7
Decrees of the Very Small
How wayward the decrees of Fate are;
How very weak the very wise,
How very small the very great are!
—Thackeray
Aeolian Lowlands, Icarus Continent, Bellerophon
Alessandro McGee stared down the Serrie sight now mounted on a Rimstar Rangemaster hunting rifle. Chambered for the same 8.5 mm ammunition he had been using during his training visits to Upper Thessalaborea, this rifle was semiautomatic and optimized for long-range accuracy. And McGee was very pleased with the picture he saw in the scope.
The two Baldies who had been coming here every day for the past week had returned in their floater: a mixture of VTOL and ACV vehicle fused into a smoothly wedgelike fuselage. They had walked away from their craft, comparing data from their forearm computers with what was apparently written on a human paper map they had commandeered, and upon which they’d been scrawling notes for the past two days. Today, they occasionally pointed at the nearby bluffs, the marshland about half a kilometer farther on, and then back in the direction of Melantho, some eighty kilometers to the south. If Sandro had been a betting man, he’d have pegged them as surveyors, assessing water tables and flow patterns—and he was pretty sure he’d have won that bet.
But today was going to be these surveyors’ last day on the job. He muttered to Wismer, who was spotting for him just two meters farther along the ridge line, “I make that 620 meters, wind 4.8 kph from north west north.”
Wismer looked down his range-finding binoculars again. “I confirm that.”
McGee double-checked that the Serrington Arms scope showed the same range and windage information and then carefully pressed the data-accept button in a recessed port on the left-hand side of the weapon’s closed action. “I’m on internal processing,” he announced.
“Acknowledged. Wind-change reports only, now.”
McGee settled in behind the braced weapon, firmed his fingers around both the grip and forestock, and partially floated it off its rest: he wasn’t lifting its weight so much as adjusting the rifle’s orientation by the faintest slivers of a single degree. He drifted it in the direction of the Baldy who was closest to the vehicle, let the scope’s crosshairs slide to a stop on the alien as he held the map steady against the wind. His fellow-surveyor came closer—
—perfect, thought McGee. “Check?” he muttered.
Wismer, who had just moved a wayward leaf away from the bushes under which they were concealed, nodded. “Data steady.”
McGee let the crosshairs drift up toward his target’s head, centering on the large eye that was fixed where the upper bridge of the Baldy’s missing nose should be. He squeezed the trigger.
He didn’t watch to see what happened to that one: that was Jonathan’s job. Instead, McGee immediately drifted the crosshairs over to the other Baldy and put them a bit behind the front of his face.
When the second alien saw his companion go down with a bullet through his primary eye, he flinched back reflexively—and right into McGee’s crosshairs.
As McGee had anticipated. He squeezed the trigger, and this time he watched. For the sheer vengeful gratification of it.
In the split second that the bullet took to reach its mark, the Baldy blinked and seemed to realize that he/she ought to hit the deck. But the alien wasn’t fast enough: the bullet went into its head just between the lower margin of the large eye and the upper corner of the somewhat smaller and more rudimentary left-hand ocular organ.
Like the first Baldy, this one fell without a sound.
As McGee and Wismer had learned and expected from over twenty prior ambushes and assassinations, the floater immediately lifted up and started orbiting the site where its two passengers had been slain. How each Baldy machine knew when all its operators had been killed was still a mystery: the aliens didn’t seem to be equipped with any personal biomonitors or transponders. But up it went. And, if Baldy was following his security-response SOP, high-speed defense sleds would be on-site within ten to eleven minutes. So there was no time to waste. McGee wriggled out of his position, stood, and prepared to head down the slight slope to chase after the pearl of great price.
To chase after the map.
