Stark's Command (29 page)

Captains and Lieutenants sat quickly, then stared back at him, faces carefully neutral. "I wanted to thank you all, personally, for offering to stay up here." His hesitation began to disappear as words started to flow. "I know what that kind of thing represents. I know you're taking a tremendous risk, and I know how tough it is to go against training and tradition, but I also think we all know there wasn't much choice any more. Whatever we make of this, and we want it to be something good, you officers have chosen to help us. We checked you all out, and every one of you were decent leaders and decent commanders when all the rules said you didn't have to be. In fact, you probably would've had more promotions if you had followed the rules. I thank you for that, too."

Stark paused, trying and failing to gauge the effects of his words on the officers before him. "You're all going to be paired with a Sergeant when you get to your new assignments. That's not because we don't trust you, it's because we want to make sure no enlisted tries to play games with you. Some of them have got in their heads that there'll never be officers giving them orders again. That idea's not going to last. We're training new officers, and we want you to show us the things you know, not the book learning stuff, but the things you get from experience on being officers. It's important. Being an officer's different. It's a different role, a different way of doing things. I know that. We all do, deep down. The Sergeants and other enlisted who are filling officer jobs will be looking to you for role models. Do your best."

Another pause, still unmarked by obvious reaction. "If any of you run into any problems, stuff like disrespect or mistreatment, I want to know about it. I'll also say something I'm sure you've already guessed, that I'll be getting reports on you, and if any of you try to play political games or abuse your troops, I'll find a new assignment for you where you can't do either." A series of small frowns appeared on the faces of the officers as they finally reacted, frowns whose meaning Stark could easily decipher. "That doesn't mean you can't enforce discipline. I said don't abuse your troops. There's a big difference between discipline and abuse, and if any of you don't know what it is, let me know right now." The frowns smoothed out, several heads nodding back at Stark in understanding or agreement.

"I don't expect this to go smooth," Stark finished. "Nothing else has. But I damn well intend to work through any problems. And I promise you I'll be fair. Any questions?" Memory suddenly superimposed visions of the same query, made by officers to enlisted at innumerable briefings. Now it was all mirror imaged, and Stark wondered if the officers would accept his inquiry as sincere or assume he'd adopted the senior officer stance to unwelcome questions.
Which is that any real question is unwelcome, of course. Hey, somebody's got a hand up.
"Yes, Captain?"

"What exactly are our marching orders if American forces fire on us?" the Captain demanded bluntly. "Do we treat it as if it were any other enemy assault?"

Stark looked over the officers' heads to where Vic stood by the door at parade rest, her own eyes fixed on him, then back at the Captain. "Exact marching orders haven't been promulgated. We hope to avoid any combat against American forces."

The Captain nodded slowly in response. "You realize that may be impossible."

"I know. Are you really asking me if I'm going to order you to fire on other Americans?"

"That's right. To be perfectly frank, I'm not sure I can do that."

"Me, neither," Stark agreed dryly. "My bet is the tougher we are, the harder we look to the authorities back home, the more likely they'll be to find a way to talk to us instead of fight us. Because if it does come to combat, nobody can take us unless we let them. We have to do our best to make sure the Pentagon knows that, too."

Another nod, quicker this time. "Thank you."

"Okay, then, that's all I've got. Good luck." He paused a moment, trying to think of how to send the officers on their way, then glared in exasperation as Vic Reynolds once again called out "Attention" and the officers sprang up from their chairs. "Uh, carry on."

"Hold on, Lieutenant Conroy," Stark called as the others exited. She came forward to stand stiffly at attention before him, a reversal of roles Stark found particularly disconcerting since he'd served directly under her. "Lieutenant, I never got to thank you for leading the platoon back to get me."

Conroy managed a half-smile. "We were all pretty busy. I never got a chance to thank you for saving my platoon. And me in the bargain."

"You got a lousy deal, Lieutenant, and now you're taking a real big chance on us. We'll treat you fair. I can't promise a helluva lot else, but I can promise we'll treat you fair."

"Thank you." Conroy smiled again. "We were all wondering, what is your proper title?"

"We're still working on that. Most people call me Commander. I'm damned if I want to be called General."

