Chapter Sixteen
APPROACHING BD+56 2966 TWO (“TURKH’SAAR”)
Duncan Solsohn glanced around the bridge again, not wholly accustomed to the communications panel on the UCS Puller and wondering if anyone else had noticed. Apparently not, since their eyes were all still fixed upon the main viewscreen and the lightless surface of Turkh’saar.
All except for Dr. Melissa Sleeman, who was leaning low over her sensors. Solsohn found her a bit intimidating. Not because of her personality—she was arguably the cheeriest of the group, and disarmingly open—but she was also that kind of scary genius who mastered just about every piece of technology at first touch.
By comparison, Karam Tsaami was, or at least affected the demeanor of, a wise-cracking cynic who also happened to be an extremely seasoned pilot. Engineer Tina Melah spent most of her time back in the drive section, but mounted occasional forays into the tiny crew lounge next to the head, always waylaying one or more of the Cold Guards to do something back-breaking or noxious involving the new engines. Initially disposed to grouse before complying, they had learned that behind Tina’s ready smile was an easily irritated hellcat with the imperious rage of an older sister, annoyed to be left in charge of such lazy siblings. They had shaped up within the first three hours of the voyage and had even begun to express a gruff fondness for her when she wasn’t around to hear.
Their behavior toward Riordan was, in contrast, respectful, careful, and uncertain, and Duncan had the impression that was exactly what the commodore had wanted. Whereas Caine was decidedly casual with his own team, he maintained a measure of formality and distance with the Cold Guard. His interactions with them were firm, frank, and scrupulously fair, but Solsohn couldn’t exactly call them friendly. Not yet, anyway.
Duncan turned to look at Caine—who he discovered was already looking at him.
“Major Solsohn, we’re descending through twenty-five kilometers altitude now. As we start nosing around for an LZ, I’m going to need fully encrypted lascom for terminal coordination with Wedge One, and for operational updates to the other ships. Constantly.” He paused. “And I notice you’re a big coffee drinker.”
“I am, sir.”
Riordan waited. “I also know that the after-effects of that habit can make it uncomfortable for you to, well, sit in one place for long periods of time. And from about ten kilometers onward, we’ll be tied to our stations. That means I need your focus at one hundred and five percent from the second we start our approach until our fans are spinning down.”
Duncan took the hint. “Thank you, sir. I think I’ll hit the head.”
Riordan smiled. “That sounds like an excellent idea. We’ll be running a detailed passive sensor sweep, looking for our optimal landing point, so you’ve still got some time.”
Rising into the mild, rearward force of the thrust, Duncan made his way through the bridge’s aft-leading hatchway and past the commons room, where five of the security/strike team were lounging, sitting feet braced against bulkheads to ensure that their posteriors remained in their seats until they were sent to strap in.
He didn’t expect them to rise, but still, their significations of respect were faint. Three of them nodded, the unofficial substitute for a salute during unpredictable maneuvers—which was not the present case. The other two murmured, didn’t even look up.
He continued on without pausing. This was neither the time, nor the place, to snap them up by their short hairs and dress them down. But the real problem was that it probably wouldn’t do much good, because he’d started out too informal and too solicitous. And damned if he probably wouldn’t make the same mistake all over again. He’d personally thawed out all fifty-six members of the Cold Guard, had seen what they were going through. Not only was it physically debilitating, but they were returning to a world in which they were fundamentally alone. So Duncan Solsohn had offered a helping hand and a friendly face—and that had been his fatal mistake.
Solsohn reached the head, opened the diminutive hatch, frowned at his situation as much as at the cramped space and poorly repaired walls. Hell, in what kind of screwed up reality do you lose respect because you were kind to a bunch of sick soldiers who’ve been given a shitty job by a distant homeworld that doesn’t remember their existence except as serial numbers? The answer came at him in a rush: in any reality where you always have to project strength and superiority. It’s stupid, unwashed, primate bullshit, but in the military and particularly in the field, everything boils down to that. You were too damned civilized; you were too busy trying to be their friend to realize that even when they are as sick as dogs—or maybe especially then—you have to be their leader first.
