Rick Shelley - 03 - Captain

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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property.
It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the
publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."
CAPTAIN
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / March 1999
All rights reserved. Copyright © 1999 by Rick Shelley.
Cover art by Duane O. Myers.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in pan,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a member of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street. New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com
Check out the ACE Science Fiction & Fantasy newsletter and much more at Club PPI!
ISBN: 0-441-00605-1
ACE®
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by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the "A" design are trademarks
belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 987654321
Three years earlier, Lon Nolan had not known what a pavane was. Now he was dancing one—if not with
the grace of a sixteenth-century European nobleman, at least without tripping over his own feet or
stepping on anyone else's. He was not fond of the music; he found it somniferous; but pavanes were
routine elements to formal officers' dances in the Diligent Mercenary Corps, so he had learned the
rigid patterns... and to suppress the yawns that the music regularly induced. The tunic of his
dress white uniform, with its stiff, high collar, helped keep him alert and helped ensure that he
kept his back straight and his head high. It was that or have the tabs of his collar bite into his
neck.
He had found dancing lessons to be an almost ludicrous sidebar to his service in the DMC. To a
greater extent even than in the North American Union on Earth, military officers were expected to
be "gentlemen" as well, and the formal recreations imposed by more than a thousand years of
military tradition were observed as if they were Holy Writ.
"It's something to get used to," Captain Matt Orlis, Lon's company commander, had told him early
in his career. "It can be important to advancement."
"What do obsolete dances and the formal etiquette of a class of people who no longer exist have to
do with being a good soldier?'' Lon had asked at the time.
Orlis had smiled and shook his head gently. "Tradition. Look at it as similar to the formalized
contests we hold in the martial arts. No one gets seriously hurt even though
2 RICK SHELLEY
we're using abilities that can be deadly in combat. Or running around a track, going as fast as
you can to get back to where you started. When you get right down to it, does that make any more
sense?"
"Running is good physical exercise," Lon had said, slightly miffed that running—something he was
exceptionally good at—might be compared to effete dances.
"You think dancing isn't exercise?" Orlis had asked with a laugh. "You've seen professional
dancers. Have you ever seen people in better physical condition? Except maybe for someone who's
just completed our recruit training, that is."
Lon had found the captain's amusement annoying, but he restrained himself. "Seriously," Orlis
continued, "sometimes it's not enough to be the best soldier. You have to be good, but you also
have to be noticed. That's important to an officer who wants to get ahead." He paused for an
instant. ' 'That may be unfortunate, but—so far as I've been able to determine—it's been that way
in every army that has left anything more detailed than official histories."
"Sucking up."
"Not really. Call it 'playing the game.' Coming off like a complete toady is self-destructive."
There were a half dozen major balls in the social calendar of the DMC, and lesser affairs about
every other week except during the hottest months of summer in Dirigent City. The lesser dances
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could be safely ignored by junior officers. The major balls could not. Lon counted himself lucky
when a contract or training kept him from those. But contracts had been rare for the Corps during
the past two years. There was, for the mercenaries of the DMC, an unhealthy epidemic of peace. The
only contract for Lon's unit had been three months training a militia that faced no immediate
threats. There had been no combat. And, at the rate things were going, it might be a considerable
time before a combat contract appeared.
CAPTAIN 3
The music ended. Lon bowed to his partner, Angelika Demetrios, daughter of 12th Regiment's
executive officer, and smiled. She smiled back.
"I believe I need a breath of fresh air," Angelika said in a timid voice that was as artificial as
the pavane.
"It is a bit stuffy in here," Lon replied politely, his smile growing at his own thoughts of the
stuffiness of the music.
Angelika took his arm—though they scarcely touched— and let him escort her to the veranda on the
eastern facade of Corps Headquarters, which also served as Government House for Dirigent. She was
dressed all in white. The dress was of some stiff material that helped to keep her physically
separated from anyone else. She wore white gloves. Her only jewelry was a strand of white
artificial pearls. Her high-heeled shoes, also white, were (in Lon's down-to-earth view) totally
impractical. Even with three-inch heels she was considerably shorter than he, and Lon Nolan was
far from being tall.
At one time Lon had been surprised at the number of young women who attended these balls. Almost a
meat market, he had thought. Senior officers, both currently serving and retired, appeared to
parade their daughters and nieces (and occasionally granddaughters), attempting to find husbands
for them. Once past his initial consternation, Lon had found himself cynically unsurprised at how
often those efforts were successful. Family connections could be helpful to an ambitious junior
officer. The grand balls were more, though. They were attended by married officers and their
wives, and by those retired officers as well—some of whom had left active service fifty years
before Lon was born.
"It's a shame there are no stars out tonight," Angelika said once they were away from the six
pairs of double doors that connected the grand ballroom to the veranda. They were almost away from
the music as well, but they were not alone. At least a dozen other couples had made the migration.
