Major (The United Federation Marine Corps Book 5) (3 page)

Chapter 4

Ryck stepped out from his condo and started stretching.  His senses were on high alert, but he tried to act calm and inconspicuous as he scanned the shadows.  He knew his people were out there, but he couldn’t pick them out.

Volker had slammed a month’s training into three short hours at the embassy, it seemed to Ryck, going over exactly what was expected of him.  Then he had gone home, only slightly later than normal, with orders to remain inside his condo.  He’d been surprised when two men he didn’t recognize were already in his condo when he arrived.  With only a few words—more like grunts—they had him get into his workout clothes and then wired him up.  The Charge de Affairs had mentioned Ryck getting wired up “to his short hairs,” and the two men must have taken him seriously.  One sensor was perilously close to his jewels.  Why it had to be there, or what anyone hoped to pick up with it, was beyond him, but Ryck just stared at the ceiling, slightly embarrassed but still trying not to laugh, as the first man bent over with some sort of scanner pointed at his crotch.

When they were done, Ryck excused himself to hit the head, and expecting the men to barge in on him any second now, he pulled the small Bianchi Faustus had given him and taped it under his waistband.  He wasn’t sure if the two men knew about the handgun or not, but he didn’t want to take any chances with them.

One of the men was gone when Ryck came out of the head, but the other stayed there with Ryck for the next several hours while he waited until the appointed time.  With the guy there, Ryck didn’t feel as if he should turn on the holo, so the two of them sat in silence, Ryck getting more nervous. 

He wasn’t sure why he was getting nervous, though.  He’d been calmer going into combat, for grubbing sakes.  He thought it might be because despite his training in Brussels, despite Volkers cram session, he was not a bond, not a spy.  He was just a dumb grunt pretending to be more than he really was.

Underlying the nervousness, though, was a high degree of excitement.  He may not be a bond, but this was like the flicks.  What kid hadn’t played secret agent?  And here he was, getting ready to do just that.

He was relieved when his minder got the call and nodded to Ryck to get going.  He took the elevator to the lobby, nodded at the woman coming in (and immediately wondering if she was some sort of agent), and stepped outside where he commenced his stretching.    A minute or two later, he stepped off into an easy jog.

“Starting off,” he subvocalized, hoping his collar mic would pick it up.

“Got you,” a voice replied through the tiny ear bud (which looked like nothing so much as a small piece of ear wax).

Ryck jogged down Tyson Ave, which was mostly quiet at this hour of the evening.  His condo was located in a nicer residential area in the embassy district, and with traffic light, he could jog in the street itself.  It wasn’t until he turned right onto Peake and its restaurants and pubs that he had to retreat to the sidewalk and dodge late-night pedestrians.  No one seemed to give him a second glance, however, as he wove through the groups and single walkers.  A young woman jogger accompanied by a huge dog on a leash gave him a wave as they met and passed each other.

O’Brien Park was a good seven klicks from Ryck’s condo, and Ryck was glad the night was cool as he ran at a brisk pace.  It was almost 25 minutes before he ran under the arched entrance and into the park.  He’d never been in the park, but he’d seen the map and knew where the statue was.  With his Neulife bridges and augmented hippocampus, a handy souvenir from his tour in recon, it was child’s play for him to navigate to pretty much anywhere without his PA or any navigation aids.

The statue, an oversized bronze dolphin dedicated to Delphinus, Neptune’s servant and matchmaker (having convinced the lovely water nymph Amphitrite to marry the suddenly shy god), was still a good klick away in the back of the park.  Ryck had rolled his eyes when he’d read about the statue’s origin.  The whole Roman-thing was getting rather old.

Ryck jumped over a bench to take a shortcut and almost landed on a couple who were on the ground and locked in each other’s arms.  He avoided them with an acrobatic twist, landed, and kept running, although he wondered if the two were really young lovers or agents from the Federation or the Confederation. He looked back to see if they were moving and was surprised to see someone else running as well, someone who looked determined to catch up to him.  Ryck sped up, veering off to the right and away from the path leading to the statue.  He ran a hand along his waist band and felt the comforting heft of his small Bianchi.

“Ryck!” the man in back of him called out.

Ryck picked up the pace again, swinging back towards the arch.

“I’ve got company!” he spoke into his mic, ignoring subvocalization. 

“We’re on it,” his unseen minder said.

“Ryck, stop, it’s me!”

Ryck recognized the voice.  It was his shadow, Titus.

Grubbing hell!
he thought. 
And it all comes crashing down.

He didn’t think Titus was going to harm him, merely tell him the gig was up and he was getting his accreditation pulled.  His tour was going to come to an embarrassing end. 

Fuck it.  Get me back to the fleet
. 
I’ve had enough of this shit.

He came to a stop, somewhat embarrassed by the amount of heaving his lungs were making.  The diplomatic circuit was doing his fitness no favors.  He tried to control his breathing as Titus slowed to a stop in front of him.  Ryck took a small degree of pyrrhic pride that Titus was sucking wind more than he was. 

