Gust Front

«Oh, police reports, news articles . . .»

«Infrared satellite imagery,» Mike interjected.

«Right,» said Sharon, nodding her head. «That sort of thing.»

«Commander O'Neal, you are reminded that you do not have access to civil-political intelligence gathering,» stated the AID. It was the flat, unaccented response Mike had come to recognize as security protocol response.

«Let me try.» He smiled. «AID, check my overrides and use the lowest level of intelligence necessary to derive requested information.»

The AID did not exactly sniff in disdain, but the tone of voice was distinctly unhappy. «National Technical Means,» it said, sarcastically, «indicates that the small fish camp on No-Name-Key is in operation. There is no indication of cabin usage, but it has had cabins for rent in the past. They should still be available.»

Mike picked the map back up and searched for No-Name-Key.

«That's right next door,» he said in surprise.

«Correct,» said the AID. «In addition, imagery indicates that the proprietor has been underreporting fish harvests by about twenty percent, contrary to United States Rationing and Storage Regulation F-S-B-One-Zero-Seven-Five-Eight-Dash-One-A.»

Mike rubbed his chin and frowned. «Is that your own analysis or did you pull it out of a file?»

«That is my own analysis, Captain O'Neal,» stated the device.

«Well, lock that analysis down unless overridden and remind me at an opportune time to discuss where you developed the information,» Mike snapped. The hell if he was going to let a piece of GalJunk drop the dime on some hard-working fishermen.

«Yes, sir, Captain,» the AID snapped back.

«Well, that's that settled,» said Sharon with a smile.

«Mom?» asked Cally from the back seat.

«Yes?»

«Do you think there will be somewhere to eat?» she asked. There was not a hint of a whine, just a simple question.

Sharon turned and looked at her oldest daughter. Cally lay against the driver's side door, looking out at the abandoned landscape, idly tapping her fingers on her thigh. Her face was somber and grave but the eyes slid across the area outside, constantly questing. For targets or threats, Sharon suddenly realized. The light blouse the eight-year-old wore had ridden up enough to reveal the small automatic in her waistband. Taken all together the image made Sharon want to cry. It was as if disaster had already come to America and they were wanderers in some post-Apocalyptic nightmare. Sharon took a deep breath and forced herself to be calm. Most of the reaction was stress still bleeding off from the Agincourt and the disastrous visit to her parents. It would pass. It had to.

«Probably. There should be somewhere to get something. And if not we've got more 'travel rations,' « she finished with a smile. The rations had been Papa O'Neal's suggestion and it had been a good one.

Papa O'Neal had been paying more attention to conditions across the United States than either Sharon or Mike. When they had stated their plans to take a car trip down the Florida Peninsula he had demurred. Even though they had access to unlimited fuel supplies because of the «cache» items Mike had ported along, he pointed out other problems. Without stating anything other than vague reports of lack of services in south Florida he had suggested that staying at the farm would be the best plan. But when Sharon and Mike had been insistent he had made a series of startling suggestions. He had been so adamant about them that the couple had finally given in, figuring that the additional items fell under the category of «better safe than sorry.»

Thus, attached to the spare tire on the back was a five-gallon can of gas and a shovel. In the morass of material in the back were three cases of beer and two other cases of mixed liquor. There were more cases of smoked and ti

In addition to food and liquor, Papa O'Neal had strongly recommended taking along «trade goods.» The very thought of taking such ubiquitous items as hooks, heavy monofilament and rubber tubing for sling spears to the Keys was ludicrous. Looking around at the surroundings Mike had had more than one occasion to bless his father's foresight. The Old Man had spent years in Third World hellholes and now it looked like the Keys just about fit that bill. Even if no one was willing to take Galactic credits for room and board, Mike was willing to bet dollars to donuts a case of six gross Number Two hooks would open doors.

«Well, let's go find out, shall we?» said Mike, putting the Tahoe into gear. He deliberately steered to crush the tumbling palm frond, metaphorically spurning the depression caused by the desolation around them. As they turned down the side street towards No-Name-Key, the wind caught the shattered palm frond and tumbled the pieces onto U.S. 1. The hard wind whistled through the abandoned buildings and erased the marks the vehicle had made on the drifting sand in the parking lot.

CHAPTER 22

Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA, United States of America, Sol III

1400 EDT October 2nd, 2004 ad

«Teri, you have got to stop getting into pissing contests with enlisted men.»

Teri Nightingale sighed deeply as Ernie Pappas's strong, oil-covered fingers dug out the tensed muscles on her back. The first sergeant's thumbs rolled up along both sides of her spine, smoothing away the accumulated stresses of the day. At the accusation she could feel the muscles try to tense, but forced calm into her system. It was no good getting angry; he was right.

«I know,» she said with another resigned sigh. «I know. But I was so goddamn mad at Stewart I couldn't stop myself.»

«And now you've ended up looking like an ass,» said Pappas with toneless brutality. «And such a nice ass it is,» he added, giving it a little pat as he rolled off her back and propped himself up on one fist.

The tiny motel on the outskirts of Hummelstown was as far as they could reasonably get from the post. But Pappas was fairly sure a few of the company suspected something. Which must have really confused them when he quietly corrected his lover after her latest outburst.

The Old Man had left a list of missions to work on in his absence, missions that he specifically felt the unit was weak on. Earlier that day, practicing an envelopment maneuver, the entire exercise fell apart. The Posleen had attacked with more ferocity than normal and exploited a gap between First and Third platoons to roll up the company.

Stewart, in the after-action review, had injudiciously pointed out that proper employment of the reserve would have plugged the gap and saved the maneuver. They still would have taken more casualties than their «norm,» but less than the total wipeout they had experienced.

It was the casual remark of a young man who was rapidly turning into a brilliant tactician. The formal training of the military had taken an untutored but febrile mind and rocketed it into areas of genius. He proceeded to outline four other simple steps that, either before or during the engagement, would have saved the company's ass. It was a given that he had thought of them in the thick of the action and not as a «Monday Morning Quarterback» reaction after the drill. He was only trying to be helpful, but the XO had taken it as a direct attack and responded at length.

When the harried XO, in front of most of the leaders of the company, had finished describing her opinion of the comments she went on to discuss Stewart's parentage, unfortunately probably with more truth than she realized, education and probable future. Before she realized what she was doing, she had thoroughly poisoned the well.