Tales From the War (Kinsella Universe Book 5)

by Gina Marie Wylie

  In the two days since the first warning, stories of the initial battles had filled the news. First the horrific destruction at Gandalf; then the attack on Fleet World, and now the list of systems that were expected to be attacked grew daily. Only Fleet World had survived, but at the cost of 3 out of 5 of the defending ships. Today was the first public effort on the part of the Federation to meet the challenge.

  The young woman pushed steadily towards her goal, a table where three Fleet petty officers sat, listening to questions from the young men and women in front of them, who would then frantically write their answers on forms. Of all of the recruiting tables, Fleet Aloft’s was the least crowded. At least two-thirds of the people were waiting to sign up for the Campbell’s Defense Force or the Fleet’s Port arm’s recruiting table. A foolish few who were more interested in glory and adventure than living to a ripe old age were standing in front of the Fleet Marine table.

  The young woman permitted herself a sniff of contempt. Silly fools. It was Fleet Aloft that was going to keep them safe -- if anyone could. Of course, Fleet casualties had already been high and were going to be much higher before this was over.

  Finally she staked her place in line and then kept it by keeping an eagle eye and not being afraid to poke someone more interested in short cuts than following the rules. Still, while no apparent emotion was obvious on her face, she fretted. This was taking too long. The line inched forward infrequently and Donna did not have forever. She checked again for the busy bodies. She must have done a better job than she had figured on them.

  An hour passed. She was getting close to the table now; only a half dozen or so applicants stood between her and her goal. For a change the young man at the head of the line was quickly pointed to another queue, much shorter -- a medical referral. The next two were young women, like herself. Whatever they said to the recruiters wasn’t appreciated. Both of them were on their way in less than a minute.

  Closer now she could see a little more detail. The NCO seated in the middle of the table was the senior of the trio. He had three solid rows of ribbons, showing that he’d been around the block a few times. The other two were younger, but both had the air of men who were competent at what they did. And for the first time she noticed the officer standing behind the table, lazily surveying the crowd, only occasionally glancing at his three subordinates.

  He was a senior lieutenant with no ribbons. Hispanic, she thought. His left arm was in a sling, and when he shifted position slightly she noticed just a slight hardening of his eyes. Was he in pain? Was the Fleet so beat up that they would put a gimp officer on recruiting duty on the first day of open recruiting for the war? Or was it some sort of warning about what lay ahead? She shrugged to herself. None of that made any difference to her. Fleet was what she wanted.

  Suddenly the petty officer at the end of the table said, “Next!” and gestured at Donna. She took the two steps to stand in front of him confidently, boldly, meeting his eyes.

  “Name?” he asked, his voice bored and he wasn’t looking at her, just the application form in front of him.

  “Donna Merriweather.”

  “Age and sex?”

  She didn’t laugh. “Eighteen, female.”

  The junior petty officer lifted up his gaze to her face and stared at her with cold eyes. “Age limit for enlistment is eighteen without your parent’s permission, seventeen with. Penalty for lying on the application, subject to the current state of emergency,” he paused, “well, I wouldn’t do it, if I were you. Age?”

  “Eighteen.”

  He looked at her steadily. “Let me see your ID please, Miss.”

  For a second the petty officer detected cold icy rage in the girl’s eyes. He blinked, not believing what he’d just seen. When he looked back her eyes were again placid and blue, and she was fumbling in her pack. She pulled out her wallet and handed him the plastic card. He was no longer sure that he’d seen what he’d seen. And why? About an ID?

  He looked at the card, then back at her, tapping the ID card on his crooked index finger. “I certainly admire your spirit, miss,” he told the girl forthrightly, “but this card will never fly.”

  He held it up. “It’s a little new, don’t you think? Yet it says here that it was issued four years ago. You must take very good care of it.” He waved the card at her in an insulting manner. “Look, it’s no big deal. Talk to your parents -- I’m sure they’ll understand. Come back with a signed, notarized, permission and you’ll be on the shuttle with the rest of the enlistees.” He smiled pleasantly.

