“Goddamn, Colonel… What are you trying to do, end up back on the slab again?”
Burke ignored him, focused solely on his prey. He lashed out with a flurry of blinding punches that sent a score of echoing thumps and whoosh’s of air from the bag reverberating throughout the room. The bag barely moved under an assault that would pulverize bone.
He lunged forward suddenly, grappling with his opponent. His left elbow swung in a wide horizontal arc, viciously hammering the bag at head level, followed by several lunging knee strikes on what would be the lower ribs of a human target. All Fleet Strike personnel were highly trained in mixed martial arts and close combat hand to hand, and Wroth remembered now that the Colonel’s method of choice had always been a form of Asian kickboxing.
“Colonel?”
“What!” Burke gave the bag a parting snap kick and took several steps in Wroth’s direction like an enraged bull. “What the hell is so damn important that it can’t wait until I’m done with my workout?”
James Wroth tended to have a sarcastically confident, passive-aggressive personality during personal confrontations, that could bring even the most calm and even-tempered person to a blinding fit of madness in a matter of minutes. Just ask any of his ex-wives. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone toe to toe with Burke over the years either, and he was pleased to say that he usually won those arguments, at least until Burke pulled rank on him. Wroth took a deep breath and lowered his voice, settling on the middle ground between respect, and you can go fuck yourself for all I care.
“If you have a problem with something I’ve done, then fine; I’ll take my ass-chewing and move out smartly, but I’m not your whipping boy just because you’re pissed at the world at the moment.” Burke clenched his fists, bristling at the comment that he knew was true. “Look,” Wroth continued soothingly. “I know you’re worried about Margo and it’s eating you up inside, but beating yourself to a pulp isn’t going to help her one bit. She’s a strong woman, she’ll make it though this, but at the rate you’re going even your nanites and RBC/plasma replicator are going to have a hard time keeping up with the blood loss. Looks like a damn slaughter house in here.”
Burke’s features grew soft and his shoulders slumped with an exhausted breath. “It’s more than that, Jimmy. God help me, but I wish all she had to deal with was being sexually abused.” Wroth took a seat on a nearby workout bench, waiting, and Burke paused for a moment, still reluctant to divulge the hidden and somewhat embarrassing truth about Margo. “There’s a lot going on you don’t know about, and she’s not the same woman you remember.”
“I thought my days of being a mushroom were over when I left Fleet; kept in the dark and fed shit all the time. To be honest, you’ve been pretty tight-lipped about everything thus far and that’s fine, but the clock is ticking, and keeping information to yourself, especially if its mission related puts everyone at risk. That’s where unnecessary casualties are born, you know that.” Wroth put his hand on Burke’s shoulder in a comforting and reassuring way. “We’re all in this one together, so don’t clam up on me.”
Burke closed his eyes, nodding hesitantly. “Later. I’m going to grab a shower and a few hours of sleep first. Why don’t you and Snake come by at 1900 tonight for a working dinner and I’ll fill you in on Margo’s condition as well.”
Wroth nodded with a smile, patting his friend on the shoulder one last time before standing.
“Sounds like a plan, Colonel.” Wroth turned to leave, pausing thoughtfully. “You have any fresh food?”
“No.” Burke frowned with a puzzled expression. “But we can order out for some. Why?”
“Since you’re footing the bill on this one, I just thought I’d whip us up a meal from scratch is all. Nothing fancy, though.”
Burke stood with a chuckle, beginning to strip off his blood-soaked gloves and clothing, tossing them heavily into a nearby bin.
“You actually know how to cook? I find that hard to believe. What are you trying to do, make yourself respectable after all these years?”
“Hell no! I’ve just never liked eating pre-packed meals and replicator food. It’s a well know fact it causes impotence.”
“Damn, I haven’t heard that one in a while, that rumor hasn’t been active for decades. And let me guess, you still believe they put saltpeter in the Mess Hall food, right?”
“Sure as shit,” Wroth called over his shoulder as he left the room. “And it’s never wise to tempt fate when you’re my age. Any day on the right side of the grass is a good day, and I plan on spending every last minute I’ve got left with Sandy,” he ended so softly, that without enhanced hearing it would have gone unnoticed.
