Chapter Three
Chalmers wilted as he stepped into the light of both suns. The temperature rose by twenty degrees in that single step. At least the cold worry-sweat he’d built up waiting in the hospital ward wouldn’t be so out of place.
Much of the base was being pulled down around them. Word had just arrived from Spin One that the next wave of ships from Kulsis were decelerating out at the edge of the Shex system; the Lost Soldiers were being pulled out and any overt evidence of their presence—like the base—was being hastily wiped from the face of R’Bak.
“Why are you such a dick, Chalmers?” Jackson asked, shoving the door open and walking up the shallow, rammed-earth ramp to join his partner. Most buildings on R’Bak used the earth to help keep them cool, and the field hospital was no exception, despite its temporary nature.
“Am I?” Chalmers asked, hating the defensive tone that crept into his voice. He started walking toward the much-worn chassis of Man-Eater. They had orders to meet up with the Big Cheese before they bugged out. He wasn’t sure what the meeting was for. It wasn’t like they had a lot of time for a mission before the Kulsian surveyors were close enough to see what was going on in orbit, let alone on the ground.
Jackson caught up with Chalmers, hitting him in the chest with the back of one hand. “I thought you were done with this kind of shit, man.”
“Look, it’s not my fault Murphy is dragging us away from your new bestie while he’s laid up in hospital.” The “bestie” in question, Sergeant Elroy Frazier, had inadvertently OD’d on local stimulants toward the end of his last mission. Murphy and his staff had wanted to evac the big crew chief back to Spin One, but the locals pointed out that no one knew the effects—and treatment—of too much ihey better than they did: the SpinDog medicos agreed. There had been a lot of improvement, but El was still messed up, so he was heading back upstairs on Murphy’s shuttle.
Jackson stopped walking and rounded on his partner. Chalmers expected his expression to be angry, but Jackson’s face was suspicious. Not an angry you screwed me again suspicious, but the I know what’s going on, now kind of suspicion that was generally a lot worse.
“That’s what this shit is about, isn’t it?” Jackson’s voice had gone up an octave, another bad sign. “Why you were such a relentless dick on the radio every time El called in.”
Chalmers didn’t slow down. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not now, not ever.
Jackson followed after him, grabbed his shoulder, and forced Chalmers to look him in the face. “I was wondering why you were being such a relentless dick to El, and I just figured it out. You’re jealous. You’re fucking jealous.”
Chalmers raised his hands without quite knowing what to do with them. Wanting to say something witty, he came up short, and said, “Bullshit.” The lie lacked conviction, even to his own ears.
“No, I think I’m on the money. It hurts your poor little ego that I’m buddies with El, and so you took it out on him.”
Chalmers, as he had so often in his misspent life, scoffed at the truth. The truth hurt, so ignore it. The truth could wound, so dodge that shit like a bullet.
“You have friends. I only have you,” he wanted to say, but couldn’t. He’d promised to be the better man, but some situations made it a lot harder to live up to that promise than others.
“Look, man,” he said aloud, “we got places to be.” He turned and quick-marched the last few strides to the buggy.
Jackson muttered a string of expletives Chalmers could barely hear but followed after him. He was still shaking his head in disbelief as he climbed into the passenger seat.
Dropping into the battered vehicle, Chalmers kicked Man-Eater’s powerful engine over and put her in gear.
Murphy kicked the briefing room door closed behind his new adjutant-in-training. The kid—he couldn’t have been more than eighteen—had reported that the colonel’s shuttle was loaded and ready to head back upstairs. If he resented the interruption, it didn’t show as he returned to the head of the long table that dominated the room.
“This operation will also be entirely clandestine: no uniforms, no copies of familiar weapons, and very little logistics other than what our groundside allies can furnish, though I have sureties from them that they will furnish everything necessary to ease your way into the local market. Comms will also be slow as well as intermittent, as we will not be able to risk transmitting in the vicinity of R’Bak Island. In short, Operation WORMWOOD is a go, gentlemen,” Murphy said, bringing the informational portion of the briefing to an end. “Questions, comments, concerns?”
“Shit,” Chalmers whispered, letting his chair fall to all four legs. “Where to begin?”
“A question, Chief?” Murphy leveled that cold stare at him.
“More a number of concerns, sir. We’ve barely heard of this couple, this Umaren and Vizzel, and you want us to turn them?”