  Again he saw the cold rage on her face. It had been real. He didn’t see or hear anything behind him, but he sensed the lieutenant move to stand behind him.

  “My ID is perfectly in order,” the young woman’s voice was level and firm.

  The PO held the card up and the lieutenant took it. “Miss, ah?”

  “Donna Merriweather.”

  “Yes, Miss Merriweather. It is Miss, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  The officer examined the card carefully. It did indeed look new. He held it close to his nose and sniffed. There was no trace of volatiles -- at least it hadn’t been cooked up yesterday. He looked over the young woman carefully. “I think you were prettier with your hair longer.”

  For a second Donna was confused, and then she realized what he was doing.

  “My hair has always been short, just like me. I’ve wanted to join the Fleet since I was twelve. That was six years ago, Lieutenant.” Her gaze rested for a second, her contempt obvious, on the empty area over his left blouse pocket. “You have my word that that ID card is mine, and everything on it is correct.” She stared him in the eye. “You have my word, Lieutenant.”

  He inclined his head and regarded her steadily. She was either one of the great actresses of all time, or she was telling him the truth.

  He nearly laughed, but from the look in her eyes, that would be a mistake. Behind her he caught a movement in the crowd. Two men were pushing their way through the throng, ignoring the complaints. Two very large men. The girl saw his focus and she glanced behind her.

  “Crap!” The word from the young-appearing girl surprised both the petty officer and the lieutenant.

  She leaned down, yanked the application from the PO’s grip and scribbled her signature in the block for it.

  The man in the lead stopped a few feet away and said harshly, “Miss, you should come with us now. Please, let’s not cause any more fuss.”

  “Drop dead, Kruger!”

  She waved the application in front of him. “I’ve enlisted. I’m the Fleet’s, now. Go piss up a rope!” She slapped the paper back down on the table, out of his reach.

  The lieutenant wanted to smile. She was so tiny and looked so young -- at least at first glance -- if you ignored the icy rage in her eyes. She seemed to be mild looking, with a baby face, a cute button nose, turned up. He wouldn’t want to tell that gorilla to do anything, much less do it rudely. Everyone within a hundred feet was watching what was going on, and that seemed to discomfit the two men more than the girl’s rudeness.

  The man in front smiled politely -- although it appeared to be an enormous effort. “Miss, just give me that paper and we’ll leave. Don’t worry; this can be taken care of.” He held out his hand and when nothing happened after a second, he made an impatient gesture with his fingers at the lieutenant.

  The man rubbed the lieutenant the wrong way. It wasn’t just the way he looked, the way he talked, or the way he carried himself. It was all of it.

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t have it,” the lieutenant responded without raising his voice. “The application is a Fleet official document. I’m not sure of much this second, but this I know: the young lady has enlisted in Fleet Aloft. If she lied about her age, or anything else on her application, why, she’ll spend a few days in the stockade before getting the boot. But for now, she’s ours. You run along.”

  The man reached for the paper, and the petty officer pulle
d it back. The larger of the two men waved his hand imperiously, obviously wanting the application. The petty officer merely smiled and shook his head, not even bothering to check with his officer. He didn’t like this pair either. The big man glared, and said in a firm voice, “Miss, tell them to give that to me. We don’t want a scene here. This will not do any good, Miss. Please, tell them to give it to me.”

  Instead she turned to the PO. “Where do I report for the shuttle?”

  The other man stepped up and took her arm. “Come along Miss! This isn’t funny!”

  The lieutenant’s was mild and understated as was his wont. “Take your hand off her, mister, or I’ll call the cops!” The lieutenant had been well briefed -- at the first sign of a problem; he was to call the local security forces. He had, in fact, already done so.

  The first speaker looked at him coldly. “You silly bugger! We are the police!”