Lon shrugged stiffly. "At least the rain is holding off,"
4 RICK SHELLEY
he said. What I'd really like to see is a large moon in the sky, Earth's Moon, he thought.
Dirigent had two insignificant moons of its own, scarcely larger than Deimos and Phobos, the moons
of Mars. Dirigent's moons had proper names, Aurora and Vesper, but to most of the men of the DMC,
they were Rat and Mouse.
Angelika leaned against the balustrade. Light from the ballroom seemed to make her brown eyes
twinkle. Her complexion was as pale as the marble of the veranda. She was not unattractive. "These
affairs are so ... artificial," she complained. Lon was surprised. It was the first sign of
individuality he had noted in her. Until then she had seemed interchangeable with a dozen other
young women he had escorted to balls of this type. He smiled.
"I noticed," he said.
"People can't really get to know each other. It's 'wear this' and 'do this, that, and the other
thing,' just the way people have been doing them for generations. My father had pictures of his
grandmother taken at one of these affairs, and this dress might be the exact duplicate of the one
she wore."
"It's a pretty dress," Lon said.
"It's like wearing razor wire," Angelika said. "And it makes me itch all over."
Maybe there's hope for you yet, Lon thought. Maybe there's a real person in there after all
"Sometimes this dress uniform feels as if the collar is going to slice my head straight off."
They laughed together. Lon felt himself relaxing a little. It would be nice if we could see each
other when we could behave and dress like real people instead of figures in a tableau, he thought.
But he had learned enough about Dirigent society to restrain any impulse to suggest that. It would
mean approaching her father for permission to see her, and that could be seen as tantamount to a
declaration of intent to court her seriously ... two steps short of engagement. Nor did Angelika
suggest it.
"You're from Earth, aren't you?" she asked.
"Yes. North America." Lon was no longer surprised
CAPTAIN 5
when someone brought that up. His accent was certainly not Dirigentan, and he was not the only
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Terran in the DMC. "I've been here more than three years, though. This is my home now. I doubt
that I'll ever go back." That statement still brought an uncomfortable feeling to his stomach, but
he could not deny its truth. Going back to Earth would be ... problematic.
"I visited Earth once," Angelika said. "Father was a delegate to some official conference and he
took Mother and me along. We were there a month, but I didn't get to see much, just a few of the
famous sites in Europe. But there were so many people everywhere. Sometimes I wanted to scream and
just run, find someplace where I could be alone."
"It is crowded," he admitted. "And it can be dangerous, not at all like Dirigent."
"Father told me that Earth has twenty cities, each of which has more people than all of Dirigent."
Lon nodded. "At least twenty. There's both good and bad about that. A lot happens when you put ten
or fifteen million people close together, not all of it bad."
They talked for another ten minutes before Angelika suggested that they go back inside. Just
before they entered the ballroom, she asked, "Do you miss it? Earth, I mean."
Lon swallowed before he said, "Sometimes."
One day each week, while the men of Lon's two platoons drew fatigue details around the base, Lon's
duties took him to Corps headquarters. "Part of the continuing education of a young officer," he
had been told. Of late his work had been in the contracts office, going through intelligence
reports on worlds where contracts might be in the offing, and studying reports submitted by
contract officers. There might come a day when he would be sent out to evaluate a possible
contract, even negotiate employment for part of the Corps. And, with business as slack as it had
been for the past two years, his duties might
6 HICK SHELLEY
give him a little advance notice if a contract were due for his men.
That made the reading, the detailed assessments, easier to bear. It also helped that Lon's day was
Monday, which gave him that much longer to recover from any excesses of the weekend. There had
been fewer of those lately, for a variety of reasons. Janno Belzer had left the Corps, four months
after his marriage, taking civilian employment with the Corps that would continue his accrual of
time for retirement. And Lon's forays into Camo Town, the section of Dirigent City that existed to
serve (and service) soldiers, with Phip Steesen and Dean Ericks, had diminished in frequency. The
gap between officer and enlisted man, always present, seemed to weigh more heavily on all of them
after many months without a combat contract. Lon found himself more in the company of other
officers, and not just on duty.
"I know it's as much make-work as anything," he told Lieutenant Carl Hoper, who commanded Alpha
Company's other two platoons. "It's not as if anything I write or think is going to make any
difference, but it could be worse." They were eating lunch in the junior officers' cafeteria at
Corps Headquarters.
"You never can tell, Lon," Carl said. "Sure, they hope that everything's been thought of before
one of us gets to it, but there's always a chance that you'll see something, notice something no
one else has. Different perspective, that sort of thing. Especially you."
Lon had not been paying a lot of attention to his own talk. Hoper's comment caught him off-guard.
"Why especially me?"