The map was the mission’s objective—and possibly the Rosetta stone they needed to begin cracking Baldy’s language and his signals. The Baldy computers were as unfailingly unintelligible as the transmissions they emitted. The Resistance’s central—and decidedly ad hoc—technical intelligence team (reservists all, but some damned smart ones in the mix) had pulled apart a number of Baldy computers in painstaking detail. In addition to a completely different approach to IT architecture, the team also found some subsystems that seemed vaguely analogous to transmitters but didn’t seem to send anything—although they powered up whenever the rest of the system sent information, either by wireless, long-range transmitter, or hard link. God only knew what these mysterious subsystems were, and they gave no clue to their operation, except that they were always quiescent in the presence of humans. However, they seemed to automatically power up when Baldies approached and either sent some undetectable signal to, or involuntarily attracted the attention of, their most proximal masters.
Ah, but the map. For days, the Baldies had been scribbling on it—and a purely written form of their language seemed to offer a better chance at identifying some linguistic constants, some common ground upon which the new communication team could build at least a crude, working Baldy vocabulary. That the Baldies rarely used purely textual sources, and even more rarely uttered any sounds, made the overall challenge just that much more difficult. Which made this map a potential gold mine.
“Sandro,” called Wismer as McGee finished scrambling out of the brush that was their overhead cover.
“Yeah?”
“We’ve got to go. Now.”
Sandro had started heading down the slope, but now slowed a bit. “Yeah, just as soon as I—”
“Sandro.” Wismer used that flat, level tone of his, which meant he had a must-hear message to relay.
McGee turned. “What’s up, Jon?”
“Base. We’re to head back. Immediately.”
“But the map could—”
“They know about the map. I told them. They want us back now. We’re to leave the map and make it back to HQ with all possible haste.”
Bloody hell, thought McGee, this isn’t like Cap Peters. Well, “Cap” was Lieutenant Peters, now—but either way, the Old Man always knew what he was about. McGee sighed, turned, looked back downhill.
The wind caught the map, floated it up as if to torment McGee, and then pushed it onward as it gusted toward the marshlands.
“Sandro?”
“Yeah,” said McGee, stalking back up to the observation pit to break down his rifle, “I’m coming.”
* * *
Resistance HQ was located in what had been a corporate hidey-hole and was therefore not indicated on government maps nor contained in any official directories. Although never a lively place, it seemed more subdued from the moment they arrived. Located directly under a multipurpose materials-processing complex—which saw a heavy and steady stream of traffic varying from bulk containers to trash movers—the gray walls of the complex seemed grayer somehow, as if the color had rubbed off on the HQ staff and standing units.
Moving through the somber corridors with Wismer, McGee offered up the glum joke, “Who died?”
A voice behind him observed, “There are things worse than death, Tank.”
McGee turned and saw Harry Li lounging in a doorway. “Light Horse, what’s going on arou—?”
But Harry just shook his head. “You’re not hearing anything from me, Sandro. But come see me after you get briefed—and if I don’t get a visit from you soon, then I’ll come looking. Promise.” And he rolled off the doorjamb, back into the room, and was gone.
“What the hell?” wondered McGee aloud.
Wismer’s lips were tense and narrow. “Let’s just get to the CO’s office, Sandro.”
They did, but once there were redirected to the smaller of the two adjoining conference rooms. Must be a general briefing of senior NCOs, McGee thought—but then why had Jon Wismer been included in the summons?
But he didn’t have time to voice the question: they went through the doors into the conference room and discovered a very different scene than the one they had anticipated.
They had expected to be met, and briefed, by ex-Major Tibor Peters, who, despite being reduced to a first lieutenant in accord with the late Van Felsen’s rank reshufflings, was still addressed (as he had been for almost twenty years) as “Cap”—and was still called the Old Man when he was out of earshot.
