Richard Norden was a tough and by-the-book officer who insisted on his Marines being “four-oh, high and tight.” He rarely left “A” Hab, however—some of the Marines had begun calling him “Mopey Dick” for that reason—and impending surprise inspections were telegraphed to the other habs by the Marines in his section…plenty of time to make sure everyone in a soon-to-be-visited grunt locker was properly in uniform when he arrived.
Jeff Warhurst was Norden’s Executive Officer, and as such he knew he should generate the same respect for regulations, both as XO and as CO of Bravo Company. But he also knew that a mindless adherence to form and outward show would do little but make sure he was on the alert list in all four habs, and further depress morale as well. As far as Jeff was concerned, the entire MSEF could run around buck naked when it was this hot and humid, so long as discipline was maintained, the work got done, and the men and women under his command weren’t afraid to come to him with their problems.
“So what’s the latest skinny, Major?” Kaminski wanted to know.
Jeff considered his reply carefully. Regular news reports were passed on to the men each day, but those had the stamp of institution thinking about them—and the faintest whiff of propaganda. What he told Kaminski now would be passing down through the ranks within a few minutes. A Marine rifle company was a better—and often faster—communications conduit than Earthnet. He could swear sometimes that scuttlebutt traveled faster than light.
“It looks like we’re going to have company after all,” Jeff replied. “The Star Mountain left Earth orbit fifteen hours ago. They’re on the way, a high-energy vector, at 2 Gs.”
“Shit. How long do we have?”
“Five days, if they boost the whole way with a turnaround in the middle.”
Kaminski frowned. “Doubling the Gs only knocks two days off the flight time? That doesn’t seem right.”
“The unforgiving equations,” Jeff said. “To halve the time you have to multiply the speed by four. To cut time down to a quarter, you square that, sixteen times the speed. The faster you push, the less time you have to take advantage of your high speed.”
“If you say so, sir. Still sounds like two plus two equals five.”
“They do,” Jeff said, grinning, “for moderately large values of two.”
“Well, anyway, we’ve got a Chinese transport on the way. Do we have a Peaceforcer running interference? I thought the JFK was covering our ass this month.”
The A-M cruiser John F. Kennedy was currently onstation in the Asteroid Belt, about four astronomical units out from the Sun.
“Right. The word is, the Kennedy’s tracking the Mountain, and will be moving to intercept. It’s going to be tight, though, to match course and speed with a Chinese bat coming straight out of hell. We have to be prepared for the possibility that the Mountain gives our people the slip.”
“And that other Chinese ship?”
“The Lightning? Still in a retrograde solar orbit, at one a.u. out. No new activity since they detonated that nuke three weeks back. S-2 is pretty sure she’s just carrying out weapons tests. No direct threat to us. They probably mean it as some kind of warning or message to Washington.”
“Yeah, and I suppose the Star Mountain is another message. Whatever happened to delivering messages by e-mail?”
“If she is, the JFK will stop the delivery. Just in case, though, I want to make sure our people have a shot at the latest CI-PLA sims.”
Current Intelligence sims—in this case, the latest information on the People’s Liberation Army—their equipment, logistics, weapons, armor, and technology—were basic software packages used in field training. They let the troops experience firsthand what was known about a potential enemy’s weapons and tactics.
“Affirmative, sir. We won’t have time between now and landing for everyone to head-cram. Especially with full inspections on the sched.”
“I know. We have a week before they get here, if they get here. Set up a sim-access schedule for after we land. Squad leaders and above should get first crack.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Before landing, they should all have reviewed sims on extreme arctic conditions.”
Kaminski chuckled. “Those’ve been on the sched, Major. Don’t know how well they’ve sunk in, though, when it’s this hot and humid. The joke goin’ about the squad bay is that we’re using the ice-training sims to save on the air conditioning. The other is that the squad leaders watch the ice sims instead of porn. They’re more fun.”
Jeff grasped the bottom of his o.d. T-shirt and flapped the sodden material uselessly. When the air was this humid, things simply couldn’t dry through evaporation. It was as bad as being deployed in the jungle. “Well, I can’t see why anyone in his right mind would want to raise their body temperature aboard this bucket.” Tucking his shirt back in, he added, “Are the bugs all checked out?”
“Affirmative, Major. Everything except the final go/no-go launch checklists. The numbers’re uploaded to the Force data base.”
“Well, then, I guess we’re on track.” What else is there? He wondered. What am I missing?
“I’ll pass the word about the inspection, sir. With the major’s permission?”
“Carry on, Sergeant Major.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
He checked the time—LED numerals within the skin on the back of his hand—and decided he had time for a quick sim-link himself. Walking past the table, he picked up a link helmet in an equipment locker against the bulkhead, then found a swivel-seat chair in one of the small office cubicles off the main compartment, and sat down.
The helmet, equipped with a dozen pressure-connection electrodes imbedded on the inside, nestled over his head with room to spare. He touched the adjustment key and let the smart garment software tighten the device gently into place. After pulling his PAD from its belt holster and plugging in the connection with the helmet, he slid the opaque eyeshield down, folded his arms, and leaned back in the chair as the soft buzz of the up connect trilled against his skull. Old-fashioned links had required surgically imbedded sockets, but low-frequency pulses could penetrate bone and stimulate the appropriate parts of the cerebral cortex.
There was a flash as the VR program booted up, and then he was standing in complete darkness, the sensations of lying back in the chair fading as they were overridden by software-generated illusions. A Marine general in long-obsolete o.d. utilities faced him…a belligerent-looking, wide-mouthed scowl, the man’s trademark expression, splitting a square and ugly face.
“Hello, Marine,” the figure rasped. “Whatcha need?”
“Some advice, Chesty. As usual.”
The image of General Lewis B. “Chesty” Puller hooked his thumbs in his Sam Browne belt and nodded. “Fair enough. Shoot.”
The AI he’d had patterned after Chesty Puller was resident in his PAD, though pieces of it also roamed the ship’s computer system, and the base network back at V-berg as well. The real Puller—the man was a legend in the Corps, a five-time
