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  Chapter Six

  A captain was waiting for Brigadier Sturgeon when he arrived at the tube gate of HQMC, and escorted him directly to the Assistant Commandant's office, where he had to wait only a minute or two before an aide showed him in to Aguinaldo. He expected to find that the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps had a larger office than any other general's office he'd ever been in, and it was. What did surprise him was its decoration. The usual Confederation and Marine Corps flags flanked the massive desk along the rear wall, but that was the only thing he'd seen in every other general's office. To the visitor's left of the Confederation flag was a display of quarter-sized flags he didn't recognize. On the right of the Marine Corps flag was a similar display, but of flags Sturgeon did recognize—various Marine Corps units from battalion on up, probably the colors of units Aguinaldo had commanded. It seemed reasonable to assume that the display of unrecognized flags were the colors of enemies that the units he'd commanded had defeated. Rather than the usual array of trids of the general posing with dignitaries he had trids of places, and of Aguinaldo with people Sturgeon mostly didn't recognize. Then he spotted a couple of images he did know and knew what the rest were. There was a trid made on Diamunde, and another with Aguinaldo standing with Sturgeon and his other major commanders on that campaign. Those weren't images showing the Assistant Commandant with people of dubious importance, they were images of places where he'd gone to war and the men he'd gone to war with.

  "Brigadier Sturgeon!" Aguinaldo said, striding from behind his desk, hand extended, the first name informality of the previous evening out of place on duty in his office. "Thank you so much for coming."

  "General, it's my pleasure to visit the Assistant Commandant in his lair."

  They shook hands.

  "Please, Brigadier, have a seat." Aguinaldo guided Sturgeon to a conversational grouping of chairs around a small table. His hand grazed a touch-plate when he sat. Almost immediately a side door to his office opened and a corporal entered, bearing a silver tray with a silver coffee setting with porcelain cups and saucers. Each shimmering silver piece had the Marine Corps emblem embossed on it, and the porcelain cups and saucers had the emblem enameled in scarlet and limned in gold.

  "I trust you do drink coffee?" Aguinaldo asked "This is the best, Jamaican Blue Mountain."

  Sturgeon salivated. "Thank you, sir. I've heard of Blue Mountain. Its reputation is superb."

  "Thank you, Corporal," Aguinaldo said when the junior NCO set the tray on the table. "I'll take it from here." The corporal left without a word.

  Aguinaldo made a small ceremony of pouring the coffee, and the men held the delicate cups to their faces, inhaling the aroma, then sipped slowly, savoring the taste.

  They made small talk for a couple of minutes, then Aguinaldo cut to the chase.

  "So tell me, Brigadier, what are you doing on Earth?" He had never seen, or even heard of, a FIST commander leaving his unit for the length of time it took to visit Earth from such a distance as Sturgeon had traveled. He knew Sturgeon and his reputation well enough to know he had to have an exceptional reason.

  Sturgeon wasn't surprised by the abrupt change of subject; he was surprised the casual conversation that preceded it had taken place at all. He cleared his throat before beginning.

  "Sir, 34th FIST seems to have been forgotten by somebody. I've been in command for four years. My Chief of Staff and sergeant major have been with me that entire time. My infantry and air Commanders have been with me nearly as long."

  Aguinaldo raised an eyebrow. He knew 34th FIST and Thorsfinni's World were hardship assignments. FIST commanders, the major subordinate unit commanders, and their top people were assigned there for three-year tours, everyone else two years.

  "Interesting," he said. But he didn't believe Sturgeon took three or four months away from his command to complain about not being reassigned to a staff position somewhere. Most Marine officers from the rank of brigadier on down craved assignment as a FIST commander—and most higher-ranking generals wished they still were commanding the Corps' prized combat units.

  "But that's only the tip of the iceberg. None of my people have received normal rotation orders in four months. Excuse me, I forgot transit time. Unless orders have come through since I left, none of my people have rotated in six months. I have enlisted people and junior officers who have been with 34th FIST for nearly as long as I have."

  Aguinaldo's expression closed in concentration. That was most peculiar. He'd heard nothing about it. Surely he would have been officially informed if a FIST was removed from the normal rotation of personnel. He stood suddenly, but waved Sturgeon to remain seated.

