Steel Walls and Dirt Drops (16 page)

Chapter Twe
nty-Two

Misha stepped through the hatch into the intelligence vault. It was called a vault because it was more like a bank safe than any normal room aboard a spacecraft. The hatch was a meter thick with massive tumbler locks and deadbolts as wide as her arm. To gain entry, she buzzed through a dedicated and hardwired intercom. She had her glass pack scanned and knew as she stepped through the hatchway the security devices physically scanned her for weapons, recording devices, hidden cameras, and dozens of other items not allowed in the vault. The hatchway automatically transmitted a signal to glass packs, shutting them down upon entry. From her duty tour in AMSF intelligence she knew the bulkheads were packed with high tech counter surveillance gear. No scan could penetrate into its interior and any effort to do so would trigger ear-shattering alarms throughout the craft.

Misha was surprised to see Gan Forrester s
itting on the corner of a desk. How he had found a clear space on the desk to park even his small posterior would be an hour-long program on the popular video show ‘The Universe’s Unanswered Mysteries’. Piled high on the desk were glass-pack readers, hyper projectors, stylus highlighters, 3-D scramblers, coffee cups, used lunch trays, an assortment of tiny spacecraft models and a very bizarre assortment of Plasticine figures representing a militaristic group of what looked like wild boars in battle armor with weapons. Forrester and the female chief master sergeant Misha has seen earlier at Britaine’s pre-mission briefing were playing a mock battle with the figures. Both were making weird and quite impossible noises. A junior-grade major sat facing the two, while scanning through a glass-pack, completely ignoring the Plasticine carnage threatening to engulf the chief's desk.

Without turning around the
chief called out to Misha, "Come on in, Third McPherson, and shut the hatch, you're letting the flies in. Gan, you lying sack of civilian sheep shit, I just killed your commander and you know it."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's what you think."
Forrester looked up at Misha and smiled. He tossed her the figure he held. "What do you think? Should we recruit these guys to fight the Binders for us?"

Misha turned the figure over in her hands. It did indeed look like a semi-intelligent pig of some kind
, wearing armor with odd weaponry stuck out at every angle. "I don't know this species. But, it looks like there would be serious gaps in their armor. I don't recognize the cannon this man… er, pig… um, whatever it is carrying. Who are they?"

"Relax, Third
," the junior-grade major spoke without looking up from his reading. "Those are just some of Dead-eye's toys. Children's toys. You know how silly some chiefs can get in their old age. They are the P.O.O.P.; Pigs Out On Patrol. You can get them at any station exchange in the toy section."

The
chief smiled, "Yep, I got the whole set." She stood up and stretched out her hand to Misha. "Chief Master Sergeant Elizabeth Brown, intel's NCOIC. And that is Major Junior-Grade Hiero Krandiewsky. We call him Buzz for short. We let him think he is the head intel puke around here. And you know Sergeant Forrester, I believe?"

"Yes, Chief
," Misha smiled. "You don't know how relieved I feel to be back in an intel shack. I think that outside of APES country, this is the only room on an AMSF craft that I feel comfortable in."

"That
’s not surprising. If you felt comfortable out there, you probably wouldn't have made a good intel puke," the chief said. "I pulled up your personnel files when we got Colonel Britaine's authorization to let you guys play with us. It looks like you were pretty good at intelligence work, for a beginner."

"Thank you
," Misha said. "I believe Major…um…Buzz called you 'Dead-eye'. Should I call you that or Chief Brown."

"Shoot,
child. It doesn't matter either way. Try it with just Chief. That seems to work fine for most of us. Besides, Dead-eye is more of a joke than a serious nickname," the chief said.

Forrester
replied, "That is not what I hear. Word is that you are deadly with a hand weapon."

Chief
Brown snorted. "Right and that does me diddly-squat. I am a pure bred intel puke. Who am I gonna shoot? Buzz or maybe some annoying Marshal's Service sergeant? Even if we got boarded, I wouldn't be given a handgun. We would lock ourselves in this vault and hold up until the APES either saved the day or the ship blew up."

"Still," said Buzz, tossing down his glass-pack and looking up for the first time. "You earned the nickname on the firing range." He pointed to the
bulkhead behind the chief's desk. A paper target with a human silhouette was stuck to the bulkhead. There was a small cluster of bullet holes inside the center heart ring, a very small cluster of bullet holes in the center of the head, and a very, very small cluster of bullet holes in the groin.

"That is some impressive shooting,"
Misha said.

"Yeah
," said Chief Brown. "That is why I keep it stuck up there. It keeps the lower-ranking intel pukes in line and it seems to have a calming effect on the raging childishness of some of our FAC jocks. But, it is just a piece of paper with holes in it."

"Yes," Buzz interrupted.
"But, they are holes you put there from twenty-five meters out with an old-style .45 caliber hard projectile weapon."

Forrester
said, "I have shot those things on our range. They have recoil and enough of a kick to break your wrist. If you can do that kind of damage with them, you would be twice as dangerous with a needler or a driver."

"Nope
," Chief Brown said. "It's just a hobby, a talent, a skill to be so admired I will be adored by those beings lesser than I. Speaking of which, Buzz, what did you do with Jimmy?"

"Sent him off duty, why do you need him for something?"

"Majors!" Brown said with mock exasperation. "You can teach them chain of command until you are blue in the face, but they still think they are in charge. Why pray tell, Major, did you send Jimmy off duty?"

"Damn, Chief. I thought we talked about it. With Third McPherson here, we didn't have enough for him to do. I thought he might as well fill in on
third shift. Sergeant Sticks will punch him through some more on-the-job training."

