Tales From the War (Kinsella Universe Book 5)

by Gina Marie Wylie

  The lieutenant stood up and walked closer, eavesdropping. Considering the glitter of the other ranks, Donna was a little surprised at his temerity. At least it served to keep her mind off what her father was saying.

  “Father, I’ve decided to do this. I knew you would not approve, but I think you are wrong. This is something I should do.”

  “You’re doing this for yourself,” her father contradicted her without having bothered to listen to her. “Once again you demonstrate your lack of maturity. You have never liked what fate dealt you and you’ve done everything you could to avoid it.”

  That what he was saying was a lie had to be ignored. Call it a lie and die. “Father, I promise that the day the war is over I will resign and return. On that day we can set the reckoning straight.”

  Lieutenant Sanchez suppressed a smile. It was his distinct impression that she wasn’t talking about a friendly reunion.

  “I brought two dozen men with me. I’ve considered abrogating the Federation Agreement, this day. Does that tell you anything?”

  The lieutenant spoke up. “Sir, it tells me that you didn’t bring nearly enough men.”

  Her father looked at the young lieutenant. Like Donna had done, his eyes held on the naked pocket flap for a second, and then his eyes flicked to the arm and then back to the lieutenant’s face. “You’re Sanchez, aren’t you?”

  The lieutenant confirmed that. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Lieutenant, if I were you, I’d find her flat-footed. She is subject to space-sickness. Obviously she is subject to mental instability and she’s not terribly smart, either.” Donna had long since become inured to comments like that from her father.

  Donna was intrigued. How did a decoration-less lieutenant come to her father’s notice? And considering the vitriolic tone he took with important people who irritated him -- was virtually cordial to him? Particularly considering that people who irritated him or contradicted him, had, of late, taken to never being seen again?

  “Sir, she’s been deemed fit to transport to the Fleet base on California. There she will have a more complete physical, which, should any of those conditions exist, be brought to light. In the meantime, she is a common enlistee of the Fleet. I’ll have to ask you to leave, sir.”

  One of the Port officers choked and babbled something about authority.

  Lieutenant Ernesto Sanchez shook his head. “This is a Fleet installation, in time of a declared Federation Emergency. Planetary authorities have no jurisdiction here. If the person you are interested in detaining has committed a crime, you can file with the Fleet Aloft Commander on California. He has the power to release her to the civil administration. Barring that, sir, you’ll have to leave.”

  Donna's father smiled at the lieutenant coldly. “My brother-in-law told me that two of his officers off the Sassenach would go far. Commander Janice Smith and Ensign Ernesto Sanchez. He told me half a year ago that you both had been assigned aboard Agrabat.”

  The lieutenant sighed. “Sir, as the assistant draft commander, I have to ask you to leave.”

  Donna’s father stepped back, clicked his heels and formally bowed. “As you wish, Lieutenant.” Then he turned to his daughter. “Don’t do anything any more foolish than you already have, out there.” He turned and walked away, rapidly enough to cause some of the satellites to have to trot to keep up.

  Donna looked at the lieutenant with shock. Who hadn’t heard the stories? “You were on Agrabat?”

  The PO appeared at his elbow and nodded. “Both of us. Commodore Tyrell thought it would cause too much of a stir if we wore our ship pin or our recent medals. The lieutenant protested by not wearing any.”

  Four ships had escaped the debacle at Gandalf. Agrabat had suffered more damage than all of the others combined. It was already being touted as one of the greatest feats of ship handling since Borman’s Apollo 13.

  One of the Port officers had stayed behind. “Lieutenant, Commodore Tyrell has ordered me to inform you, sir, that you are on report for insubordination and disrespect to properly constituted civil authority.” The officer didn’t much sound like he agreed.

  Sanchez laughed and looked at the young woman. “Your father is properly constituted civil authority?”

  Donna could only nod. “Yes.” He’d written the current constitution -- of course he was.

  “He's an important member of the government?” She nodded again. He turned to face the officer. “Please, by all means. Put it in my records that I was reprimanded for enlisting an able-bodied volunteer recruit for the Fleet during the Emergency. I’d like that. I really would.”