  A voice said quietly, but forcefully. “Kruger! Enough!” Distracted, no one had noticed another man come through the crowd. The newcomer, was, the lieutenant thought, obviously an officer.

  The newcomer held two fingers to his right eyebrow in what might have been a salute to the young woman. “Miss, you have signed the application?” She nodded. The officer turned to the two thugs. “Pack it in, Kruger. Return to your office and prepare a report. Have it on my desk by the end of the day. A full and complete report, Kruger.”

  Ignoring the man, the newcomer bowed slightly to the young woman. “You did a very nice job on the surveillance, Miss. It was very competent. I wish you the best of luck.”

  Kruger, if that was the man’s name, exploded. “You can’t just let her go! My God! How can I put that in my report?”

  The older man looked at the lieutenant. “She has properly applied to the Fleet? She signed her application?”

  “Subject to verification of her identity documents, yes,” the lieutenant replied.

  A thin smile appeared on the senior cop’s face. “This?” He picked up the ID card from the table and examined it. “It is correct. Quite correct. Incomplete, in one inconsequential detail; a detail that, in fact, most people omit, but it is otherwise correct.”

  “She is eighteen?” the lieutenant pressed him on the point.

  “For the last three weeks,” the policeman said dryly.

  “She is under surveillance? Is she a criminal?”

  The officer smiled slightly. “I said that, did I not? No, Miss, ah,” he glanced at the card to get the name and then smiled broadly when he saw it. His voice was calm. “Miss Merriweather is neither a criminal, nor suspected of criminal activities. The surveillance is protective in nature.”

  Kruger spoke up. “Sir, I insist that we return her to, to...”

  The officer turned to him and his flat expression was like a bird eying a worm. “You were about to say something, Kruger?”

  “No, sir.”

  The lieutenant tried to memorize the look the officer had given the policeman. He’d like to be able to use that himself one day.

  “Good. We’re creating a spectacle here. I told you once already to pack it in, Kruger. Return to your office. That is an order.”

  The dapper police officer noticed something to one side, and saw a Fleet Marine MP standing with his hand on his pistol, the flap undone. He checked and saw two more Marines closing in. He sketched a small salute at the Fleet Lieutenant. “My regards, Lieutenant. Good luck.”

  He started to walk away, then stopped and turned back. “Lieutenant, if you wish to keep this recruit, have her on a shuttle to California Base within the hour.” Then he was gone, trailed by the other two.

  The lieutenant watched them go, before he turned back to the girl. “Miss, if you would, please complete the questions for PO Omura. After that, you will report to room 1413 of this building, for swearing in. After swearing in, you will have a thirty-six hour liberty. After that you report to the Fleet Liaison Office, Andrew Port, at 0600 on the day after tomorrow for the shuttle to California Base.” California was the local moon, reserved as a Fleet base.

  “I waive the leave.”

  “You can’t, Miss, it’s not permitted. I’m sorry, but those are the regulations."

  She stared at him. “Forget that. The waiting period is a peacetime measure to ensure that anyone with cold feet never shows up. I don’t have cold feet. And I don’t want to stay here.”

  Donna knew her father wasn’t going to like any of this, and after Major Reynard reported, things were going to get chancy. She’d always respected the major, but not in her wildest dreams had she expected that he’d just turn around and walk away. That man was sneaky. He was up to something.

  “Finish the application, Miss, and then take the oath, then we’ll talk,” the Fleet Aloft lieutenant told her.

  Donna acquiesced.

  The rest of the interview was quick, with only two difficult areas. “Education completed?” the PO had asked.

  “I was privately tutored,” she’d told him. “Home schooled,” she added as an explanation.

  He still didn’t seem to understand. He looked at her. “How far did you get in your studies, Miss?”

  “It wasn’t graded, as in Forms. I was told that the Fleet assesses skills by competitive examination. I am comfortable with that. You give me the exam and I’ll accept the results.”