Cap was indeed there in the room waiting for them—but not at the center of the table, as they’d expected. Second Lieutenant William Chong, who still had a cast on his right leg, and his right arm in a sling, was also there, but also not at the center of the table. He was active Navy and the only one of the planet-based fighter jocks who had lived to tell the tale of fighting the Baldies. Instead, these two well-respected and competent warriors were seated in flanking positions to either side of—
Julian Heide, as thin and reedlike as ever, cleared his throat. “Sergeant McGee, Corporal Wismer, you will please take the seats that have been provided for you.” Two straight-back metal-frame chairs—as hard on the eyes as they were on the posterior—were set in the center of the room.
McGee looked at Cap Peters, who—for the first time in all the years that Sandro had known him, trained with him, and drunk with him—looked away. “What is this, Cap? A trial?”
Heide cleared his throat again. “No, Sergeant. This is an inquest. That means it’s an exploratory hearing in which—”
“I know what an inquest is—sir.” McGee’s lagging addition of the honorific made it painfully clear to all in the room that he had little enough respect for the man he had addressed. “Cap, what the hell is going on he—?”
“Sergeant,” Heide interrupted, “I am in charge of this inquest. You will take your seat at once or I will have disciplinary demerits added to your record.”
McGee turned back to diminutive Heide, fists balling up—but Wismer tugged him gently toward the chairs. Sitting off to one side, Ensign (formerly Lieutenant) Marina Cheung nodded sad encouragement to follow Jonathan’s lead. And McGee conceded that she probably knew best: she was obviously here in her role as the Resistance’s only Special Warrant Officer for Legal Affairs—a thoroughly nonstandard position that had been made necessary by the equally nonstandard situation on Bellerophon. McGee felt like spitting as he conceded inwardly, Oh, Great God on a pogo stick, must I endure this charade—after everything else? And although he did not want to, McGee dropped down into his chair with a crash, his slouched posture speaking all the contempt he was not allowed to voice.
At a nod from Heide, Marina stood. “Sergeant Alessandro McGee, Corporal Jonathan Wismer, this inquest is now officially convened. You are advised that your subsequent statements will become part of the official record of these proceedings, and that you are presumed bound by your oath of service to answer fully and accurately all questions put to you, to the best of your ability and understanding. Is that clear?” Cheung, who had become the assistant DA of her small township out in the northern wilds of Sparta, looked and sounded as if she were trying to apologize for every word she was uttering.
McGee sighed. Well, I know what this is about, so I might as well get it over with. “Lieutenant Heide, there’s no reason for all the courtroom drama. I’ll admit it. I was the ‘Melantho Bomber,’ and I was operating alone and without orders. In all honesty, I didn’t mean to conceal the truth. I figured HQ had just decided to look the other way. At least that was the impression I got from Force Commander Van Felsen.”
“Perhaps, but I have no documentation, nor reliable attestations, that the lieutenant colonel intended to let the matter go unaddressed.”
“Of course you don’t. Her staff was killed in Melantho just two weeks ago—except Montaño. And you.”
“Quite true, Sergeant. And since this matter was not handled or addressed before her death, it falls upon me, as the acting military justice, to resolve it. However, some new information has come to light which compels us to take a more detailed look at your actions.”
“Oh? And what information is that?”
“Two days ago, it was confirmed, by multiple report, that both Jennifer Peitchkov and her infant son are alive.”
McGee gaped, then grinned and was on his feet to shake Heide’s hand. Hell, he’d even consider hugging the little weasel.…
But Heide’s expression was unsoftened by any fellow feeling or gladness at delivering such news. If anything, his brow was set in an even sterner line. “For the record, it is important to note that the sources of this report were first-hand witnesses. Evidently, a week ago, Ms. Peitchkov’s infant developed a cough that, ultimately, turned out to be a routine and easily cured respiratory infection—nothing serious at all. However, the aliens did not know this, and evidently Ms. Peitchkov asked them to provide her with a pediatrician. The aliens complied, abducting the physician in their typical, brusque fashion, and then released him as soon as he had provided treatment and medications for the infant. That same day, he contacted and reported the incident to our new Resistance cell in Melantho, and was also able to prevail upon the two midwives who delivered the infant to corroborate that Ms. Peitchkov and her infant were alive, well, and in alien custody.”