"Then I suppose I'll call you 'sir.' "

"Ah, jeez," Stark winced. "Don't call me 'sir.' I work for a living, Lieutenant."

This time she laughed. "It's your call."

"You know we're sending you back to Bravo Company, right? It's off the front line right now, just starting refresher training this week. Sergeant Sanchez is running the old platoon, and Sergeant Podesta is running the company. I think they'll be real happy to have you around to help show them the ropes."

Lieutenant Conroy nodded gratefully. "Thank you. It'll be much easier to adapt to this . . . situation in a unit I already know. But if I recall properly, I doubt Sergeant Sanchez will display much happiness."

"It's nothing personal, Lieutenant. Sanch don't display much to nobody. But he's a damn good leader. I'll see him tonight, so I'll let him know you remembered him."

"Thank you, Sergeant." Conroy colored slightly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I like it when people call me that. And thank you again, Lieutenant. For coming back."

This time her smile reflected a mix of bitterness and sorrow. "After you led this takeover, a rather large number of my fellow officers clearly expressed to me their belief that I was at fault for not leaving you to die."

"Sorry, Lieutenant."

"That's all right. It made it easier to decide to stay."

"Commander?"

Stark halted his restless pacing, glancing around the dining room as he quickly palmed his comm unit. "Stark here."

"This is Sentry Post One, Commander. I've got a squad of soldiers who say they're here to meet you."

Stark relaxed, smiling. "That's right. You should have their names on your access list."

"Yes, sir, but they're carrying their weapons, and normally only personnel assigned to headquarters are authorized to have personal weapons with them inside the complex."

Stark frowned toward his comm unit. "Right. Put, um, Corporal Gomez on."

"Yes, sir."

"Sargento?"
Corporal Gomez asked hesitantly.

"Yeah. What's with the weapons?"

"We were at the firing simulator this afternoon, and the thing broke, like it always does, so we had to wait until they fixed it 'cause we didn't want to lose our training slot, and that made us real late, so Sergeant Sanchez said we could just bring our weapons along tonight and get 'em back to the barracks afterwards. That okay, Sarge?"

If I can't trust these apes with weapons, who can I trust?
"Sure, it's okay. Sentry, you copy that?"

"Roger, Commander. I'll pass them through."

"Thanks. And good job checking before you passed them." Stark looked over as the door opened and Vic Reynolds craned her neck inside. "My squad should be here in a few minutes. Anybody from my staff coming?"

"Manley begged off because her unit's having a get-together, too. Gordasa and Lamont are engaged in some sort of sim tournament. Tanaka's been running training drills all day, so I doubt she'll make it. I think Wiseman and Yurivan will be here."

"Great," Stark noted sarcastically. "My two favorites."

"And," Vic continued smoothly, "speaking of . . ." She moved inside, followed by Chief Wiseman and Sergeant Yurivan, then waved toward the bar. "Open bar, folks. Drink as much as you want, as long as it's not more than two beers."

Wiseman studied the bar carefully. "Do shots count?"

"Fraid so."

"Even small shots?"

"Them, too," Vic chuckled. "Don't worry, Chief, you can always tank up at one of Stacey's bootleg stills later on."

Yurivan managed to look offended. "I'm not operating any stills. Not at the moment, anyway. How come the limit?"

Vic waved toward Stark. "Our boss doesn't want to risk us all suffering from system degrades at the same time."

"Isn't he the same guy that told me 'no guts, no glory'?"

"That was different," Stark advised.

"And," Sergeant Yurivan continued, "the same guy who's always getting himself into hopeless situations that he survives by incredible luck? But he doesn't believe in taking risks? Hey, Chief Wiseman, what do you think?"

"I think," the Chief pronounced, "that it's a good thing he took a risk on us sailors when we came running here with warships on our tails. I know some of you mud-crawlers," she pivoted to point her beer at Vic, "didn't want him to, but I'm kind of glad he did."

"It wasn't anything personal," Vic stated in level tones. "You know that. It was simply a tremendous risk."

Stark nodded toward the Chief. "Yeah. And it was Vic's job to point that out to me, regardless of how she felt about it otherwise. But it worked out okay, and it gained us our own little Navy."
I don't need bad blood between those two. Wonder how Wiseman heard Vic had argued against letting her land? Some big-eared, loose-lipped watch-stander, I bet.
"There's just some risks you gotta take."

