Solfleet: The Call of Duty (39 page)

“Yes, sir,”
the troop answered, sufficiently humbled.

“Good. Now
as to your question, no extra-planetary flights have lifted off since the last
known sighting of the royal couple prior to their abduction.” Keeping track of
all such flights was a matter of Solfleet routine in situations such as the one
that existed in the Caldanra system. “If there had been any flights, our people
up there would have boarded and searched the vessels from bow to stern. They
haven’t had to do that, so we know the couple is still here. Any more
questions?”

There were
none.

“All right
then. We’ll form up at nineteen-hundred and move out after dark. Until then, as
usual, you’re all restricted to the base and ordered to keep everything that’s
been discussed in this room to yourselves. I suggest you get some rest, too.
You’re going to need it.” With that, and with a quick glance at Matrewski, the
lieutenant left the enlisted men and women to finish off the coffee and donuts,
or to do whatever else they might want to do for the rest of the day.

“Sergeant
Matrewski,” Dylan called out as the troops stood and started moving about. The
rest of the briefing room fell into a dead silence.

“Yes,
Sergeant?”

“I need to
see you in the training office.”

“Yes,
Sergeant.”

No one
uttered a single word as the two men made their way toward the exit. They might
have been heading for the training office, but they weren’t going there to discuss
the squad’s training schedule, and everyone knew it. The Training NCO was on
leave and his office was currently unoccupied. Matrewski was in for one very
unpleasant experience.

* * *

Dylan closed
and locked the office door behind them. Matrewski assumed the position of
attention and, judging from his expression, prepared himself to receive the
ass-chewing of a lifetime...or worse. But rather than lash out Dylan kept his
cool, relaxed his posture a little, and calmly asked, “What in the galaxy ever
possessed you to ask the lieutenant why we won’t pull out of this system?”

“Sorry about
that, Squad Sergeant,” Matrewski replied. “I guess I should’ve waited for my
orientation briefing.”

“That would
have been the smarter thing to do, yes.”

Dylan
paused, then told Matrewski, “Stand at ease.” The younger sergeant let out an
impatient sigh as he relaxed, but Dylan chose to give the guy a break and
ignore it. “At the very least you should have waited and asked
me
, after
the briefing.”

“Agreed. It’s
just that...well...I’m not all that clear on what we’re doing in this system. I
read Stinson’s new book during the trip out here, and...”

“Stinson’s
books are about as radical and uninformed a series of works as you’ll ever have
the misfortune to read,” Dylan pointed out. “You do know he’s the leader of
that Earth Isolationist Movement that’s sprouting up back home, don’t you?”

“I’m aware
of that, yes.”

“Then you
should know better than to waste your time reading that trash.”

“I read to
be informed, Sergeant Graves,” Matrewski said in his defense. “That doesn’t
mean I agree with everything he writes.”

“Yet you
question our presence here.”

“Yes I do,
but not just because he...”

“Or is it
more than that?”

Matrewski
hesitated a moment, then asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean...do
you simply not understand what we’re doing here, or do you honestly believe
that we shouldn’t be here at all—that we should just pull out and go home?”

“All right,
you tell me, Sergeant. Why
shouldn’t
we just pull out? Why don’t we just
leave this system and let the Cirrans and the Sulaini fight it out to the
bitter end? It’s their star system and it’s their civil war. Our war—our
real
war—is against the damned lizards. They’re the whole reason Earth joined
the Coalition in the first place.”

“Lesson one,
Sergeant Matrewski. Know your enemy. Those lizards as you call them are not really
lizards at all. The Kree-Veshtonn—the purebloods—are classified as something totally
alien to the way we categorize life forms. They’re actually some kind of
semi-humanoid reptilian insect, or some such thing.

“Lesson two,
and more to the point, the Veshtonn occupied this entire system until we
finally pushed them out four years ago. We only accomplished that little
miracle of modern warfare because we had the help of Cirran and Sulaini
underground resistance movements that were able to work together. Without that
cooperation between them we might never have liberated this system at all. But
now that we have liberated it, someone has to keep things peaceful between the
natives. Otherwise our position here will be weakened, and the Veshtonn might
find a way to exploit that weakness.”

