“Either of them. Both of them,” Thorne said.
I passed Thorne my orders.
Wayson Harris, Captain, UAMC, Scutum-Crux Fleet
Captain Harris, it has been brought to my attention that there are questions about the transfer of power in the Scutum-Crux Fleet. Master Chief Petty Officer Gary Warshaw has lodged a formal complaint about a Marine taking control of the fleet.
As the ranking Naval NCO, the master chief believes he should assume command of the fleet. I have considered his petition and agree.
You shall remain Commandant of the Marines.
Further, per Master Chief Warshaw’s suggestion, we shall rely upon the survivors of Terraneau to elect their own planet administrator.
Harris, it is vital that this transfer of command be carried out without incident. Once Admiral Thorne and his officers have transferred out, you are authorized to deal with Warshaw as you see fit.
Admiral Alden Brocius, Office of the Navy
“ ‘Deal with Warshaw as you see fit’?” Thorne said as he finished reading. “Am I misreading this, or did Admiral Brocius just authorize you to kill that poor bastard?”
“Let’s just say he is not going to limit my options,” I said.
“Can you make heads or tails of this?” Thorne asked as he slid the envelope to me. I pulled out the orders. The page was blank except for three names: Grayson, Moffat, Ravenwood.
“Does that mean anything to you?” Thorne asked. “I assume this message was meant for you as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s Grayson?”
“Not ‘what.’ ‘Who.’ Colonel Aldus Grayson. He was my commanding officer for a short while.”
“What happened to him?” Thorne asked.
“Somebody shot him.”
“People get shot all the time during war,” Thorne pointed out.
“There were no enemies in the vicinity,” I said. “A lot of people think I shot him.”
“Did you?”
“That’s the rumor,” I said.
“And Moffat?”
“Another CO.”
“Did you kill him, too?”
“Yeah. There were witnesses that time.”
“Was he the guy on New Copenhagen? I heard about him.”
“There were two inquests, I was cleared of all charges both times,” I said.
“What about Ravenwood? Another dead officer?”
“It’s a planet.”
“You killed a planet?” Thorne asked.
“The Marines had an outpost on Ravenwood.”
“Ravenwood Outpost …shit, I know about that,” Thorne said, recognizing the name. Ravenwood was the Scutum-Crux Arm’s answer to Roanoke. Every platoon the Marines sent to Ravenwood Outpost vanished. According to the official report, no one ever made it off the planet alive. That was a whitewash. In truth, no one ever lasted his first night on that planet.
“Do you know what happened on Ravenwood?” Thorne asked.
“I know exactly what happened,” I said. “Admiral Huang used it as a training ground for a new breed of SEAL clones. He used the Marines as live bait. They came, they tried to defend themselves, and they died. Huang’s killer SEALs polished them off quick.”
“But what does that have to do with you and Warshaw?” Thorne was no fool. Watching his face, I could tell that he had the riddle partially solved.
“If I had to guess, I’d say he brought up Grayson and Moffat to let me know that a little friendly fire might be in order.”
“Yeah, I figured that out. What about Ravenwood?”
“War games,” I said.
“They’re not just sending you away; they’re going to use you for target practice,” Thorne said in astonishment.
“That’s my guess,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The military philosopher Michael Khumalo said, “Your most dangerous enemy is the one you mistake for a friend.” Advice to live by.
Besides Thomer and Hollingsworth, I shared my plans with no one. Admiral Thorne had his suspicions; but he was a bright guy and knew better than to ask.
My plans fell into place in the weeks after we liberated Terraneau. Convinced that everyone was playing according to Hoyle, the brass began using battleships to ferry clones to our fleet. They started with one; but after another week, they upped the ante by sending three. With three big ships, they could ship six thousand clones at a time. Given another week, they might well have completed the transfers.
I played possum as the first big shipment arrived. When I heard that the battleships were coming again, I opened the books to an ally I was not sure I could trust. I found Warshaw’s billet and tapped the CALL button on the intercom.
“Yeah?” the voice barked.
“It’s Harris,” I said.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I’m about to declare a war. Since you command the fleet, I thought I’d let you in on my plans,” I said.
“I don’t have time for jokes, Captain,” Warshaw said.
“I’m not joking.”
The master chief’s door slid open.
Warshaw had just come back from the gym. He wore baggy sweatpants and a loose Navy tank top. His clothes bulged over his chest, shoulders, arms, and legs and hung loose over his gut and hips. Quarter-inch veins formed patterns on his shoulders and biceps. Veins showed along his bald head as well.
“You better not be specking with me,” he said. He stood in the doorway, blocking me from entering his quarters.
“Did Admiral Brocius show you the orders he sent me?” I asked, as I held up the envelope.
“He told me what was in them,” Warshaw said.
“I don’t think so.” I handed him the envelope.
Warshaw pulled the letter out, his eyes focused on mine. He made no effort to hide his mistrust. Leaning against the doorjamb, he unfolded the paper and read. When he got to the end, he froze. “ ‘Deal with …as you see fit’? What the speck is that supposed to mean?”
“Here’s what he told Thorne,” I said as I handed him the second envelope.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “ ‘Grayson, Moffat, Ravenwood.’ What is that supposed to mean?”
“Grayson and Moffat were officers I killed,” I said. “Ravenwood was a frontier outpost where they used Marines as live targets for training Navy SEALs. It doesn’t sound like your buddy Brocius has your best interests in mind.”
Warshaw shook his head, and hissed, “That son of a bitch.” Then he rethought it, and said, “No way. No way, Harris, I don’t specking buy it.” Then he carefully refolded the letters and placed them back in the envelopes.
“Yes you do,” I said. He had to know that I hadn’t forged the letters, they were printed on Office of the Navy letterhead.
He sighed. “Brocius gave me everything I wanted. He told me I was right about everything and thanked me for helping him avoid a ‘colossal mistake.’ That was what he called it, a ‘colossal mistake.’ ”
Watching reality hit Warshaw, I almost felt sorry for the boot-licking son of a bitch. Almost.
“So this letter gives you permission to what …shoot me? Throw me in the brig?”
“Or both,” I said, hoping to drive home the differences between Marines and sailors.
“But what does Ravenwood have to do with this?” Warshaw asked.
“That’s Brocius tipping his hand. It’s his way of telling me why he handed over the fleet in the first place.”
“And you think he gave us the fleet to use us for training exercises? Is that right?”
“That is exactly what I think.”
“Even if it is true, I don’t see how this changes anything. We’re stuck here, Harris. They can’t hit us, and we can’t hit them.”
“They can hit us.”
“How are they going to hit us? With the specking Earth Fleet? They have thirty self-broadcasting ships. We’d rip them a new asshole if they came out here.”