First Casualty (37 page)

Eyebrows raised in question, the sergeant wheeled to face Mary. “Can we slow down and figure out what's happening here?” she asked.

“He countermanded my order,” the admiral shouted.

“You can't give the helm vague orders like that,” Mattim said slowly. “Do you want to slow acceleration, or actually slow the ship? That would involve flipping the ship and staying at three gees or higher to actually reduce the ship's speed.”

Whitebred glanced at his shadow. Stuart gave a tiny but quick nod of agreement. “Oh,” the admiral said. “Take us to one gee.”

“Helm, this is the captain, I have the conn. Maintain course and take us smartly to one-gee acceleration. Have the bosun advise the crew. Wait one.” Mattim turned to the admiral. “Will we be at one gee long enough for the crew to get cleaned up?”

“No. Just long enough to execute that man in cart G61.” This time the admiral did manage to communicate that he wanted Chief Aso. Two marines tooled off to collect him.

“What's going on here?” The damage control officer arrived. “Captain, is there a problem in my spaces?”

“That man is in the gunnery division,” Whitebred snapped. “He doesn't belong here. I want him shot. Somebody get a vid hookup here. Sergeant, as soon as the captain can get us to one gee, shoot that man.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said with a lot less enthusiasm than he'd had with Guns.

The damage control officer rolled his cart right up to Whitebred. “Admiral, that man belongs here. I asked for him and got him assigned to my work parties. He's a damn good ship maintainer and I need him, what with the way we've been hotdogging around space. With our armor down to icing, all the gunnery department can do is sit around on their duffs. I got real work to do and I want that man doing it.”

Whitebred grew dangerously quiet.

“You got a work order to support that?” Stuart asked.

“Yes sir. Let me call it up. Just a sec. Here it is. I'll transmit it to your unit.”

Stuart and Whitebred gave it a sour stare. “Got the commander's chop,” Stuart observed. “Looks okay.”

“I want to see what he was doing,” Whitebred demanded.

“Yes sir. Right this way.” Gandhi led off, the admiral right behind her. It was quite a parade. The welders knocked off as the damage control officer explained. “This launcher is stressed for six gees using a five-hundred-pound round. That translates to just one-point-two gees for the round we've got now. We're doing three gees.”

“But it's been worked on before,” Stuart pointed out.

“Yes, sir, in stages to give us the safety margins I wanted. First we rebuilt the magazines up to three gees for those new two and a half ton bullets, then upped the launcher to two gees. Then we redid the magazine to six gees where I wanted it. Now's the loaders turn. I do what I need when I need it. And I keep this ship undamaged, which is the best damage control you can ask for.”

The admiral and his chief of staff studied the welders' work. Mattim held his breath. Aso and his work party had done a terrible job. The actual welds were as solid as they came. But the welding torches had cut a broad swath, taking the temper off of the main girders. Here and there were nicks. The weld might hold, but the girders would twist and bend in the middle.

They'd done what Mattim had asked. Would they die for it?

“This looks like lousy workmanship,” Whitebred groused.

“Never saw anything like these on any of my ships.” Stuart backed him up. *

Mattim wondered what Stuart had done aboard ship. He didn't look like the type to get his hands dirty. Commander Gandhi didn't retreat an inch. “Ever rip a sack, sir? You don't run a single strip of tape up the tear, you take a couple of strips and spread them out, to spread the pressure. Same with welding,” she lied with a straight face. “Slap some paint on that and it'll look as fancy as any ship you ever rode, Captain.”

Whitebred still looked like he wanted someone shot. Mattim went for the closing. “Admiral, if you want, I can put the chief in the brig. If anything he's worked on breaks when we launch, you can decide what to do then.”

“I really need the help,” Gandhi moaned.

“Not from gunnery,” the admiral ordered. “Okay, we'll do it your way, Captain. But if my marines start shooting, you can bet they won't stop with chiefs.” Whitebred stormed off, leaving Mattim staring at Mary and her sergeant. Neither one looked too happy with the admiral's claim on “his marines.”

* * * *

A fresh-faced colonel ushered the major into a hall half the size of the 2nd Guard's drill field. Officers, most of them generals, milled about. Ray and Santiago stood stiffly, waiting to be told where their place was.
Here begins a whole different kind of combat
. General Vondertrip excused himself from a group and hailed Ray. “So glad you could make it. What with the situation on Wardhaven, the President may ask you quite a few questions.”

“The situation is reaching critical.” Ray carefully skirted the boundaries of treason.
Assuming they hadn't moved again.

“Yes, but do not forget the most important part, my young friend.” As the general approached, his voice lowered. Beside Ray, his voice was little more than a whisper. “The offensive is what matters to the President. Wars are not won on the defensive. 'Attack, attack, always attack.'“

Ray glanced around. Like the general, most of the people within earshot were whispering. “Is that why the Navy has not come to the aid of Wardhaven?” he asked.

“You will get nowhere attacking the Navy. The President is tired of interservice rivalries. And yes, the Navy is up to its ears supporting three offensives. Wardhaven has thirty million men under arms. If you can not stop the Earth stooges with that, you don't deserve to breathe.” The general's voice took on the accent and cadence of the President as he recited the often-repeated phrase.

“No line of brave infantry can stop a relativity bomb.”

“Oh, that. You have heard that bit of bragging. So they have the space above you. They can do nothing until they land and meet us face to face. They dare not use their bombs. They are the ones with the vast populations and crammed industry. If they start such folly, we will bake them in their own pudding. The President has announced that they are only bluffing. In ten hours, you will see.”

“Where should I sit? The briefing begins at one.”

