Stark's Command (21 page)

"I said
I'd
be there."

Vic pointed an unyielding finger at Stark's chest. "You are too damn important to be on-scene when some crazy sailor might decide to blow his shuttle to hell and take half the spaceport with it."

He stared back stubbornly. "I oughta be there."

"So you don't trust me?"

"Of course I do."
And trusting subordinates to do their jobs is part of leading them right, isn't it? I can't be everywhere. I shouldn't have to be.
"You're right. I'll try to make Campbell feel better while you deal with the sailors."

She grinned. "I think I've got the easier job."

"You do." Stark grimaced. "I handled that wrong."

"What do you mean? He was a civ sticking his nose into mil business. You told him to butt out. What's the problem?"

He brooded over the question a moment, oblivious to the multicolored displays and the chatter of relieved watch-standers around him. "It's not right. Don't ask me why right now. I gotta think. But it wasn't right. You get going while I apologize."

"Apologize?" Vic looked disbelieving, then shrugged. "Ethan Stark apologizing? Hell must have just frozen over again. Have fun."

"Yeah." Stark punched in a code as Reynolds hurried out, waiting just a moment until the reply came. "Mr. Campbell? I'm sorry. It was a very tense situation with a lot going on, but I shouldn't have blown you off."

"Sergeant?" The shift in Stark's tone had obviously confused the Colony Manager.

"I'm sorry I didn't acknowledge your concerns," Stark stated in formal tones. "The space battle is over. We've got a bunch of lifeboats and four shuttles, all full of sailors, coming in to land at the spaceport. I'll have troops on hand to keep things under control."

"What happened to their ships?"

"Blown up. By the sailors and by the other ships out there."

Campbell rubbed his forehead with both hands, looking weary. "The government is going to be very unhappy. Warships are extremely expensive, and the implication that your revolt may be spreading to the fleet—"

"I didn't have anything to do with it. They didn't even know who I was until they talked to me."

"You'll never convince the authorities of that, Sergeant Stark." Campbell shook his head slowly. "You're sure it's over?"

"There's no shooting going on, and the big Navy ships have pulled back to their long-range blockade positions again. As far as I can tell, it's over."

"I'll have Ms. Sarafina contact the government negotiators. She's the one you ought to apologize to, Sergeant Stark. She's going to catch hell, and it's going to take everything she's got to get the next personnel exchange to take place as scheduled. Don't be surprised if the government says no way."

"I'll be surprised," Stark stated calmly. "Mr. Campbell, there's a whole lot I don't know about things back home right now, but one thing I do know; the government needs those Third Division soldiers back and they need them back bad. They're trigger-pullers. Frontline combat troops. And right now there's an awful shortage of those in the U.S. military. I guarantee it."

Campbell's eyes narrowed, then he nodded. "I see. I'll make sure Ms. Sarafina is aware of that. Thank you, Sergeant. We'll have to work out better procedures for future crises."

"No argument here." Stark glanced over at the display again. "The shuttles and lifeboats are coming in. I've got to monitor that."

"I understand. We'll talk later."

Stark broke the connection to Campbell, watching impatiently as the refugee spacecraft dropped toward the Colony spaceport, the lifeboats falling long and fast before their braking drives jerked them into rapid deceleration and abrupt landings. The shuttles followed at a more sedate pace, using their greater fuel reserves to brake in a relatively gentle fashion as they fell toward the Moon. Stark triggered remote vid feed from Vic's battle armor, scanning past her HUD symbology to the visual picture of the spaceport. The blunt shapes of lifeboats lay scattered around, their simple shells unadorned by weapons or sophisticated sensors.
Just big trash cans, I guess, good for getting sailors back on a planet in one piece and not much else.
As Stark watched, the shuttles came down, spaced to avoid the lifeboats, their landing drives kicking up thin clouds of the fine dust, which could never be kept completely off the landing field.

Stark checked the symbology on his headquarters display, matching it to the visual picture from Vic's battle armor. She had dispersed the available company of infantry into three platoon-size blocks around the edge of the area where the lifeboats and shuttles had come to rest. "Vic, you coulda covered more area if you'd broken those guys into squads."