"You're from Earth."
"Right next to the bearded lady and the sword swal-lower?"
Carl laughed. "Different perspective, what I said. You've walked a different road than most of us.
Somewhere down the line, don't be surprised if they want you to take a six-month tour in
intelligence, for just that reason."
CAPTAIN 7
Lon feigned a shiver. "That's not for me. I'd go batty. I'd rather do thirty-mile hikes every
day."
"I'm not sure I'd go that far, but I know what you mean. Still, it's something to think of. Not
all of that work is stuck in an office here, if you know what you mean. They get to travel. Or so
I understand."
"You done a tour with them?" Lon asked.
Carl shook his head. "No more than what you're doing now. I don't have anything ... special to
offer. You do."
"Just because I'm from Earth?"
Carl shrugged.
That's not soldiering, Lon thought. AH 1 want to do is be a soldier That had been the mantra that
led him to Dirigent in the first place.
Third and fourth platoons of Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Regiment, DMC had changed
considerably since Lon Nolan had first stood in formation with them. It was not just the departure
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of Janno Belzer. Men had died. A few, like Platoon Sergeant Ivar Dendrow, had chosen medical
retirement rather than continue after rehabilitation. There had been promotions to fill gaps in
the table of organization. Tebba Girana was now third platoon's sergeant. Dav Grott had been
promoted to corporal and had second squad. Jez Aivish had become first squad's leader following
the death of Heyes Wurd. Ben Frehr still led third squad and Kai Eathon still had fourth. In
fourth platoon the changes were even more extensive. Weil Jorgen was still platoon sergeant, and
Wil Nace still led first squad, but the rest of the platoon had seen 90 percent turnover in three
years. In third and fourth platoons combined, only twenty-seven of the men under Lon's command had
been there when he became platoon leader.
The changes went right up through the organization. Colonel Gaffney had been succeeded as
regimental commander by Colonel lan McGregor, who had previously commanded the regiment's 3rd
Battalion. But McGregor had died—mysteriously, some said—in an accident that
8
RICK SHELLEY
should not have happened ... and should not have been fatal in any case. Now Colonel Medwin
Flowers had the regiment (and its seat on the Council of Regiments), and 2nd Battalion was
commanded by Hiram Black, who had been promoted to lieutenant colonel on gaining the new post.
Tuesday morning, 10 September, Lon held his platoons in formation after the battalion's duty
parade had been dismissed.
"If you've made any plans for this weekend," he told his troops, "get them canceled before noon
today. Don't get your hopes up though, it's not a contract." He paused briefly to scan the ranks.
Only his two platoon sergeants had been told what was coming. Lon had received the orders late the
previous afternoon.
"This afternoon we'll be shuttled over to the Nassau Proving Range near Bascombe East. Beginning
tomorrow, and continuing through Friday of next week, we will participate in field testing of a
new piece of equipment that could be extremely valuable to us ... if it works the way the brain-
boys say it will. I can't tell you anything else about it now. No fatigue drills or training this
morning. Get your areas squared away, get ready for movement. Dismissed."
He did not linger. The platoon sergeants were already calling orders to squad leaders. Lon headed
into the barracks, aiming for his office on the second floor. His own kit was already prepared,
but there was always red tape to tie in pretty knots for the chain of command to play with. In
garrison, the bureaucratic fodder seemed to multiply on its own.
Captain Orlis was waiting in Lon's office. He gestured Lon around to his seat behind the desk.
"You'll have quite a bit of company on your little jaunt," Orlis told him.
"I figured that," Lon replied. "Brain-boys to evaluate the tests, teenies to make any adjustments,
that sort of thing."
"In spades and doubled," Matt said. "If your prelim-
CAPTAIN 9
inary tests come off, don't be surprised if you get spectators from the Council for the last
rounds next week. That's unofficial, confidential, and you didn't hear it from me. This is a
biggie. If it works, it could make a world of difference to us."
Lon nodded. "I read the file. A safe way to get munitions and food to troops on the ground when a
shuttle landing is impossible sounds great. But if it's as simple as the, uh, prospectus makes it
sound, why wasn't it done a century ago?"
"Wouldn't surprise me if we've been working on it that long. The code number on this item should
give you a clue, XRS-one-seventeen."
' 'Meaning the first hundred and sixteen attempts flopped?"
"Some may never have gotten off the computer screen." Orlis grinned. "Just make sure you and your
men keep your heads down and listen to what the techs tell you. The buzz is that this one works."
Lon did not ask about the captain's sources. Like most native Diri-genters in the Corps, Orlis had
his own network of relatives scattered throughout the munitions industry.
"What ship is being used for that end of the tests, do you know?" Lon asked.
Orlis shook his head as he got to his feet. "Haven't heard. Not that there aren't plenty they
could use. Look sharp on this job, Lon. It might not be a contract, but it is important."