  The officer spluttered, “That was the Prince-Regent. He rules here.”

  The lieutenant grinned at the young woman. “You’re a Princess-Regent? I’ve always wanted to meet a real princess.”

  Off-worlders should try to keep their guesses about rank a little more informed. The Port officer choked and for a moment Donna thought he was going to need medical assistance.

  “I stopped being a princess three weeks ago,” Donna Merriweather said equitably into the silence, leaving her rank as an exercise for the lieutenant’s imagination. “Two days before my birthday, my father decided I would need to be 21 to reach my majority.”

  She smiled at him; let him figure it out. “But now, here I am. Lucky him, I expect it may take more than three years before I can return.”

  III

  Ernesto Sanchez sat with his feet on his desk, lounging back in his chair, a very cold bottle of beer held loosely in one hand. “And then the Port Admiral here at Maunalua told me that since I’d given such a rousing good speech, he wanted me assigned to Public Affairs permanently.”

  The other officer in the BOQ room sighed. “The difference between Port and Fleet in a nutshell.” The speaker went on, “In the Fleet, if you do good, they reward you with something you really want to do. In the Port Arm, they gave you another dirty job and wonder why you’re not more excited about the ‘challenge’”

  Padma Singh was two years younger than Ernesto, had been in the Fleet two years fewer, and was only a junior lieutenant as opposed to Ernesto’s extra full stripe showing on the sleeve of his dress uniform, hanging loosely unbuttoned on his frame. But, like Ernesto, Padma had been to war now, and the experience had tempered them both.

  Ernesto’s phone chirped and he flipped it up. “Commander Sanchez, sir.”

  “Commander, this is Chief Ng Ng,” the voice on the other end said.

  Ernesto knew that the chief was as the office manager in the Fleet Officer’s Candidate Training School.

  “Chief,” Ernesto said neutrally.

  “Sir, I was briefed about your extra duties; I believe sir, that we may have a situation.”

  Ernesto sat up, the beer going on the desk. “Speak, Chief.”

  “Two men, saying they are from the Port Engineers, are here with a work order for the air conditioning in West Block.” West Block was the current quarters for about a thousand female officer trainees. Fleet’s rules for training had been honed over several centuries: it was too much to expect of fresh caught civilians to be able to adjust instantly to the realities of Fleet Service.

  One of the realities was that crews were mixed, and while cubic wasn’t a major issue, a ship, no matter how large, was still a cramped environment, especially after you’ve been in it for a few months. Still, there wasn't any way to assign compartments based entirely on the gender of the occupants.

  Fleet crews could be as relaxed and as friendly as they wanted -- off duty. On duty it was considered one of the worst offenses that a person could commit: to allow personal relationships to interfere with duty.

  So, initially civilians were segregated by sex until such a time as the Fleet could teach them a few things about getting along. However Ernesto Sanchez had a special relationship of his own with one of the young women in West Block: he was her bodyguard. That wasn’t his only duty, but it had been made clear to him that he was in charge of her securi
ty arrangements.

  “It’s a warm day,” Ernesto said, neutrally.

  “Yes, sir, it is. Except, a request for such a work order would have originated in my office, Commander. And I didn’t originate it. The Duty CQ has an SOP to follow and this situation wasn’t on it. I was available and he referred it to me. I told them, Commander, that they would need to be escorted, and that I had to get someone. That’s what they think I’m doing now, sir.”

  “You’re sure that there’s no work order?” Ernesto persisted.

  “Sir, I checked with the computer; there is a work order. But sir, it says it was requested by OCTS and that’s me, sir. I didn’t. It just doesn’t feel right. I thought I’d call you, before I made a fool of myself with the SP’s.”

  “I don’t think you are being too suspicious Chief. Give me a minute; I’ll come. After we leave, you call the engineers directly on the land line. Check with their duty officer.” Ernesto stood, and by habit started buttoning buttons. Then he stopped, his eyes fastening on his roommate’s uniform jacket.