  "Excuse me a moment," he said, "I want to check something." He walked briskly to his desk and leaned over it. He morphed a data screen and keyboard out of its surface and tapped in a few commands. He frowned at what he saw, then tapped in another command. Again, he frowned at the display. Slowly, he sat down and tapped more commands. Again and again he was displeased with what he saw. Brusquely, he dismissed the computer, stood, and returned to sit with Sturgeon. His expression was quizzical but not particularly concerned.

  "I have to make a few inquiries. Somebody seems to have slipped up somewhere. I think I can guarantee that by lunchtime tomorrow the situation will be cleared up and the order-cutting process will have begun." He stood, the meeting was over. He grasped Sturgeon's hand and guided him toward the door. "How about if you come by at 1200 hours tomorrow, we'll have lunch at the club, and we can have a laugh at the expense of whatever chucklehead goofed. Do you need a guide to show you the sights in our fair capital?"

  "Thank you, sir. No, I won't need a guide. I'll be back tomorrow."

  In the outer office Sturgeon asked the captain who had brought him, "Could you show me to the museum, please? Once in a while it's good to review our history."

  "Yessir," the captain replied. "The museum is this way."

  As his guide led him deeper into the HQMC complex, Sturgeon thought something was odd about the way Aguinaldo had checked the records then quickly dismissed him.

  When the door closed behind Sturgeon, Aguinaldo stood for a moment, staring at his desk. Moments ago he'd found that routine rotation orders had been issued all along for the Marines of 34th FIST. Progressively, starting with one infantry company and gradually spreading out to the entire FIST, those orders had been quietly rescinded. There was no annotation in the records he had access to—and so far as he knew there were no Marine Corps records he didn't have access to—that indicated who rescinded those orders. Something was wrong. By all the gods, he was going to know who was messing with the careers and lives of his Marines—and why. And when he found out, he would correct the problem and someone's head would likely roll.

  Promptly at noon the next day Sturgeon arrived at the Assistant Commandant's office and was escorted in without having to wait.

  Aguinaldo didn't get up from his desk or indicate that Sturgeon should sit.

  "Ted, I'm sorry, but I have to renege on our luncheon. Something's come up that I have to deal with right now." He glanced at the clock. "I have just enough time to get to a meeting at the Hexagon." He stood up and headed for the outer office. "Walk with me, please." To his secretary he said, "You know where I'll be." Back to Sturgeon as they headed out of the building to where a car waited for him, "This is going to take the rest of the afternoon. It should be cleared up before 1600 hours, but it won't last beyond that. I want to make it up to you for having to leave you on your own like this. Listen, first go to lunch. Flag Club, my tab. Today is Friday, Fifth Day, as you call it on Thorsfinni's World." He barked a laugh. "We keep regular office hours here. From 16 hours until 8 hours on Monday I'm officially off duty. I've got a cabin on the Snake River and I'm going fishing for the weekend. Do you fish? I'd like you to join me."

  Fishing? Sturgeon had gone fishing three times in his life and never caught anything. But an invitation from the Assistant Commandant was the same as an order.


  "I'd be delighted to go fishing with you, sir."

  "Fine." Aguinaldo's driver stood at the side of the car, holding the passenger door open. "Don't worry about fishing gear, I've got extras of everything that I can lend you." He grinned. "You're in for the time of your life. The Snake River valley is one of the most picturesque wilderness areas in all of Human Space. Tell my secretary where you're staying. I'll pick you up there at 17 hours." He got into the car. The driver trotted around to the driver's door, got in, and drove off.

  More and more peculiar, Sturgeon thought. He wondered if the something that had come up or this meeting had anything to do with his problem. He also noticed that during the few minutes they were together, Aguinaldo had oddly enough returned to first-name informality. Was that his way of saying, Trust me, or Bear with me, I'm on your side? He had clearly said nothing about the problem that brought them together here.

  Sturgeon went back to leave the address of his B-and-B with the secretary, and quietly fought off the anxiety that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. At the Flag Club, Sturgeon wondered how the brigadiers and generals managed to stay fit if they ate so well every day. Or maybe they didn't. Only three or four others were present for lunch hour, and they seemed to eat lightly, unlike the crowd at the previous evening's dinner.

