Under those conditions, the Displaced Farmers' Fund happily wrote a check and got the gear moved inside the fence.
While the actual work was quickly done on a handshake, the paperwork required Kris to coordinate with both Supply, Finance, and Administration. Kris quickly discovered why Supply and Finance wanted nothing to do with Admin. She had no problem getting the petty officers in the two sections that usually would have reported to Admin to sign off on all the required paperwork. Getting Pearson to approve anything turned into a Herculean task.
''Why do we need all this stuff?'' the lieutenant sniffed.
''If it's broke, we have to fix it.'' Kris had to go to the Colonel to get that answer declared acceptable. Still, five, times the Admin chief bounced Kris's paperwork for minor corrections. Five times Kris resubmitted it.
''Why are you putting up with this?'' Tommy asked.
''I wouldn't, if we had some trucks to work on, but the ones due yesterday still aren't even in orbit,'' Kris sighed and played the lieutenant's game. When the dozen trucks finally did arrive, Kris was glad for her pre-work. Donated rigs, the newest truck had a hundred thousand miles on it. The mechanics took one look at them, shook their heads, then turned to and totally rebuilt them, using every machine and tool Kris had laid her hands on.
Kris didn't let Pearson and her runarounds eat up all her time. Mornings she quickly did her Navy duties. Afternoons, she devoted most of her time to the Ruth Edris Fund. If she failed to hitch a ride with a supply truck, she hoofed it, making the rounds of soup kitchens, checking how everything was going. There were no more robberies, no more beatings. The rain still came down in sheets as Kris traveled the flooded streets of Port Athens, the people still hunched against it as they splashed from puddle to pothole, but now they seemed less beaten.
Whether she hitched a ride or walked, she wound up soaking wet by sundown from the top of her hat to the soggy soles of her boots. The only thing between Kris and utter misery was the humidity controls in the barracks, and when Millie reported the entire unit ready to give up the ghost, Kris paid extra to hire the only man on planet able to nurse the collapsing system along. A dry, warm room each night was cheap at any price.
Pearson was still developing policy when the mechanics wiped grease from their hands and declared six of the trucks as ready as they were ever going to get for the roads up-country. Kris didn't intend to wait any longer for policy; the farm stations were starving. She collected the people she'd met on her rounds and put the question to them: ''Where do we start?''
''I think down south is having it harder,'' a farm implements sales manager advised. ''Up north, the land runs to hills and gullies. The gullies are taking up a lot of the water. Down south, it's flatter. Water doesn't have any place to go. It's going back to swamp.''
Across the table from her, a priest and minister nodded their heads. ''That's what we hear, too,'' said the priest. ''But young woman, the gangs are also worse down south. A lot of gunmen are running down there. And with the swamps, there's no way anyone can trace them.''
''We've got some pretty smart gear, Padre,'' Kris answered.
''I know you do, but I haven't seen any of it flying around here,'' the red-faced priest answered back. ''Is it only my imagination, or is this whole effort being done on the cheap?''
''Father!'' Ester Saddik swatted his wrist. ''My mother taught me to say ‘thank you' when someone offered a helping hand, not count the fingers.''
''Sorry.''
''Nothing I haven't thought, Father,'' Kris acknowledged. ''Tomorrow, I'll take a half-dozen trucks south. Should be back in a day. Thanks for your help.''
''Do you want a few of our armed men with you?'' Ester asked.
Kris had been thinking a lot about that. Armed civilians riding shotgun for the Navy didn't feel right. A few witnesses? No. ''This is a Navy show, ma'am. We'll do it the Navy Way.''
The trucks were eight-wheelers. Each wheel was supposed to be good for both traction and steering; Kris was just happy if they turned. Each cab had a front and backseat.
The days of troops riding on the truck bed were gone…no safety belts back there. Kris assigned three gunners to the backseat of each truck. That left room for a driver and a boss in the front seat. Kris would command the first truck. She should have assigned Tommy to command the last truck, but he asked to be her driver; there might be an advantage to having both officers up front. With her pair of third-class POs, that only put a supervisor in three of the six trucks. Her accountant insisted on commanding one truck. ''I get out of the office, or the auditors are going to find really weird things,'' was a threat Kris respected.
Unfortunately, when you give in to one threat, you only get more. ''Burnt toast if I don't get a truck,'' Courtney smiled. So she got a day away from the mess hall.
The sixth truck was all marines.
Her convoy on the move, Kris found herself with time on her hands and a puzzle that would not go away. Everyone here was supposed to be armed to the teeth; the city folks certainly were. So, how come the farm stations were off net with rumors they'd been beat up? The orbital photos showed most of them were in the middle of wide fields, clear lanes of fire as far as any shooter could sight. Anybody trying to rob a farm station should have been very dead five hundred meters out. Maybe someone could sneak up on one or two, but Kris was scheduled to stop at five. Five! Something was wrong here.
To the three recruits riding shotgun in the back, there was definitely something wrong, but nothing like what worried Kris. ''I didn't join the Navy to be no errand boy,'' one young spacer said, not caring if Kris heard.
''Hell,'' the next one agreed, ''if I wanted to do deliveries, I could have stayed home and worked for my dad's shop. At least there, after you put in your eight hours, your day is your own. No offense meant, ma'am. It's not your fault we have to take night watch once a week.''
''None taken,'' Kris assured him, knowing full well that all the troops knew she was the reason for the night duty.
''Wouldn't do you any good to have spare time,'' the third, a woman, chimed in. ''No place to go, and if you do, it's raining, raining, raining. Join the Navy and see the mud holes.''
The first one was ready to come back in. ''I joined up to be a gunner. I got the highest score on Tuckwillow in SpaceFighter. Nobody can zap those bug-eyed monsters like I can.''
''We haven't found any more aliens,'' Kris pointed out. ''Getting chow to starving people is a bit more pressing than getting ready for hostiles we haven't met.''
''Yeah, I know. You're an officer, ma'am, and you have to think like that. But me, just give me a four-inch laser and a squadron of incoming badasses, and you'd see what I can do. This stuff, it's just making the do-gooders back in their overstuffed couches on Earth feel like they did something good when they paid their taxes. They ought to come out here and play around in this mud.''
Kris didn't tell him Wardhaven had do-gooders, too, and that was why she joined the Navy.
The first station on their list was big: owners, their kids and wives, grandkids—maybe a few of those getting up marriage high—filled several dozen family-size houses. A number of families from small stations had also taken refuge there. Before it went off net, they reported groups of horse- and truck-mounted bandits roaming the area. Kris shook her head; they ought to have been able to field a continuous watch. They ought not to have gone off the air.
Approaching the station, Kris matched the map on her reader against reality. The muddy road was wide enough for two trucks but in need of repair; Tom slipped and slid from side to side looking for the shallower potholes. The fields on either side of the road were muddy from a crop that never grew and rain that never stopped. She had an unhindered line of sight across those sodden fields to a creek that had overflowed its banks, swallowed the trees around it, and flooded hundreds of meters more. An abandoned tractor was up to its hubs in water. This muck would have channelized any attack; the raiders had to hit them from the road. They should have been mowed down.