Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(72)
My boots are by the side of the bunk, neatly parked side by side, and my fatigue tunic is neatly draped over the back of a nearby chair. The room I’m in is pretty austere, almost as sterile as a shipboard berth on a fleet vessel. There’s an open door on one wall that leads into a small bathroom, and I heave myself out of the bunk to do my morning business and restore some of my cognitive and sensory functions.
I’m in the middle of washing up when the door on the other side opens, and Master Sergeant Fallon walks in.
“Good morning,” she says when she sees me swaying in front of the sink in the bathroom. “How are you feeling?”
“Like hammered shit,” I croak.
“You wouldn’t listen when I told you that the fifth Shockfrost cocktail was a bad idea. You’re quite a bit heavier than you look, by the way.”
“Did you drag me here all by yourself?” I grab a towel from a nearby rack and start blotting my face dry. “Where is ‘here,’ anyway?”
“My quarters,” she says. “You didn’t have assigned quarters yet, and you were in no shape to request them from the civvies. Looks like you came straight to the bar from the landing pad. I can appreciate a soldier who has his priorities so clearly in order.”
“Well, I stopped by the ops center first,” I say. “Left my armor with the constable.” I look over at the bunk, which is a standard military folding cot. “Wait. If I slept on that, where did you sleep?”
“Next to you, dipshit. Floor’s too fucking hard.” She chuckles when she sees my surprised and mildly embarrassed expression. “Don’t worry, lightweight. I was pretty drunk myself. There was no funny business. You were a booze corpse, and I don’t poach among the junior NCOs anyway. Especially not the almost-married ones.”
She picks up my tunic and throws it in my direction.
“Get dressed and pop some headache meds,” she says. “Conference with the CO committee in fifteen. Looks like we’re going home soon.”
The conference call takes place in the admin center’s meeting rooms. From the efficient and routine way everything gets set up and prepared, it’s pretty clear that everyone involved has had plenty of practice since Indy set out for Earth. I take a seat on the long side of the big conference table in the room, next to Sergeant Fallon. The COs of the two HD battalions, Lieutenant Colonels Decker and Kemp, are sitting across from me, along with their senior NCOs. On our side of the meeting, the civilian administrator and Dr. Stewart round out the group. The far wall of the room is set up with a large holoscreen that is split ten ways to show the feeds from all the other participants. I see Colonel Campbell on one of the screen segments, standing in the well-familiar CIC pit on Indy, with Major Renner by his side and slightly behind him, and I feel a vague sense of abandonment.
“Let me open by stating that if there’s still a military administration when we get back to Earth, I am recommending you for the Medal of Honor, Colonel Campbell,” Colonel Aguilar says over the feed from Regulus’s CIC. “You and your crew have pulled off an impossible mission, and we are all indebted to Indianapolis for your skill and bravery.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Colonel Aguilar. But we scouted out the solar system as ordered, no more and no less. And considering the way we left, they may give me a firing squad before they hang that medal around my neck.”
“We will sort out that situation when we show up in Earth orbit with a three-carrier strike force,” Colonel Aguilar replies.
“Our supply situation is critical,” the senior SRA officer says. General Park looks tired, and the shadows on his face make his angular features even more prominent. “Our fuel is not so bad, but our rations are low. We are at fifteen percent of reserves. That is a week and a half at best.”
“We aren’t doing any better,” Colonel Aguilar responds. “Ten thousand troops to feed on the ground every day without bleeding the colony dry. We’re down to sweeping up the crumbs over on Portsmouth. A week at the most. Then we’re down to emergency rations.”
“Then it is in our best interest to set the agreed-upon plan in motion as soon as feasible.”
“We agree, General Park. If you have no objections, we will prepare for departure and initiate the return to the solar system via the Alliance node within twenty-four hours. If you wish, we can level out the supply situation prior to departure and redistribute whatever is left among the Alliance and Commonwealth ships as needed.”
“That would be most appreciated,” Brigadier Park replies.
A new spirit of cooperation and courtesy, I think. Amazing how civilized we can be when there’s nothing left to shoot each other over.
“With the airlift capabilities we have left, we’ll need six to eight hours to get all the SD troops off the terraformers and onto the carrier,” Lieutenant Colonel Decker chimes in. “And that’s if the weather doesn’t shut down flight ops.”
“Then get those birds in the air as soon as you can,” Colonel Aguilar says.
“I want to unload my Homeworld Defense troopers on Regulus, sir. I know we came here on Midway, but they’ll need their space for the Spaceborne Infantry regiment from Camp Frostbite. I think it’s best if we don’t camp out on the same flight deck with the SI boys, considering what happened before you got here.”