Looking Glass 4 - Claws That Catch (12 page)

In my head? Bill thought.

“. . . You had some points I probably should have entertained more fully. We'll have a more detailed discussion of it when you get back. But . . .  Uncle, XO, okay? You got me.”

“It was never about 'getting' you, sir,” Bill replied. “That's not my place, sir, and it's not my style. But, sir, every ship thinks that they're special. At least, every good one. But the Blade really is special. Not just because it's the only warp ship we have, sir. It's things like . . .  Well, take Red Morris. He lost an arm on the first mission and a leg on the second and just keeps coming back. Every single Marine survivor of the first mission volunteered to keep going out. The four that are left are still there. The Blade has a nearly one hundred percent retention rate. You get people off the Blade with a crowbar or in a body bag. Heck, most of the time the losses end up being ash. And we just keep going out, again. My point being, and it's not just directed at you, sir, that that sort of culture is unusual even in the military. People just entering it—”

“It's a club,” the CO said, musingly. “I hadn't really thought of that, I'll admit. The new people, even me . . .”

“Frankly, sir, you're all new meat,” Bill finished. “The ones that have been on these missions are the survivors, sir. I've been trying to stop it but I know that the old timers, all of a year, are looking at me when they should be looking at you. But when you start talking about the new Eng, Chief Gestner, people who not only haven't been there and done that, but have ways of doing things that, frankly, are built around something that no longer really exists to the Blade people—”

“Welcome to the new Space Navy,” the CO said. “It's like the old wet Navy. But not.”

“The tone was set when Spectre chose to keep going after Runner's World, sir,” Bill said. “We were barely a day away from home, but we kept going, damage and casualties and all, sir. The crew that's done that know they can trust the people who have been there. And people like Gants and Red sure as hell don't know it about Chief Gestner. They'll respect the rank but they're going to have a hard time respecting the person. Especially when he's making decisions they have experience of being wrong choices. When we're thirty days out, it's just us. There aren't any tugs, there isn't any CVBG to call. It's just us. And you don't go 'well, I can't repair it so we'll just have to send it dockside.' Not when there are people who could figure it out, you just don't want to use them because of, well, prejudice.”

“I'm getting the trend of this conversation, XO,” the CO said.

“Sorry, sir,” Bill replied.

“Like I said, we'll talk when you get back. Any idea when that's going to be?”

“Minimum of next Monday, sir,” Bill said. “I'm set up for Meet the Press on Sunday morning. So is Two-Gun. Frankly, with the buzz about these shows, the mission may be delayed or even scrubbed. That was a musing of the CAO, sir, but it's in the wind.”

“Great,” Prael grumped. “And on that happy note . . . I'm clear, here.”

“Night, sir,” Bill said, standing up and disconnecting the secure line. “Maulk. We'll see if I'm even the XO anymore after that little tete a tete.”

The documentaries ran for three days, from eight to nine PM, Eastern Time. Each of the major cable news networks carried them as did Fox. The regular media chose to forego the honor. Which just meant that they got hammered in the ratings. Say what you will for the entire genre, the Vorpal Blade missions upped the ante of “reality programming.”

Immediately following the third night came the first press conference. Miriam had been throwing up most of the day but was surprisingly calm as the moment approached.

“Hey, you going to be shiny?” Eric asked.

“Everybody keeps asking that,” Miriam said. “I'm fine. Seriously. It's the waiting that's been getting to me.”

“You and me both, sister,” Red said as the CAO walked out onto the stage. “Here we go.”

“You'll enter as the CAO introduces you,” the lieutenant commander from Public Affairs repeated, unnecessarily. “March in in a military manner and take your positions in line.”

“I don't march,” Miriam said tartly. She was dressed in a business suit that would have looked right in a courtroom. Over the past three nights, millions of viewers had seen her in everything from micro-minis to jeans to spacesuits to grease- and blood-covered coveralls but never a business suit. The heels, however, were consistent. Even her space suit had a three-inch heel.

“Except for you, ma'am,” the lieutenant commander added hastily.

“. . . the brave sailors and Marines of the Vorpal Blade. In order, I'd like you to finally meet, in person, Captain William Weaver, formerly astrogator and now executive officer of the Blade
II . . .”

