Once free of the HQ red tape, Kris got Tommy doing an inventory of what they had mechanical and what they needed to convert it from wet and rusting junk into something useful. Kris assigned herself the miserable job of getting a full, complete, and honest inventory of supplies on hand, separating Navy issue from relief goods. She had barely touched the surface that afternoon when a breathless runner skidded to a halt beside her. Armed thugs had held up a soup kitchen, cleaned it out of food—and pistol-whipped Ester Saddik for reasons that escaped Kris.
Kris stopped herself two steps into running down to Ester's kitchen. That would do no good. In this rain no one left tracks, and if things were usual, no one saw anything. While Kris struggled with lousy options, Jeb took over the inventory. Free, Kris stepped outside to let the pouring rain cool her off.
There was no use rushing across town; the boy said Ester was already being bandaged by the best doctor available. It was tempting to take a dozen armed spacers to chase down the culprits. Fat chance she'd have. That left her with the less pleasant problem of how to make sure it didn't happen again. She spent a good hour pacing up and down in the rain. The problem wasn't all that different from trying to clean up a sour campaign office. Of course, it often was wiser when all hell broke loose to have hit up the nearest so-called adult leadership before she did too much on her own. And getting that adult leadership to agree to what Kris wanted often took a bit of finagling.
That evening at supper, she set her tray down across from Colonel Hancock, shrugged out of her poncho, and settled into the seat. ''I need your advice, sir.''
''I'm starting to get scared when you start misusing that word, Ensign. What bridge you trying to sell me this time?''
Kris updated him on the warehouse. He nodded, satisfied, as he buttered a croissant that looked fit to melt in his hand. Then she hit him with the problem of food being ripped off by guys who beat up old ladies. His bread went down uneaten as he looked at her. ''And you expect me to do something about that?''
''Sir?'' Kris left the question hanging there.
He leaned back. ''I don't doubt you are aware that I'm not the most popular field-grade officer in the Corps, charged with using machine guns for crowd control.''
''I am aware, sir.''
''You're also aware of the quality of the recruits we've got, Ensign Longknife.'' The two of them eyed the room full of new, half-trained Navy and Marine personnel.
''Not really, sir, but—''
''But what?'' he interrupted her. ''The people who settled this mud ball chose to have every home incomplete without a weapon, preferably automatic, in the closet. A nice trigger lock to keep the kiddies from hurting themselves. Good God, do these idiots really think their pop guns could stop a fleet of raving bug-eyed monsters if one charged through their jump point?'' He snorted. ''Well, there's all hell to pay and the devil fully armed to beat the band, and I'll be damned if I'll put my troopers out there for anybody who wants to take a potshot at them.'' He looked hard at Kris, then went on more softly.
''They said those farmers were only throwing rocks. I swear to God I heard automatic fire. But we didn't find guns in the wreckage, and no one believes marines. Except marines. But I'm still in this hellhole, and I'll be damned if I'll put anyone else in a worse spot.'' He balled up his napkin, threw it down on his half-eaten supper. Scowled at it. Then looked up at Kris.
''So, Ensign Longknife, what are you going to do about thugs that steal food from soup kitchens and beat up old ladies?''
''I intend to post a constant guard on the warehouses.''
''Put our poor booties out slogging in the rain and mud. Makes them easy targets, too.''
''No, sir. One warehouse has a business tower, four stories high. Its roof should give our duty watch clear fields of vision all along the fence.'' And fire lanes. ''I've recycled rice bags into sandbags and built a bunker up there. That should give our personnel protection. I'll need a searchlight.''
''I can scare one up for you.''
''I'm also asking locals—ministers, officials, small business types—to share the night watches.''
''So they can give the order to fire?''
''No, sir. To serve as witnesses in any local court when and if one of our petty officers does give the order to fire.''
The Colonel eyed Kris for a long moment. ''Not bad, Ensign. You know, they're starving on the farm stations.''
''Yes sir. We're due for a dozen trucks sometime this week. I'll start spreading out then.''
''First convoy is bound to get shot at, maybe even raided.''
''I'll be leading that one, sir. Unless you want to.''
He snorted. ''Sorry, kid. I've been in that barrel. Once you've been hung out to dry by the chain of command, you learn to take what minor advantages delegation offers you.''
''Thank you, sir,'' seemed the only answer to that. The Colonel stood, abandoning his unfinished meal. ''One more thing, sir,'' Kris quickly added. ''That NGO that's helping me. I hear it's hiring locals with guns to guard the kitchens.''
That got her a long, measuring stare before the Colonel finally picked up his tray. ''What the locals do to each other is their own damn business,'' he said slowly. ''Just don't you go spending too much time on it.''
''Of course not, sir.''
CHAPTER ELEVEN
First thing next morning, Kris checked in at the warehouse; Jeb and a dozen of his team had worked through most of the night. They expected to complete the inventory by noon; Kris left them to it. Tommy showed up a few minutes later. Millie had appeared at the barracks front door that morning with a small army of ex-hotel employees. ''We can handle things from here, Kind Sir, if you will just get out of our way, Kind Sir, we should have everything spick-and-span by supper, Kind Sir, now, Kind Sir, please, get lost.'' Tommy had several ideas about how to get the rolling gear rolling, so Kris left the ''Kind Sir,'' to himself and concentrated on what she wanted to do.
Ester was back at her soup kitchen, a spick-and-span building in need of paint on the outside but as homey as could be on the inside. The woman sported a bandaged head but didn't let it slow her down one bit. Nelly had discovered a local bank with rolls of Wardhaven dollars in its vault. Kris plopped four rolls, a hundred dollars, on the table in front of Ester. ''How long will it take to get armed guards on each kitchen?''
''They're already here,'' Ester answered. Behind the serving table, two young women smiled and produced rifles from under the table. ''My daughters,'' Ester explained. ''Their husbands are out front.''
''And the other kitchens?''
''All have guards today. No man wants his wife put through this,'' she said with a wave at her head.
Kris pointed at the rolls of dollars. ''See that everyone gets his or her pay. And Ester, it will be a problem for me if my Colonel is embarrassed by something done by our guards. Could you see that they understand that while they take our dollar and eat our food, they are…?''
''On their best behavior,'' Ester smiled. ''Yes, I will let them know that Grandma Ester expects only the best from her men.''
That was not exactly Kris's words, and it certainly wasn't the way a Marine Colonel would express his expectations for discipline within the ranks. Still, it was probably the best this lash-up would allow. Kris hiked back to the base.
Somehow word had gotten out that Tom needed machinists and mechanics; the warehouse fence was already lined with men and women with automotive skills seeking employment. For a repair shop, Tommy identified a large building next to the warehouse that could be easily included in their perimeter fence. One of the hires was the owner of a failing truck firm halfway across town. He was painfully eager to sell his inventory for ten cents on the dollar. Kris was uncomfortable at the idea until the man admitted his off-world bank was selling him off just that cheap. If Kris would buy him out, he could pay off his debt and be in a position to buy it back from the Navy when they left.