  “Padma, how about loaning me your Gong jacket?”

  The other lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve got a lot more and a lot nicer gongs than I do. If you’re going to West Block, you should take yours.” He was even so, opening his locker, and a moment later Ernesto was in the hall of the Administration building, the ‘Ad Block’ trying to get the slightly smaller coat of his roommate properly buttoned.

  The two men were wearing civilian Engineer blues, non-Fleet shipsuits, but the right color for Engineering. One of the men was about six foot, the other three or four inches shorter. Both had short haircuts, looked fit and competent.

  “Jeez, Chief,” Ernesto said as he came in the office. “I was just having a beer.” He belched, and several of the people in the office grinned.

  “They need to work on the AC in West Block, Lieutenant,” the chief told him briskly. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s get this show on the road, guys. There’s nothing worse than warm, flat beer, particularly on day like today.”

  Both men smiled, and Ernesto led the way out of the office, and down the corridor. “This is a Port installation; in the Fleet, we would have provided an engineering access that didn’t go through the quarters area.”

  One of the men laughed, “It’s like when I was in college; you had to shout, ‘Man on the floor!’”

  “Well, Fleet’s not like that. Outside their rooms, they have to be presentable. My job is really to keep you guys safe; there are a thousand women in West Block who are going without for three months.”

  Both men laughed and the taller one said, “Gosh! We’ll have to take our chances!”

  Ernesto’s mind had been running on hyper overdrive. How would he do this, if he was an assassin? Well, nothing in the Ad Block -- that was too public and too far away from their target. People were always out and about and everybody in the Fleet had phones. If there was an alert, the entire installation would be locked down in seconds.

  The most logical reason to be concerned was that they didn’t have a problem with an escort: there was no such regulation or requirement. Regular Port Engineers would know that and would have begun to bellyache before Chief Ng Ng had picked up the phone.

  So, anything happening in the public areas was out. How about once they were in the sub-levels? If it was him, he’d shoot the escort the first moment they thought it safe. No talk, no warning. Just, bang! You’re dead! Silenced weapon, knife, garrote; something like that. And he was leading the way, the others a half step behind. He’d never see it coming.

  He stopped at a set of stairs that led downwards. “Guys, I had too much beer; gotta get rid of a bit. Look, you know the score.” Ernesto waved at the stairs. “The physical plant is at the bottom of the stairs, just to the left, first door. I’ll go take a whiz, and join you in a second. For God’s sake, don’t get lost, or my ass is grass!”

  “No problem,” the big one said. They went through the door, while Ernesto went into one of the community bathrooms. Think, Ernesto! Think!

  Someone else was in the room; he couldn’t see her, but he could hear the retching. “Officer on deck,” he said softly. A woman stood shakily at the door to one of the stalls.

  “Hellaciously bad timing, Lieutenant,” the woman said, looking ill. “Are you even supposed to be here?”

  “Are you okay, Cadet?”

  She was perhaps five six, pale, very pale white skin. Red hair and blue eyes, an Irish lilt to her voice. “No, I’m not okay. Vaccinations today.” She started to shake her head, stopped, and looked, if anything, even paler.

  “Cadet, return to your quarters. Lock your door.”

  “Lieutenant, I don’t think I’ve quite finished with my muse.”

  He grinned, liking her. “Use the wastebasket in your room. If you see any civilians in the hallways, don’t turn your back on them. Lock your door and call the SP’s.”

  The other looked at him, and Ernesto spoke the mantra. “This is a direct order, Cadet.”

  “Aye, aye, Lieutenant.”

  She started for the door, and Ernesto beat her by two strides. “You be careful, Lieutenant,” Deidre Collins told Ernesto as he went through the door.

  Ernesto checked the corridor -- there was no one visible. He walked across and went into the stairwell; there was no sound. If these were bad guys, they’d be waiting in ambush, some place down below. He grinned; waiting would be amusing. Suppose he didn’t go right down? That would force their hand. Of course, there was no guarantee they’d come up this stairwell; there were half a dozen others, and this wasn’t the closest to Donna Merriweather’s room.

