Mike chuckled grimly. He had his own massive list of screwups that he could detail, starting with the Diess Expeditionary Force. But the situation in the Keys was something of a whole different order.
«I don't understand how it could get this way,» said Mike, gesturing around with the beer bottle. «Where the hell is everybody? I can understand the tourists, but where's the retirees?» The whole state of Florida was filled with retirees. Some of them were recalled military, admittedly. But that had to be a small percentage. Where were the rest?
«It happened slowly,» Honest John admitted. «Not just here but all over Florida. First, the tourists started trickling off. Then, most of the people who could hold a hammer or run a press without cutting their fingers off went up north to get jobs. The Fisheries Board reinstituted net fishing for the Florida waters about then and there was a small rush to get into that. But when people found out how hard it was most of them moved away too. Then all the young guys got sucked off by the Army.»
He smiled and took a big toke. «I was getting recalled my-own-self,» he said with a chuckle. «But not only is free trader a 'vital war production position'—and didn't that take some squeeze to a certain congressman—but I convinced the in-process board it would be a waste of perfectly good rehab just to get a drugged-out Petty Officer Three.» He grinned again.
«Anyway, before we knew it the entire population of the Keys was below twenty thousand, most of them retirees. The nursing homes and 'managed care' retirement centers started having problems with taking care of their old folks. Some of 'em died cause there just wasn't anybody on duty.
«Then when Hurricane Eloise came through, they took it as an excuse to evacuate all the retirees that were not 'fully capable of self-care.' Down here in the Keys, anyway.
«That meant the only people left, other than in Key West, were the fishermen and their families. There's a federal law that Florida Power had to deliver down here. But after Eloise, they got an 'indefinite suspension' because there was a shortage of parts, or so they said. That was last year.
«So that,» the ship captain finished, «is how it got so totally screwed up down here. An' that's the truth.»
The trader took another toke on his joint and a pull on the glass of Georgia branch water Mike had supplied. He worked his mouth for a moment. «Cotton mouth. Haven't talked this much in a coon's age.
Mike nodded and took a contemplative puff on the cigar. Papa O'Neal's branch water was awfully smooth. He doubted that the trader had any idea what proof he was knocking back like water. It was eventually going to catch up with him. «Just one thing I don't understand,» he mused. «Where'd they put them? The retirees I mean.»
«Some of 'em got mixed into the groups up the peninsula. Lots of 'em went to the big underground cities they're building,» said John. He took a last puff on the joint and spun the butt into the water. «One nice thing about this war. Not only has it driven the cost of Mary Jane down, the coasties don't give a rat's ass if you're carrying.»
«That's crazy,» Mike argued, thinking about the first part of the statement.
«Why?» asked John with a laugh. «They've got a real war to worry about. They don't have to worry about the 'War on Drugs.' «
«No,» said Mike with a touch of impatience. «I was talking about the Sub-Urbs. The work on them is hardly complete. I don't see them being able to take tens of thousands of geriatric invalids! Who the hell is going to care for them there?»
«Search me,» said Honest John, putting words into action as he patted his pockets. «Damn,» he muttered, swaying to his feet. «I gotta go back to the ship an' get some more weed.» He took one step forward and fell in the water. He came up spluttering and looked around. «Where's those damn dolphins when you need them?» he said blearily.
Mike shaded his eyes against the westering sun and smiled. «Be filled with joy; salvation is at hand,» he quipped and pointed at the opening where the group of humans and cetaceans had just hove into view.
«Hey Herman!» shouted Honest John. «Give a poor drunk trader a fin, buddy!» He grabbed a dangling rope and smiled up at Mike happily. «To think I could have been in-processing right now.»
Mike nodded in mock soberness. «I gotta agree that might not have been a great idea.»
CHAPTER 26
The Pentagon, VA, United States of America, Sol III
1328 EDT October 3rd, 2004 ad
«You know, General,» said General Horner, with a characteristic antihumor frown, «I gotta wonder if this was the greatest idea.»
Taking a look around the in-processing station, General Taylor was forced to wonder the same thing. Even if Horner had said it in jest.
Shortly after the change of command structures, one of General Horner's computer geeks pointed out that the recall program had been misdesigned. Any serious student of modern militaries could recognize that there were, of necessity, two general types of officers: warriors and paper pushers. There were a few officers, such as Jack Horner, who were superlative in both areas. But they were few and far between. Most officers were very good at one or the other, but not both.
The reason for a fighting army to have warriors in the officer ranks was obvious. But there was a viable reason for paper pushers as well. Armies float on a sea of paper. The logistic problems of Napoleonic armies had been solved, but only at the expense of constant information flow that required humans in the loop. Humans who were much more comfortable making decisions on the basis of a spreadsheet than a map. Humans who found a more efficient way to load trucks, well, exciting.
But bureaucracies are like hedges: beautiful when pampered and trimmed and ugly as hell when left to run riot. A military filled with warriors slags into a scrapheap as the warriors vie for command slots and neglect their paperwork. A military filled with paper pushers bloats out of control as the paper pushers create new empires to lord over.
The upcoming war with the Posleen was, admittedly, going to require lots and lots of bean counters. But the previous personnel policies had left it with, in both Generals Horner and Taylor's opinion, more than enough bureaucrats at every level. What it desperately needed was leaders and warriors.
However, most of the first «crop» was . . . a little on the moldy side.
* * *
«What're you in for?»
The questioner was a tall, trim man in his early seventies. He vaguely recognized the man next to him, but could not quite place the face.
The man in question took a suck off the oxygen tube in his nose and wheezed out a reply. «I got the Medal in Holland,» he croaked. The statement set off a paroxysm of coughing that trailed into laughter. «They're gonna have their jobs cut out with me!» The laughter led to more coughing until he was turning blue.
«You gonna be okay?» asked the questioner.
«Sure,» said the emphysemic once he had reestablished control. «As long as the damn ceremony don't go on too long. What'd they get you for? I don't recognize you from any of the meetings.» The last was accusatory. The group consisted mostly of Medal of Honor winners. The emphysemic former paratrooper knew them all by heart and could list off the missing files along with dates of service and death. He was not so good on what he'd had for breakfast, but he was spot on for fallen comrades.