“That’s great.” McGee tried smiling again, but Heide either did not notice it or did not choose to react. Nor did the others in the room, which was even more puzzling. What the hell is with all the long faces? This is happy news. But after a moment’s further reflection, McGee realized that something else had to be going on here: they didn’t need all the top surviving Resistance brass just to issue a reprimand, or even convene a routine inquest.
Heide had not stopped talking. “As welcome as the news is that Ms. Peitchkov and her child are still alive, this news has raised an uncomfortable tactical, and even strategic, concern that cannot be ignored.”
A strategic and tactical problem stemming from Jennifer’s survival? McGee looked to his CO—the man whose job it was to sweat those issues—Captain Peters. “I don’t get it, Cap. What’s the military wrinkle?”
Heide raised his voice. “Lieutenant Peters is not senior here.”
“Just this minute, I’m asking the CO about military matters, Lieutenant. I’m not talking about your inquest.”
“Nor am I, Sergeant. The tactical and strategic concerns are now mine as well, since I am, effective today, your new CO.”
McGee was not even aware he had leaped to his feet. “You are what?”
Heide did not blink. “I am the new commanding officer of the Resistance.”
McGee’s response was honest, if impolitic: “That’s bullshit.” He turned to Tibor Peters, who met his eyes this time—sadly. “Cap—Tibe—what the hell is going on here? What is this—?”
Heide rapped his gavel on the desk. “You will resume your seat and address the senior officer when making inquiries as to command structures, Sergeant.”
McGee stared at Heide a full second before replying. “I am making my inquiry of the senior officer, Lieutenant.” He turned back to Peters as Heide scribbled some notes and then started to reach for the paging button—probably to bring in some guards.
Peters spoke quietly. “Lieutenant Heide—sir.”
Heide’s hand hovered over the button. “Yes, Lieutenant Peters?” He had put a slight emphasis on the word “Lieutenant.”
“Sir, this man—Sandro—has been under my command since he joined the Reserves. I think it might be easier—and faster—if I explain the situation.”
Heide left his palm suspended over the button for a moment, then removed it with a deferential wave. “As you wish, Lieutenant. He’s your man.”
Damn right I’m Cap’s man, you rat-shit, thought McGee, but instead of saying anything, he bent forward, eyes and ears intent on Cap.
Who looked like he’d fallen into himself and aged ten years since chow last night. “Sandro,” he explained, “you know that when Lieutenant Colonel Van Felsen departed for Melantho, she left two of her Intelligence/Communication team behind. Here.”
McGee nodded. “Yeah, sure. Ensign Montaño”—a good kid with lots of promise, but still pretty green—“and Lieutenant Heide.” Who the Baldies might otherwise have conveniently scragged. “What of it?”
“Well, Tank, the fact of the matter was that Force Commander Van Felsen used her Intel team as her de facto command staff as well. Hell, we have lots of trained grunts in the Reserves, but not a lot of officers, and there’s a particular shortage of folks with staff-officer experience.”
“Okay, but that still doesn’t explain why Heide’s in charge now.”
Peters shrugged. “Because he’s senior, son.”
McGee gaped. “He’s—senior? What are you talking about?”
“He’s talking about a simple, documented fact, Sergeant.” Heide’s interruption was cool, level, not quite contemptuous. “When Lieutenant Peters mustered out of active service twenty-one years ago, he had only been a first lieutenant for thirteen months. I have been a first lieutenant longer than that, and therefore—”
“How much longer?”
Heide stared at McGee. “Sergeant, when you address me, you will use the proper—”
“Sir, the sergeant wishes to ask a question, sir. How long have you been a first lieutenant—sir?”
Heide’s mouth seemed afflicted by a momentary tic. “Fourteen months. And two days.”
