Stark's Command (24 page)

"But with mil women, Sarge! You know, other soldiers, or daughters of soldiers. Civ women are different, aren't they?"

"Murphy, I've never understood any of 'em, but civ women and mil women are exactly alike in most ways."

"Even Corporal Gomez? I never—"

"Okay, Corporal Gomez is a little different from your average civ woman. Not that that's a bad thing. You just remember, dating a woman's just like anything else. You get back what you give. If you give 'em a grope session on the first date they're gonna think you're not interested in anything else. Take your time to learn 'em, listen, and talk to 'em, and maybe they'll do the same back."

"Uh-huh." Murphy frowned thoughtfully. "Kinda like learning to shoot, huh, Sarge? You gotta really get the feel for your weapon, how it's gonna react and everything, or you won't get any hits."

Now, that's a helluva analogy. Murphy, dating a civ may be
real
good for you.
"That's right. And remember, you get careless with a weapon or mistreat it, and you're liable to shoot yourself in the foot."

"Right, Sarge. You respect your weapon. I'll do the same with this civ. I promise."

"Never doubted it, Murph." Stark slapped Murphy's visible shoulder lightly. "Take care of yourself, you ape. You're a good soldier."

Murphy blushed again, avoiding Stark's eyes. "Thanks, Sarge. I know I ain't the best."

"You're damn good when you wanna be. I'll be back to check on you." Stark smiled encouragingly as he left.
Good kid. Is this what my dad felt like when he talked to me, tried to give advice? Not that I listened. I guess soldiers are old enough to learn listening never hurts and might even help a little.

Stark walked slowly through the corridor of the civilian hospital, its white walls comfortingly similar to those of the military medical complex, until his reverie was interrupted by the buzz of his comm unit. "Stark here."

"Where are you?" Vic Reynolds demanded.

"Civ hospital complex. Visiting Murphy."

"Oh. How's he doing?"

"His missing arm itches."

"Ouch. Listen, you have to be at the civ government complex in half an hour. Don't forget."

Stark frowned, checking his scheduler. "I thought the meeting wasn't for another hour."

"It isn't. I just want to make sure you look decent. I don't want any sailors saying the ground force Commander is a slob."

"I look decent," Stark complained indignantly.

"Sure. You'd say that if you'd spent a week straight in battle armor."

"Is everybody else ready?" Stark questioned. "My whole staff's going to be there, right? If we're going to be dealing with sailors, I want anyone who might know anything about them on hand."

"I can't guarantee knowledge, but the warm bodies will be there. You want anybody besides your staff present?"

"No. Wait."
Lieutenant Mendoza? Can't do that, have an officer in the room, even though I think he'd offer some good advice. But the Lieutenant said his son would speak up if he had the responsibility. Okay, then.
"Yes. Mendo."

"Private Mendoza? From your old Squad?"

"Yeah. He knows lots of stuff."

"So I hear, but he never volunteers any of it."

"He'll tell me if something important comes up. Make sure he's there."

"You're the boss," Vic acknowledged. "Remember, half an hour."

"Alright, alright. Half an hour."

Chief Petty Officer Wiseman and her newly selected second in command, Chief Gunners Mate Melendez, stared around with prickly defiance at the group Stark had assembled. Stark's staff eyed them back, while the two civilian representatives. City Manager Campbell and his chief aide Cheryl Sarafina, watched both sailors and soldiers with careful neutrality.

Stark reached to shake Wiseman's hand after briefly introducing everyone present. "I guess I ought to formally welcome you to the Moon."

"Thanks. Love what you've done with the place."

"Any questions?"

"Yeah. Where's my beer?" Chief Wiseman grinned at her own joke. "I don't know what your plans are, but we've got four armed shuttles at our disposal. They've all took some damage, one took a lot, but it's nothing we can't fix. What do you need from us?"

Everyone was looking at Stark. He glanced down at the table for a moment before focusing on Chief Wiseman again. "Right now, it's a purely defensive mission. Defending the Colony."

"You gotta run supplies in, don't you?"

"Sure. We're working on that."