  Chapter Seven

  Colonel Ramadan, acting commander, 34th FIST, shot upright in his chair. He stared unbelieving at the vidscreen before his eyes. In more than thirty years as a Marine he'd never before seen a similar message. And it was no hoax.

  As temporary commander of 34th FIST, Ramadan followed Brigadier Sturgeon's routine and personally reviewed all incoming messages from 4th Fleet. He read the operational orders first, because they would have an immediate effect on the unit mission. Then he read traffic dealing with logistical matters—ammunition, fuel, supplies, maintenance, rations, the "sinews" of war—because while he could count on his Marines never to give out, his supplies were only finite.

  As Sturgeon's deputy, Ramadan usually assigned action to all incoming communications, distributing them to the FIST and subordinate unit staffs after Sturgeon had read them first and noted their content. Often Sturgeon annotated a particular message with a personal comment—sometimes very pithy—or suggestions on how to proceed to fulfill whatever requirement Fleet or Headquarters, Marine Corps, might be placing on his unit. Ramadan sat at his console, tapping in a note here, an exclamation there, indicating on a pull-down screen who on the staff should get a particular message for action and who for information. He was a meticulous man, so he preferred to key in his comments personally instead of using a voice-activated writer. That way he could review his annotations at leisure and get them just right. He saved everything to the brigadier's personal file, so Sturgeon could see what had come in while he was away.

  The intelligence reports went to the F-2, but Ramadan read them all first. It was important to know what was going on, especially in 4th Fleet's sector, because a hot spot anywhere within Fleet's area of responsibility could mean another combat deployment for 34th FIST. Those reports were all classified, so Ramadan had to enter his personal password to read them. He reached for his wallet and withdrew a crumpled fragment of paper. It was strictly against security regulations to write down passwords, but if he didn't he could never remember what his was. They changed every thirty days anyway. When he did this in someone else's presence, he always said he was reaching for his mother's photograph, to give him inspiration "in these trying times."

  He saved the personnel traffic for last, not because it was the least important; personnel transactions were in fact most important: morale and manpower matters are the heart and soul of any military unit. They are also the most interesting. All personnel actions were routinely passed to the FIST F-1, the personnel officer. Matters dealing with individual Marines would pass from there to battalion or squadron S-1, and then to the individuals' company commanders. He looked for orders on incoming Marines first, and then reviewed the officer promotion lists and the enlisted promotion allocations. All were very short. He noted a new ensign, a chaplain, was on the way, Scientific Pantheist. Ramadan snorted. He was nominally a Muslim. In his view, if there was a God, he was a Marine, not some ill-defined unifying "life force."

  When he got to the end of the file, an icon blinked on his screen. There was a classified message still to be read. Now, that was strange. Normally, personnel messages were encrypted for transmission only. He entered his password.

  Confederation Marine Corps

  Headquarters Battalion

  Fourth Fleet Marine Force

  In Reply Refer to:

  1320/2

  CONAD

  220949

  FIRST ENDORSEMENT ON CCMC 201830Z APR 49

  From: Commanding Officer, Headquarters Battalion, 4th Fleet Marine Force

  To: Corporal Raoul Pasquin, 2000842R/01,

  CMC, L/34

  Lance Corporal Joseph F. Dean, 2033768B/01,

  CMC, L/34

  Lance Corporal Rachman Claypoole, 2013242L/01,

  CMC, L/34

  Subject: TEMPORARY ADDITIONAL DUTY ASSIGNMENT ORDERS

  1: Effective delivery above named enlisted Marines stand detached from present station and duties and are directed to proceed most expeditious route and report to CNSS Wanganui, Soma Chundaman, Novo Khongor, for duty. Period of TAD: Indefinite.

  2: Authorized 0 days leave. Addressees will bring only items of personal hygiene and 1 (one) dress scarlet uniform. Prescribed travel uniform: garrison utility.

