Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(17)
“I still don’t like either option, but I don’t like that one a little less than the other one, if that makes sense.”
“Is that acceptable to you, General Park?” Colonel Aguilar asks. “Have your detachment work with Sergeant Grayson here to keep things smooth?”
“It is acceptable,” Brigadier Park says in his carefully neutral voice.
“What about you, Colonel Campbell? Does this alleviate your concerns about hosting an SRA combat controller on your ship for the mission?”
“If I can get Mr. Grayson to serve as a chaperone, I’m fine with it. Not ecstatic, but fine. Assuming that the civilian administrator releases him from his current assignment with the New Svalbard Territorial Army.”
The NSTA is the fancy title for the mutinous Homeworld Defense troops on New Svalbard, all of which voluntarily subjected themselves to civilian control. Some of the other commanders, especially the officers of the Spaceborne Infantry battalion we fought for control of New Svalbard’s scarce food facilities, think that we’ve committed outright treason and desertion, but Colonel Aguilar was luckily sympathetic to our argument and decided not to force the issue or pry the HD troops out of New Longyearbyen and its terraforming network. I have no doubt that we will all end up in front of a court-martial if things ever get back to the way they were, but I also have no doubt that things won’t ever go back to the way they were. Too much has changed way too quickly, and this strange new alliance of necessity has rewritten the rulebook entirely. It’s amazing how much stuff you can accomplish when you don’t give a shit whether or not it’s feasible. We pulled off a large-scale combat mission by integrating military units from two blocs with incompatible hardware and different standards and protocols because we threw out the old manuals and improvised on the spot. Unencumbered by the stupidity of the strategic thinkers at the NAC Defense Corps headquarters, our little slice of the armed forces went from an organization that takes six years to standardize on a new toilet seat to a lean and fast outfit that can prepare and execute a two-regiment interbloc combat drop onto a Lanky-controlled moon in only two weeks. I like the new way of doing things, and I don’t want to go back to the old way.
“I have no problem with Sergeant Grayson going with you on the Indy,” the colony administrator replies. “We have more than enough troops to keep the town and the terraformers secure. That is, if Master Sergeant Fallon is okay with releasing him back to fleet service.”
“Oh, hell,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Andrew can go wherever he wants to go. For what it’s worth, I agree that his time would be better spent getting us all back to Earth. We have enough asses to polish chairs down here already.”
“That’s settled, then,” Colonel Aguilar says. “The Indianapolis will use the Alliance transition point to sneak into the solar system and find us a way back. General Park will provide the access codes and control personnel, and Staff Sergeant Grayson will be our interbloc liaison on the Indy. Let’s hammer out the details and get your ship ready for that mission, Colonel. And Sergeant Grayson, report to Indianapolis as soon as the weather allows.”
“Understood, sir,” I say, and suppress the urge to snap a salute.
I push my chair back from the conference table and get up to step out of the range of the cameras. It’s a terribly selfish conceit, but after I make sure nobody is looking at me for the moment, I take my PDP out of its uniform pocket and check the calendar. I have ten weeks and two days to get back to Earth and make it in time for my wedding. I don’t know if Halley is still alive, but I made a promise, and I’ll do my best to keep it. Because if I don’t, there’s not a damn thing left for me in the universe worth fighting for.
CHAPTER 4
“What do you figure your chances are to make it back through and to Earth in one piece?” Sergeant Fallon asks.
I take another sip of my drink and pretend to think about it, as if I haven’t already considered the odds of the mission many times since I volunteered for it a few hours ago. We’re in On the Rocks again for a parting drink while I wait for a break in the weather to have a standby drop ship shuttle me up to Indianapolis.
“I’m not a tin-can skipper,” I say. “Don’t know a lot about spaceborne warfare, to be honest. But that’s a really stealthy ship. If she can’t make it past a Lanky, we have nowhere left to hide.” I turn the glass in my hands and watch the reflections from the overhead lights on the surface of the blue liquid of my drink. “Honestly?
Fifty-fifty, and I wouldn’t drop too much money on the spread. Really honestly? I’m scared shitless. Again.”
“Figured you’d be used to this business by now,” Sergeant Fallon says.
“Well, yeah. I’m always scared before a drop. Aren’t you?”
“Little bit,” she says with a slight smile. “Anyone who isn’t scared at the thought of going into battle is either a moron or a sociopath.”
“It’s different for this sneaky space shit. On a combat drop, you have lots of stuff to distract you, keep your mind off things. And you have at least the illusion of control. A rifle, a bunch of ammo, stuff to shoot at. But fleet engagements? You’re just sitting at your combat station in a metal tube. Nothing to do but to wait and see if you’re going to die.”