Misha said, "I am sorry. I didn't mean to cause any disruption when
-"

Brown
interrupted, "Nonsense, glad to have you here. We shift people around all the time. Normally, Colonel Britaine wants only the best personnel on first watch, then the next best on second and the dregs on third. But, we kind of mix and match here in intel. When we do our final jump into Altec space we will pack this vault with everybody we've got handy. But, until then we could have handled a bunch of you APES."

Misha smiled, "Well, it seems that I am the only one in my outfit
with AMSF intelligence experience."

Forrester laughed
, "Doesn't that say something about the intelligence level of APES?"

Brown
glared at him. "No, Sergeant Forrester. It says something about the intelligence level of our AMSF intel people. It means we are smart enough to stay away from where we could get killed. Present company excepted of course, Third McPherson."

"Call me Misha, please. No offense, trust me. I caught all kinds of
spacer flak when I first joined the APES. My AMSF commander thought I was nuts and the NCOIC wanted to lock me up until I changed my mind."

"Smart people
," Buzz said. "I would have sent you off for a psych eval. Your record looks too good to let you go easily."

Brown
nodded. "I would trade you right now for some of these nitnoys we got saddled with. Still, you will only have a few days with us, and we are almost fully staffed, so I am afraid there isn't much to see and do. I hope you understand I have most of our major Altec campaign tasks assigned to my regular people."

Misha smiled. "Sure, I understand. I don't want to be in the way. No offence
, but I was looking for some extra work for my people so that they can keep busy. I don't want them worrying about the upcoming drop and I did not want to assign them extra duty without me doing it as well. That would be a bad example."

Forrester said
, "That makes sense. You are pushing them pretty hard with their training, but it is a new command. It doesn't take much to shift morale."

Brown
nodded, "True, all too true. Misha, if it is busy work you are looking for, I can bury you for all time to come. Your records indicate that you rate 1A on communications analysis, right? Well, we got a pile of that with your name on it."

"Great. I am ready when you are
, Chief."

Forrester said, "Hey! If you guys are going to actually do something, then I am going to get out of here, before you put me to work."

Brown snorted, "Doing what? I already have someone to empty the trash."

Misha and Buzz laughed while Forrester looked on in mock hurt.

"I am crushed, Chief," he said.

"Yeah, I can tell. Now get your skinny
marshal's butt out of my vault and let us do some real intelligence work." They all laughed as Forrester stormed out of the vault and with exaggerated force tried unsuccessfully to slam the vault hatch behind him. Buzz turned back to his glass-pack reading.

Misha said, "Oh, Chief, before I get started, can I ask a question?"

"Sure, Misha, fire away."

"Funny you phrase it that way, Dead
-eye," Misha smiled. "I know the AMSF requires all officers and NCOs to be proficient in old-style slug throwers. What I don't get is why? I mean, hardly anybody uses them anymore."

"Ah, good question, Misha. It is just history and tradition. And like most
traditions, it bears little connection to reality."

"Not true
," Buzz said, not looking up. "Handling a needler is a no-brainer if you can shoot a .45 with accuracy."

"True
," said Misha, "But, why not train on what you are going to use. And you said it yourself: chances are you wouldn't ever get issued a weapon."

Brown
leaned down and popped open a lower drawer. She pulled out a handgun, dropped the magazine into her free hand and checked the chamber for a live round. She tossed the handgun to Misha. "I did say we probably wouldn't get issued weapons. I didn't say we wouldn't have them if we needed them. That is a fully functional replica of a 2119 Smith and Wesson .45 caliber semi-automatic handgun. The Kiirkegaard's manifest lists it in my personal affects for entertainment purposes."

"Okay, Chief. But
, why not keep a needler handy?"

"History, Misha. The AMSF is a direct descendent of Earth
One's North American Air Force. They were originally only atmospheric aircraft, but they eventually moved into the upper atmosphere and from there into satellite control. It was a short jump to commanding spacecraft."

"I was in the AMSF for four years. Nobody ever told me that."

Chief Brown smiled, "It was a short four years. We have a lot of history and tradition our founders brought with them from their old forces. That was almost eight hundred years ago. Pilots are a superstitious lot. Some changes may never come."

"Great. That tells me why
it is called the tarmac. That is tradition, right?"

"Yep. That was what atmospheric pilots called the area where they parked their
fixed-wing aircraft."

"One more question before I let you put me to work. What is FOD?"

Brown laughed. "That is a secret we usually don't let anyone in on until they reach at least an E-7 pay grade. F.O.D. is Foreign Object Debris. It used to mean any trash that might get sucked into an atmospheric craft's air intake and wreck the engine. Now it is a reminder to watch for things that don't belong. You know, keep your eyes out for what is unusual. And what is unusual might be dangerous or deadly. Now, are you ready for work, young lady?"

The next few hours passed so quickly Misha completely lost track of time. She
took all the readings from the last jump. She analyzed, categorized them and wrote a mission report on each one. She completed all except one that baffled her.

Misha called out, "Hey, Chief?"

"She left an hour ago, Third," Buzz answered. "Got a problem?"

"Not really, Major
, I have dumped the comms analysis mission reports into your database."

"All of them?" Buzz sounded surprised. "Hell, it would have taken anyone except Chief Brown or
me about a week to complete that load. It’s a big squadron out there, must be a ton of communications going on."

"Yes, Major.
But, most of it is pretty routine except I got one that I can't read. I am not sure if it even qualifies as comms."

"Well, better safe than sorry. I'll buzz Chief Brown to come back and take a look. If the meantime, show me what you got."

Misha called up the unusual reading. It was out of the range of standard familiar communications. The data analysis module ruled out all known human protocols as well as all previously recorded alien communications, specifically noting it did not conform to any Binder recordings.