4
“No one ever wants to talk about a contract by link,” Jorge Ruiz said. The three members of the contract committee appointed to deal with the representatives from Elysium had decided to eat lunch together in the Officers’ Club. They had ordered their food and were waiting for it with drinks. “It’s as if they’re all afraid they’ll lose some bargaining chip if they let us know what they’re here about before we’re physically eyeball to eyeball with them.” He chuckled while he shook his head, then took a sip of his martini and set it back on the table.
“It sure would be nice to have some idea what this is all about,” Lon said. “What drives a world like Elysium to look for mercenary help? They have a pack of renegade intellectuals or something?”
“I can imagine a lot of possible scenarios,” Bob Hayley said. “A lot of worlds might like to control the practical knowledge coming out of Elysium’s R&D labs. Better Nilssen Generators than anyone else, more powerful beamers, new ship designs. I’m more curious what they consider a ‘large’ contract.”
“Well, if they want a full regiment, yours is number one on the list,” Ruiz said. “Lon, I think 7th is second on the rota, isn’t it?”
Lon nodded. “If Elysium is so important to everyone, I’d think that there would be a sort of balance. If one major power tried to take it over, the other two would be in a hurry to get involved to make sure it didn’t happen. Earth. The Confederation. The Second Commonwealth. And it would almost have to be one of those three trying to make a grab … if that’s what this is all about. None of the independent colony worlds would dare. That would leave some sort of internal problem, but …” Lon stopped and shook his head. “I sure can’t think that there could be anything as big as a regimental-size contract coming, not from Elysium.”
Ruiz spotted the waiter coming with their food. “Maybe not, but it doesn’t do any good to speculate. We don’t want to build any preconceived notions that might get in the way later.”
After lunch, Lon returned to his office for an hour to work his way through the inevitable routine reports—incoming and outgoing. Then he informed Phip and Lieutenant Colonel Tefford Ives—Lon’s executive officer—that he was going to the gym.
Lon put himself through a full routine on several of the exercise machines, then ran two miles, forcing the pace on his last half dozen laps of the indoor track—so much that he felt almost ready to drop by the time he finished. After a ten-minute rest, he got into the swimming pool and swam laps for forty minutes. By the time he climbed out of the pool, his arms and legs felt as if the muscles had turned to jelly. He sat in the locker room for five minutes before he felt recovered enough to shower and dress.
Three times a week, in garrison, Lon put himself through such a rigorous workout, and on the other days he tried to get in at least a little “light” work, even if no more than a mile’s jog and a half hour of hand-to-hand combat drill with other officers. And, at least one day a week, he took morning calisthenics with one of the battalions in 7th Regiment, rotating from one to the next. “A soldier is his own first weapon,” an instructor in DMC recruit training had told his charges the first day. “You have to keep that weapon in first-rate condition, just as you’ll be expected to keep your rifle and every other weapon the Corps entrusts you with ready for action at all times.”
It’s a lot easier to keep a rifle serviceable than it is a body, Lon thought as he left the gym—limping a little because of a strained muscle in his left calf. His body’s health maintenance nanobots would need a little time to repair the damage, but Lon did not consider calling for his car to take him back to regimental headquarters. Walking’s better therapy than riding, he told himself, but he walked slowly, favoring the sore leg as much as he could, and the discomfort had faded to insignificance before he reached the orderly room.
“Phip, is 4th Battalion ready to go out for its night training?” Lon asked, stopping just inside the lead sergeant’s office on the first floor.
“Yes, sir. They’ll form up in about fifteen minutes, due to leave the area at sixteen hundred hours.” Phip’s clerks were in the room, so the niceties of protocol had to be observed. “I spoke with Colonel Watson about a half hour ago.” Lieutenant Colonel Parker Watson was 4th Battalion’s commander. “He called to make certain there had been no schedule changes.”