There was something bitterly ironic about having these revelations in the head. About seeing how the Southern-inflected congeniality and easy affability he had learned at his deceased parents’ knees, and which had helped him ascend the ladder at the Agency, had given him exactly the wrong instincts for dealing with this scenario. Which only went to prove that, no matter where you were or what you did or how carefully you planned, some mistakes were just out there waiting to be made. It reminded him of what a pararescue jumper had told him as they were inserting into a then-disputed part of Asia Minor: it’s not what you don’t know that will punch your ticket; it’s what you don’t know you don’t know. Ironically, she was the only person who had ever been killed on one of his field ops for IRIS—and she never saw it coming.
Just as Duncan sealed the small hatch behind him, he heard his name, muffled by the non-bulkhead wall separating the head from the crew commons. “—Solsohn hasn’t. I mean, he may have been shot at and shot back, but he’s never served. Not with a unit. He’s cupcake, man.” The voice was that of Baker, whose legal first name had been changed to “Two-Gun” some years back. Baker wasn’t a bad guy, but he was the most mouthy of the Cold Guard and had proven to be touchy about inquiries into his original given name. And now I get to listen to his unfiltered opinion of me; just great.
But Baker wasn’t the only ward-room pundit, apparently. “Yeah,” agreed another, “Solsohn’s still in the wrapper. But the new guy, the commodore, he’s harder to figure.” The speaker was York, a private who’d never managed to hang on to even one extra stripe. Although he gave his nom de guerre as Sundog, Duncan had seen his dossier and knew that his improbable legal name was Yehuda ben York. He was reputedly excellent on the battlefield, but not so good at getting back to base at the end of his leave. He frequently missed that deadline by days, not just hours.
Charles “Chucky” Martell, the heavy weapons specialist from Force Recon, answered in a broad, urban drawl. “Oh, no, the new CO’s a very diffren’ story, allgens. A very diffren’ story. He has looked the gator in its eyes. Got the ‘follerme’ in his own. Quiet, like some officers do. The good ones, I mean.”
A few muted chuckles, cut through by a sharp, disagreeable voice; it was Bettina Fajari, the youngest of the bunch, the best educated, and attached to a dossier that had more entries redacted than present. “So why are you such a fan of our Fearless Commodore Whatsisname, Martell? No one’s ever heard his name before. And it’s not like he’s been able to tell us about any astounding naval accomplishments.”
“Not like he’s allowed to tell us much of anything, it seems.” That was Katie Somers. She was as sharp as she was preemptively watchful—and resentful—about being teased for her Scots-trademark fire-red hair.
Baker sounded perplexed. “Huh? Whaddya mean?”
“Donna Gaudet let me play around in the computer updates. Riordan’s in the database. First listed as Navy only a few months before the war.”
“And he’s a commodore now?”
“Aye, an’ that’s my point, eh? An’ there’s this, too: he commissioned at Lieutenant Commander. On the same day and at the same base where the Arat Kur started the war.” The wall creaked as, apparently, Somers leaned back against it. “This fella’s like Solsohn: a spook. Nae doot of it.”
“Yeah,” agreed York, “but Riordan is a spook who totally fell off the grid. Until he popped up again in Delta Pavonis, just before we got shipped out. And it seems he knows these aliens—”
“Exosapients,” Fajari corrected.
“Yeah, whatever—he knows the aliens who brought us out here. Scuttlebutt is he was in the shit with them.”
“Yeah?” Fajari’s voice was an annoyed challenge. “Where and against whom?”
Sundog York was getting impatient. “If I had that info, I’d have shared up front. But I will tell you what: the CO has some graveyard hombres behind him. That Special Forces major, Rulaine? He is serious shit, allgens, serious shit.”
