Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Space: Above and Beyond depicted in this story are the legal property of Glen Morgan and James Wong, Hard Eight Productions, and 20th Century Fox Television and have been used without permission. The basic character ideas for Amy Langston and Dale Steinbeck are borrowed from Rayhne and the gang at S:AaB Virtual TV, and are used with permission. All Authors quoted are listed below. No copyright infringement is intended. I am not attempting to copyright the work of others, nor am I attempting to use it for profit.
Book II - Kolchab
(One)
08 January 2065
Marine Corps Barracks, Eighth and I
Washington DC, USA
0700 AM
Even given seven days' notice, it had been an exercise in frustration for McQueen to arrive on time, appropriately attired. Traveling from Massachusetts to Maine - from Maine to Alabama - from Alabama to DC - he had been left to wonder again about just where his belongings from the Saratoga were. Just where were they floating around? On which transport? Where in the galaxy? His medals and sword were no problem. They really had no place in space - he had left them in storage at Loxley. It was his "party clothes" that presented the difficulty. There was an older set of his dress blues that would serve. They were in decent shape and they fit. His Evening Dress did not - not well - not the way he liked it to fit. McQueen had last worn it - what was it now? Three years ago? Surprisingly, the trousers needed to be taken in. And he needed new shoulder straps for his new rank. It was just something else that had taken time and energy, and that seemed to serve no real purpose. It had been a pain in the rear end, but at least McQueen was on time and squared away.
The Marine Barracks at Eighth and I had always been the Headquarters of The Marine Corps. Depending on who you talk to, Quantico may or may not be the brains of the outfit, but it is generally agreed that Eighth and I has always been its heart and soul.
McQueen had not been told why he was to report to DC. A smart Marine did not question legal orders - and he was a smart Marine. He presented himself at the appropriate time, in the appropriate uniform, and with the appropriate gear: 0700 - Dress A with medals - sword.
It wasn't as if he was clueless. McQueen had a good idea now of why he was to report, between what Kylen had told him about her invitation and what, as a very smart Marine, he could put together on his own. He just didn't know the particulars.
After he had presented himself and his orders at the appointed time and place, McQueen met with a captain from human resources.
It was not, as he had hoped, a meeting to pass along his new assignment. Captain Angela Armstrong gave him a cup of coffee and a copy of his one-page official bio, which he was to read and correct. "In red ink, please, Colonel," she said, handing him the pen. The captain was from the protocol office. She was a rather officious little geek, obviously present only to run him through a review of paperwork and protocol. She loved her job just a little too much for McQueen's taste. Armstrong left him alone and returned after precisely fifteen minutes.
"Is Ms. Celina with you, Sir?"
"I didn't know that Ms. Celina was considered part of my 'gear.' If the Corps had issued me a survivor I would have shown up with one," he snapped.
McQueen's sarcasm floated over the Captain's head. She had too many things on her mind - too many things to put together in too little time. Two major events to stage-manage. Two events that each generally took a month to plan and she was trying to put them together in less than two weeks. She was a busy woman.
"I had hoped to have a chance to review some of tomorrow's activities and protocol with her," the captain almost blurted. But she was efficient, able to think on her feet and to handle rapidly shifting priorities. An important skill for the person charged with protocol - it was how she had achieved her billet. Armstrong turned her thoughts back to the Colonel, who she found rather abrupt, but who looked the perfect picture of a decorated Marine officer. "That's a relief."
"This ceremony was all laid on pretty quickly. I'm trying to tie up all the loose ends," she muttered rather distracted.
"And I'm a loose end" he asked wryly.
"You, Sir? No. But there are a few surrounding you." The captain finally stopped shuffling her paperwork and actually made eye contact. She paused and then smiled. "Colonel, do you understand why you are here?"
McQueen returned her look with what could best be called his 'command gaze,' giving her the once over. "Look, little Captain, I don't have time to play games with boot licking Command Staff REMFs. I'm a busy man," he thought, but was immediately forced to reconsider. "Unfortunately, I'm NOT a busy man. I have nothing to do and nothing BUT time."
"Not precisely. No," he answered.
"Well, Sir, the President of the United States and the Senate are tired of Her Excellency, Secretary General Diane Hayden, and the rest of the powers that be at the United Nations dragging their feet on this issue. We are due over at the Big House at ten-hundred hours and I'm to review the agenda with you."
Members of the military were strictly forbidden to express political opinions when on duty or in uniform: Such had been the case for almost three hundred years. The captain's tone of voice when referring to Diane Hayden skirted the boundaries of neutrality. McQueen found himself beginning to like this little protocol ramrod. In the back of his mind he wondered how she had made the height and weight requirements necessary for entry into the Corps. He turned his full attention to what the she had to say.