“I would rather die a thousand deaths,” Weaver said, marching out of the group.

“Lee said that when he surrendered at Appomatox,” Berg said, chuckling. “ 'I would rather face a thousand deaths, but now I must go.' ”

“Petty Officer First Class Ian 'Red' Morris . . .”

“Make sure you emphasize the limp from the leg,” the PAO officer said.

Red gave him a withering look and marched onto the stage, back straight and not the slightest trace of a limp. On the other hand, he'd made sure he was wearing his Number Two arm. The glittering stainless steel gave him that nice cyborg look. If he'd been wearing Number One, there wouldn't have been anything to see and somebody was bound to ask him to take it off to prove it was a prosthetic.

“Ship's Linguist, Miss Miriam Moon . . .”

“March indeed,” Miriam said, swaying onto the stage. The business suit she was wearing was, arguably, as sensual as a potato sack. But she suddenly made it the number one wear for strippers everywhere.

“She just caused fourteen million hard-ons,” Berg said, chuckling as the linguist sensuously slid into place, placed one hand on an outthrust hip and gave the camera a languid smile.

“Sergeant Joshua Lyle . . .”

Lurch wasn't called that just because he was tall. Try as he did, there was just too much damage for him to march or even stand perfectly straight. He lurched in a military manner across the stage, though, and took up a position of parade rest next to Miriam. The incredibly tall and awkward former parapalegic looked almost, but not quite, ludicrous next to the sensual and diminutive linguist. The reason it wasn't ludicrous was that the dichotomy was more in keeping with the term “diversity.”

“First Sergeant Jeffrey Powell . . .”

“Time to show them how a Marine does it,” Top said, popping to attention and stalking out. His steps were so perfect he could have been on the Marine Corps drill team and he stopped, turned and popped when he reached his place.

“And holder of the Navy Cross, Lieutenant Eric 'Two-Gun' Bergstresser . . .”

“I'm not even going to try to improve on that,” Eric said, marching much more loosely to his position. It was still in a military manner but drew from his laid back nature rather than the perfect precision of the first sergeant.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, the representatives of the Alliance Star Ship Vorpal Blade.”

Admiral Townsend started to open his mouth to ask for questions but paused at a slow clapping from the back of the room. In a moment it was joined by others and swelled to full applause. He tried not to react with shock but applause at a press conference was unheard of.

On the other hand, since a couple of changes of administration, and especially the Dreen War, the press had become less adversarial towards the military. During the Dreen War, casualties among the press were at about par with the units they were covering. That had a tendency to reduce tension on both sides, as the military grew to respect the reporters who went out to cover the news, no matter the danger to themselves, and the reporters saw that the soldiers were doing their damnedest to protect them. And the Vietnam generation of the press corps had mostly retired. Their replacements were liberal, yes, but the views were changing about the press and military, becoming less a matter of dragging down the military and more “Hey, they're our soldiers, too.”

Still, applause at a press conference?

On the other hand, if humanity didn't get the next decade right, the world really was coming to an end. And the doumentaries had been pretty darned good television.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press corps, being aware that these are not professional speakers, we will now entertain questions.”

Eric was balancing two bags in one hand and fumbling to get his key in the lock when the door of the apartment banged open and Brooke swarmed up him to wrap her legs around his middle.

“I love you, I love you, I love you . . .” Brooke said, kissing him all over his face.

“I love you, too,” Eric said, tossing the bags past her. “But right now I'm just wondering how fast I can get these clothes off.”

“We need to get a jelly-bean jar,” Eric said, running his finger down Brooke's neck.

“Oh, that old thing,” Brooke said, shivering. “I forgot to ask what with one thing and another. How did Miriam hold up?”

“Throwing up a lot,” Eric said. “But she made it every step of the way. And she rocked on Oprah.”

“You rocked on the Tonight Show,” Brooke said. “Even Leno was impressed.”