“Two things. One: they already feel obligated to Sergeant Frazier for his aid. Two: I’d have thought they were your kind of people.”
“My kind of people?” Chalmers asked, incredulous.
Beside him, Jackson covered a grin with one hand. He always seemed to enjoy it when Murphy—or any authority, for that matter—called “bullshit” on Chalmers’s behavior.
Murphy raised his hands. “Smugglers, Chalmers. Not…not the other thing.”
Chalmers didn’t know whether to be more offended or less. He did know that if they’d been back on Earth, in the regular Army, and he’d not made a personal promise to be better, he might have considered threatening a complaint against Murphy under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. But none of those situations applied, so he said simply, “Left all that behind in the Mog, sir. Turned over a new leaf, sir.”
Beside him, Jackson’s arms wrapped around his chest as if he was struggling to prevent a cough. Chalmers knew it for an attempt to stifle a chuckle. Every NCO worth his salt knew how “sir” rhymed with “cur,” and when and where that mental translation should be applied. This being one such instance.
Murphy, never having been an NCO, missed it. In fact, his cold stare thawed slightly as it hung a moment on the fresh shrapnel scars on Chalmers’s face. “Indeed you have. I simply want you to employ your considerable…powers for good, this time.”
“Understood, sir,” Chalmers said more easily. But because he couldn’t entirely let it go, he added, “Not for nothing, but I’ll have you know my people were bootleggers, Colonel.”
“And that’s different, how?” Murphy’s eyes tightened with that cold look that made Chalmers nervous.
“For one, we wasn’t crossing no borders, sir, just county lines.” Chalmers continued in his thickest Southern drawl, “For ’nuther, my people never ran drugs nor evah carried guns. Just relied on speed an’ knowin’ t’back roads better’n t’revenuers.”
Murphy cocked an eyebrow, the very set of his jaw radiating disbelief.
“My people never did,” Chalmers repeated in a more understandable accent. “What I did in the Mog…and…elsewhere was not what my people were into.”
His partner shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Chalmers avoided looking at him. They never talked openly about some of the more shady shit he’d been up to his neck in, not really. It wasn’t necessary, not in the new universe they found themselves in, not after the things they’d been through together here.
Murphy shook his head. “While I enjoy hearing family histories as much as the next man, the need for your old skills—however acquired—persists. The nature of the ongoing threat the next wave of Kulsian ships poses to R’Bak dictates that we gather as much intelligence as quickly as we can on the island, its personnel, its security, and any and all vulnerabilities of the same.”
“So you want someone to buddy up with the seaplane crew, set up a smuggling ring?” Jackson said.
Murphy nodded, shrugged. “From the report, the crew is already embedded in the black market, so it will be more a matter of ‘making use of’ than ‘setting up.’ I leave exactly how you do that up to you. I think that is the best route available, given your combined expertise.”
“If I may, sir, I have additional concerns.”
Murphy nodded permission.
“Will we be the only Lost Soldiers on R’Bak?”
“Eventually. And, after a time, you and the others with you will be on your own until we can safely return. We are almost finished pulling our conventional formations and cadre out to keep the incoming surveyors from learning the extent to which the R’Baku have had outside aid. We need the Kulsis survey guys fat and happy, or at least ignorant, so they don’t go running back to their overlords for forces sufficient to hunt down the SpinDogs.”
“Leaving aside questions of just how much of our presence here can be concealed, sir, I don’t see how much a couple of investigators can reasonably expect to accomplish.”
“As I informed you in the briefing, the expectations are not excessive, Chief,” Murphy said. “We know your capabilities, and the SpinDogs are confident that the surveyors are, for the most part, unexceptional and incurious. People without much in the way of prospects on Kulsis who are here to collect the wealth of their superiors and return home with it.”
Chalmers shook his head, deciding that particular subject was a dead issue. “What other assets will we have? The briefing was slim on details.”
“In time, I’ll be sending a couple of other specialists. Messina, first, I think.”
“Who?” Chalmers and Jackson asked.
“A Vietnam-era security specialist. Due to recent events, we need him moved off the habitats, making him free to pull security for you and the crew.”
And watchdog us, Chalmers thought.
“Very good, sir. Thank you, sir,” Jackson said. “But I think the chief meant assets in terms of high-value items we can use to purchase cooperation from the indigs and, eventually, the Kulsians?”
“Ah, right. I’ll arrange for our groundside allies to provide a selection of drugs, both recreational and medical, to trade with. We should also be able to arrange more specialized goods, given enough lead time and good reason.”