McGee looked at Peters. “Cap, tell me this is some huge joke. At least tell me you’ve logged a protest.”
Peters suddenly looked very old and drawn. “Son, there’s no basis for a protest. Lieutenant Heide is, by strict interpretation of regulations, completely within his rights. I was an acting first lieutenant for three years, actually—a brevet rank. But the official promotion to the rank took place exactly when Heide says it did. And besides, he’s also been active duty now for four years longer than I was.”
McGee gaped, worried he’d babble in his growing desperation. “But Cap—all the active service Marines at Acrocotinth, and at Camp Gehenna—there were plenty of captains and majors who—”
But Cap Peters was shaking his head. “All gone, son. All withdrawn—or killed. And we didn’t advertise that fact when the Baldies got here. Van Felsen thought it would be bad for morale.”
“What do you mean, the other officers were all lost or killed?”
“The training staff and cadres at Camp Gehenna were all pulled back to Astria when it was learned the aliens were going to arrive in the Bellerophon system. And given the furor over their arrival, and the isolated location of Gehenna, it was easy enough to make that withdrawal look like part of the massive redeployments under way at that time. HQ deemed it prudent to remove the Rim’s biggest concentration of experienced Marine training staff and cadre. Judging from what happened here, I can’t say they made the wrong decision.
“The actual casualties? Well, all our active-duty units were out at the forts guarding the warp points and orbital facilities. We lost ninety-five percent of the formations that had originally been stationed at Acrocotinth out there, along with most of the other active-duty units.”
“Good God, Cap, why did they load so many Marines on the forts and orbital stations?”
“SOP when you’re dealing with nonhumans, son—but you probably wouldn’t have been taught that. It’s ancient history now, purged from the training manuals. See, after the Bug War and the earlier dust-up with the Thebans, we had learned that, when your enemy isn’t human, you can’t assume that they are as sour on deep-space boarding actions as we are. And if you are being boarded, then it’s just common sense that if you don’t have Marines, your ship will be lost—as will all the crew—during the one-sided carnage. So with aliens we’d never encountered on the way, and millions of tonnes of fortresses to defend, General Trinh embarked all the Acrocotinth battalions on our spaceside hardpoints. And he—and almost all our officers—went with them.
“Of course, HQ never envisioned a complete loss of the system, at least not so fast. And although the Intel folks back in Astria made the right call with the withdrawal of Camp Gehenna’s staff, they royally screwed the pooch when they presumed the arriving aliens wouldn’t have reactionless drives. It’s an understandable extrapolation, of course. Since our visitors were arriving by slow sublight speed, it seemed they neither had knowledge of warp points—which was correct—nor an understanding of reactionless drive technology, which was tragically incorrect. So, by that erroneous logic, it was thought that the naval fight for the system would proceed more slowly, with more time for redeployments, shifting of forces and matériel.
“No one envisioned a two-day collapse, with all space stations lost. Poor Van Felsen was way down on the seniority list before the redeployments to the fortresses. Hell, as a light bird colonel, she just barely had enough rank to be made a Marine force commander. And so, son, what you see in this room is all we’ve got left, all we’ve got in the way of a command staff. And in the mix we have left, Lieutenant Heide has seniority.”
McGee leaned back in his seat. Jennifer and the baby were alive: the best possible news. Heide was in charge of the Resistance: arguably, the worst possible news. What a day. “Let me guess—that announcement was made earlier today?” Which would explain all the gray faces and dark looks in the corridors of HQ.
Heide cleared his throat. “The officers were informed at 0800. I suspect there has been some inappropriate relay of that information to the enlisted ranks—nonregulation, but predictable.”
McGee had to lock his teeth together against the new CO’s prim officiousness. Heide, you need to get that imaginary swagger stick out of your ass, and the starch out of your jockstrap. “And so I’m to tell the NCOs of the—change—in command structure?”
