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"Yes, ma'am," he said, starting to bow.
"Oh, cut it out." She laughed. "Look, Lieutenant, I know it's Saturday, but we're in a bind. First Sergeant?"
It was only then that Tommy noticed First Sergeant Bogdanovich in the corner, lounging like a leopard on the company commander's couch.
Boggle's brow furrowed and she leaned forward urgently. "Lieutenant, several suits in the company have a critical shortage of biotic undergel. Since it's a GalTech controlled substance, it can only be released to a qualified Fleet officer."
"I'm hereby appointing you Armory officer for the company," Slight continued. "I want you to go over to S-4 and find all the undergel you can lay your hands on. Clear?"
"Clear, ma'am," Sunday said, snapping to attention. "Permission to leave?"
"Go," Slight said seriously. "And don't come back until you have it; we really need to get the suits up to speed."
After the mountainous lieutenant was well clear of the room the two women exchanged glances and then First Sergeant Bogdanovich, veteran of countless battlefields, gave a very uncharacteristic giggle. "Two hours."
"Less," Slight said shaking her head. "He's no dummy."
* * *
Lieutenant Sunday marched into the office of the S-4 NCOIC, who started to get to his feet.
"At ease," the lieutenant said waving his hand. "Rest even."
"Good morning, L-T," the staff sergeant said. "What can I do for you this fine . . . er . . . Sunday morning." The combination of the name of the day and the officer's name clearly had him baffled.
"Don't worry about it," Sunday said. "I've dealt with it all my life; I'm used to it. The CO sent me over here to draw some undergel. I've been designated the 'Armory Officer' so I'm cleared."
"Ah, undergel, huh?" McCo
"Damn," said Sunday, nodding his head seriously. "All out, huh? There's not like, you know, one can, someplace? Or maybe a short case hiding under somebody's desk?"
McCo
"Gee," said Sunday, putting his hands on his hips. "Maybe I should run over to battalion and see the . . . ?"
"Battalion commander," McCo
"You sure?" Sunday asked, honestly surprised. "It's not like, oh, I du
"Nope, L-T," McCo
"Right," Sunday said, getting to his feet. "Here I go to see the Battalion Commander to Get Some Undergel. See? And, oh, by the way, Sergeant."
"Yesss?" asked McCo
"I think maybe you should call the BC and tell him I'm coming over," Sunday said with a feral grin. "But, maybe, you should leave the . . . overtones of our conversation out." He leaned over the sergeant's desk and smiled in a friendly ma
"Okay," McCo
"Apropos of nothing whatsoever, Sergeant," Sunday continued, straightening up. "I feel constrained to mention that I'm something of a student of the Armored Combat Suit. And, if memory serves correctly, the suits generate their own underlayer na
"I wouldn't know what to say, L-T," the NCO said with a smile.
"I'm also constrained to mention, sarge, that when someone in the military refers to the other by their bare rank, or a negative derivation thereof, such as the name of a bottom-feeding fish, it is generally a sign that that person does not truly respect the individual, whatever their rank. What do you have to say that?"
The NCO laughed. "I wouldn't say a damned thing to that, sir."
"Call me Tank, Sergeant McCo
CHAPTER 22
Newry Cantonment, PA, United States, Sol III
0923 EDT Saturday September 26, 2009 ad
"Major," said Gu
"Come on in, Sunday," O'Neal called.
Sunday marched in, came to the position of attention, and saluted. "Sir. Captain Slight has requested that I obtain some undergel replacement! I am given to understand that you have the last available can in the battalion!"
Mike leaned back, returned the salute languidly and tapped the ash off the end of his cigar. "Ru
"Yes, sir," Sunday said, saluting again. "Permission to continue my search, sir!"
"Carry on, Sunday," O'Neal said, with another languid wave. "And tell Slight that undergel doesn't grow on trees."
"Yes, sir!" the lieutenant said, spi
O'Neal shook his head as Gu
"You're sniggering, Gu
"I am not," the former marine answered. "I'm snickering. There's a difference."
"I don't think this was a good idea," O'Neal said, taking a puff of the cigar to keep it lit. "Sunday's both smart and former service. I think Slight's in over her head, frankly."
"Maybe she is," the sergeant major said with a shrug. "But this is an old and honorable tradition. What sort of unit would we be if we didn't send the new L-T out on a quest for something that doesn't exist?"
"I du
* * *
Sunday stood outside the battalion headquarters, one hand on his hip and the other slowly rubbing his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face. He looked around the small cantonment area, searching for a gleam of inspiration until his eye was caught by a poster advertising the new Ground Forces Exchange. He looked at it thoughtfully for a moment and then gri
Whistling, he strode down the road towards main post, saluting the occasional passing troop. Any of them that looked at his face, looked away almost immediately; that was not the sort of expression you wanted to see on a person approximately the size of a bulldozer.
* * *
Maggie Findley was a short, petite brunette, seventeen years old and in another year, if she was still alive, would graduate from Central High School ("Home of the Dragons!"). She had applied for the job at the Ground Forces Exchange for two reasons; it was a job and jobs were scarce these days and, all things being equal it might be a good way to meet a nice guy.
This was her first shift all alone on the register and, so far, it had been a quiet Saturday morning. A rather large soldier had entered not too long before and headed to the back but, really, they were generally nice guys.
When she saw him headed back to the front she was momentarily a little nervous; he was not just large he was enormous. But after a moment she noticed the silver bars of a first lieutenant and stopped worrying; officers were gentlemen after all. So it was in this pleasant state of mind that she blushed bright red when the lieutenant set down the small box he had been carrying.
* * *
Tommy smiled at the young lady behind the counter, whose nametag read "Findley." "Would you happen to have any more of this in the back? There were only a few boxes stocked on the shelf."
"Uh," she looked from the box to the officer and blushed again. "You . . . need more?" she squeaked.