''How do you get a briefcase in someone's face?'' Tommy asked.
''A good question.'' The Colonel chuckled. ''A better question is, how do you get said briefcase in someone's face and live to tell about it?''
''But Grampa's given hundreds of interviews about the assassination. Are you saying he lied to all those reporters?''
''I've read a lot of those interviews, young woman, and I'll bet you money that your grampa has not told a single lie to any of those media meatheads. If you've never been out on the tip of the spear, Kris, you have no idea what goes on there. Those reporters ask the questions their editors think the average Joe on the street wants to hear. Figuring out the facts of what actually happened is as far from them as''—he snorted—''this planet is from drying out. No. Reporters may understand garden parties, and they think they understand political campaigns. But understand what a soldier does, a sailor? You might as well ask a pig to sing opera.''
Then the Colonel turned his full concentration on Kris. ''But you know what it's like. You've been the spear two or three times. And if you're going to keep putting expectations on poor guys like Tom and those boatmen and your warehouse department, you better have a damn sight better understanding of just what the people did who made ‘those damn Longknifes' into one word.
''Now get some sleep. We've got good people taking care of things around here. The Fourth Highlanders will be down tomorrow, and we can turn a lot of this stuff over to them.'' The Colonel got a strange smile on his face. ''And maybe I can talk their Colonel into throwing a Dining In before I ship you off planet.'' Kris didn't like the look on the Colonel's face. There was something about the Highlanders or the Dining In that held a surprise for her. It couldn't be the Dining In; that was just a meal. ''The Highlanders, sir,'' she coaxed.
''LornaDo's Fourth Battalion, Highland Regiment. I think Regimental Sergeant Major Rutherford is still with them. His dad was with the Fourth and that platoon of marines that your Great-grampa Trouble led up Black Mountain. A battalion and a platoon out to evict a division from a mountain they'd dug in on. Not just any division, but one whose officers were indicted war criminals and whose sergeants and men knew they were going to jail if the newly elected government on Savannah wasn't run out of town fast. You know the story.''
Kris nodded; of course she knew the story. At least, she knew the story the way the history books told it.
''Well, Sergeant Major Rutherford's dad was one of the few Highlanders to walk off that mountain on his own two feet. Gives him an interesting perspective on how the battalion won that particular battle honor.'' And with that, the Colonel turned to the window and, bumpy road or not, went to sleep.
Kris was maybe ten seconds behind him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kris missed the sonic booms of the incoming landers, what with the rattle of the wind-whipped rain on the side of the bus. She kept her eyes on the end of the runway; sooner or later they'd have to break out of the mist and scud. The weather folks had promised rain and warm for today. As usual, the rain was here, but warm was not. Kris wore a sweater and undress khakis.
Despite the injunction of the commander back on Wardhaven who'd briefed Kris for this operation, she'd brought along two sets of khakis and one set of dress whites. Upon return from her river trip, Colonel Hancock ordered her, effective immediately, only to wear them for the rest of her stay on Olympia. ''Maybe you'll get in less trouble if you don't dress for it.'' He might be right; for the last thirty hours she hadn't caused or gotten into anything the Colonel didn't approve of.
Of course, the Colonel hadn't gone off base, and Kris was restricted to it. Well, maybe not restricted, more like grounded. When her parents grounded Kris, it wasn't an excuse to skip soccer or ballet or any of their stuff, only her stuff; same with Colonel Hancock. She could run the warehouse. Indeed, she was expected to get it in shape to turn over to the Highlanders. Tommy was still running the motor pool. He likewise was cleaning up the loose ends for a transition. It was just that neither one of them was supposed to take a step out of the warehouse or base or the direct line between them. And the Colonel had taken to dropping by at odd times to make sure. Five or six times a day.
It was as if he didn't trust Kris any more than her mother or father had when she was sixteen. Then, the Colonel had better cause for that certain lack of trust. Accompanying the rented buses and vans was Kris's first trip beyond her short leash. Kris had asked Tommy if he wanted to meet the Highland battalion; he'd jumped at the chance. Kris also asked the Colonel if he'd like to go.
''Who's riding shotgun?'' he asked without looking up from the reports on his desk.
''A couple of contract riflemen from the soup kitchens.'' Again today, just about the entire navy detachment was on the road delivering food.
''You going to start a war or do anything else that will increase the amount of paperwork on my desk?''
''No sir. Definitely not, sir. Straight boot ensign stuff, sir. No Ensign Longknife stuff either, sir,'' she grinned.
''Get lost,'' he grumbled. Then thought better. ''But leave bread crumbs. I want you back here for supper.''
''Yes, sir.'' She saluted. His return salute actually qualified as a military honor.
Both landers broke out of the scud at about the same time. Kris shook her head. This bunch were real hard cases; the landers were trying to set down side by side. On the collection of potholes Olympia called a duty runway, that was suicide.
Apparently, the pilot of the second lander took one look at the runway and came to the same conclusion. He added power and climbed into the overcast for a go-around. The first lander went long, missing the worst potholes, and did a reasonably smooth run out. It was taxiing toward the number-one parking slot when the second lander touched down. Unwilling to be soaked, Kris waited on the bus to see what happened next. Only when the second lander was at a full stop did both landers lower their aft loading hatch.
Two men in plaid kilts and tall fuzzy hats marched smartly to either side of the hatch. Then the most interesting noises began.
''What are those women doing to those poor cats?'' Tommy asked on net.
''Be careful who you're calling a woman,'' came from the Colonel, apparently monitoring the net.
''And that racket you're complaining about is bagpipes,'' Kris added.
''I thought all you Santa Marians were fake Celts,'' Hancock said. ''Don't tell me you don't know what a bagpipe is.''
''And didn't it not survive the hungry survival years?'' Tommy answered in the thickest brogue she'd heard him manage. ''And don't we thank Jesus, Mary, and Joseph every day for that small grace.''
''And I thought I was shipping you off planet because you were too tied up with that Longknife person. Ensign Lien, you're not going to survive the night.''
''And am I supposed to be afraid of men in skirts?''
''Ladies from Hell.'' Kris had read a bit of history. ''Now Tommy, me lad, you can either start walking back to the base—'' The heavy rain picked that moment to get heavier—''or you can move your two buses around to Lander Number Two.'' Kris pointed to her driver, and she got in gear. ''I'm bringing my three buses to Lander Number One. Don't worry, Colonel, we'll manage this evolution real smooth.''
''And why have I come to doubt a Longknife's definition of smooth?'' the Colonel asked in a brogue all his own. ''Hancock out.''
Kris ignored the last canard; her driver led the other two buses onto the apron and parked well behind the first lander.
Now troopers were filing off both landers, rifles on their shoulders. Under the influence of the pipers, their on-board route step quickly fell in sync as they marched, cutting each corner, to their places in formation under the watchful eyes of sergeants. Their kilts were mainly red, with a bit of green, black, and white in the mix. They wore bonnets of, the same tartan and tan jackets that, in the rain, were quickly turning to a deep brown. As far as the sergeants and men were concerned, though, it might as well have been a balmy summer day back at the cantonment. Their heads were high; their steps were sure. They were on parade, and the devil take the wind and rain.