Lon chuckled. “You mean he was hoping for a reprieve so he wouldn’t have to be out in the cold.”
“He never actually said that, sir,” Phip said, carefully suppressing a laugh of his own.
“I’ll stick around to see them off,” Lon said. “Just to keep you informed, I’m going to be serving on a contract committee. We have a potential client coming in to offer what might be a large contract, so my schedule is apt to get a bit busy the next week or two.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make a note. When does the client ground?”
“Not until Friday morning. Details will be coming from the General’s office as available. And make sure I see any messages from Colonels Ruiz and Hayley.”
Phip nodded and keyed in notes on his complink.
Lon stood off to the side as the men of 4th Battalion came out of their barracks and fell in for their night training session. There was no skin visible in the formation. Cold would not be any real problem, and should pose no more than a minor inconvenience to the men. Insulated battledress uniforms over thermal underwear with well-insulated boots and gloves were all that would really be necessary for their protection, since the predicted low temperature for the night would be no more than ten degrees below freezing. Battle helmet faceplates would protect faces from most wind-chill effects. Still, the men of 4th wore field jackets as well; the fleece collars of those would keep the chill from necks and help close off the gaps at the edges of their helmets.
Soldiers had to be ready to fight in any weather. No winter training exercises would be canceled for less than subzero temperatures and blizzard conditions—circumstances that might be severe enough to halt real combat. The battalion formed up by platoon and company. Sergeants made their “all present or accounted for” reports to platoon leaders, who echoed the reports to company commanders, who repeated them once more for the battalion commander—all with exchanges of salutes. Lieutenant Colonel Watson gave the orders, and the battalion started to march off toward their assigned training area some six miles away.
As he passed Lon, Watson gave him a casual salute. Lon returned it with a smile, but waited until the entire battalion had passed before he returned to the office.
“Unless something’s come up in the last twenty minutes that needs immediate attention, I’m going home,” Lon informed Phip.
“Nobody’s said anything to me, Colonel,” Phip replied. “No important messages have come in. Sergeant Howell just went to get your car. It should be outside in two minutes.”
Sara Nolan opened the front door of their home before Lon reached it. Lon started to ask if something was wrong but stopped when he saw the smile on her face. In the doorway she put her arms around his neck and gave him a long kiss. Lon half-carried her inside and closed the door with his foot.
“Okay, what did you see that you think I’m going to say we can’t afford?” he asked when she finally let him break the kiss.
“Come in and sit down,” Sara said, dragging him toward the living room and the sofa. “Relax. I’ll fix you a drink.”
Lon started to speak but shut his mouth again, realizing that the fastest way to learn what had his wife so happy was to go along with the scenario she had obviously planned. He sat on the sofa and loosened the collar of his shirt. She skipped off toward the kitchen, her red hair bouncing lightly. Lon just shook his head, having difficulty keeping a smile from his face. She must have a real beaut cooked up this time, he thought.
Sara was gone less than a minute, and came back with a scotch and water on ice—Lon’s usual home-from-the-office drink. She handed it to him, waited for him to take a sip, then sat at his side—pressed right against him. He set the drink on the end table.
“Okay, what’s got you smirking like the proverbial bird-eating cat?” he asked, turning toward her.
Sara hesitated for a moment, fidgeting against Lon, then it all came out in one long breath. “I saw the doctor this morning. I’m pregnant.”
Lon was not aware of the seconds of shocked silence before his mind processed the information thoroughly enough for a reply. To his credit—and almost making up for the delay—his first words were, “That’s great” … even though his voice did not show the proper level of enthusiasm to underline the words. Luckily for him, Sara was too excited to notice.
“It is great,” Lon said after he had a few more seconds to recover. He hugged her tightly while his mind fought to catch up. That’s the last thing I expected, he thought. Sara did not see the frown that accompanied her husband’s next thought: If it’s a boy I’m going to get out of the Corps before he’s old enough to start thinking about being a soldier.