"I know that, but I want to stop trouble before it starts, and a platoon is a lot more visually intimidating than a squad. Right?"

He studied one platoon, three rows of menacing figures, impassive in their battle armor as so many figures on a chessboard, rifles held at port arms. "Right."

"I know how to do this, Ethan." The words were stated in unemotional tones, but Stark still felt the implied rebuke.

"Okay. Sorry. I'll try to keep my mouth shut."

"That'll be the day." Switching circuits, Reynolds called the Navy personnel as Stark listened in. "Chief Wiseman? Go ahead and exit your vehicles."

"Vehicles?" Wiseman asked sarcastically. "Okay, ground ape. I'll tell the guys in the lifeboats to debark first." A few moments later large hatches dropped open on the sides of the lifeboats, the weak lunar gravity offering only a feeble assist to the process. Sailors spilled out, most in their own shipboard battle equipment, but a few sailors were carried out, sealed into clear survival bags. Staring at the formations of ready ground troops, the clusters of sailors hesitated outside their boats. "Get those sailors into formation," Wiseman ordered over the common command circuit. Figures moved, other Chiefs standing separate to bark commands and gesture sailors into ragged ranks.

"Oh, God," some soldier commented. "I hope those sailors ain't gonna try to march. That ought to be good for some laughs."

"Knock it off," Stark ordered. "Those sailors just fought a battle against tough odds and came through. They deserve their pride and our respect. Keep your jokes to yourselves."

"Get the medics forward," Reynolds commanded.

Two APCs rose at her command, gliding forward toward the startled sailors, who watched with obvious nervousness as the armored shells of the ambulances came to rest near them. Medics spilled out, heading for the bagged wounded, throwing the sailors' formations into greater disarray. Chiefs could be seen gesturing angrily toward them, bringing an involuntary smile to Stark's lips.
I know exactly what they're saying to their people, and I'm sorta glad I can't hear it.

"Chief Wiseman," Vic called again. "You can exit the shuttles at any time."

Stark caught an undertone of tension in her voice, something no one else would have detected.
She's still worried about those shuttle weapons. Or maybe she's just afraid some sailor will push the wrong button and level half the spaceport.
"We still have control of the weapons from here, Vic."

"Thanks, Ethan."

Chief Wiseman came on once more, her voice carrying some of the fatigue she had to be feeling after recent events. "I'll be out in a minute. We gotta secure the shuttles."

"We handle security at the spaceport," Vic insisted. "Or is there some sort of internal threat you're worried about?"

"Internal threat?" Wiseman didn't bother to disguise her annoyance. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You said you're securing the shuttles. That means you think there's a threat."

"No, it doesn't."

"Then why," Vic questioned, grinding out the words, "are you worried about security?"

"We're not! We're just securing the shuttles!"

"Wait a minute," Stark broke in. "Chief Wiseman, what do you mean when you say you're securing the shuttles? What exactly are you doing?"

"Turning off the lights. Powering down systems. Closing hatches. What the hell else would it mean?"

Vic made a strangling sound, then spoke in carefully controlled tones. "Securing something means establishing a perimeter and posting guards."

"Maybe it does to you," Wiseman shot back, "but that's not what it means to me. I guess it just figures the ground forces have a totally different meaning for what
securing
involves."

Vic shifted to a private circuit with Stark. "How are we supposed to work with these people? They don't speak the same language we do. The words sound the same, but they don't mean the same things."

"Everybody's got their own special lingo," Stark argued. "Even in the mil. Go talk to Gordasa about supply stuff. Or talk to a lawyer."

"No thanks. I have enough problems at the moment dealing with Wiseman. She rubs me the wrong way."

"Gee, Vic, I hadn't noticed." Stark looked over as Tanaka waved urgently. "What's up?"

"They're trying to shut down the shuttle combat systems, Commander. Should we let them?"

"Absolutely. Vic, the sailors are shutting down their weapons. How's everything feel there?"

"You can see it as well as I can."

"I didn't asked how it looked. I asked how it felt to you."