“Yes, as master gunnery sergeant, you would normally be responsible for relaying this information to all HQ and special action team NCOs.”
“I would normally be responsible?”
“Yes. This returns us to the actual purpose of the inquest.”
“Wait—wasn’t it an inquiry into my bombings?”
“That’s how it started, but as I mentioned, Ms. Peitchkov’s—and the infant’s—survival have added a new dimension to our investigation.”
“Which is?”
“That we must reconsider the connection between your unauthorized bombings and the alien strike upon your house, which resulted in the death of your CO and the three most senior members of her command staff.”
McGee couldn’t see the connection between Jennifer, the baby, and Van Felsen’s death, but he certainly understood how the latter was his fault—all his fault. “Lieutenant Heide, allow me to save the inquest board some time. I do not in any way deny that my bombings must have attracted the Baldy attention that ultimately resulted in the deaths of Commander Van Felsen and her—”
“I am not finished, Sergeant. You are relieved of duty, effective immediately. Charges and specifications will be handed down pending resolution of an inquiry into both the degree of your insubordination during your bombing activities in Melantho, and into the now undeniable possibility that you have been suborned by the Baldy occupation forces and have become a willing and active collaborator—”
“What?”
“—who may have provided them with both the time and the place where they could ambush Force Commander Van Felsen and her research team.”
McGee leaped toward Heide; Jon Wismer’s lean—but very strong—fingers clamped down on Sandro’s arm, breaking his dive to get his own massive hands around Heide’s lying, supercilious neck.
Heide, to his credit, had not even flinched. “Is it your intent to add a multiply witnessed attack upon a senior officer to the list of charges under investigation?”
John tugged at McGee’s arm. “Sandro, this won’t help. It won’t help the Resistance, it won’t help you, and it certainly won’t help Jennifer. Now take your seat again.”
“Thank you for convincing Sergeant McGee to see reason, Corporal Wismer. However, I have the unfortunate duty to inform you that, while you are not being investigated for subornation and treason, your role in the unauthorized bombings is also under investigation. And yes, Sergeant McGee, we will add your perjury from earlier in this session—since you claimed to have acted alone in the bombings—to the charges and specifications currently being assessed. In your case, Corporal Wismer, since we have no reason to suspect your loyalty, you will continue your duties at your current rank, at least until further notice.”
“Yes, sir. But at the risk of trying the patience of the board, I can testify that Sergeant McGee had absolutely no interactions with the Baldies. Sir, he hated them—hated them so much that he couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. Sir.”
“I do not argue with the assertion that Sergeant McGee hates the aliens, Corporal. My concern is that they currently hold two persons who are desperately important to him, personally. It is only prudent to examine whether or not Sergeant McGee is merely guilty of operational ineptitude and disregarding orders—or whether he entered into collusion with the enemy in order to preserve the lives of his family. And Corporal, can you really testify—and I mean testify—to the claim that Sergeant McGee never had any contact with the Baldies? Did you have him under constant observation? Did you monitor all his communications?”
Wismer looked down at his hands.
“I didn’t think so. So it is needful that we conduct an investigation into the possibility that Sergeant McGee might have been blackmailed into betraying his superiors and fellow Marines.”
McGee tried to keep the hateful snarl out of his voice but knew that he had failed. “We were ordered to sit on our hands in Melantho while the Baldies drove fifty thousand men, women, and children out of the West Shore District. We kept sitting on our hands while they killed anyone who disobeyed, and even when they went into some hospices and nursing homes and…Damn it, Heide—you can’t know what it felt like to be a Marine and watch all that going on right under your nose. You weren’t there.”
“No, I wasn’t there, Sergeant. But did I need to be? Would my having been there change the fact that it looks very much like you were complicit in the deaths of your fellow Marines? The invaders had your significant other and child in their custody. They looked for the Command staff at your house, less than an hour after Commander Van Felsen arrived there. Now, how would the aliens know to do that unless they had gotten to you?”