"Then you'll need escorts, or at least some way of keeping the big ships off your supply shuttles. We can't fight a pitched battle against ships of the line, but we can complicate a blockade somethin' fierce."

Vic hunched forward, speaking to both Navy representatives. "What about defending the Colony against longer-range Naval threats? Do you have any capability there?"

Wiseman shrugged, looking toward Gunner Melendez. "What kinda threats you talkin' about?"

"Bombardment."

Melendez shook his head scornfully. "Torpedoes can't make it through your defenses. This place is a flippin' fortress."

"I wasn't talking about torpedoes," Vic continued patiently. "I meant big stuff."

"Big stuff?" Wiseman questioned. "They ain't gonna do that. We've got firm orders not to employ Mike Delta Delta's under any circumstances."

The military nodded in understanding while the civilians looked bewildered. "Mike Delta Delta's?" Sarafina questioned.

"MDDs. Mass Destruction Devices," several of the military explained simultaneously.

"How do you know about these orders?" Vic demanded. "That doesn't sound like something that'd be shared with enlisted."

Chief Wiseman grinned. "We weren't supposed to know about it, but the Chiefs' Mess had copies of the messages before the Officers' Wardroom did. You know how it works."

"Yes, I guess we do."

"Wait a minute!" Campbell objected. "What difference would those orders make? None of the Navy ships carry those, uh, MDDs. The Space-Based Armament Treaty prohibits it."

Gunner Melendez uttered a brief laugh. "No, it don't."

"I know that treaty," Campbell insisted, looking to Sarafina for support. "Space-BAT specifically outlaws weapons of mass destruction on orbital or transorbital space vessels. I cannot believe we would blatantly violate that treaty."

"Nah, we ain't violating it," Melendez assured him. "Listen to the gunner. Yeah, that treaty says no orbital or transorbital Earth bombardment weapons allowed, but somewhere in the fine print it defines 'weapons' as stuff with warheads. Nuclear, conventional, whatever. Don't say a damn thing about a hunk of solid metal with a guidance device stuck on the end. Of course, that hunk of metal dropped from orbit can put a good-size hole in the middle of a city, but as far as the treaty's concerned, it ain't a weapon."

"Convenient," Vic noted dryly. "I assume the authorities back home are scared we'll do just that, even though we don't have the warships to drop stuff on Earth even if we wanted to."

"We don't need warships," the gunner noted with a dismissive wave. "Hang a rock on the outside of a shuttle. It'd maneuver like a pig, but you could do it. Or just modify some of your maglev lines here on the surface to lob objects into space, aimed at the Big Blue. Your terminal guidance wouldn't be great, but cities are big targets."

"We're not dropping rocks on cities," Stark objected heatedly. "Not American cities. Not anybody else's."

"I'm not sayin' we should. I'm just pointin' out why the brass don't want to start a pissin' contest with big bombs. Heck, the Moon's already full of craters. Back home, they wouldn't want the same landscapin' job."

Sarafina looked puzzled. "How odd that we would negotiate a treaty with such a large loophole."

"Hey, we wanted to claim the moral high ground and still be able to bomb people, so we came up with a treaty which let us do both. What's odd about that?"

"I still don't understand." Campbell shook his head, eyeing the military representatives. "The authorities on Earth surely want to defeat the military forces up here. Why wouldn't they use any weapon available to them to do that? A massive attack would certainly overwhelm our defenses and prevent us from retaliating."

Private Mendoza, sitting quietly to one side, now looked up, suddenly animated. "A weapon employed must match the objective." His expression shifted to alarm as he realized he had the attention of everyone else in the room. "That is," he continued hesitantly, "there is no sense in the government using weapons which would not be consistent with their goals."

"Which means exactly what?" Stark wondered.

"The principle was set forth by von Clausewitz," Mendo explained.

"That German guy your dad likes?"
I gotta read that guy's book.

"Yes. My father often discussed his theories with me. Clausewitz stated that war is a continuation of political policy by other means. So, armed conflict only makes sense if it furthers a political goal."

"Like us trying to take over the whole Moon for the last few years?" Manley suggested.

