At 1518 she could wait no longer. She got up from her desk and made her way to the elevator, where a trip up three floors brought her to the main administration nerve center for the base. The doors opened on a spacious lobby furnished with plain but functional desks, couches, and chairs. Other MPG members awaiting their own appointments with their own commanding officers occupied most of the chairs. A civilian secretary sat behind a desk, answering computer calls and putting in an endless stream of appointments for others.
"Name?" the secretary, a young Asian descendent with a particularly thick Martian accent asked.
"Corporal Wong," Lisa told her. "I have a 1530 with Captain Stanley."
"Hold on a sec," she said. She completed the call that she was currently handling and then put someone else on hold. She then checked through another screen on her computer and tapped it with her finger. "Should be about another five minutes or so. Go ahead and grab a seat."
She thanked the harried looking secretary and then plopped herself down on one of the couches. The woman sitting next to her was someone she knew. She worked in the outfitting department a floor below hers and had been part of the makeshift platoon that had pinned in the marines. They chatted while they waited, talking of Lisa's wound and their hopes for reassignment.
"I want tanks," the woman told her, almost hungrily. "I want to be in the machine that blows those Earthling fucks back to their landing area."
"I just want someone to give me a gun to fight with," Lisa responded vaguely, not mentioning her real hope for fear that she would laugh it off.
Right on schedule Lisa was invited into the captain's office for the meeting. She walked through the doors a little nervously, into a small room with a standard plastic desk and a few potted plants. Pictures of a smiling girl of about twelve were displayed on the top of the computer terminal. Stanley was sitting in her chair, looking a little frazzled herself. She was a handsome woman of about forty years old, a ten-year member of the MPG and a low-level accountant for MarsTrans in her civilian life.
"Let me guess," she told Lisa as she took a seat before the desk. "You're here to request reassignment to a combat branch."
Lisa smiled. She had always liked her CO who, in the tradition set by General Jackson, was an approachable, personable leader to her troops. "You must be psychic, Captain," she told her.
"I must be," she said with a sigh. "You're the fifteenth member of accounting that's met with me today. From what I hear I have similar appointments taking up most of my time tomorrow as well. Not only am I not getting any work done, I'm losing all of my best people. I don't suppose that you'd reconsider and man that desk for me instead of an M-24?"
"Not a chance, Captain, sorry," Lisa told her.
"Can't say that I blame you," she said with a shrug. "I put in my own request for reassignment yesterday with Colonel Culligan. Unfortunately my request was denied. Seems they need me a little too much over here in accounting."
"Well... someone has to do it, don't they?"
"Just not you," she said with a hint of sarcasm. "I know the feeling, believe me. So, where can we put you? Do you want tanks? Infantry? Flight training maybe? I haven't checked your qualifications yet."
"Well... actually," she said slowly, hesitantly, "I was thinking of... maybe... uh..." she trailed off, unable to get the words out of her mouth.
"What?" Stanley asked patiently. "Spit it out, girl."
"Special forces," Lisa finally blurted, feeling herself blush.
Stanley raised her eyebrows a tad. "Special forces?" she said. "Wong, I know you're hot to get into combat and all but the qualifications for special forces are pretty stringent. Those positions are only open to existing MPG members that have combat unit experience. At this particular moment in time that only includes the men. Maybe in a year or so, after you..."
"Begging your pardon, Captain," Lisa interrupted, "but that isn't exactly what the requirements say. I read them very carefully."
Another raising of the eyebrows. "Oh?"
"Yes," Lisa confirmed. "They read previous combat unit experience or an equivalent experience. I think I might qualify under the equivalent experience umbrella."
"Equivalent experience? Are you talking about police work?"
"Exactly," she said with a smile. "I have basic police academy training, three levels of advanced weapons and tactics training, and almost eight years of street patrol time. I'm qualified as expert in the M-24 and the 4mm pistol as well as the MP-7 and MP-9 assault rifles. That is all in addition to my MPG basic infantry tactics training."
Stanley nodded thoughtfully. "That is pretty impressive," she admitted. "But as to whether or not that counts as equivalent training or not would not be up to me. I'd have to kick your request over to Colonel Bright's office for consideration."
"Could you do that for me?"
"I'll need a resume of some sort first," she told her.
Lisa smiled. "I just happen to have one already composed on my PC," she said. "I can download it onto your computer right now."
"Very good then," she said, turning her screen towards Lisa to allow her to access the download port. "Put it in. And for what its worth, I'll even send off a letter of recommendation."
"Thanks, Captain," she said gratefully. That was going to be her next request.
"Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into if they accept you though? You would be one of very few women in special forces. God only knows what the men would think about that. Are you sure you can handle it?"
"I've worked Helvetia Heights, Collerton, and downtown in a police cart," Lisa said. "After that I can handle anything that they can throw at me."
Brett Ingram sat quietly at a chair, staring out the window at Mars floating below. He was in a bachelor officer's room on the outside wall of the base; a room intended for one occupant that he was sharing with three others. The surroundings were comfortable but the door was locked and armed MPG troops patrolled outside. Spacer Sugiyoto, one of the other Martians that had been stationed aboard the Mermaid was one of his roommates, as were two other native Martians he'd never met until two days ago when they'd been separated out from the rest of the WestHem naval personnel that were being held prisoner in the enlisted dormitory. The fact that they were all Martians did not escape them, nor did they think it a coincidence.
After all, they knew what was going on on the planet below. Even when they'd been crowded in with the other prisoners in the dorm, they had known about the revolution and the vote and the declaration of independence. Their captors had allowed them access to video terminals in their captivity, terminals that showed both MarsGroup broadcasts as well as WestHem big three broadcasts. In the room they were in now the main terminal mounted on the wall was available for their viewing pleasure twenty-four hours a day, on any network that they wished to view. The only capability that had been removed from it was transmission of information or email to the Internet.
The four of them had been watching MarsGroup almost continually since being placed in the room together. In between newscasts that showed MPG soldiers patrolling city streets and huge lines before recruitment centers and industries, they had speculated on just what the reason for their segregation might be. All four had come to the conclusion that the Martian authorities — namely General Jackson, Laura Whiting, and the small group of planetary legislature members that were loyal to them — simply didn't know what to do with them.