.