***
Even if James hadn’t left the sweetest note on the table beside the bed, the kitchen wasn’t hard to find. All Sandy had to do was follow her nose, dressed only in a rosy smile, tussled bedroom hair, and one of his loose fitting tee shirts that ended at her knees. On a whim, she lifted it to her nose, smelling him, in fact. What was it about wearing his shirt that she found sexy, or the fact of being attracted to a man so much taller than herself for a change? They were only two of the things she’d recently discovered about the woman that James was helping her become again.
Sandy continued to pad silently on guard though the seemingly empty home, attentive and focused despite her lingering dream-like state of amazing sex. It was a force of habit that time couldn’t break, no matter how safe her surroundings appeared to be. Every corner hid the potential of an assailant just out of sight, and open stretches in every room were now cataloged as dangerous crossing points. The warm smell of cooking food laced heavily with garlic continued to grow stronger in her imaginary world of kill or be killed.
James was standing in front of a conventional cooking stove with his back to her, laboring over several simmering pots. She watched him for several moments as he deftly moved from one to another, stirring hastily but with deliberate purpose, then to a chopping block on the counter to continue his work on a fresh garden salad. Like most people, she’d never learned to cook, at least not going back to the basics like this, and to watch someone actually do it was awe inspiring in a simplistic sort of way. It was one rare skill in today’s world that she would have never imagined James having, but then again, she was learning there was a lot more to him than meets the eye.
Sandy began to creep towards him with a mischievous grin, planning a sneak attack on his sides, but paused, thinking better of it. Sometimes surprising a vet with a knife in their hand wasn’t the smartest thing to do. She announced her presence from a safe distance, intentionally passive, before continuing forward.
“Hey.”
James’ head snapped around, so engrossed with cooking that it was painfully obvious he hadn’t heard Sandy enter the kitchen. His surprise faded and he turning back to chopping an onion to shreds.
“Well if it isn’t sleepy head. About time you drug your lazy butt out of the rack.”
Sandy glided up behind him, wrapping her arms about his waist, and laid her head in the middle of his back.
“I haven’t slept like that since shore leave after Prime Rose.”
The knife in James’ hand slowed thoughtfully.
“Sorry. I know that was a rough one for you.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Well… for one, I approved the final mission planning, and two, I’m the one who recommended you to the Colonel for that operation.”
“Oh,” Sandy said hauntingly, lost in the past for a moment. “Shit happens. Better me than someone else from the Recon Platoon. They wouldn’t have lasted a week, let alone a month on that arctic hell-hole.”
“I know, but either way I’m sorry for dropping you into that mess with such piss-poor support. The S2 shop really dropped the ball on that one, and you had to pay the price for it.”
Sandy sensed the chilling mood change coming over the both of them, and this wasn’t the time or place for renewed regrets or memories that were best left buried and forgotten.
“I didn’t know you could cook.” Her tone was intentionally cheerful now, as she peered around James at the array of food being prepared. “What are we having? Spaghetti?”
“You got it, sport, along with homemade meatballs, garlic bread, and a side salad. The secret to good spaghetti is the sauce, and this is a world famous recipe handed down through the generations. Learned if from my Dad, and he learned it from his dad before him, and so on. Cooking runs in my family, sort of a tradition among the men, so you can imagine the shock when I went into computers instead of following in the old man’s footsteps.”
“Is that real beef? Smells like it,” Sandy whispered, eyeing the large pan filled with meticulously rounded balls, frying in crackling grease. “Damn, how much did all this cost you?”
“It is, and nothing. Used some business accounts the Colonel had for it. Total came to a hair over ten thousand. Fresh veggies aren’t cheap either, especially when you have everything express delivered.”
“So you come from a family of culinary experts, what other deep, dark secrets are you keeping from me?” Sandy asked playfully, pushing her fingertips beneath the hem of his pants, teasing the top of his pubic hair.
“You mean besides the fact I like giving hard anal?”
Sandy felt her cheeks grow hot, and she bit her lip to keep from grinning like a slutty fool. In the past, she would have never imagined doing something like that, let alone enjoying it.
“I kind of figured that one out on my own.”