“Makes sense, sir,” Jackson said. Glancing at Chalmers to be sure he wasn’t interrupting, he went on, “One question, sir: When can we expect Elroy to get healthy? I talked to the healers, but they weren’t very forthcoming. I only ask because El—Sergeant Frazier—would be a big help in turning the crew our way.” Chalmers could hear the concern for the other man in Jackson’s voice.
A pained look flashed across the colonel’s face before disappearing behind the cold mask of his habitual calm. “That is unknown. Sergeant Frazier did himself considerable damage. As I said, the healers have helped him improve quite a bit, but they remain less than optimistic about his return to full duty.”
“Damn, sir,” Chalmers said, glancing at Jackson. “I didn’t think it was that serious.”
“Does he know?” Jackson asked after a moment spent waiting for the colonel to continue.
“Know what?” Murphy asked.
“Does he know he might not make it back to Mar—Major Lee’s crew?”
“I will make the appropriate notifications as and when necessary, Sergeant Jackson.” He relented slightly, adding, “I’m told he needs to focus on getting better, just now.”
Jackson opened his mouth to say something Chalmers knew he’d regret, so he spoke first. “The Clarthu are big on a good attitude leading to faster healing. A lot more than our docs were, back in the day.”
“The SpinDog doctors also think in those terms,” Murphy agreed, a strange expression Chalmers didn’t recognize escaping his control for an instant.
Jackson gave a slow nod Chalmers chose to interpret as thanks for stepping in. He was still angry, though, so Chalmers changed the subject. “I assume we’ll be using the plane trips to make our reports and pick up any contraband we’ll be bringing in, Colonel?”
“Yes. We should be able to arrange a dead drop and commo bunker easily enough. And, when the time comes, we’ll use the seaplane to connect other assets into your network as well.”
“I bring it up, sir, because the indig crew is a critical failure point, and we don’t know to what extent, if any, they’ll buy in.”
Colonel Murphy nodded. “Correct on all points, Chief. That’s where we’ll be forced to rely on their expressed debt of gratitude to Sergeant Frazier for saving the young crewman’s life. We also plan to make them very wealthy and will rely on your ability to persuade both of them it is in their best self-interest.”
“Didn’t think you had this much faith in my ability as a salesman, Colonel.”
A cold smile. “With Jackson’s help, I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“And we’ll be deployed on this op for a while, then?”
“Correct. You will be. Rest assured that I have someone in mind for ongoing intelligence operations once you’ve established a beachhead. Certain other dominoes have to fall before we can begin that phase, however.”
Chalmers nodded, pulling his lip thoughtfully. “So, to summarize: We’ll need to introduce ourselves, first, and that’ll be harder to do without Sergeant Frazier, but we’ll manage. Once we get a feel for where that relationship can take us, we start working our way up the food chain and into the more secure areas of the island. When we have a good idea of the lay of the land, we’ll know better what we can accomplish. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Good. Then, I’d like some arms in addition to the drugs. Good to have on hand for bribes or other work—as needed?” He looked the question at Murphy.
“You’ll have them.”
“Good to know.” He glanced again at Jackson, wondering if his only friend was still angry with him for treating El like shit. Taking a deep breath, he addressed Murphy again. “We’ll be on our own for a couple months, right?”
“At least two months, as many as six or more.” From Murphy’s expression, it was clear he didn’t want to go back over ground already trodden. “Consider it a vacation from military discipline and any requirement of wearing a uniform.”
Chalmers shook his head. He was looking for an answer to a question he wasn’t all that clear on himself. “This will be a long deployment without backup or extraction, on a mission we were never formally trained to do. It’s not exactly what we”—he was about to say “signed up for,” but settled on—“are used to.”
Murphy’s gaze wasn’t quite as cold as it could get, but dropped to within a few degrees of its minimum possible temperature. “Just now joining the club, are we?”
Chalmers raised his hands in surrender. “Colonel, I’m not saying the rest of the Lost Soldiers ain’t been handling rough business…God knows they have!” He looked at Jacks and rushed ahead. “But Sergeant Jackson here doesn’t have to get saddled with another risky detail because I’ve got limited utility and a shitty record.”
Jackson’s surprised glance at Chalmers was missed by neither its subject nor Murphy.
Murphy’s cold gaze warmed a few degrees. “Chief, Sergeant Jackson has made no request for reassignment.”