Ryck stood tall when all he wanted to do was bend over and gasp for breath.

“Don’t come,” Ryck subvocalized into his mic.  “It’s Major
Pohlmeyer.”

“Roger.  Wait for instructions,” came through his earbud. 

“Sparking hell, Ryck,” Titus gasped out.  “You’re early, and I almost missed you.”

“OK, you caught me, and I’ve breached my status.  What now?” Ryck asked sourly.

“Not yet, you haven’t.  And you won’t.  Do not go to your meeting,” Titus said.

“What?” Ryck asked, not expecting that.

“Your meeting.  Your rendezvous.  It’s a trap.  If you go, you won’t come back, a victim of Vishnu’s rising crime rate.”

Ryck didn’t even bother to protest what he was doing, that he didn’t have a meeting.

“I . . . uh, why are you telling me this?”

“You are somewhat famous, even infamous, Major, and more than a few people think you should not be here.  Some of them are in high places, and they might have exceeded their authority in ordering your, shall we say,
removal
?”

Ryck had often thought that his presence was more of a gadfly than a peace dove, but he never thought anyone would actually resort to violence.  Marines reacted with deadly violence, but diplomats preferred less sanguine solutions.

“So, why did you stop this
removal
?” Ryck asked, perplexed.

“You are an accredited diplomat, and we are a civilized government.  We don’t remove foreign diplomats.”

Despite his situation, Ryck took in the word “remove.”  They were talking about a political assassination, yet they couldn’t use words like “kill” or “murder.”

“And you have an honorable reputation among many in the Army, men who will not stand for politicians dirtying our hands.”

Ah, there’s a riff between the Army and at least some of the civilian government?
Ryck wondered, catching what might be his first real bit of Intel since his arrival. 

He wondered if Titus realized what he’d just let slip.

“Captain Hennesey, who I think you know, gave you a pretty solid recommendation, and that has cemented your rep.  Believe it or not, the Army has your back.”

“Captain Hennesey?  Who’s he—” he started before he remembered.  “Oh, in the Telchines.  He and I negotiated our truce.”

“Yes, and he gave a pretty detailed account of all your actions there to his father, and that was entered into your file.”

“His father, who—?  Ah, General Hennesey?  As in Vice Chief of the Army Hennesey?”

“Yes, him.  A hard-ass son-of-a-bitch who never-the-less was more than happy to get his only son back and with his honor intact.”

Ryck took a moment to digest this.  First, that they had a file on him.  Federation Nova or not, he was still just a major, and files were usually kept on generals and maybe some colonels.  Second, that the fates had brought him the vice-chief’s son, and they had both acted to minimize senseless killing despite others who wanted glory by continuing the fight in the Telchines.

“Major, we’ve got movement.  This operation is aborted.  Get out now!” his unseen minder almost yelled into his earbud.

“I’ve got to go,” Ryck said.  “Uh, thanks.  And maybe we should talk more.”

“Not sparking hardly,” Titus said with a laugh as both men started running to the entrance.  “I may respect you, but I’m here to keep an eye on you, and no, you don’t have a chance on turning me.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Ryck said as he ran.  Ahead of him, the two lovers were gone, observers from one side or the other.

Through the gate, Titus peeled off to the left.  Ryck went right and ran deep into the commercial district.  He didn’t know who was there from the embassy to support him, but he wasn’t going to return on the same route he’d taken to get there.

Nothing had gone according to plan, and Ryck knew he’d be spending hours in debriefs and even more writing up his contact report.  Still, he felt the adrenaline rush that he often felt in combat.  He’d rather be a commander of Marines somewhere, but maybe this job wasn’t so bad after all.

CS
Path of Glory

Chapter 5

“What do you think?” Titus asked, waiting for Micah’s opinion.

The vice colonel seemed to think long and hard as Ryck, LCDR Rainer Kopf (a Brotherhood assistant naval attaché),
Capitaine de vaisseau
Silas Beignet, and
Junior Regimentist Csonka listened in.

Finally, he nodded his head and said, “Not bad.  About the best I’ve had, to be honest.”

“Sparking right, sir.  I told you!” Titus shouted.

“
Va te faire foutre, Micah!”
Silas Beignet protested.  “Groupe Danone makes a much better macaroon!”

The rest of the group laughed at the captain’s reaction.  They were killing time in the
Path of Glory’s
senior wardroom while they waited for yet one more brief from the exercise staff, and the conversations were getting rather inane.  Ryck liked Beignet, but it was still fun to see him put in his place.

“I told you, CCB is good at what they do, especially with sweets.  This is Free States technology at its best.  Their new system counteracts the acid buildup in fabricators that, uh, it masks . . . uh, well you know.  I don’t know exactly how, but CCB fabricators are the best available,” Titus told the glowering attaché.  “And just because a macaroon is an old-timey French pastry doesn’t mean Greater France has a monopoly on it.  Just look at New Budapest wine.”