Slice this was not a paying contract, there was no parade of buses through Diligent City to the
civilian spaceport. Lon's platoons were bused to the landing strip on base and loaded on two
transport shuttles. Lon rode the first shuttle, with third platoon. Fourth platoon was on the
second shuttle. Neither group was crowded, even with barracks bags and a number of crates of cargo
that had already been aboard when the troops arrived.
"Not the item we're to evaluate," Lon told Sergeant Tebba Girana in response to a direct question.
Perhaps the control units, he thought, but he did not share his guess, since he was uncertain.
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There were numbers stenciled on each case, but those offered no clue to the uninitiated.
"Why all the secrecy?" Girana asked. The men were all in combat kit, complete with battle helmets.
Girana talked to his lieutenant over their private circuit.
"I don't know, Tebba," Lon said. "I guess a lot of people think they have a lot riding on what
we're going to do."
"I hope it works. I've been too many places where counting bullets was more than an exercise for
the quartermaster."
"You and me both, Tebba."
The flight to the Nassau Proving Range, three hundred miles east of Dirigent City, was almost
casual. The training transports were not as powerful, or nimble, as attack shuttles, and there was
no reason for the pilots to attempt
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RICK SHELLEY
records along the way. The flight remained solidly subor-bital.
Ten minutes before the shuttles' ETA, Lon stood and moved to where all of the men in third platoon
would be able to see him. He clicked his radio over to a channel that would also connect him to
fourth platoon in the other shuttle—flying formation a hundred yards to the right.
'There's no drill on landing, men," Lon started. "We disembark in an orderly fashion, unload our
gear, and move toward our temporary quarters. We've got the rest of the afternoon to get squared
away. The job doesn't start until tomorrow morning. I'll give you the schedule as soon as I get
it. We're going to be up to our necks in outsiders, people from Corps R&D, techies and so forth,
and no doubt a few civilians as well. Mind your manners. They've come up with a gadget they think
will make it possible for us to get essential resupply in the field when a shuttle can't get in.
For those of you who have been in combat, you know what that can mean. Let's do the job right."
Lon no longer felt self-conscious making speeches like that, and he no longer looked for reactions
from his men—boredom or suppressed laughter.
The barracks, mess hall, and other troop facilities at Nassau Proving Range were almost primitive.
They had been built by troops of available material—logs and rough-hewn beams and planking, the
chinks filled with clay. Over many years the buildings had been improved now and again, to add the
comforts of base, but they retained their rustic look. Like a fort out on the western frontier in
North America a thousand years ago, Lon thought as the caravan of trucks approached the stockaded
compound where his men would be living for the next ten days.
Laboratories and inside testing facilities were different. Those buildings had been constructed of
plascrete, composites, and metal, offering ideal conditions for the techs and others who would use
them . .. and any visiting VIPs who might come to observe tests. Set well apart from the
CAPTAIN
13
cruder-looking troop facilities, the "permanent" buildings lined several hillside terraces, with
plascrete bunkers on the top of the hill offering a safe vantage for observing tests that might be
dangerous—an explosives range was in the next valley to the southeast.
The only civilian staff onsite when Lon's platoons arrived consisted of only six people, two
maintenance men, and four who worked in the kitchen. A platoon of military police served to guard
the facility. None of the military or civilian technical staff who would be in charge of the tests
had arrived yet.
"They'll be coming in first thing tomorrow morning," Lieutenant Shaesel Ourf, the commander of the
MP platoon, told Lon when they met in the troop compound.
"Just as well," Lon said, looking around. "Give us a chance to settle in first without them
tripping over us."
Ourf grinned. "I can bounce that all day," he said. "I like it best here when it's just us and
empty space."
"This a permanent post for your lads?"
"We rotate the duty, draw three months here every two years. A platoon that's lucky sees nothing
but nature."
Lon grinned. "Sorry to spoil your luck."
The MP lieutenant shrugged. "Fall of the cards. We've had six weeks of the good life. Life's a bit
casual here, most of the time. A lot of us look forward to it."
"Food all replicated, or do you get fresh in?"
"When it's just us, it all comes out of the machines, but I've been alerted that there's a supply
transport coming in this evening with vegetables, fruit, and meat. They like to treat the brain-
boys and techies right, and when the nobs eat fresh, so do the rest of us. Evening chow is at
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seventeen hundred hours. You'll join me?"
"Honored," Lon said. They were, for the time being, the only officers on base. "What about the
town, Bas-combe East?"
Ourf chuckled. ' 'Calling it a town is a bit much. Two hundred or so permanent residents. They
provide civilian workers here and for a small armory and replicating factory." The Corps had
dozens of scattered sites, insurance
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against any attack against the world that might disrupt production in and around Dirigent City.