“I am going to catch so much maulk,” Eric said. “My new nickname's probably going to be Hollywood, and it won't be a term of endearment. I mean, until last week this was the deepest of deep black op. Now, all of a sudden, we're movie stars. And the whole thing was so successful, they're planning on repeating it after every damned mission! That means people are going to be thinking about the cameras instead of what they need to be thinking about. And the guys who got missed on the previous ops are going to be bitching about who got coverage and who didn't and—”

“Why don't you worry about that tomorrow?” Brooke asked. “I'll say this, I've got a new way to handle problem customers.”

“Oh, no,” Eric said, groaning.

“I had a guy say something very coarse to me last night and I just looked at him and said 'My last name is Bergstresser. Two-Gun is my husband.' Got a hell of a tip, too.”

“You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?” Eric asked.

“Honey, you're famous for being who you are,” Brooke said. “You're the most dangerous fighter in the galaxy, the guy who captured a Dreen spaceship almost single-handed. Yeah, I'm enjoying being your wife.”

“Well, in that case,” Eric said, grabbing her. “I'm enjoying it, too!”

“Red,” Captain Weaver said as they were about to go through the Looking Glass connection to the Newport News base. “A word.”

“Yes, sir?” the machinist said.

“When you get back, you're going to catch a certain amount of flack,” Weaver said. “But don't reply to it except in your usual and customary way. Being on TV does not make you immune to discipline. It especially won't make you immune to Captain's Mast. Just . . . be yourself.”

“I've been thinking about that, sir,” Red said. “I'm going to try. But I think things are going to be a little different, no matter what I do.”

“Agreed,” Bill said. “But pass this around: the first time I catch somebody trying to get their good side at the cameras, I'm going to make them regret the day they were born.”

“Gotcha, sir,” Red said, grinning.

“Let's roll.”

“Hail, hail the conquering hero,” Captain Zanella said as Eric, wearing PT gear, walked into Admin.

“That was a little bit more than I'd expected, sir,” Eric said, hanging up the suit bag holding his uniform. “How bad's it going to be?”

“Oh, I understand that the gunnys are planning a celebratory fete,” the CO said. “The lieutenants have their socks filled with rocks and the other platoons are trying to figure out just how to take you down a notch. That's when I can get them to quit posing for every security camera in the building. And you'll note the pile of paperwork on your desk. You really think you have time for PT?”

“Since that's all unsecure, now, sir, yes,” Eric said. “I can take as much as I'd like home tonight. I honestly didn't ask for any of this, sir.”

“I know you didn't, Two-Gun,” the CO said. “And I'll try to keep the maulk storm to a minimum. Besides, the whole company came off smelling like a rose. I even got an honorable mention. For that matter, the first sergeant was right there in the middle of it. Which show was it where he went off on the similarities and differences between the coalition the Chinese are proposing and the Delian league?”

“One of the shows on CNN, I think,” Eric said, chuckling. “That was when the whole 'degree in international relations from the Sorbonne' really started to stick in people's minds. Before that one, he was low on the ladder of invitations. After that one, everybody was clamoring to get him on.”

“ 'In the modern world, a conscriptive and confiscatory condition between nations is unmanageable and unacceptable. The only choice is cooperation, willingness and enthusiasm. If humanity cannot raise such willingness, if we are so nihilist as to have forgotten honor, duty and sacrifice, then we are condemned by the universe to oblivion and deserve no less.' Damn, it sounded like he was running for office. And he'd get elected in a landslide. He really thundered that last bit.”

“I actually saw a 'Powell for President' bumper sticker,” Eric said, grinning.

“So did I, sir,” First Sergeant Powell said grumpily, as he stumped into Admin. He was in regular duty uniform.

“No PT this morning, First Sergeant?” the CO asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I'm scheduled for a local morning TV show, sir,” Powell growled. “I hope to be back by 0900 formation. And I told PIO that given our mission schedule this was the last one I'm doing.”

“Gunny Juda can take it,” the CO said. “But he's beginning to complain about your paperwork.”

“I'm not beginning to complain, sir,” Juda said as he walked in with Gunnery Sergeant Mitchell. “I've been complaining. Welcome back, Top, Lieutenant.”

“The Delian League, First Sergeant?” Gunny Mitchell said, grinning. “I mean, you spent a good three minutes just explaining that!”