Bill Csonka, the New Budpest military liaison, raised his glass of Pepsi in a mock toast as even Beignet had to nod.  The New Budapest vineyards were widely regarded as the best in human space even if Greater France clung to its historical emphasis on wine.

Ryck took another of the macaroons, this one with a passionfruit filling.  It was pretty darn good, he had to admit, but if it was better than anything else that had been popped out of another fabricator, he wasn’t sure.  He just hoped the galley crew would be serving something a little more filling soon.

The gathered diplomats were on a semi-annual observation exercise with the Confederation Navy.  The exercise itself was part of the normal training process, but twice a year, the foreign delegation was invited on board one of the capital ships to observe how the Confederation did things. 

It wasn’t as if the Confederation was going to reveal anything useful, however.  The delegation had only been allowed on the bridge of the
Path of Glory
for a few short briefings.  Engineering and the weapons stations were completely off limits.   That left the CIC
[2]
(where a number of stations were hooded with black cloth when they were there), the main hangar deck, berthing, and the wardroom.  For the last two days, 80% of their time while not asleep was right here in the wardroom, discussing universe-shattering issues such as who made the best macaroons.

When CDR Danielle Harper came into the wardroom, followed by RADM Forsythe, CAPT Franks, and CAPT Juanala (the military attaché from the Liberty Alliance), everyone swung around, glad that perhaps now they could actually observe something. 

Ryck was still not used to women aboard combat vessels.  He knew the Federation was in the minority with regards to women in uniform, and he had no personal problem with the concept—Major Melissa “Missy” Walters, after all, had been one of only two people to earn two Federation Novas, back before women were banned from the service.  It just was odd to him to see a woman, in particular an attractive woman (not that attractiveness should matter, he admitted to himself), in a ship that could sail into harm’s way.

“Gentlemen,” she said as the men turned their attention to her, “Exercise Valiant Shield has been suspended.”

A low mutter sounded from the gathered men until she held up her hand to quiet them down. 

“There has been an incident in this quadrant, and as we are the closest force, we will be responding.  The SOG has taken over the orbiting observatory
Sisyphus
and is demanding a ransom.  The
Path of Glory
, the
Hanson Lake
, and the
CT-83
are going to respond.  The Commodore has already briefed Rear Admiral Forsythe, Captain Franks, and Captain Juanala and invited the entire delegation to sail with us.  Rear Admiral Forsythe and Captain Franks, after consultation with their embassies, have agreed to stay and observe.  The Liberty Alliance ambassador has declined, and the three Alliance personnel will be transferred to a packet and taken back to New Mumbai.  If anyone else wishes to debark, they will be placed on the same packet.”

Most of the men shot glances to Hans Baker.  It had long been rumored that the
Rottwilhelm Trust had some sort of arrangement with the SOG, much as the European powers had with the Barbary pirates back in the 19
th
Century, Old Reckoning, back on Earth.

Hans cleared his throat and said, “Commander, I’m under strict orders about putting myself into a potential conflict zone, so I’m afraid I will be debarking with my Liberty Alliance colleagues.”

“I understand, Mr. Baker.  The shuttle to the packet will leave in 35 minutes, so I suggest you and the Alliance personnel gather your things.  If anyone else needs to contact your embassies, please let me know.  Once the shuttle leaves, everyone onboard at that time will be along for the ride,” she told them.

Ryck’s pulse was quickening.  This wasn’t his fight—he was an observer.  But he’d tangled with the SOG before, and he was sure he could offer some advice if they wanted it.  The Federation and the Confederation were not the closest of governments even in the best of times, but against the SOG, the old enemy of my enemy adage was in full force.

“Nicely played,” Micah said as CDR Harper left the wardroom with a promise to be back in under an hour with a more detailed brief.

“What do you mean?” Ryck asked.

“This may have been planned from the gitgo.  With us onboard, technically, this is an allied mission, and all of our governments will go along with whatever the Confeds decide to do.  They have full operational command with no input, but our governments are complicit.  Hans realized that, and that’s why he had to leave.”

“And the Liberty Alliance?” Rainer Kopf asked, listening in.

“Don’t know for sure.  But their Navy’s been spread thin, especially with them decommissioning a good chunk of their destroyers.”

“They fought the trinoculars with us,” Ryck said.

“Even the SOG offered to help with that,” Micah said.  “It was furry aliens invading human space, after all.  And the Alliance lost five capital ships in that war.  I think they’re trying to stay on the sidelines in any future conflicts, if they can, and as they haven’t been bearing the brunt of any SOG attacks, they want to keep it that way.

“In my humble opinion, of course,” he added.

Ryck sat back to contemplate what Micah had said.  It made sense, but it was just his best guess analysis.

Whatever the reasons, though, CAPT Franks, and Mr. Lamonica back at the embassy, had committed themselves to support a Confederation military op.  The politics about this were way above Ryck’s paygrade, but fighting an enemy was not.  He was going to offer his services to the Confeds and with no ulterior motives.  He’d worry about being an attaché afterwards, but for now, he was going to be a combat Marine.