  “Miss, Fleet used to do a lot of things. Ain’t any of us comfortable right now. How far?”

  “If you have trouble accepting my ID card, how are you going to handle my academic credits?” she sighed resignedly. “What do you want first?”

  “Any certificates? Your technical subjects?” he asked, unsure what she meant.

  “All of the basic and advanced certificates, although later rather than early. Electronics through integral circuit design, Fourth Form. Chemistry, all of that, Fourth Form. Physics. Ditto. Maths, well, that’s spotty. They are too vast of a topic. Fourth Form levels, mostly. Computers, Fourth Form. Geology and biology -- not very much. I know what a rock is. I’ve dissected a frog. I can apply a band-aid. Economics, Fourth Form. Languages, I speak English, Japanese, Russian and French, Fourth Form.” She took a breath and paused before concluding. “Those are the high points.”

  She’d left out the soft courses on law and government, of course. Who counted those?

  Later he had asked if she had any close relatives on active service in the fleet. She’d not wanted to mention that, but when pressed she said, “My Uncle Jim. It was Uncle Jim that got me interested in the Fleet. He would come home on leave and tell me stories.” She shook her head in admiration of the one man in her family she deeply admired and respected. She knew it was a mistake, but had wanted not to lie about anything. Leave things out, that was okay. But not lie. And she was absolutely unwilling to lie about her uncle.

  “And what is ‘Uncle Jim’s’ name? Where does he serve? What rate?”

  “Oh, he was with you in the Sassenach on the Hercules Expedition.” She gestured at the pins and ribbons over the PO’s left pocket. “Uncle Jim said that was the finest duty he’d ever had.”

  The PO paled slightly and she realized her mistake. “He said he had never served with a finer group of men and women in his life, nor did he expect he ever would.”

  The PO’s voice grated like cast iron dragging on concrete. “Your uncle’s name and rate?”

  “Commodore James Rain.”

  The PO’s pencil splintered against the table, and he tried to compose himself. Commodore Rain had commanded the ill-fated Hercules expedition. Only two out of three had made it back. None doubted that the number would have been zero if they’d have been commanded differently. But the PO was new to Campbell’s World and knew nothing about who was who or who was what. He did know they had a local nobility. This girl was obviously the daughter of someone rich or important -- most likely both.

  He held up the application and Lieutenant Sanchez took it and scanned it quickly. “This will do for now. Report to room 1413. I’ve
noted your waiver of leave. They will have written orders for you after your oath.” Sanchez smiled politely. “You seem to have a problem following orders of those in authority, Miss. It will do your career no good at all to disobey these.”

  II

  An hour later Donna had been properly sworn in, and was sitting in the lounge of the port’s Fleet shuttle pax area. Only a half dozen people were with her, mostly ratings returning to orbit.

  To her surprise, the lieutenant from the enlistment table also appeared, along with the senior petty officer that had conducted her interview.

  The young lieutenant sat across the room, talking with the PO, seemingly totally engaged in the conversation. Donna tried to look unobtrusive. She wasn’t going to be really secure until she was on a ship going someplace else, the fans cranking at their max.

  There was a commotion at the entry way. Donna looked up and shrank back for a second. Then she stopped and shrugged. There was no way to hide from her father. Not here, not now.

  He strode into the room, trailing a half dozen minor satellites. Two Port officers were also in close orbit, bitching and moaning, but powerless to stop him.

  Donna stood and faced him, aware of the gaze of the young lieutenant.

  “Donna,” her father said, his voice angry, as he stood in front of her.

  “Father,” Donna’s reply was empty, devoid of emotion.

  “My first reaction on hearing that you were missing was to order the Capitol cleared and enlistment postponed until tomorrow. Prime Minister Rickie hinted that this might not be the best time to beard the Federation. Of course, his daughter is home in her bed this evening.”

  The prime minister’s daughter, to Donna’s way of thinking, spent entirely too much time in bed.