“But why us?
Why not one of the other member races? Why does Solfleet have to station troops
here?”

“Because
this system falls within our sector of responsibility.”

“As the
Coalition defines it.”

“That’s
right. Aside from the Rosha’Kana system, which has already fallen to the enemy,
ours is the closest member system to this one and as such is the one most
endangered by the Veshtonn presence here. So it falls to us to defend our own
interests by defending this system. It’s exactly that simple.”

Matrewski
thought it over, then said, “I guess I just don’t see the strategic value,
Sergeant. We could defend our own interests just as effectively from home. Maybe
even
more
effectively. And I should think that you of all people would
rather kill Veshtonn warriors than babysit the Cirrans. After all, the
Excalibur
...”

Dylan stepped
up into Matrewski’s face so fast he almost bumped the younger sergeant’s nose
with his own before he could stop. “My father’s ship has nothing to do with it,
Sergeant, and I will thank you to never bring it up again. Is that understood?”

Matrewski
swallowed noisily. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Good.”
Dylan glared at him for another second or two, then stepped back to a more
comfortable and appropriate distance. “The responsibility of assessing this
system’s strategic value lies with the top brass at Solfleet Central Command.
Whether or not you happen to recognize that value is completely irrelevant.”

“I
understand that, Sergeant. But I still think we should let the locals handle
their own internal affairs without any interference from us.”

“Their own
internal affairs?”

“That’s
right.”

Dylan turned
and started pacing slowly back and forth in front of Matrewski, much like one
of the Social Sciences teachers he’d had in high school had often done when he
lectured the class. “Sergeant Matrewski, how much of your high school history
class did you actually stay awake for?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you
remember learning about the Iraqi dictator of the latter twentieth century
using chemical weapons on the Kurdish and Shiite populations of his own country
while the United States and the rest of the free world stood by and watched,
not wanting to interfere in an ‘internal affair’?”

“They didn’t
just stand by after Iraq invaded Kuwait,” Matrewski pointed out.

“It wasn’t
an internal affair anymore at that point, was it?”

“No, but...”

“What about
the terrorist-friendly Taliban government of Afghanistan around the same time
period, or the aggressive Communist regime of North Korea, or the Somali
warlord who finally seized control of that country around the middle of the last
century?”

“They were
all dealt with,” Matrewski pointed out.

“Only after
they lashed out against both their neighbors and the interests of the west and
murdered tens of thousands of innocent civilians,” Dylan clarified. “Until then
they were given free reign to starve or enslave or slaughter as many of their
own people as they wanted to for whatever reasons they decided justified their
actions, all because of a spineless and toothless United Nations that discouraged
interfering in a sovereign nation’s internal affairs. Do you want to see
something like that happen here? Do you want to see thousands of innocent
Cirrans slaughtered?”

“No, of
course I don’t. But I think the Sulaini make a good point. They should be
allowed to demand what’s rightfully theirs. Their methods might be wrong, but...”

“You can
think whatever you want to think, Sergeant. Just remember, your duty is to
follow your superiors’ orders and that is exactly what you
will
do, even
if those orders tell you to jump into the jungle and kill Sulaini terrorists.
Otherwise, you’re going to find yourself in a very uncomfortable predicament.”

“I’m well
aware of my duty, Sergeant,” Matrewski responded, clearly offended. “I don’t
need to be reminded of it. And I have no problem following my superiors’ orders
as long as those orders are lawful.”

“Good.”

Dylan turned
his back for a moment to hide his satisfied grin. Reminding one of his Marines,
especially a fellow NCO, of his or her duty was a tactic he used on gung-ho
grunts fresh out of Ranger training without any hesitation at all, whenever he
felt it was necessary. It worked every time without fail, and usually without
any further discussion. But this time a little further discussion was necessary,
for Matrewski’s own sake.

He faced the
young buck sergeant again and continued, in a softer tone of voice, “One more
thing, Sergeant—a little advice from someone who’s been here for a while.”

“I’m
listening.”

“Keep your
pro-Sulaini political opinions to yourself when you’re out in public or you’ll
find yourself visiting the political officer so fast you won’t even know how
you got there.”

“Visiting
the
what?
”

“The Cirran
Defense Force liaison officer who will make a career out of watching your every
move until you leave this planet if he gets wind of your sympathetic views
toward the terrorists.”