Jackson nodded sharply.
“Until and if he should make such a request, I am not about to break up a proven team that I can rely on to adapt and fill the odd hole in my roster for those missions that require a high degree of adaptation to circumstances and spur-of-the-moment improvisation. This mission will not only rely a great deal on your extracurricular experience, but also draw on your investigative training and acumen.”
Chalmers swallowed a lump in his throat, surprised at how much even an oblique compliment from Colonel Murphy meant to him. Or maybe it was the confirmation that Jackson wasn’t trying to ditch his often troublesome partner. To cover for the sudden weird surge of pride, he asked, “When do you want to see results, sir?”
“Our best guess is a couple months or so to get the initial groundwork laid, make introductions, etcetera,” Murphy said. “Then we start phase two.”
“Phase two?”
Murphy nodded. “Once additional assets are in place, we start making moves. You’ll understand if I do not go into specifics just now.”
Jackson and Chalmers both nodded.
“That said,” Murphy continued, “subsequent actions through the network may be on a much tighter timescale, given strategic considerations and the needs of the moment.”
“Understood, sir,” Chalmers said, looking at his partner for confirmation.
Jackson nodded.
“That will be all, then,” Murphy muttered, turning away…but he turned back just as quickly. “One last thing, Chalmers. Not about the mission.”
Now what did I do? “Yes, sir?”
“I’ve heard that you found a sound system on one of the Kulsian vehicles we shot up just after Imsurmik. Heard that you haven’t been using the speakers for psyops as much as you have for entertaining the troops.”
Always a snitch who can’t wait to tattle to the CO like a little kindergarten shit. “Have there been a lot of those complaints, sir? I try to limit my use of it.”
Murphy frowned. “I would characterize what I heard as comments rather than complaints. The only negative remark was that your playlist was…well, a bit repetitive.”
Jacks rolled his eyes and exhaled like a man being saved from a shark tank. “’Bout time somebody said something, Colonel. The way he keeps playing them, it’s like the songs are his anthems, sir. And, well, sir, I can’t say I’m a fan of that cr—” He paused, went on, “Um, that kind of music.”
Murphy raised an eyebrow as he turned toward Chalmers. “Would you care to elaborate, Chief?”
No, but I know a question that requires an answer when I hear one. Chalmers shrugged. “Guess you could say I’ve been going back to my roots, sir. Southern rock.”
Jackson snorted. “Yeah, but only one band. And only one or two albums.”
“Yeah, because they’re the only tapes the Ktor threw in with the rest of the gear,” Chalmers rebutted. But that wasn’t entirely true; he did play one song more than the others. A lot, actually.
Murphy was nodding. “Lynyrd Skynyrd, if the reports are accurate.”
“Guilty as charged, sir. Grew up to it. And, well, I guess some of it shaped me.”
“Which songs?” Murphy asked. A sardonic grin: “‘Call Me the Breeze,’ maybe?”
Chalmers couldn’t decide whether he was more surprised at Murphy’s ready knowledge of the band, or injured by his choice of that particular song. “No, sir,” he said, trying not to sound like he was sulking. “I mostly play that one to remind myself who I shouldn’t be anymore.”
“So, if that’s not your new anthem, then what is?”
“‘Simple Man,’” Chalmers said, surprised at the speed and eagerness of his response. It felt like a confession. Or, as his backwoods Baptist gramma had put it, like he was “shrivin’ hisself.”
Murphy’s other eyebrow raised to join the first. “If I recall those lyrics correctly, that’s quite a resolution you’ve adopted.” He stood, put out a hand. “Good luck, gentlemen. You are dismissed.” Surprised, they shook his hand and left.
“You feel that tremor in his palm?” Jacks asked in a low voice when they had emerged back into the busy dust of the camp’s breakdown.
Chalmers nodded. “Overworked, I guess.”
“More like he was overcome by your choir-boy bullshit,” Jackson muttered.
At a different time, on another planet, Chalmers would have told his partner to go fuck himself. But that was part of what he was trying to leave behind: part of his resolution, as Murphy had said with pleased surprise in his voice and eyes. “Yeah, Jacks,” Chalmers eventually replied, “you’re probably right.”
Jackson stopped and stared.
But Chalmers just kept walking back to Man-Eater, his gramma’s face in his mind’s eye and the lyrics of “Simple Man” rolling through his head.