"One pub, one restaurant, hotel, general store. Fifteen miles west of here. The only transport is
what we have."
"Sounds cramped. They equipped to deal with soldiers on pass?"
"Maybe two squads at a time. You find out when your men will have free time, we'll do what we can
to arrange transport. In any case, we've got beer in the dayroom."
Lon made an informal inspection of the troop bays to see that the men were settled in, and to
answer die inevitable questions—mostly about the chance to get out and have a drink.
"You just got here, lad," Lon told one of the newer privates in fourth platoon. "We're here to
work, in case you've forgotten." But he said it mildly, not as a rebuke.
"I don't know the schedule yet," he told each group of men. "Looks as if we won't know until the
R&D folks get in tomorrow morning. Supper will be coming up shortly. After that, get comfortable.
There's a dayroom across the way. Get plenty of sleep while you can."
On the inside, the barracks looked as modern as anything at the Corps' main base back in Dirigent
City. Lon found his room rather larger than his usual accommodations. His gear had been set next
to the bed. Junior officers did not rate aides to pack and unpack for them. They had to do for
Uiemselves.
Lon took his own advice and got a good night's sleep— a rare seven hours undisturbed. His room was
between the troop bays where his platoons were billeted, and he was flanked by the platoon
sergeants. In the morning, after a brief and informal reveille formation, they all went to
breakfast, to find that the civilian cooks had already started using some of the fresh foods that
had arrived the evening before—eggs and ham.
The shuttles bringing the research and development team started to arrive while breakfast was in
progress.
CAPTAIN
15
"I guess that's my call," Lon said after hearing two shuttles come in for their landings. "My
orders are to report to the team leader upon his arrival."
Lieutenant Ourf smiled. "Finish your breakfast, Lon. You've got plenty of time." He touched his
left ear. There was a radio receiver plugged into it. "It'll be a while yet before they're ready
for anything."
An hour later the two lieutenants walked to the lab offices on the lowest terrace on the hillside.
Altogether, some three dozen people had arrived, along with two small ground-effect trucks and
several pallets of crates. A lead sergeant with a Technical Corps emblem in the center of his
chevrons directed them to the team leader.
"I'm Major Joseph Pitt," the man said after returning the salutes of the lieutenants. "Nolan, you
brought the men who are going to do the testing?"
"Yes, sir."
"We'll have a lengthy briefing on the testing protocol after lunch, followed by instructions on
the equipment and operating procedures. Field testing won't begin until tomorrow. My people will
need-the rest of today to get ready. The only delay might be if the weather turns sour. We want
perfect conditions for at least the first round of testing."
"The XRS-one-seventeen will make it possible for a platoon on the ground to receive resupply of
ammunition and food directly from an orbiting transport or a shuttle standing off out of the way
of hostile fire," Pitt told the men of third and fourth platoons. Lon stood off to the side to be
able to watch both the presentation and his men.
"Each platoon will be issued two ground-control units once the system becomes fully operational.
It will add no more than twelve ounces to a soldier's load, and link through his helmet
communications system. The supply capsule, a small rocket, will be launched by ship or shuttle on
a trajectory to bring it within visual range of the target unit, which will guide the capsule into
a soft—and ex-
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tremely precise—landing, just where it's needed."
There was video, and a series of animated charts. Pitt turned over the podium to a gray-haired man
in a white lab coat, who went through the procedure step by step as he narrated another animation.
Then the civilian went through the extensive safety protocols. "This is still experimental, you
understand," he said, looking slowly around the room, as if waiting for nods of understanding from
each of the soldiers. ' 'We are dealing with explosive rocket fuels, and—in field operations—these
capsules will also customarily be carrying ammunition. In our first tests, the target landing
sites will be no closer than one hundred yards to any personnel on the ground. Later, if early
results warrant the step, we will bring that distance down to more ... practical limits."
"They want us to guide freakin' bombs right down on our own heads," Phip said to the men of his
squad during the break following the orientation lecture. It would be fifteen minutes before the
platoons were given separate close instruction on the operation of the units—hands-on instruction.
"Even your skull doesn't have a radius of a hundred yards," Lon said. Phip had not seen him
coming. "Look at it the other way around. You've been places where ammo was just a memory. If this
works, it boosts everyone's odds of coming home from even the worst contract."
Phip turned, not at all embarrassed. "I know that, Lieutenant," he said—they were on duty. "I just
don't fancy being a guinea pig."
"They're not going to risk necks. The rockets will be coming in with inert cargo and just enough
fuel for the range. Until they know it works and is safe." Lon looked around at the other men of
third platoon's second squad. "They've got to have field troops to test gear, because we might see
problems that the brain-boys would miss. But they're not going to risk anything they don't have
to. Besides, we're going to have civilians hanging around.
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17
Even if they might not worry too much about us, they're going to be mighty careful of their own
necks."