"Sorry, Commander." Stark could feel Vic's grin. "It feels safe. The sailors are acting a little shell-shocked. We'll break them into smaller groups and get them billeted and fed fast. Sergeant Manley's getting sections of a couple of barracks ready."

"Great. Make sure Manley sends word to those barracks that anybody picking fights with the sailors will get to explain it to me personally." Stark took a calming breath. "Any more crises scheduled for today?"

"Just your dinner party."

"Oh, man . . ."

"Right. I wouldn't hold my breath on that dinner going down."

"Sergeant Stark?"

Stark frowned, looked toward the query, then stood quickly. "Lieutenant Mendoza. What brings you here?" He checked the time, stifling a yawn. "At this hour?"

"I will state my reason simply, Sergeant. I fear your social occasion was cancelled to avoid any appearance of impropriety in dining with an officer."

"What?" Stark's fatigue shifted to aggravation. "Who the hell told you that? Sir?"

"No one stated a reason explicitly . . ."

"That's 'cause they didn't know any reason." Stark shoved his palmtop aside, collapsing back into his chair. "Please have a seat, Lieutenant. Hasn't word of our little Navy problem made its way around yet?"

Lieutenant Mendoza took his own seat gingerly, still moving carefully in the low gravity. "Of course."

"Then people should know that's why I couldn't spend tonight socializing. Wish I could've, but the Navy screwed things up for me. We'll reschedule."

"Then you have no concerns about meeting with an officer?"

"Lieutenant, I never cared much what people thought about what I did before, so I sure ain't gonna start caring now. My apologies for having to cancel, and we
will
reschedule."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

"But," Stark continued, forestalling Lieutenant Mendoza as he began to rise from his seat, "as long as you're here, there's something I'd like to ask you." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Your son's a real sharp soldier. He could be a lot more aggressive, but he thinks good and he's dependable."

Lieutenant Mendoza smiled with restrained but obvious pride. "Thank you again, Sergeant."

"No. Thank you. It's been a pleasure to have your son in my unit. And I figure you've got to be sharp, too, but you've also been trained as an officer, with a lot of experience."

"I have spent many years in the field, yes."

Stark hunched forward, speaking with quiet intensity. "Here's the deal. We got rid of our old officers, so now we need a lot of new officers. Good officers. We want to do things right. Promote for the right reasons, train the right way, all that stuff. We know what we don't want; a lot of politicians in uniform just looking to please their bosses by saying and doing whatever they think their bosses will like the most. And to hell with the job and the people they command if they think their bosses want that. Getting what we want means doing things different. I hope you can help us figure out how to do that."

Lieutenant Mendoza nodded once, slowly, his eyes fixed on Stark. "I will be happy to offer suggestions, Sergeant. Like you, I have had much experience with the negative side of the current system." He smiled, brief and bitter. "I still recall the particular document that triggered my decision to retire. The Pentagon issued a directive whose purpose, in these exact words, was to 'enable process improvement in warfare and warfare support.' "

"Process improvement." Stark repeated the words, his voice flat. "In war? They actually said that?"

"I have never been able to forget the phrase, Sergeant."

"Well, Lieutenant, I've gotta tell you, I've been doing a lot of fighting, and I personally haven't noticed a lot of improvements in the process of war in the last few years."

"I am sure your perception is correct. You see, though, that an organization which can speak in such terms has lost sight of its true function and is instead following bureaucratic imperatives focused on 'process' instead of common sense."

Stark shook his head, reaching for the half-forgotten coffee on his desk, then flinched as he drank the cold liquid. "I'd offer you some of this, Lieutenant, but I don't think you'd ever forgive me. So, you're telling me you've seen plenty of the bad stuff, too. Can you show us how to avoid that kind of junk?"

"I can do my best, Sergeant. However, nothing I can do or say will really matter."

"Individuals can make a difference, Lieutenant. It may hurt a lot, but—"

"That was not my point. I am not in command. You are.

Only you can create the results you seek. Many people can alter them for the worse, but only you can push them through."

Stark blew out a long breath, then laughed softly. "I should've expected to hear that. Is there anything I'm not responsible for?"