  N. Corman

  Commanding Officer

  What? Ramadan thought. He clicked the link to the Commandant's message that Fleet was endorsing. Headquarters Marine Corps sending three of his men to—to—where the hell was this Novo Khongor anyway? He scrolled down to the authority line. What he saw there caused him to snap straight up in his chair: AUTH: VOCCMC

  Colonel Ramadan tapped a button on his console. "Sergeant Major Shiro, get Commander Van Winkle and Sergeant Major Parant up here fast, and all of you come in to see me."

  Carefully, Bass looked at the cards Staff Sergeant Hyakowa had just dealt him. Two Odins, a Frigga of clubs, a six of hearts, and a ten of spades. Hmm. It was Thors or better to open, progressive all the way, trips to win, so he could open and he had a nice pair to draw to. He had forgotten just how many times the cards had been dealt in this game of five-card-draw poker since nobody had yet gotten three of a kind or better to win. But, judging by its size, the ante heaped in the middle of the table had grown to at least a hundred kroner, a pot worth winning. He hoped nobody else had openers.

  "Openers?" Hyakowa asked.

  Top Myer, just to Hyakowa's left, tossed in two silver kroner. Damn! Bass thought. Lucky old bastard! The large coins clinked authoritatively into the ante. Myer turned to Bass and grinned, fiercely, a thick black 'Finni cigar clamped tightly between his teeth.

  "I call," Bass said sourly, reluctantly matching Top's opener.

  "I call and raise six kroner," Sergeant Major Parant announced just to Bass's immediate left. Shit! Bass thought. He was betting the limit! Bass could swear the table shook as sergeant major tossed the coins onto the pile, where they landed with a metallic thud.

  "Oh, there's the power!" Hyakowa observed. Sergeant Major Parant smiled cryptically and settled farther back in his chair. One of the silver kroner rolled across the table and came to rest directly in front of Hyakowa. "Ah, a sign! A sign!" he shouted as he reluctantly shoved the errant coin back into the center of the table.

  "You're pretty damn free with my money, young man," Myer said in reproach to the battalion sergeant major. "Damned if your lucky ass'll ever get invited back to one of our games. Goddamned staff pogue."

  "I call, dammit," Hospitalman First Class Larry Horner, Company L's chief corpsman, said, counting out eight kroner. "I better win this," he muttered. "It's my stake for a vacation on Havanagas, after all." He grinned widely as he shoved the money into the pot.
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  "You'll get to Havanagas when kwangduks whistle," Staff Sergeant Ord Boyle, the battalion mess sergeant, replied, counting out eight silver kroner. "It's bad enough I gotta feed your bottomless stomachs, now you want every goddamn kroner I earn—and I gotta send money home to my sick mother," he whined in mock sorrow. "You bastards are taking the very medicine out of her mouth, I just want you to know that." He raised his eyes heavenward as he shoved the money into the pot. "She may have already passed on, since I missed my last payment. May her poor soul find solace in heaven. She won't get any in this cruel world." Boyle did not have a mother but he was an excellent cook.

  "I been doctoring scratches in this damned FIST for three long years," Homer said, "and I have concluded our stomachs have no bottoms 'cause Ord's chow's eaten holes straight through them. I am due for rotation any day now, gentlemen, and when I get back to civilization, first thing I do will be to get me a stomach transplant. They're doing wonderful things with synthetic organs these days. Boyle, the Corps should dock your pay for impersonating a food service representative."

  "Dock my pay, Doc?" Boyle shot back. "What's the charge for practicing medicine without a license? And speaking of short-timers, I'm so short I could sit on one of them kroners and my legs wouldn't reach the floor. Hey, Sar'n't Major," he said, turning to Parant, "what's the story on orders, anyway? How come Personnel's not been burning up space with messages back to Fleet? I'm way overdue for rotation."

  "You ain't the only one overdue for rotation, Boyle. But in your case the Corps is keeping you here because the battalion's grown immune to that poison you serve them in the mess. Send you anywhere else and we'd have a riot on our hands—after a lot of Marines passed on to their gods. Now are you guys gonna play cards or sit here all evening weeping in your beer over ‘personal’ problems?"

  "Well, I call, gentlemen," Hyakowa announced, adding his pile of coins to the ante. "Cards to the gamblers?" He turned to Myer.