Sandy turned with a scowl, drifting slightly away from James when Burke entered the kitchen dressed in a raggedy white tee-shirt with the sleeves cut off, shorts, and a pair of leather sandals.
“Damn, that smells good, Jimmy. Knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
“It sure wasn’t for my shining personality. By the way, it’s almost done.”
“I thought we were having dinner?” Sandy asked softly, glancing between James and Burke.
“We are, I said it was almost done.” James removed the steaming pot of pasta and poured it into the waiting strainer in the sink, rinsing it in hot water. “All we’re waiting on is the garlic bread, just a few more minutes.”
“No, I thought
we
were having dinner. Alone. Just the two of us.”
Burke took a seat at the table and slid a cigarette from the pack lying in front of him. He silently studied Sandy through the flame of his lighter, blowing out a plume of smoke with an air of indifference.
“I take it you didn’t get the word, Snake. This is a working meal – pre-mission briefing – not a night out on the town.”
Sandy balled her right fist, snarling. “No,
Colonel Sir
, I didn’t get the word.”
The spell of looming hostility between Sandy and Burke was broken when James hastily stepped between them, setting a heaping plate in front of Burke. “Here, eat up. Why don’t you go get dressed while I get yours ready, Sandy?”
Sandy’s jaw clenched, belying the fact she wanted to say more, but in the end she quietly slipped into the nearest empty chair. She shifted awkwardly, pulling the tails of James’ shirt under her tacky rump, suddenly aware of her lightly veiled nudity. Sandy kept her eyes downcast as Burke slid his plate of food across the table to her.
“Thank you,” she mumbled curtly, eyeing what would undoubtedly be the best meal she’d had in years. Too bad it wouldn’t be a romantic one alone with James, as she’d first thought.
“Suit yourself, sport. Just thought you’d want to get cleaned up first is all. Yours is coming right up, Colonel.”
“Thanks, Jimmy. Guess I’ll get things started, then.” A CGI timetable appeared at the far end of the table, scrolling downward. “We will depart no later than 2230 on the 10th and rendezvous with the stealth scout, Paul Bailey, in near orbit. Location to be determined, they will transmit a homing beacon to us directly once we’re on station, at which time we will close on their location for transfer. Here is where things get tricky, there is no room for error or it jeopardizes the entire mission. Everyone needs to be suited up and ready to move on my signal. Snake, just before the umbilicus is secure, I need you to transmit a distress message to Paradise Falls Port Control, it doesn’t have to be specific, just sound hysterical like it’s a near catastrophic problem, then kill the power, shut it all down. I’ll be stationed at the airlock on the manual controls ready to open the hatch after we get a clean seal on the hook up.”
Sandy nodded, mumbling through a mouth full of garlic bread. “Play the dingy, panicked female that’s about to die, then shut down. Got it.”
James placed a plate of food a and bowl of salad in front of Burke.
“Spoofing the planetary sensor grid before transfer? Smart move. They’ll be able to pick up the scout when they drop their ECM cloak.”
“Correct. After the crew of the scout, Burke Industry employees, detect our shuttle going dead they will detonate a board band EMP pulse and launch several spoofer drones that should temporarily blind the planetary sensors while we make the transfer. They will then lower their shields and make connection.”
“Doesn’t leave us much of a window before their eyes clear, Colonel,” James said thoughtfully worried as he took his seat and skewered a meatball covered in sauce, lifting it to his mouth. “Four minutes if I remember correctly.”
“We’re doing it in three to be on the safe side, so everyone needs to be on the bounce. Snake, you’re the first through the chute, then the crew from the scout. Jimmy and I will follow with the gear and secure the hatch behind us and retract the umbilicus. Just head straight for the cockpit, nothing fancy, and get us a safe distance from the shuttle and raise the shields before they can get a visual on us. Average response time for a planetary rescue ship is just over five minutes, so that gives us some breathing room to distance ourselves.”
“You seem to forget,” Sandy chuckled sarcastically, “that I’ve never piloted anything like this before,
Colonel Sir
. I don’t have the first clue...”
“The scout AI will be on standby and awaiting orders, just tell it what to do until we’re safely away, and then we can deactivate that son of a bitch. You’ll be taking it manual from there.”