by John Ringo
Sharon watched Cally line up for another run at the bottom. She was too worn out to even think about making another try, but the energetic youngster seemed as fresh as when they started. "I'm an XO on a frigate," she answered, watching the quick hands snag a passing shovel-nose lobster. Although they were less plentiful than the more common spiny lobsters, they were prized by the oriental community as an aphrodisiac and fetched a high price among the free traders.
"What's that mean? I mean, what do you do?" asked Karen, interested. She had never met a person who had been off-planet.
Sharon suddenly found herself unable to explain. How could she explain the constant strain of wondering which critical system would fail next? When the hull would suddenly breach? How the ship, and herself, would perform when they were finally in combat?
She paused a moment and smiled faintly. "Mostly I wait for the air to run out."
Karen was a kind and empathetic woman. And she recognized that not only was the answer correct, it was also as much as she could expect to get for the time being. She nodded in agreement instead. "We ought to be getting back." She suited action to words, tossing her nearly full mesh bag into the cooler in the inflatable. She pulled a harness out and winked. "If you waggle your hips do you think you can lure Herman over?"
* * *
Mike took another pull on the bottle of beer and a puff from the cigar. The sky was slowly darkening, the famous purple of the Caribbean drifting up from the east as they kept watch over the westward opening. The girls had been gone most of the day and it was about time they turned back up.
"If this isn't paradise," he opined to the trader, "it's within the limits of tolerance."
"It is close," Honest John admitted. "In a lot of ways, life's gotten better. Slower at least."
"Down here," Mike pointed out. "It hasn't been slow for me."
John nodded in agreement. "The margin sure as hell has gotten thinner, though. It used to be there was, I dunno, flex in the system. These days it's sink or swim. Sometimes literally."
"So, how is the Coast Guard these days?" Mike asked with a laugh.
John laughed in return. "Not bad. They keep the pirates in check, at least. But a lot of them have gotten transferred to 'more vital' tasks. So, SAR is spotty." He pronounced the acronym for Search and Rescue "Sahr." It was a military way of phrasing it that caused Mike to cock his head.
"Have you lost many boats?" Mike asked.
"A few. There's two problems. Some of the boats have gone to pirates. Or that's the way it looks. Boats just disappear in calm seas. And the free traders are in a constant low-grade war with the Mariellitos bastards who think they control the trade down here." The trader frowned and looked over towards his ship as if to ensure it was still intact.
"Have you been having much trouble?" Mike asked.
The trader snorted, gave a grim smile and shook his head. "Not . . . anymore." He seemed disinclined to explain the reference.
"The other problem is a lot of the boats, their GPS and Loran is giving out; they're at sea more than the systems are designed to handle. And most of the traders aren't real sailors, guys who know how to navigate by the wind and the stars. So if they lose their GPS, they get lost: really lost. There was one was just making the crossing from Los Pinos to Key West. The crossing's maybe two hundred miles. Stupid fucker ended up near Bermuda. Dismasted, out of water, half mad. How in the hell anyone could completely miss the Bahamas I'll never know." The tall captain took another toke on the joint he held. "Nobody could get that stoned. Hell of it is, he wants to go back to sea."
Mike chuckled grimly. He had his own massive list of screwups that he could detail, starting with the Diess Expeditionary Force. But the situation in the Keys was something of a whole different order.
"I don't understand how it could get this way," said Mike, gesturing around with the beer bottle. "Where the hell is everybody? I can understand the tourists, but where's the retirees?" The whole state of Florida was filled with retirees. Some of them were recalled military, admittedly. But that had to be a small percentage. Where were the rest?
"It happened slowly," Honest John admitted. "Not just here but all over Florida. First, the tourists started trickling off. Then, most of the people who could hold a hammer or run a press without cutting their fingers off went up north to get jobs. The Fisheries Board reinstituted net fishing for the Florida waters about then and there was a small rush to get into that. But when people found out how hard it was most of them moved away too. Then all the young guys got sucked off by the Army."