  Did they know which one it was? One would assume if they’d tapped the computers enough to get a valid work order, then they knew which room was Donna’s. He made a mental note. As of later today, the computer records were going to be wrong; regardless if he was wrong about these two.

  One of the men appeared on the landing below. “You coming?”

  “Be right there,” Ernesto told him, and started down, his eyes searching for the other one. Turned out, they’d opted for simplicity; as soon as Ernesto was walking forward, the other’s hand came up, a gun in it.

  Well, Ernesto had been ready too. The only plan that seemed remotely feasible was momentary misdirection. As the gun appeared, he let loose his phone, which thumped into the floor a few feet away from the other. The man’s eyes and weapon tracked the phone, and when it hit, he flinched, staring in momentary incomprehension at what had landed close to him.

  Ernesto hadn’t paused. He swung his legs up, doing a one-hand hand stand on the rail and let his momentum pull him forward and down. The gun went off, sending a bullet up the stairs, but there was no sound from the silenced weapon. Ernesto landed with both knees against the man’s chest, smashing him backwards. The gun skittered away and he lunged for it. The would-be assassin saw Ernesto was going to be there first, and went for Plan B: he produced a knife and was drawing back to throw it when Ernesto shot him in the chest.

  The second man appeared below and his gun wasn’t silenced. The chatter of the shots shattered the evening, bullets flying in all directions. Ernesto carefully shot him in the leg.

  “Put down your weapon!” he called loudly.

  The other hitched himself against the rail, slapped in another magazine. Before he could expend it, Ernesto shot him in the other leg. “Put down your weapon!” he commanded.

  The other fell forward on his face, rolled over and tried to bring the machine pistol up again. Ernesto fired a third time and then spoke quietly into the silence that followed. “Two strikes and you’re most definitely out.”

  He moved carefully, got the other’s gun and picked up his own phone. Another advantage of Fleet over Port: things happen in space; your phone had better be able to survive them or you likely won’t.

  “Chief, Sanchez.”

  “SPs are on the way, sir. I have reports of gunfire from West Block.”
<
br />   “Yep. Lock it down.”

  “Aye, aye, sir; already done.” A pause, “Have you localized the threat?”

  Ernesto’s eyes dwelled on the man he’d shot three times. “Ayfirm; the ones I know of. The ones I don’t, those concern me. This could be a diversion.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, a Marine gunnery sergeant named Hodges, personally known to me sir, is leading the SP team into West Block.”

  “Roger, Chief. Tell them I won’t shoot them, if they promise not to shoot me.”

  There was a chuckle. “Master Gunny Hodges is a careful man, Commander. And he is the only one with the bypass codes; please do not shoot him, or the next person I have to call out will be a Fleet captain.” Ernesto chuckled as well; as if Chief Ng Ng hadn’t already! Plus an admiral or two!

  There was a tap on the stairwell door, a few feet away. “Hodges, Commander. I’m going to open the door.” Ernesto wondered what that voice had sounded like on the other side of the steel door. Probably his men needed ear protection. Ernesto carefully put the pistols down on the stairs, and then backed away, holding his hands open, palms forward, facing the door.

  The door opened, and a man stared owlishly at him; owlish because he was wearing eye sensors, a full body zoot. The other said something in a quiet voice, and half a dozen Marines surged into the stairwell, securing the weapons and the deceased. Two men went up the stairs, two went down.

  The gunny looked at Ernesto over his weapon, listening to reports. Finally the gunny grinned. “Very good, Commander. I am declaring this stairwell secure.”

  Commander Sanchez grinned. “Does that mean I can go check on my young lady, or should I stay here a while yet?”

  The gunnery sergeant laughed. “Sir, it means that there are Ozark Marines on all levels, known to me personally. It means, sir, there are no hostiles in any of the corridors; we’re finishing checking out the entire complex. You may, Commander, follow one of my people to where I imagine you want to be.”

  “If you wouldn't mind, Gunny, I imagine your Marines have things well in hand. I'd like to look over your shoulder as these two are initially examined.”