I took one last look at Thomer to make sure he was ready for the meeting. He sat bolt upright, his hands lying flat on the table before him. I might have mistaken him for a mannequin except that he was breathing. Hoping for the best, I pressed a button, and the conference room door slid open.
Master Chief Petty Officer Gary Warshaw was the first man to step through the doorway. My impressions of Warshaw did not change now that I got a closer look at him. You could not miss the effects of his bodybuilding; he had taken it so far that he looked slightly misshapen. The network of veins along his tree trunk of a neck looked like ivy vines growing in under the skin. His neck was so thick with muscle that I had trouble telling where his neck ended and his skull began. Those veins ran right up the sides of his clean-shaven skull. He stepped into the room, snapped a smart salute, and said, “Captain Harris, you are a legend around these parts, sir.”
The words sounded sincere; but most ass-kissing subordinates had a talent for sounding sincere. I returned flattery for flattery, “Good to meet you, Master Chief. Admiral Thorne says good things about you.”
There was an acute alertness about Warshaw. Like a predator on the prowl, he took in every movement around the room. He had such a commanding presence that I barely noticed the next few sailors who entered.
I needed to stay on good terms with the master chief. Despite my rank and assignment, he would end up as the power behind the chair. Running the Scutum-Crux Fleet was a naval operation, and I was a Marine.
A few more sailors entered. I recognized their names from the file Admiral Thorne had given me. He had referred to these men as “the backbone of the fleet.”
Then came Senior Chief Petty Officer Perry Fahey, chief NCO of the U.A.N. Washington, and I lost my train of thought. The man had eye shadow over his eyes. There was no mistaking it. His eyelids were light blue patches. He did not wear rouge, lipstick, or eyeliner; but there was no denying cosmetic coloring above his eyes.
Fahey saluted me and identified himself.
I saluted back, but I could not stop myself from staring at the makeup. I was about to make the mistake of asking about it, but Herrington saw what was happening and stepped in. “Senior Chief, you look like a man who knows his way around a ship …” And he led Fahey to a seat, asking him about how he could go about expanding the Marine compound on the Kamehameha.
Even after Herrington pulled him away, I could not take my eyes off the blue shadowing the man had painted around his eyes. I wondered if it was a tattoo. It was a pretty shade, and I wondered where I could get some of that for Ava.
The meeting started out well enough. Thomer, mostly recovered from his morning dose of Fallzoud, woke from his stupor and chatted with Warshaw. Herrington and Fahey swapped a few stories as if they were old friends.
When I said, “We might as well get started,” the sailors standing in the back of the room found seats around the table. A good beginning.
We did a round of introductions first. None of us clones had ever commanded so much as a transport, let alone a fleet. Warshaw and his friends might have sat in on a few high-level meetings, but they would have attended as spectators, not participants.
“Our first objective is to recapture Terraneau,” I said, trying to put a leash around any stray conversations. “As most of you know, Admiral Thorne recorded a transmission from Norristown. We may as well start there.”
I tapped a button on the AV-console, and an old man’s voice came from the speakers. The recording lasted less than two seconds. It began with a moment of static followed by the sound of someone taking a deep breath. Then a voice said, “Go away.” The words were hushed, almost whispered, but emphatic. It sounded like a command. After that, the file went silent.
“That’s it?” Herrington asked.
“That’s it,” I said.
“They sent us all the way across the galaxy because of that?” Herrington continued. “He wasn’t even asking for help.”
“Maybe he thought he was talking to the aliens. Maybe that’s why he told us to go away,” Fahey guessed.
“That can’t be real.” Herrington shook his head.
“It’s legitimate,” I said. “Military intelligence ran the feed through a voiceprint computer and came up with a match. According to the Pentagon, that’s the voice of Colonel Ellery Doctorow.”
“Never heard of him,” Warshaw said.
“Doctorow was the head chaplain of the Unified Authority Army,” I said. “The Army transferred him to Terraneau right before the assault.” I pulled out a photograph of Doctorow and slipped it across the table to Warshaw. The picture showed a tall man wearing a cassock and stole over a set of Army fatigues. The stole had both religious symbols and military insignia, and the pressed eagle of colonel could be seen on his collar. Colonel Doctorow kept his hair in a coal-colored flattop.
“Okay, so if he’s Army, why the speck does he want us to leave?” Herrington asked. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Beats me,” I said.
“Admiral Thorne’s been punching holes through the curtain for two years now. From what I heard, they’d spotted movement on the planet; this was just the first time we were able to make contact,” Warshaw said. The other sailors seemed content to have Warshaw speak for them.
“Movement? Are you talking cars …airplanes …bodies?” Thomer asked.
Warshaw shrugged. “I don’t know. I just overheard a few conversations.”
“The report did not cover anything other than the message,” I said. This led to some unorganized chatter. I made a note to ask Admiral Thorne about it.
After that, we spent the next few minutes discussing the upcoming mission. News of the mission had trickled down through the ranks. Thorne had briefed his officers, who related the information to their key NCOs. I had gone over the details with Thomer and Herrington as well.
If there were aliens on Terraneau, we would need to slip around them. We couldn’t afford a fight. Our goal was to locate the spot where the aliens were digging their mine and set off our nuclear device there. We had a serious package to deliver—fifty megatons’ worth, enough to destroy the ion curtain if everything went well. Once the curtain was down, we would land more Marines and set up a base on the planet.
“Who are you sending to lead that mission?” asked Fahey, the sailor. He was young to have made the rank of senior chief, maybe not even in his thirties.
“I’m going,” I said.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but is that a good call?” Warshaw asked. “It could get dangerous down there.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said.
“That’s what they said about you. I have a couple of engineers who say they were on the Kamehameha when you went down to Little Man,” Warshaw said. “They said you liked it hot.”
“I didn’t volunteer for that duty,” I said. “They sent every enlisted man on the ship.”
This must have synced with the gossip Warshaw heard about me. He smiled, nodded, and whispered something to the sailor sitting next to him.
“I heard you served on New Copenhagen,” another said. I looked at my notes and saw that he was Senior Chief Petty Officer Hank Bishop. Once the transfers were complete, this man would take command of the Kamehameha.
“Sergeant Thomer and Sergeant Herrington were also on New Copenhagen,” I said. No one knew how to respond, and we sat in silence.
“How’s the training going?” I asked Warshaw, trying to get the meeting back on track. “Do your men know everything they need to know to run the fleet?”
He did not answer. Instead, he looked at the various men who had accompanied him and let them answer individually. To a man, the NCOs all reported they had been sailing with clone crews for months.