He smiled and took a big toke. "I was getting recalled my-own-self," he said with a chuckle. "But not only is free trader a 'vital war production position'—and didn't that take some squeeze to a certain congressman—but I convinced the in-process board it would be a waste of perfectly good rehab just to get a drugged-out Petty Officer Three." He grinned again.
"Anyway, before we knew it the entire population of the Keys was below twenty thousand, most of them retirees. The nursing homes and 'managed care' retirement centers started having problems with taking care of their old folks. Some of 'em died cause there just wasn't anybody on duty.
"Then when Hurricane Eloise came through, they took it as an excuse to evacuate all the retirees that were not 'fully capable of self-care.' Down here in the Keys, anyway.
"That meant the only people left, other than in Key West, were the fishermen and their families. There's a federal law that Florida Power had to deliver down here. But after Eloise, they got an 'indefinite suspension' because there was a shortage of parts, or so they said. That was last year.
"So that," the ship captain finished, "is how it got so totally screwed up down here. An' that's the truth."
The trader took another toke on his joint and a pull on the glass of Georgia branch water Mike had supplied. He worked his mouth for a moment. "Cotton mouth. Haven't talked this much in a coon's age.
Mike nodded and took a contemplative puff on the cigar. Papa O'Neal's branch water was awfully smooth. He doubted that the trader had any idea what proof he was knocking back like water. It was eventually going to catch up with him. "Just one thing I don't understand," he mused. "Where'd they put them? The retirees I mean."
"Some of 'em got mixed into the groups up the peninsula. Lots of 'em went to the big underground cities they're building," said John. He took a last puff on the joint and spun the butt into the water. "One nice thing about this war. Not only has it driven the cost of Mary Jane down, the coasties don't give a rat's ass if you're carrying."
"That's crazy," Mike argued, thinking about the first part of the statement.
"Why?" asked John with a laugh. "They've got a real war to worry about. They don't have to worry about the 'War on Drugs.' "
"No," said Mike with a touch of impatience. "I was talking about the Sub-Urbs. The work on them is hardly complete. I don't see them being able to take tens of thousands of geriatric invalids! Who the hell is going to care for them there?"
"Search me," said Honest John, putting words into action as he patted his pockets. "Damn," he muttered, swaying to his feet. "I gotta go back to the ship an' get some more weed." He took one step forward and fell in the water. He came up spluttering and looked around. "Where's those damn dolphins when you need them?" he said blearily.
Mike shaded his eyes against the westering sun and smiled. "Be filled with joy; salvation is at hand," he quipped and pointed at the opening where the group of humans and cetaceans had just hove into view.
"Hey Herman!" shouted Honest John. "Give a poor drunk trader a fin, buddy!" He grabbed a dangling rope and smiled up at Mike happily. "To think I could have been in-processing right now."
Mike nodded in mock soberness. "I gotta agree that might not have been a great idea."
CHAPTER 26
The Pentagon, VA, United States of America, Sol III
1328 EDT October 3rd, 2004 ad
"You know, General," said General Horner, with a characterist
ic antihumor frown, "I gotta wonder if this was the greatest idea."
Taking a look around the in-processing station, General Taylor was forced to wonder the same thing. Even if Horner had said it in jest.
Shortly after the change of command structures, one of General Horner's computer geeks pointed out that the recall program had been misdesigned. Any serious student of modern militaries could recognize that there were, of necessity, two general types of officers: warriors and paper pushers. There were a few officers, such as Jack Horner, who were superlative in both areas. But they were few and far between. Most officers were very good at one or the other, but not both.
The reason for a fighting army to have warriors in the officer ranks was obvious. But there was a viable reason for paper pushers as well. Armies float on a sea of paper. The logistic problems of Napoleonic armies had been solved, but only at the expense of constant information flow that required humans in the loop. Humans who were much more comfortable making decisions on the basis of a spreadsheet than a map. Humans who found a more efficient way to load trucks, well, exciting.