Lon remained with the civilian briefing officer for an hour after he had dismissed his men. "I
want to know exactly how it's supposed to go," Lon told the researcher. "I need to be at least as
proficient with any equipment as any of my men."
The civilian blinked once, then nodded. ' 'I suppose you do at that," he conceded. "Let's get
comfortable. I'll take you through the whole procedure in the simulator, then explain exactly
what's supposed to happen every step of the way."
By the time he had—literally—sweated his way through the guidance and retrieval of three simulated
supply capsules, Lon's hands were trembling. He felt as if he had completed a strenuous physical
workout. "Thanks," he told the civilian, Alec Deradier, "I hope it works that well in practice.
This gizmo could make a big difference to us. I expect you know that."
Deradier smiled. "Not as well as you seem to, but I've heard the same from other line officers."
"I don't want to step on any toes, but I understand that R&D has been working at this for... well,
a long time. Some special problem?'' Lon spoke tentatively, not at all certain how Deradier might
respond to what he might take as criticism.
For a protracted moment, the older man did not speak. He pursed his lips and appeared to be
intently studying the tip of his nose. Then he cleared his throat. "Yes, a long time," he said
then, very slowly. "We've had the theory well in hand for more than a decade. And, far longer than
that, we could have produced a system that would allow a ship or shuttle to place a resupply
capsule on the ground within, shall we say, a five-meter radius of its target. The problem arises
because of the need for control of the incoming capsule from the ground. Combat situations can
change quite quickly—I am told," he added
18
RICK SHELLEY
with a self-conscious glance at Lon's face. "We would not want to land supply capsules where the
enemy might get to them first, or where retrieving them might be too dangerous for our own people.
That limits the speed of the capsule to what human perception and reactions can handle, which
makes enemy intercept easier, and so forth. To balance all of this has proven difficult."
"Have the capsule reach the vicinity of its target at the fastest speed possible, still allowing
for the man on the ground to direct it to a precise landing,'1 Lon said.
Deradier nodded. "Exactly. An enemy surface-to-air missile does not have to limit its speed. There
have been times when I have almost despaired of finding a workable solution."
' 'But now you think you have?''
"We hope."
Lon nodded. "I wonder if, perhaps, there is one consideration you might not have taken note of. I
apologize if this seems presumptuous, but the reactions of a man in a real life-or-death combat
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situation can't be adequately approximated in safe field tests. The only way to know for sure,
even if everything works perfectly here, is to try them with troops on contract, in a situation
where they are faced with an immediate enemy and need ammunition to survive."
Deradier shrugged. ' 'That is most difficult to test under any other circumstances," he agreed.
"We have likely not given it the fullest of consideration for that very reason. But I might
venture to suggest that the parallel is closer than you seem ready to concede. True, your troops
will not have the fear and uncertainty of combat to heighten reflexes, but neither will they have
any long regimen of too little sleep and constant worry and work to slow those reflexes. In any
case, before we could proceed to that sort of testing, we must be satisfied with the controlled
experiments."
Lon woke early the next morning, after a restless night. The simulations had played themselves
back, with varia-
CAPTAIN
19
tions—mostly unpleasant—in his dreams. He had seen himself directing a life-saving capsule of
ammunition and food in... only to have it explode in a terrific fireball, consuming all of his
men. There was a background of maniacal laughter to the explosion.
// can't happen like that, he assured himself when he woke trembling from the fears of sleep. It's
not possible, even in combat, and certainly not here and now. They won't let it happen. But his
hands needed a moment to stop trembling, and he could not wait to get into the shower to wash away
the sweat that had come with his nightmares.
Breakfast was a hurried affair. Trucks were waiting to carry Lon's platoons to the testing area.
The R&D people would go separately, carrying the control units and their monitoring equipment.
Another team was aboard the shuttle that would be used to fire the capsules into the testing area.
"I want my squad leaders to be the first to try steering in the capsules," Lon told Deradier and
Major Pitt. "That gives you experience and steady hands, and they've all been in situations where
a barrel of bullets from heaven would have been welcome."
"Probably an excellent idea, Lieutenant," Major Pitt said, nodding. "It's something we didn't
cover in our test protocols, and likely we should have. We've got a bit of leisure here. We're
only going to fire one rocket at a time, and before a second is launched—if it is—we'll analyze
the results of the first. So let's get your first man equipped, and Dr. Deradier will go through
the procedure with him once more before the shuttle takes off."
Lon chose Dav Grott to make the first attempt, and hovered nearby while Deradier coached the
corporal through the steps again, then attached the controller to Grott's helmet. "A simple
joystick, nothing special at all," the civilian said. "Two buttons to control the maneuvering
jets." He spent several minutes issuing maneuvering instructions then and watched Dav as he
operated the controls. "Good. Good." Deradier nodded several
20
RICK SHELLEY
times. "I think you'll do fine." He turned to Pitt. "Major, I think we're ready."