“No need to rush; the President is never here before two. He does not like anyone new sitting near him. Despite all our loyal protests, and the endless guards we must pass, he fears bombs. You will sit at the end of the table, but I have arranged for you to be across from him. You will have a good view.”

“Thank you, General. I have never met the President, and my wife will want to know everything he does.”

“Yes, I understand you are in the family way.”

“Does anything move faster than a woman's whispered word?”

“Not even light, my young friend.”

“Could you show me to my seat? I have prepared a briefing, as your letter asked. It would be a shame if your computer could not interface with mine.”

“We have the latest system, but be careful. The President has a short attention span for briefings. You must give him the highlights quickly. If he begins to speak, sit down. Never interrupt.”

“As your note said.”

“Here is your place, I have never understood these machines. My mother always said if God had meant for us to have computers, we would have been born with one.”

“I thought that was what our brain was,” Santiago quipped to the general's departing back.

“I doubt the general believes in them either,” Ray answered softly. “Can you plug us in?”

“It requires a physical hookup! Ancient technology. But there are several cables in the briefcase. Let me see.”

“You do this. I will find the restrooms. My stomach.” Ray began a quick walk across the marbled floor, hoping he could control his roiling gut long enough to find the necessary room. Death would come easy. Keeping his dignity was a fight.

* * * *

Mary sat in her high-grav cart—enjoying herself. Dumont and his teams rushed up and down the launcher, looking over the shoulders of every sailor working on the accelerator. Every ten or fifteen minutes they'd denounce some worker as a saboteur. Mary and the damage control officer would motor over to review the case. The chief of the work party would explain what they were doing, and the commander would assure them that it was part of the critical upgrade of the system. Dumont began to smell a skunk with Gandhi always going last, so he demanded she go first and the accused chief go second. Either they were telling the truth, or chiefs were just as good at whoppers as Gandhi was. Either way, Dumont was none the wiser.

Mary had spotted a few untruths so far. That one about welding arcs needing to heat up the surrounding area was one of them. She'd learned how to weld in a nonunion shop. You keep a good, tight bead—the smaller the better. Yep, there was a whole lot of lying going on.

Dumont turned back from the latest fracas. “Damn it, folks, you got just as much to gain from this as we do. You.” He pointed at a youngster, two slashes on his uniform. Mary took him for a Navy corporal of some sort. “You think what they teaching you in the Navy'11 get you a job when this war's over? If you don't got a friend in a very high place, you'll be back in the street with the rest of us again.”

“Hey, man, they drafted me and sent me to school for two months. I know enough to carry the petty officer's toolbox. I can't tell you what he's doing,” the Navy kid answered— in too-perfect English. Mattim had told her how kids fresh out of college had helped him get his ship back home. She wondered what this kid's degree was in ... and told Dumont nothing.

That was it, really. The admiral had the power of authority. The marines had the power of the gun. But Mattim and his crew had the power of knowledge. She and her miners had played their part. Lek had taken away the admiral's stranglehold on their tongues. They had come together. What were they creating?

Mary glanced around the launch bay. Did anybody know who was doing what? Come launch time, this bay was gonna be damn dangerous.
Mattim, you didn't want any more dead. Can you get this place evacuated?
Mary suppressed a snicker. Was Dumont smart enough to be very far away from here in—she glanced at her chronometer—eight hours?

Ray stared at the ceiling and struggled to control his gut. Three hours ago, the President had marched into the room in his bright red space marshal's uniform and began to orate. Watching him on vids, Ray had been mesmerized. Now he saw him in person; no wonder human space trembled when he shook his fist.

The power of the man's eyes, voice, body held Ray. The President was father, mother, lover—all at once. If Ray hadn't faced the harsh reality of death, the President would have held him in the palm of his hand.

* * * *

But Ray had watched rockets from the wrong end. Ray had made the hard choices of life and death. Ray had chosen life, and today he was choosing death. While other officers in the room hung on every word, Ray eyed the man with a dispassion he suspected was rare.

In the three-hour rambling monologue that had yet to pause, there hadn't been one reference to the present situation. Still, no general interrupted.

Ray kept his face a worshipful mask. Inside he roiled. This was theater, nothing more. They were the audience, he the center stage. Once, a general had become more involved; he'd been singled out for his department's failure to reequip troops as the President wanted for an offensive that failed. He received the President's full attention for an hour, struggling to answer questions in the brief moments when President Urm paused to catch his breath. It ended only when the general collapsed and was carried out on a stretcher. A trained lifesaver would have begun immediate heart massage; the guards did nothing.

As Ray watched his President in action, the disgust that had grown over the last two months boiled. Men were fighting and dying, struggling to make real this man's dreams. Here, the man who should have provided cohesion and direction strutted about like an actor—a world-class actor, but an actor no less. Only the guards kept Ray from reaching for his briefcase.

Guards were everywhere: by the doors, behind the President, even roving around the table, assault rifles ready. The table remained as broad—and empty—as the plain the 2nd Guard had attacked across. If Ray was not careful, his attack across this table might be as much a failure. The monologue ended abruptly as the President turned and strode toward the exit behind him. “Restroom break, at last,” General Vondertrip muttered. “Did I warn you to go light on the coffee? Did you see the President glance your way before he quit? You will be next.”

“My stomach.” Ray struggled to stand.

Santiago came to his aid. “The war wound,” he said. “Where is the nearest restroom?”

“Oh, yes. I forgot. The nearest will be mobbed.” The general looked around. “Try that exit,” he said, pointing. “Take the first corridor on your left. It should not be too far.”

The exit looked miles away; Ray marched as fast as his stomach and braces allowed. Gladly he would have traded this for an advance into battle.

“Hell of a situation when the can looks like heaven,” he snorted when he'd reached his goal.