But bureaucracies are like hedges: beautiful when pampered and trimmed and ugly as hell when left to run riot. A military filled with warriors slags into a scrapheap as the warriors vie for command slots and neglect their paperwork. A military filled with paper pushers bloats out of control as the paper pushers create new empires to lord over.
The upcoming war with the Posleen was, admittedly, going to require lots and lots of bean counters. But the previous personnel policies had left it with, in both Generals Horner and Taylor's opinion, more than enough bureaucrats at every level. What it desperately needed was leaders and warriors.
However, most of the first "crop" was . . . a little on the moldy side.
* * *
"What're you in for?"
The questioner was a tall, trim man in his early seventies. He vaguely recognized the man next to him, but could not quite place the face.
The man in question took a suck off the oxygen tube in his nose and wheezed out a reply. "I got the Medal in Holland," he croaked. The statement set off a paroxysm of coughing that trailed into laughter. "They're gonna have their jobs cut out with me!" The laughter led to more coughing until he was turning blue.
"You gonna be okay?" asked the questioner.
"Sure," said the emphysemic once he had reestablished control. "As long as the damn ceremony don't go on too long. What'd they get you for? I don't recognize you from any of the meetings." The last was accusatory. The group consisted mostly of Medal of Honor winners. The emphysemic former paratrooper knew them all by heart and could list off the missing files along with dates of service and death. He was not so good on what he'd had for breakfast, but he was spot on for fallen comrades.
"I made it on points," said the tall former lieutenant colonel. He'd never thought he'd be wearing Army green again; it was almost ludicrous. Hell, there were more people who wanted him offed in the Puzzle Palace than in the rest of the globe. If they ever organized, his ass was as good as dead.
The emphysemic just grunted and went back to listening to the brass drone. He thought he knew who was who, but then realized that the black guy was in charge. Hell of a world.
"Who's the jig?" the WW II paratrooper asked and coughed for his efforts. He rattled the bottle to get it to deliver a decent amount of oxygen but it didn't help.
His former inquisitor just laughed.
"In conclusion," said General Taylor, "I'll just mention a few things about where you should expect to be placed. Most of you are thinking, 'Hell, I've got the Medal. They don't dare let me get killed.' All I can say to that is, sorry. This is the real and the bad and the scary. I can't afford to waste warriors on bond tours and rear-area paper pushing. You can expect to be placed with Line forces and shuttled from front to front for emergency reaction forces. You are going to be the tip of the spear, always the men in the breach.
"Face it, most of you screwed up over and over again to win the awards that are on your chest." This last brought a note of often hacking laughter from the two hundred or so in the meeting room. "If I had to be there, I couldn't think of a better group to have at my side or behind me. So it is the least I can do for my soldiers."
"There are," he finished, "a lot of things going wrong in the Ground Forces today, and throughout America. Our job is to fix them. And we are going to."
CHAPTER 27
No-Name-Key, FL, United States of America, Sol III
2022 EDT October 3rd, 2004 ad
With great ceremony Harry pressed the "on" button. There was a buzz from the crowd enjoying alcohol and appetizers as the thirty-inch television blossomed into life, showing the CBS evening news.
He bowed to the humorous applause, then walked to the back of the bar where Mike and Honest John were continuing a running argument.
The weekly party was in full swing as the mosquitoes closed in on the pub. In one corner the youngsters from throughout the mid-Keys region played and argued as the teenagers danced. A table down the middle of the room was half covered with dishes brought in by families. Most of them consisted of various ways to prepare conch. The pièce de résistance, two man-sized black groupers, a butterflied yellow-fin tuna and three bushels of lobster tails, was grilling outside.