"I'm not denying that one worked out well. Chief Wiseman and her shuttles are a tremendous asset," Vic added diplomatically. "We just can't afford to take too many more risks like that."

"And I'm not arguing that, Vic. Keep reminding me of it. But I'm afraid sometimes we're gonna have to run some big risks."

Chief Wiseman cleared her throat. "Somebody who won't take risks can't win. That's a quote," she added with a grin.

"A quote," Vic repeated skeptically. "So who said it first?"

"John Paul Jones," Chief Wiseman declared, hoisting her beer. "That's the father of the United States Navy, in case you ground apes don't know."

"Hah!" Stark crowed, winking at Reynolds to show he was kidding. "See, Vic, I got the father of the U.S. Navy on my side!"

"Oooooh," Vic trilled with exaggerated awe. "I guess that settles that argument. Ethan Stark, you never took the Navy's side on any issue in your life."

"That's because the Navy was always wrong before. This time, they're right." Whatever rejoinder Vic might have manufactured was cut short by other arrivals. "Hey, Mendo, you got the rest of the Squad with you?"

"Yes, Commander Stark. All except Private Murphy, who is awaiting his own guest." Private Mendoza stepped aside as the other soldiers entered, most of them displaying their years of service experience by scanning the room, locking in on the bar, and immediately making a beeline toward it. "Sergeant Stark, this is my father, Lieutenant Mendoza," Mendo added with a gesture toward the man standing by his side, not trying to conceal his feelings as he smiled proudly.

"We've met a couple of times." Stark stepped forward with his hand extended. "Pleased to see you again, sir."

Lieutenant Mendoza shook the offered hand, nodding solemnly. "Thank you, Sergeant. Or should I call you Commander on this occasion?"

"Whatever you're comfortable with, Lieutenant. Hey, have you met Corporal Gomez? She's your son's acting squad leader."

The Lieutenant nodded again, this time to Anita Gomez as she came to stand with visible discomfort nearby. "I have not yet had that opportunity, but from all I have heard, Corporal Gomez appears to be highly effective in that role." Gomez's expression shifted marginally as she eyed Lieutenant Mendoza appraisingly. "My son advises me that the Corporal will accept nothing but the best performance from her Squad."

Everyone looked at Gomez. "That's what the
Sargento
expects, right?" she stated defiantly. "I'm not gonna let the squad go to hell just 'cause he's busy right now."

Sergeant Sanchez appeared, face calm and composed, waving a small greeting to Stark and Reynolds, as if he'd last seen them the day before. "Corporal Gomez's performance has been in the highest traditions of the service. I speak particularly of her defense of Mango Hill during an action prior to your arrival. She is indeed a good squad leader."

"Then my son is most fortunate. And you are a good platoon leader, I hear."

Sanchez shrugged, face and voice as noncommittal as ever. "I feel the responsibility to do my best in that position. However, I am merely an acting platoon commander, Lieutenant."

"That's true of everyone," Vic pointed out. "We're all just filling in at jobs we don't have the actual rank for."

"Sure," Stark agreed. "I'm the acting Commander, and we've got acting officers of every stripe. Some do real good, some don't. The best ones don't seem to need the acting rank to get the job done, so I'm not sure if acting ranks really amount to more than a hill of beans."

Lieutenant Mendoza smiled softly, the exact way Stark had seen Mendoza's son smile many times, but then, unlike his son, began speaking his inner thoughts unprompted. "There is a story from the American Civil War about that very issue. A battle had been fought over a long day, so the armies of the North and South were tired. Evening was coming on, and with the dimming light and the smoke from the gunpowder used in weapons at that time, the visibility had become very poor. At one critical spot on the Northern line, a train of mules was brought forward to resupply the Northern soldiers with ammunition. Just then, the Southern infantry launched a final attack against that very location. The Northern soldiers were weary. The attack might have succeeded and changed the course of the battle. But the firing of the Southern soldiers and the screaming of their battle cries panicked the mules, which stampeded directly toward the advancing Southerners. In the smoke-shrouded dimness, the attacking Southerners could see nothing, but could hear the thunder of hooves and the rattle of harness. They concluded they were being charged by an unseen force of Northern cavalry and retreated."