“No. The timing was a coincidence.”
“Was it? Then was it also a coincidence that you were the only person not in the house when the ambush occurred—an ambush that left no survivors who could ever depose against you, in the event they might have seen something during the attack, or in your house, which indicated your complicity? Was it also a coincidence that as soon as Ms. Peitchkov was taken, your bombings stopped?”
“The bombing stopped because the Baldies put me in the hospital. Then I went up to the training retreat in Upper Thessalaborea and Force Commander Van Felsen intimated that I had best stop the bombings. So I didn’t resume them when I returned to Melantho, a few days ahead of the commander and her team.”
“Possibly—although, except for your injuries, none of that can be substantiated, since all the involved parties are dead. Although—how was it you arrived at the hospital, again?”
McGee looked away: this was not possible, the way random facts seemed to now be gathering together to conspire against him. “I don’t remember. I was unconscious. But I’m told the Baldies brought me to the emergency room.”
“Which you claim you don’t remember. Perhaps. Or perhaps they went back to your house to tell you that unless you cooperated, your pregnant girlfriend would be killed—and then roughed you up to alleviate any suspicion that you were now their willing accomplice. And is that also why the pediatrician was collected as soon as he was requested? Is that just some more quid pro quo from your alien masters?”
McGee was almost on his feet again, when he saw Cap Peters staring at him. Staring hard, eyes pleading. Pleading that Sandro stay in his seat.
Heide seemed to interpret the silence and McGee’s sullen avoidance of his gaze as indicative of victory. “So, our inquest will proceed to examine if there are sufficient grounds to bring charges of both treason and insubordination against you, Sergeant McGee. Furthermore, I am bound by the express wishes of the late Elizabeth Van Felsen to inform you that, in the event of her untimely demise, she left instructions for you to be promoted back to the officer ranks when your work with her in Melantho was concluded. However, that work was never completed—indeed, it was never begun. Also, since you were absent during the Baldy ambush—”
“Possible ambush,” corrected Peters.
“—during the Baldy ambush,” persisted Heide, “and it is possible that you facilitated that attack, I cannot responsibly act upon Force Commander Van Felsen’s recommendation. You shall thus remain an NCO. Furthermore, until we have completed our investigation into your activities in the weeks leading up to the ambush, I am relieving you of active duty and am ordering that you be confined to quarters, and held incommunicado, until such time as we have gathered enough information to decide whether charges are warranted.”
Cap leaned forward. “Lieutenant Heide, this borders on the preposterous. Sergeant McGee—”
“Lieutenant Peters, as long as there remains any reasonable doubt that McGee has been suborned by the enemy through his personal concern for his family’s welfare, he cannot be safely allowed into the field—and he must be held incommunicado. Any other course of action could compromise this HQ, and our teams in the field, in precisely the same way that Commander Van Felsen and the command staff were compromised.”
“Again, hypothetically compromised.”
Heide again ignored Peters’s emendation. “Sergeant McGee, before you leave with the guards waiting outside, do you wish to say anything that you feel might assist in our investigation?”
“Yes. Find Rashid of Rashid’s Sport and Tool store in Melantho. He will be able to tell you why I was not at my house when Commander Van Felsen’s team arrived and will vouch that I was conducting activities vital to minimizing the possibility that our operations in Melantho might be compromised. Also, I—”
“Sergeant, since you seem to have a great deal to say, I suggest you write it down. I will see to it that the members of this board all receive a copy.”
Peters jerked erect in his seat. “Heide, that is a flagrant violation of inquest procedures. The party under investigation is entitled to speak directly to the—”
“Lieutenant Peters, your carping over insignificant procedural details is an affront to yourself, the board, and the dignity of all Marine officers.” Heide stood; for a moment McGee wondered if he was about to smirk. But the new CO only looked at Peters and said, “This board of inquiry stands in recess, pending receipt of further evidence. Dismissed.”