Mike and family had contributed to the haul. Honest John had accepted Mike's charter for the remainder of their stay and the boat had sailed out daily for fishing and diving adventures. Mike had returned laden with lobster and a variety of species of fish, while Sharon and Cally had collected inshore species with the dolphins and Karen. Despite his intent to spend time with Cally and Sharon, they had been drawn to the inshore and the dolphins while he had been drawn to the sailing, fishing and diving offshore.
The expert captain proved that it was not necessary to have a "tuna boat" to catch tuna, as he and Mike hit the yellow-fin run in the Stream. Mike had been thrilled by the explosive strikes of the streamlined eating machines, while John and the Key co-op had been thrilled by the high-quality protein; freshly caught tuna was a valuable trade meat.
Mike had also caught some praise for his diving skills. His GalTech breath-pack was a major reason for that. The small, experimental system included a nitrox rebreather that extracted oxygen and nitrogen from water. The staging bottle was small but high-pressure so the system was good for several days. The depth on it was limited to one hundred twenty feet, but the tiny pack made for such limited drag that it was like diving without gear.
Mike was able to approach normally skittish hog-fish and groupers without disturbing them with bubbles. And if they spooked anyway, he was still usually able to make a kill; the fish had no time to learn that a compact body and giant fins meant incredible burst speeds. Then the blood, turned green by the light filtering of the water column, would flow backwards as the fish made a last desperate dash for safety.
He was even able to make a rare tuna kill on a young fish that was attracted by the strange seal-like creature in the water column. The thirty-pound yellow-fin made a fine contribution to the catch.
He had finally dragged Cally away from the dolphins for a day to go fishing. Floating along a weed patch she had hooked into a big bull dorado and practically been dragged out of the boat. Any lingering resentment at being taken from her cetacean friends was washed away as the rainbow-sparkling fish tail-walked across the wake of the drifting sailboat, taking the line out of the reel with a banshee's shriek.
The nights had been just as good as the days. Mike, Sharon and Cally spent most early evenings at the pub, eating part of the day's catch and discussing the news from the radio with Harry, Bob, Honest John and Karen. By eight o'clock, though, Cally was whipped. Most nights Mike ended up carrying her off to bed. Then the conversation on wide-ranging topics would either continue or Mike and Sharon would retreat to their own room and renew their acquaintance.
The last two evenings the news had been about the war. And it was mostly bad. The goodness mo
pping up on Diess was countervailed by the opening of the Irmansul campaign, where the Posleen had gained an immediate upper hand over the mostly Asian forces. The Chinese Third Army had suffered over one hundred thousand losses in the first week's fighting and the bets were on that the Darhel would call on European forces to help them out. While European and American forces had suffered horrendous losses at the hands of the Posleen on Barwhon and Diess their superior coordination often permitted them to avoid the massive casualties that were characteristic of Chinese and Southeast Asian forces.
During the discussions, Mike—and Cally, to everyone's amusement—pointed out that the best units were on Barwhon, not Earth. The Barwhon units had a high percentage of veterans and were well drilled in to the needs of battle against the alien centaurs. By comparison the units left "Earthside" were in lousy shape. Units stripped from France, Germany or the United States would be no better off at the outset than the Asian units.
The virtual destruction of the first Expeditionary Forces and the ongoing blindsided slaughter on Barwhon had stripped the NATO militaries of most of their trained forces. The rejuvenated officers and NCOs would, eventually, take up some of the slack of their loss. But the current forces were a rotten branch. Until the reforms that Horner and Taylor had instituted took effect the units that were "Stateside" might as well be back in basic training.
All of which was surprisingly hard to explain to the boat captain.
"Look," said the slightly drunk captain, pugnaciously. "They're soldiers, right?"
"Sure, John," O'Neal said, "but soldiering isn't just about shooting a gun. Most war is about getting the shooters and the backing for them to where the enemy is. Even the Posleen aren't everywhere. So getting the right forces to the right place is the problem."
"What's so hard?" asked Harry. "They're right there," he continued, pointing in the general direction of Florida Bay. "What's so hard about finding them?"
