I drank my coffee black, not that I liked it that way. I preferred cream and sugar; but I was a Marine. I had an image to uphold.
From across the counter came the voice of Senator MacKay. General Smith, according to your records, the Air Force did not lose a single jet during the battle for New Copenhagen. Is that correct?
I heard this and laughed. “Damn right they didn’t lose a jet. The speckers never left the damn hangar,” I muttered.
On the screen, the senator paid little attention to General Smith as he answered the question. It was a throwaway question. His old man’s glasses riding low on his nose, Senator MacKay sat running his pen over his notes while he waited for an answer.
Our pilots took their chances just like everybody else, Senator, answered General Alexander Smith. He sounded angry.
I heard the annoyance in Smith’s voice and realized a dustup was coming. “This should be good,” I mumbled to myself.
No one is questioning the Air Force’s role in the war. I’m just curious about your methods. Senator MacKay rattled off the casualty statistics, but the camera stayed on Smith. The general looked ready to leap out of his seat and rush the bar. The “old man of the Air Force” clearly thought his bravery had been challenged.
It would appear that your fighter pilots had a much higher survival rate. How many pilots did you lose?
Helen brought me my sandwich, but I didn’t look in her direction. I watched General Smith’s face redden as he said, We did not lose any pilots.
She looked up at the screen and yawned. “I can change the channel if you want,” she offered.
“Leave it,” I said without looking away from the screen. “It’s getting interesting.” I had been grilled in a congressional hearing once. Military types found themselves at the mercy of politicians when they entered the Capitol. If the senators began pissing on General Smith, the most the old man could do to defend himself was comment on the lovely shade of yellow.
“Suit yourself,” Helen said, and she walked away.
As I understand it, General Newcastle, your gunship pilots did not fare so well. Didn’t you suffer a much higher casualty rate with your attack helicopters?
General Newcastle; I knew that bastard. I attended briefings with him on New Copenhagen. He was all bluff and bluster, an officer who talked a fierce fight but stayed away from the battlefield. He returned from New Copenhagen a hero to everyone but the men who served under him.
We lost every gunship we sent out, Newcastle told the committee.
My eyes still on the screen, I picked up half of my sandwich and took a large bite. Watching Senator MacKay and Mo Newcastle gang up on Smith brought a smile to my face. General Newcastle discussed equipment with the committee for a minute, then he showed his fangs.
General Hill determined that the situation was unsafe and refused to launch his fighters. Newcastle’s testimony hung in the air like the mushroom cloud after a nuclear explosion. There was a moment of devastating silence followed by utter confusion.
The moment I heard Newcastle’s charge, I knew it would cause a feeding frenzy. Having finally found a blemish in the military’s new, all-but-sainted image, the politicians moved in to attack.
He refused to launch? asked a lady senator. Senator MacKay might have been the chairman at this hearing, but this gal had a nose for blood. Sensing headlines, she wanted to move in for the kill; but she didn’t know how to close the deal. She had not done her homework as thoroughly as MacKay.
General Smith explained that his fighter jets were unable to reach a safe altitude, but madam politician wasn’t interested. I watched in fascination. This was theater. This was fun. There was something hypnotic and satisfying about watching Al Smith sweat like a stuck pig. Laughing and muttering jokes to myself, I wolfed down the second half of my sandwich in three bites and chased it down with a jolt of black coffee.
The flogging continued until Senator MacKay banged his gavel, and asked, In your opinion, General Newcastle, how much of a difference would the fighters have made?
I don’t know what you mean, Newcastle said.
General, what I am asking is, if the Air Force had sent out its fighters, how much of a difference could they have made?
Flying low? You mean if they had to fly low like my chopper pilots?
Yes, General. If they had entered the battle flying low, would you have taken fewer casualties?
I should have seen it coming. When push came to shove, the fraternal order of natural-born officers presented a united front. They might have it out between themselves in private; but in front of Congress, they protected their own.
They would not have made a bit of difference, Senator. The enemy would have shot them out of the sky, said Newcastle.
I see, said Senator MacKay.
General Smith spewed out a litany of excuses, hoping to explain why fighting the alien invasion was different than fighting a human war. He left out classified information about how we never fought the aliens themselves, just an army of avatars they projected onto the planet. That was why we called them the “Avatari.”
Then General Newcastle joined in. The problem was lack of discipline. He paused for dramatic effect, then added, Cowardice.
Are you referring to the pilots not flying their fighters? asked madam politician. She wanted a shill, some political target she could demolish to fuel her career.
“Don’t do it,” I muttered, knowing exactly what Newcastle would say next.
No, ma’am, I am referring to our enlisted men.
The son of a bitch was going to sacrifice the clones. In battle and now in peacetime, whenever officers felt threatened, they sacrificed the clones.
The cloned soldiers? Senator MacKay asked.
Yes, sir.
You had a problem with the clones? MacKay followed up.
Yes, sir. They did not perform well in battle, said Newcastle.
As I understand it, clones are programmed to follow orders without question, said MacKay.
Senator, their programming broke down under stress. We saw vandalism …graffiti …men disobeying orders. I’m not sure this was in the report, but one of our clones attacked and killed a superior officer.
I was the clone who killed his superior. As far as I knew, I was the only clone on New Copenhagen who killed a superior, and he deserved what he got. My only regret was that I only got to kill the bastard once. In a perfect world, I could have killed him, resuscitated the son of a bitch, and killed him a few more times.
I pulled out my wallet and left enough cash by my plate to cover the sandwich twice over. I needed to get back to the office fast.
Are you talking about something that happened on the battlefield? Was it friendly fire?
No, sir, it was not friendly fire. Both men were off duty and we were not under attack, and the clone in question was a Liberator. He attacked and killed his superior away from the battlefield, said Newcastle, as Helen came to check on me.
Seeing the bills by my plate, she called, “Don’t you want some change?”
“I’m in a rush,” I said as I started out the door. I felt like I was under fire. Watching Newcastle’s testimony was like watching bombs fall from the sky and not knowing where they would explode.