Gust Front

«Can I help you, Captain?» asked the MP lieutenant in an oddly supercilious tone, as he stepped in Mike's way. Mike recognized the symptoms. Many Army and Navy perso

Since Fleet and Fleet Strike were paid by the Federation, as opposed to Terran governments, they were paid in Federation credits. The Federation had a fixed payment scale for every level of worker throughout the Federation and the soldiers and spacemen of Fleet and Fleet Strike were given positions in that hierarchy.

Through one of those quirks of Federation law that was so beneficial to humans, military perso

Since the Galactics did not recognize the difference between the legality of things civilian and military, most military activities, such as terminating sentient life, required special permissions. These, in turn, required a higher «caste.» That being the case, the lowest ranked soldier or spaceman was ranked the same as an Indowy junior master craftsman. The higher ranks were thus extremely advanced in the overall Galactic hierarchy.

Given these advanced ranks, the Galactic pay scales were equivalent. A Fleet Strike captain made as much as a junior Darhel coordinator–nearly as much as an Army major general. On the other hand, with the tax increases for the war he was being taxed at almost eighty-seven percent of his income. It was a reasonable contribution to the war fund by anyone's estimation. Mike had also heard something about a Federation-mandated bonus from the Diess action. That would further add to the disparity in pay scales. Whatever the case there was extreme prejudice over the pay structure.

It was an attitude that would slowly dissipate after the war, if anyone survived, as Army units were subsumed into Fleet Strike. In the meantime it was just another hassle to be shrugged off.

«Yes, you can, Lieutenant. You can check me in. I'm supposed to report to CONARC.»

«I'm sorry, Captain, you seem to be in the wrong place. CONARC is based at Fort Myer. There will be a shuttle in about forty-five minutes.»

Mike handed over his copy of the e-mail and fingered the AID wrapped around his wrist. «As you can see, the orders clearly state to report to the CONARC commander at the Pentagon, not Fort Myer. So, where am I supposed to go?»

«I don't know, Captain, I'm just the gatekeeper. But these aren't authority for Pentagon entry.» He did not seem a bit displeased by the problem. «And in case no one ever explained this sort of thing to you, when it says report to the commander, it actually means report to someone at the command who will report you as arrived.» The lieutenant proffered another smug smile, having to explain such a simple item to one of the lords of the Fleet.

Mike fingered the AID for a moment. «Would you care to try to find out?»

«I wouldn't know where to start, Captain. I suppose you could call CONARC,» he finished, pointing to a rank of pay phones outside the entrance.

«Okee-dokee.» Mike slipped the AID off his wrist and set it on his head. It automatically conformed into a headset/microphone array. «Shelly, get Jack, please.»

«Yes, sir,» the AID chirped. There was a brief pause, then, «General Horner on the line.»

«Mike?» came the clipped tones.

«Yes, sir.»

«Where are you?» asked General Horner.

«At the side entrance.»

«Tell the MP to clear you through to the High Commander's office, ASAP.»

«Yes, sir.» He looked at the MP. «Okay, Lieutenant, the Continental Army Commander say, go to dee High Commander's office, ASAP. Whadda you say?»

«I have to have an authorized clearance to permit you entry to the building, sir,» said the MP, obviously calling the snotty Fleet jerk's bluff.

«Jack, he says he has to have clearance.»

When Mike used the Continental Army Commander's first name, without being rebuked, the MP's face turned as white as milk. It was obviously not a bluff.

«Give him the phone,» General Horner said, icily.

Mike handed over the AID, which the MP accepted gingerly, and watched as the lieutenant basically melted into the concrete. After three «yes, sirs» and a «no, sir» he handed the AID back and waved over one of the guards.

«Sergeant Wilson, take the captain directly to the High Commander's office,» he said quietly.

«Have a nice day.» Mike waved airily as he snapped the shiny, black AID back around his wrist.

«Yes, sir.»

REMF, thought Mike.

* * *

Although Shelly could have led him through the labyrinth to the HC's office, Mike was just as glad to have the sergeant along. The slightly smiling noncom led him first to a secondary guard room to get him a temporary pass, which was, miraculously, already cleared for him, then to the area formerly dedicated to the Joint Chiefs.

They walked in through the clerks, still hard at work, and up to the desk of the final keeper of the portal, an aged black warrant officer who looked like he ate nails for breakfast. Mike had heard of Warrant Officer Kidd, an SF legend who apparently had decided that General Taylor needed a keeper at all times. He and the general went way back, so it was said, to an unlikely incident involving an a

Warrant Office Fourth Class Kidd returned the salute. «Thank you, Sergeant. Return to your post.»

«Yes, sir,» said the sergeant, did a perfect about-face and marched out.

«I think I ruined his whole day,» said Captain O'Neal.

«Naw. Made it maybe. But you sure as hell ruined that L-T's. Or so I heard,» said Kidd with a cruel chuckle. «Did you really call CONARC 'Jack' to his face?»

«And you've never called General Taylor 'Jim'?» Mike answered with a smile.

«Well, not where anyone could hear.» The warrant officer stood up and towered over the dwarfish captain. «Damn, you are short,» he said and held out his hand. «Warrant Officer Kidd. You can call me Mister Kidd.»

«Captain Michael O'Neal,» said Mike as Kidd's hand engulfed his. Kidd went immediately for a crusher grip which Mike deflected through superior gripping power, although it was hard with the size of Kidd's hands. They wrestled for a moment until a look of pain flashed across the warrant's face. «As a special favor, you can call me Mighty Mite,» said Mike as he let up, slowly.

«Okay,» Kidd gasped.

«Can I go in now?» asked Mike, maintaining a grip.

«Will you let go if I say, 'Yes'?»

* * *

«Mike!» said the CONARC, striding across the office with his hand outstretched, «it's good to see you. You look a hell of a lot better than the last time.»

«Thank you, sir,» said Mike after a perfunctory salute, shaking General Horner's hand. «Belated congratulations on the fourth star. It is well deserved. Sorry, I didn't bring any cigars, I'm flat out.»

«Good cigars are getting hard to find,» said General Horner, leading him across the office to a sofa set. General Taylor stood up and walked to his desk to retrieve a cigar box.

«Here,» the High Commander said, proffering the box to Mike, «on the house. There's a guy in Readiness that flies down to Guantánamo about once a month. What with the warm relations we're developing with Cuba, cigars are no problem. He always brings me a couple of boxes.»

Mike extracted one of the long black panatelas. «Thank you, sir.»