Lon's platoons were deployed in a permanent trench paved and lined with plascrete. Deradier and
Pitt remained with them, close to the radio equipment that connected them to the shuttle that
would launch the capsules. The rest of the R&D team was dispersed around the area, some in a
bunker behind the trench, others in redoubts at the edges of the test area.
"The target is that red X in the center of the white circle out there," Deradier reminded Dav
Grott. A large tarpaulin had been staked to the ground. "One hundred yards out. We're not looking
for great precision, Corporal. You're not firing for a sharpshooter's qualification. Somewhere
close to the target would be nice, but today we're more interested in the total maneuvering time
once the capsule comes within control range."
Lon noted that he was sweating again. His hands were balled up into 'fists at his sides. Almost
like my first combat landing, he thought, trying to force himself to relax. He was not too close
to Dav. Grott was flanked by Pitt and Deradier. But he was close enough to hear Major Pitt talking
to the shuttle pilot.
"Twelve minutes until the shuttle reaches the test area," Pitt reported after he finished that
conversation. "Then we'll set up specific timing for the first capsule launch. Relax, Corporal.
I'll let you know when it's time to tighten up."
Dav, wearing his battle helmet with the faceplate up, managed a weak grin. "I'll try to remember
that, sir," he said.
The shuttle would make its run from south to north, releasing the capsule at fifteen thousand
feet, six miles south of the target. The capsule's main rocket would accelerate the projectile
until it was within a thousand yards—vertically and horizontally; then retrorockets would fire to
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start slowing the capsule. As soon as Dav spotted the capsule—with a lot of other eyes to assist
him during the test—he would take over manual control to
CAPTAIN
21
bring it into the target. Fast enough to make it hard for an enemy to destroy it, slow enough so
the primers on the ammunition aren 't set off, Lon thought. But the only pay-load this capsule
would carry would be testing equipment to judge the impact and record the detailed course and
second-by-second speed of the landing.
There was a twenty-second countdown before the launch. Eyes and cameras watched the sky, looking
for the first sight of the capsule—the test units had been painted a bright red to make that as
easy as possible.
"There it is!" A dozen men might have yelled that simultaneously. Once the rocket had been
spotted, the rest went too quickly for anyone to do much more than watch. Except for Dav. He
juggled his joystick and pushed buttons, biting his lower lip as he concentrated—so fiercely that
blood was trickling onto his chin before the job was finished.
The performance was not polished. At the end, the watchers could see the capsule jiggling around,
almost going into an end-for-end spin, but it did come to rest— with the force of an object
falling from fifty feet—within thirty feet of the center of the cross on the tarp.
A cheer went up from most of Lon's men. Dav Grott nearly collapsed in exhaustion.
"It's too soon for cheering," Alec Deradier said, almost under his breath. Lon scarcely heard him.
' 'Was it within the necessary parameters?" He turned to look at the blockhouse, where the main
bank of instruments were housed. Several of his men were already hurrying toward the capsule,
flanking the small wheeled cart that would bring it in for further examination.
It was Saturdaf afternoon before Lon got to look Bascombe East over. Lieutenant Shaesel Ourf drove
him.
"My platoon sergeant can handle anything that comes up," Ourf assured Lon. "Doesn't really matter
that we've got R&D people in. They pretty much stick to themselves, unless they want something."
Ourf wore civilian clothes. Lon had to make do with a khaki staff uniform. He had not brought
civilian clothes along.
"It's not as if they can't get hold of us if they really want to," Lon said. Both officers had
pocket radios to connect them to their platoon sergeants and the research people.
"Well, it's not too likely that the R&D people will show up in town. If we see them, they're as
likely to pretend they don't know us as anything. The civilians are booked at the hotel for the
weekend, but the ones I've seen here in the past tend to stay with their abracadabra machines
pretty much all the time."
"I couldn't wait to get away from it." Lon shook his head. In two days, only six tests had been
run, with mixed results. One capsule had gone completely haywire when the retros were fired, and
the shuttle had been forced to shoot it down before it could stray from the airspace over the
proving ground. The other five had all been maneuvered in, but the time spent getting them in had
been marginal—according to Deradier.
"I'd offer you the full tour of Bascombe East," Ourf said as they reached the town, "but you can
see it all
23
24
RICK SHELLEY
from here. My suggestion is that we head straight for the pub."
Lon laughed. "Sounds good to me. What are the locals like?"