An
expression of shock crossed Matrewski’s face. “My sympathetic... Sergeant Graves,
I do
not
sympathize with...”

“Good,”
Dylan replied, interrupting. “Don’t ever let anyone suspect otherwise. Especially
the Cirrans. Their government can be a little paranoid, and with good reason,
so avoid even the
appearance
of evil by keeping your mouth shut when it
comes to your opinion of their political situation. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Satisfied
that he’d made his point, Dylan dismissed the younger man, then headed back to
the briefing room to find Kenny.

No doubt
Marissa would be waiting for him there as well.

Marissa.
What was he going to do about Marissa?

Starcarrier
U.E.F.S. Rapier
,
Somewhere Near the Rosha’Kana Sector

Lieutenant
Bellinger yawned, then shook his head vigorously and blinked several times to
clear the advancing fog. Until today he hadn’t had much trouble staying awake
and alert during his shift, despite the sheer boredom inherent in the ship’s
current assignment. At least not as much as some of the other members of the
bridge crew had been having—Ensign O’Connor had actually fallen into such a
deep sleep at his post yesterday that he’d started snoring—but that first hour
or so right after lunch could be rough. As a matter of fact, staring at sensor
displays on a full belly had turned out to be the best cure for insomnia
Bellinger had ever known, and today was the absolute worst of all. After more
than a month of doing almost nothing else day in and day out, Bellinger was
starting to feel downright narcoleptic.

Okay. So
maybe he
was
having as much trouble staying awake as the rest of the
crew after all. He only hoped the captain hadn’t noticed.

Without
taking his weary eyes off his sensors’ display screens, he leaned back in his
chair and stretched his arms out over his head, then stretched his neck
muscles.

“Mister
Bellinger,” Captain Erickson called.

Bellinger
glanced over his shoulder to find his commanding officer staring back at him. “Sir?”
he responded as he turned back to his screens.

“Why don’t
you go get yourself a strong cup of coffee?”

“I’m all
right, sir.”

“That wasn’t
a suggestion, Lieutenant,” the captain advised him. “The
Rapier
is a
very expensive ship. I can’t have my tactical officer falling asleep at his
post out here.”

“Aye, sir.”
Bellinger stood up, but stayed by his post and kept his eyes on those screens.

“Ensign O’Connor,”
Erickson called as he spun his chair around and faced the young communications officer,
“take Mister Bellinger’s post until he gets back, and keep your eyes glued to
those sensor screens.”

“Aye, sir,”
the communications officer confirmed. He rerouted Communications control to the
Tactical station, then relieved Bellinger.

“Anyone else
want some coffee?” Bellinger asked aloud.

Only one
hand went up. Erickson’s. He spun his chair around to do a quick visual of the
rest of his bridge crew, then told Bellinger, “Bring a full pot and enough cups
for everyone.”

“Will do,
sir,” Bellinger said as he left the bridge.

Erickson had
considered, for a moment, telling Bellinger to stay at his post and calling
down to the galley to have a yeoman bring the coffee up to them, but had
quickly thought better of it. Bellinger’s head had started bobbing a few minute
ago. He’d been having an unusually difficult time of it this afternoon. It
would do him some good to stretch his legs.

Truth was
they’d all been having a difficult time of it. Every last one of them. Over the
past couple of hours every member of the bridge crew besides himself—there was
always enough going on to keep a ship’s captain occupied—had had to stand up at
their post for a few minutes to keep from dozing off. But Erickson couldn’t
hold that against them. Over every other kind of mission they might otherwise
have been tasked with, any one of which would have been preferable as far as he
was concerned, the
Rapier
’s top priority over the last five or six weeks
since the Tor’Kana were driven out of their home system had been to search for
their few surviving vessels. True, they had drawn a couple of other assignments
since then—nothing more than short, token diversions, really—but except for the
relative excitement of having found the one Tor’Kana vessel a few days ago, which
they’d passed off to a pair of escort ships only a few hours later, the duty
had been incredibly dull. Each day had seemed longer than the one before, and
most of the crew were bored to tears. Thank God there was only one more Tor’Kana
vessel out there to be found. That they knew of, at least.