“A bunch of ’em are.” Two-Gun Baker’s voice cheated down a decibel. “That little SEAL chief? He’s got those smile-as-I-choke-you eyes. Like my DI at Paris Island. Except I don’t think I’ve ever seen a DI—or a SEAL—that small.”
Chucky Martell’s response was slow, sagacious, amused. “Well, if he’s anything like the top who busted my ass at Paris Island, you better not let him hear you talking dat shit.”
Steps in the corridor, then a new voice intruded: Bernardo de los Reyes, the Ranger career-corporal whom everyone just called Bear. “So, you’re not fans of the new bosses, huh?”
Katie Somers sounded evasive. “Well—they’re like to be pretty hard on us.”
De los Reyes sounded like he was smiling. “Just us?”
Chucky Martell’s question was careful. “Whatchoo mean, Bear?”
“I mean, yeah, so some of the commodore’s crew are hard core. But they’re hard-core professional. And I want hardcore when I’m heading into the shit.”
There was silence, a few mumbles that usually went along with nods, in Solsohn’s observation of this group.
“That scans, sib,” murmured York.
“I guess I can live with it,” Fajari muttered.
“Hell, you may live because of it,” Bear muttered back. “Now get your gear taped and wires checked. They’re saying this is going to be a soft op, but I’ll believe that when we’re back on these boats, outbound.”
“Amen, sib,” agreed Martell.
Duncan’s collarcom paged: a long, low tone, one that would not carry through the thin wall. Probably. The carrier tone in his earbud was abruptly replaced by Sergeant Fanny’s voice, toneless but clipped. “Corporal de los Reyes and Private Martell, report to the bridge. Before we hit dirt, the CO wants a full brief on nonstandard ToE elements, and he wants it ten minutes ago.”
De los Reyes’s voice was just as uninflected as he responded, which Duncan heard both in his earbud and muffled through the wall: “On our way. Out.”
The modular chairs in the crew commons squeaked and screeched as bodies pushed out of them. “This is always how it starts,” Fajari complained loudly. “The first sign that your CO is an armchair general is when they start bean-counting. Particularly when it comes to how many prophotabs we’ve got left.”
“Why that?” York asked.
Fajari triumphantly sprang her sardonic quip-trap. “Because he wants to know how soon he can fuck us over.”
Martell’s voice was quick and a bit dark. “Word to the wise, wiseass: if you don’t stow that, I ’spect the CO or that little chief will stow it for you.”
“Why? You gonna report me?”
“No, but someone will. And we don’t know how this ship is rigged for sound, do we, sib?”
An extended silence followed. Duncan could imagine all of them, but particularly Bettina Fajari, staring around the commons with worried eyes.
“Besides,” de los Reyes said, his voice already starting to recede toward the bridge. “The CO’s got good reason to see how the standard table of equipment squares with what we actually have on hand. The Rag Tag Fleet picked over a lot of the gear when they were outfitting the reinvasion force. Left everything in a mess, too; word from the wedges is that they’ve spent the trip out here sorting through it. So, even though the commodore is a navy puke—er, officer, he’s smart enough to know that since we don’t have our standard load-outs anymore, we’re gonna have to reshuffle what we’ve still got.”
There were pronounced, if muted, kissing noises.
“Fajari, stow that crap or you’ll be kissing my ass just to make sure I don’t permanently put you on point or make you our designated door-kicker. That scan?”
“Scanned, Corporal. Sorry.”
If de los Reyes made any reply, Duncan didn’t hear it. He smiled to imagine Fajari’s nervous agitation—right before his earbud came alive again, but this time, with the subtler hum of a private channel. Riordan’s voice was very quiet, for comparative privacy. “Mr. Solsohn, at your earliest convenience, we need you on the bridge.”
“Yes, sir,” Duncan replied, resealing his duty suit. “On my way.”