"Peaceful sorts. Life runs a lot slower in Bascombe East than in the city. Like I said, a couple
of hundred people live in town. Farmers come in from about twenty miles around, those who don't
want to go as far as Don-nelly or Jameson." Those were the nearest sizable towns—though neither
could boast more than fifteen hundred residents. "Saturday and Sunday are the big days, even when
there aren't soldiers in from Nassau. Folks come for dinner and maybe a drink or three. Later on,
in the fall, they have a theater group, amateur stuff. Put on their shows in the hotel ballroom."
"Sounds like more fun than fancy balls at headquarters," Lon said. Ourf laughed but didn't argue
the point.
The pub was The Winking Eye. Its sign was holographic. The eye did appear to wink as a person
moved. Inside, there was an amber cast to everything. The lights were a dusty yellow. After the
brightness of the clear afternoon outside, it seemed almost dark. Lon noticed die smell of beer as
soon as the door opened, and felt warmth pouring out through the opening.
"That's one thing I've noticed," Ourf said softly. ' 'They keep the place too damn hot for
comfort. I guess they think folks'Il drink more to cool off."
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"Bet it works," Lon replied.
They headed directly for the bar. The barman grinned when he saw Ourf. "Afternoon, Lieutenant," he
said in a loud, cheerful voice. "Didn't realize your lads were back at the Boomer. What can I get
for you, beer?''
"Beer for both of us, Mr. Pine," Ourf said. "My friend here is Lieutenant Lon Nolan. He and his
men are out at Nassau to help with some tests."
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Nolan," Pine said. "First round's on me. Drew the short straw for
guinea pigs, did you?"
Lon smiled. "I guess you could say that. Makes a
CAPTAIN
25
change though, and welcome at that. Pleasant place you have here."
"I like to think so." He drew the beers while he talked and set them in front of the lieutenants.
"If you'd like to eat later, we have a ripping good pot roast, with all the trimmings."
"Sounds good." Ourf turned to Lon. "Mrs. Pine does the cooking, and you'd have to travel a far
piece to find better."
"My mouth's watering already, Mr. Pine," Lon said. "One of my best childhood memories is Sunday
pot roast. I expect it'll taste every bit as good on a Saturday."
"Just give a shout when you're ready to tuck in," Pine said.
Shaesel and Lon exchanged glances, then both turned back toward Pine. "Now seems as good a time as
any," Ourf said.
"Find yourselves a table." There were two vacant. The other three had one or two people each, and
there were four other customers at the bar. "I'll have Sara bring your supper out."
"Sara his wife?" Lon asked as they took seats at the table nearest the rear of the room.
Shaesel chuckled. "His wife's name is Mildred. Sara's his daughter. And something else!"
Lon had started to raise his stein but stopped before it reached his lips. "That good, huh?"
"Just wait till you see her."
"You've definitely piqued my curiosity." Lon took his sip of beer, then adjusted his chair so it
gave him a better view of the door that appeared to lead to the kitchen. He leaned back and drank
casually over the next few minutes.
A young redheaded woman came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray. She wore a long white apron over
a pale green dress. Even from across the room, she appeared strikingly beautiful. Lon's impression
grew stronger as she came toward him. He set his beer down, almost missing the table.
"Two pot roast dinners," Sara announced when she
26
RICK SHELLEY
arrived. Her voice was cheerful, light, and she was smiling. "Good to see you back, Lieutenant
Ourf." She gave Lon a sidelong glance.
"Sara, this is Lon Nolan. He's in at Nassau for the next week or so. Lon, this is Sara Pine." Lon
didn't notice Ourf's grin. Neither did Sara. She was looking at Lon.
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant," Sara said. "A pleasure to have you here." She set the plates,
napkins, and silverware on the table in front of the officers. "I hope you'll both enjoy your
dinner."
"I'm sure we will," Lon said. He hoped he wasn't stammering but he wasn't sure. His eyes were too
full of the view.
Sara smiled even more broadly, then turned and headed back to the kitchen. Lon stared after her,
and was not even embarrassed when she glanced over her shoulder just before she reached the door
and saw that he was still looking. She winked, then disappeared through the doorway.
"That," Shaesel said after a half minute, "is Sara." Lon was still looking at the door, as if
hoping that she would come back for a curtain call. "Don't let your food get cold, Lon. And quit
drooling. Officers aren't supposed to drool."
That took a few seconds to register. Lon turned back toward the table, shaking his head slowly. He
looked at the food—ample portions of meat, browned potatoes, and carrots—then glanced at Shaesel.
"Is she married or anything?"
Ourf had already started to eat. He paused with his fork in midair. "Not that I know of, but it's
been a couple of weeks since the last time I was in here. Go ahead, eat. You don't want to insult
her mother's cooking."
That seemed to penetrate. Lon started eating, but he had difficulty concentrating. He kept looking
for Sara. When she came out with a tray for another table, Lon's head turned and he nearly missed
his mouth with a forkful of food. He set the fork down and gave Shaesel a sheepish look.
CAPTAIN
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