"Exactly," Mendo agreed, becoming more confident as he spoke. "The goal need not be achievable, but it must be understood. Now, the objective of the authorities in Washington, D.C. is to retake this Colony. If it is simply destroyed, America loses its foothold on the Moon and all efforts to establish a dominant presence here will have been negated. If the defenders, ourselves, are destroyed from long range, the enemy forces besieging us will immediately seize the Colony, thereby achieving the same result."

"And," Campbell added as he nodded, "in either case, the corporations which have invested up here would lose a huge amount of infrastructure and other assets."

"Yes, sir. Which means the only strategy the authorities can follow is to try to retake the Colony with ground forces, or force our surrender under terms which ensure they can immediately reoccupy the Colony."

Vic shook her head, face skeptical. "What if our brilliant former leaders don't do the smart thing? They're not exactly famous for making great decisions."

"It is a question of self-interest," Mendo insisted. "They cannot win by destroying us. The politicians seek to remain in power. Losing the Colony, to us, to the enemy, or to bombardment, would be such a setback that they would certainly lose the next election. They must retake the Colony to get what they want. Nor will the corporations acquiesce to any decision to destroy what they have invested up here."

Campbell nodded again, face thoughtful. "That makes a great deal of sense. Your man is right, Sergeant Stark. I don't know military issues, but I do know politics. The upcoming elections will drive this. The two main political parties need to win those elections, and they need corporate contributions to do so. The only way to achieve both goals is to retake this Colony intact. That does explain why they would rule out the use of certain weapons."

"Politicians lose elections," Manley objected. "What's the big deal if a few go bye-bye this time? They'll just be replaced by a couple more of the same."

"No. If the two main parties are totally discredited by losing this Colony, and they will be I assure you, the winners will be the current secondary parties, which have long claimed the mantle of political reform. The last thing the politicians currently in power want is for someone with a crusading agenda to replace them and overturn all the rocks that their various illegal and immoral arrangements have been hidden under for decades."

Stark suddenly grinned. "Then they're gonna talk to us, right? Not just you civilians, but the mil as well. You and Mendo are telling us the politicians and the corporations back home want this Colony back intact, and they want it bad. So it don't matter if the Pentagon hates our guts, which they must have even before this Navy stuff."

Campbell nodded grimly, looking around the table. "That's true. They'll talk to us. But what exactly are we going to say to them?" He centered his gaze on Stark. "Sergeant Stark, issues of civilian primacy aside, you hold the power up here. Nothing can or will happen unless you agree. What should our goal be? Compromise? Revolution? I don't think anyone here wants to break our ties to the United States, do they? So what is it we're after?"

Stark stared back mutely.
What the hell do I say? What do I really want besides a little respect and bosses who think of me as human instead of a piece of hardware? What kind of answer protects the people I'm trying to protect and doesn't betray everything I want to believe in? They're all looking at me. They're all depending on me. What the hell is the right answer?

They sat off the Colony spaceport like harpies out of some ancient myth, their very presence accusing Stark of oath breaking and dishonor. Official shuttles under official orders. Stark paused in front of a monitor, staring at its screen.
Not so long ago, a visit from VIPs like that would've had me and all my troops scrambling to paint, polish, and clean anything the bigwigs might come within several kilometers of. Now, they're coming to meet me. I'd rather be painting walls.

He took another long look at the monitor, wishing it could somehow see inside the shells of the spacecraft.
Who exactly is in the delegation? What're they gonna say? Will they offer us a deal or just threaten us? Will our own civs from the Colony back us up, or jump ship if they get a good offer from the delegation? Ah, hell, I'll find out all that soon enough.
Stark walked away, heading for the corporate conference room Campbell had recommended using.
Neutral ground,
the Colony Manager had said,
or the closest we're going to find up here, and the best meeting facility in the Colony.
Stark had refrained from describing the Generals' conference room in headquarters, suspecting in any event that a top-of-the-line corporate hall would be very plush indeed.

Stacey Yurivan stood alone in the hallway outside the meeting room, a half-mocking grin on her face. "How's life, Commander, sir?"

"Just peachy. Anybody else here yet?"