“Which is where?” Bill asked,hurriedly.
“I’ll take you over in my cart,” the supervisor said, standing up and heading to the door. “But you’re not going to be happy.”
“Why?” Bill asked.
“This is Section five,” the man said, waving around the warehouse. “The whole warehouse, that is. Section Eighteen’s the same size. And all I know is that it’s in there. Unless I can find the driver who put it away, you’re going to have to get some people to come toss the place.”
“Oh Maulk,” Bill said.
“Oh double maulk,” Bill repeated when they entered Section Eighteen. It was, if anything, more packed than the first warehouse. “I am so grapped. We are so grapped.”
“What is this stuff, really?” the supervisor asked. “I’m sorry it took me a while to figure out who you are. You’re the guy who was on TV, right?”
“Yeah,” Bill said. “And if you can keep it to yourself, I’ll tell you.”
“Lips are sealed,” the super said, taking a corner a tad fast.
“It’s all the parts and tools the Hexosehr gave us along with the Blade II,” Bill admitted. “The stuff you couldn’t figure out? Well, if you did you’d think you were looking at magic. It was priced in the system as nearly junk value. To say that was an underestimate is the understatement of the year.”
“Cool,” the super noted, slowing down and waving to a fork-lift driver. “Hey, Manuel! You remember some gray plastic crates and some other stuff that came in way back in July? Really odd looking stuff.”
“Si,” the driver said, pulling to a stop.
“You don’t happen to remember where you put it, do you?”
“Si,” the driver said. “Southwest corner. We get it wrong, si?”
“We get it wrong, si,” the super said.
“I think so,” Manuel replied. “You not see it, but when I lift it up, I see markings on the bottom. Not earth markings. I think to myself, Manuel, this is something not right in here. So I set it aside.”
“Oh, thank God,” Weaver said, finally letting out a breath. “Where? Where?!”
“Aqui,” Manuel said, spinning the forklift in place.
“YES!” Bill shouted as they turned the last corner. In just about the only empty corner of the warehouse, clearly kept separate, was a pile of gray shipping boxes and a very large wooden crate. “Oh puh-lease let that be the fabber!”
“Glad you’re so excited,” the super said, grinning.
“Can you imagine how embarassing it would have been if we went back to the Hexosehr and admitted that we’d lost all this stuff?” Bill said, jumping out as the cart came to a stop. “Yes!” he shouted again as he compared a stencilled on number to the list in his hand. “Yes! Yes! Oh, this is great! I need to see if that’s the fabber.”
“What in the heck is a fabber?” the super asked.
“A fabricator,” Bill replied. He consulted the list and opened up a box, pulling out one of the hand-melders. Just as an oxy-acetylene torch could cut steel open or weld it with appropriate materials, the melder made a fine cutting device.
“We tried that thing,” the super said. “It doesn’t work.”
“Didn’t have the power module,” Bill said, consulting the list again and pulling open another box. He slid the power module into place and then approached the wooden box. Keying the melder for a three centimeter cut, he drew it along all four sides of the box and then stepped back as the side fell away.
“Damn, that’s some fricking saw,” the super said, hands on hips.
“Yes!” Bill shouted, dropping the melder and sliding into the box to kiss the organic looking machine it had housed. “Oh, baby! Oh, baby!”
“Jesus, Captain,” the super said, laughing. “I know you want to have its love-child but there are limits…”
“First Sergeant, we’re going to have to find a quicker way back,” Captain Zanella said as the company fell out in Mosby Park. “We’ve still got to load the ship and prepare for departure.”
It was about three o’clock in the morning and they were, by God, in Richmond. They’d made eighty miles in under twenty-four hours, not a record but damned close. And not a one had fallen out. A couple had boots filled with blood, but they’d kept going.
“Yes, sir,” Powell said. “I have that under control, sir.”
“You’ve really dogged the hell out of ’em, haven’t you?” the CO opined, looking around at the collapsed Force Recon Marines.
“Haven’t started, yet, sir,” Powell replied, pulling out a field ration. He pulled the tab to heat it, then dumped the contents in his mouth. “But we’ll be back in good time.”
“You’re not going to even tell your CO?” the captain asked.
“Not short of a direct order, sir,” Top replied. “But you’re going to like it. Try not to act surprised. ON YOUR FEET, MARINES!”
“This is Mosby Hill,” the first sergeant said, gesturing at the vista below. “It was part of the last defenses of Richmond during the Civil War, a seven degree slope at its steepest and one point five miles from top to bottom following Broad Street. I have arranged with the Richmond Police department to maintain one lane clear of traffic until six AM. From now until that time, we are going to learn to love this hill. Aren’t we Marines?”
“YES, FIRST SERGEANT!”
“We are going to love this hill as we have never loved a hill. And at six AM, when the police, alas, have to open the lane up, well, then it will be time to make our way home. But in the meantime, Right… Face! Quicktime… march… Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton, Old times there are not forgotten…”
“Loving the Hill” is right up there with “Good Training” in the history of military sadism. What it meant was that the Marines of Bravo Company, United States Space Marines, would march down the hill quite peacefully then run, “double time,” back up. One lane of Broad Street had been closed with police cars at either end to maintain it and barricades to ensure motorists didn’t decide to use it anyway. The Richmond Police officers and the public workers who had set up the closure leaned on the hoods of their cars and trucks and watched as the Marines marched down, ran up, marched down, ran up, repeat to exhaustion or at least until six AM.
Shortly before that time, the first sergeant turned over the cadence calling to Gunnery Sergeant Juda, who was if anything more brutal than he, and had a quick conversation with the unit’s most junior officer.
Which left Second Lieutenant Bergstresser as the cadence caller for the last climb.
“Quick time… march,” Berg shouted when the company was barely halfway up the hill. Already, behind them the city workers were taking down the barricades and preparing to open the road. The police cars had pulled well to the side and as the Marines passed them the officers waved and grinned, as if they knew a special joke.
“New cadence,” Berg said. “Try to keep up.
Berg didn’t have the greatest singing voice in the world, but it was good enough for the simple tune. And the words couldn’t have been more heartfelt. As much as the Marines had been cutting up for the cameras, lately, much of it was simply pre-mission jitters. Casualties on each mission of the Blade had been so high as to be suicidal.