"I heard a rumor, sir," Sandor said as he drove to the sedan to the Yates Installation's command office, where Seth was to meet with Colonel Velasco to discuss the recently concluded Sallen Border campaign, from which Seth and his pilots had returned late the night before.
"This a rumor, or a guess?" Seth asked, a bit irritated at the interruption. He was reviewing the debriefing report he'd hastily prepared before leaving Fort Warrick. The long flight back and brief night's sleep did him no favors when it came to recalling details.
"There's no reason to doubt it, sir," the private answered.
"Then it's not a rumor, is it, Private?"
"I suppose not, sir."
Sandor had become something of a font of information for Seth. Sandor's rank in a place such as Yates gave him an unbelievable level of access to information. Being assigned to the Yates Installation, where contact with the outside world was heavily restricted, officers often dropped their guard when the room was nothing but uniformed soldiers, and since Sandor was a private, he was often invisible to the higher-ups.
"It seems General Nirav is in the Capital, sir," Sandor continued.
"That's his prerogative."
"They say he's campaigning."
"Career generals have been known to campaign for council seats, Private."
"Nirav's from Engel, sir."
"...Where the council seats are assigned by lineage," Seth finished for Sandor, finally distracted from his debrief report.
"All due respect, he's too old to marry into one of the families."
"And he doesn't have children to offer... So why would he be campaigning..."
"The Chimps are speculating," Sandor said. The "Chimps" were grease monkeys; the mechanics at Yates whom Sandor would meet in the motor pool. When they weren't maintaining the equipment, they liked to swap gossip, which they usually got from having bugged the Officers' Club, and would readily share with Sandor. With the Chimps, along with numerous other sources, Seth estimated Sandor could gather information more effectively than the whole of Military Intelligence. It was a bit disturbing, if Seth was honest with himself. "They think he's rubbing elbows in advance of the budget hearings next month."
"The Council's been looking at cutbacks again, I hear. So Nirav's trying to save one of his projects."
"Possibly the Sworder Program, sir."
"Seems unlikely. The Sworder's been shown to be nothing but successful."
"Perhaps a bit too successful, sir?"
It was a sobering thought, to be sure. Pragmatically speaking, when a problem was solved, one usually didn't need the rather expensive solution to hang around, taking up space.
The Officer's Ball was in full swing. And by "full swing," it meant the time for open socializing was about to end and it was time for the attendants to take their seats for the dinner. The officers with wives would find their assigned seats closer to the front, where the better light was, making them more photogenic and giving the military a more human look when the Ball was covered in the media.
The bachelors, meanwhile, were relegated to the rear of the hall. Unless, of course, they were in high standing, in which case they were paraded in front like cattle at an auction, hoping to spur interest in military men among women, and of course men were prone to do many things to impress women, so the hope was it would ultimately increase enlistment.
But Major Eldon was not held in such standing. Remembering his seating assignment on the invitation, he made his way to table eighty-four, where one of the occupants had already gotten comfortable.
"Evening, Major," said the man wearing the silver shield emblem crossed with two swords designating a Colonel. On his right shoulder was the red slash of the Council Guard.
"Colonel," Eldon nodded. At social gatherings such as this, a salute wasn't proper. A brief stand at attention and a nod sufficed when not seated.
"How are you finding your stay at the Capital?" the Colonel asked, his tired eyes betraying his feigned interest.
"It's a bit stuffy," Eldon answered, taking his seat, "about the same as the last time I found it."
"It's all the hot air from the politicians."
"I can never imagine how the Guard gets used to it."
"He wouldn't know," interrupted another Colonel, this one Eldon knew. "He's in administration, and he keeps his office well ventilated."
"Nice to see you too, Velasco," the first Colonel groaned.
"You gotta lighten up, Logan," Velasco said, sitting opposite Eldon.
"We'll see how you like it when your program gets cut in half."
"That's a cheap shot."
"Can't help hearing rumors. But it'll be nice to know I'm not the only one getting his department shredded."
"The Council talks about cutting the budget every year," Eldon said. "There's no reason to believe they'll actually do it."
"You haven't met this new guy," Velasco said. "He's on a warpath against us warfighters."
"That's gotta be the most eloquent thing I've ever heard you say, Colonel," Logan said.
"I do my best," he smiled. "By the way, Major, that kid you sent me has put together one hell of a squadron."
"He'll get results, but I recall he has a hard time understanding his pilots."
"As long as they meet his standards, there isn't a problem. He's very pragmatic, for a pilot."
"Pragmatism will only get him so far. If he doesn't understand his pilots, they may not respect him."
"They respect his piloting skills well enough. That'll have to do until he gets some people skills."
"Speaking of people skills," Logan said, pointing to the gray-haired General approaching their table, shaking hands with everyone on the way.
"Welcome to the back corner, General," Eldon said as Nirav arrived, taking his seat with a muted groan appropriate for his age.
"Maybe I should get myself a piece of arm candy," he said. "Maybe then they'll seat me where I'd matter."
"Nothing too young, you old grouse," Velasco said. He was always loose when it came to decorum among superior officers. "Wouldn't want her to feel like arm candy."
"Well, if it's what I need to save the program..."
"So even you're pessimistic about its chances?" Velasco said. "You're starting to sound like Logan."
"If anyone, he should lighten up," said Nirav, looking to Logan. "Under Lynette's proposition, any currently paid-for assets in cancelled programs would be redistributed to departments deemed worthy of funding."
"The Guard could sure use some assets," Logan said, "whatever they may be."
"Why cancel your program," Eldon said to Velasco. "As far as I've learned, Riker's birds are effective."
"Ten solid months of effective deployment," Velasco answered. "But the shroud of secrecy means no one knows about it, so it doesn't get credit."
"It's a lot simpler than that, Colonel," Nirav replied. "Trouble is, the program shot fear into the rebels, allowing the Council to broker a peace. If there's no war, there's no need to forge swords."
"So the Swords are a victim of their own success..." Logan waxed lyrical. "Well, the Guard could always use a few blades, if they're available."
"That may be all they're good for," Nirav said.
"You can joke," Logan said, frustrated. "But there was a time the Council Guard was more than glorified babysitters. With the right assets, we could rebuild the program. Make it better than it was."
"The Interceptors could be used to prevent conflict, but the Council would rather stuff them in a corner, let our enemies correctly assume we'd never use our greatest weapons to defend ourselves; just let them rot while featuring in empty ceremonies. Of course, no offense intended, Colonel."
Logan gave half a laugh. "You've spent too long around these blue-bloods, General. Shouldn't be so afraid of hurting someone's feelings. You're a fucking general, aren't you?"
"So easy to forget, Colonel. Nobody else seems to remember."
"Maybe that arm candy's not such a bad idea," Velasco said. Eldon had to agree, despite himself.
The more Seth looked at the battle reports, the less they made sense. Perhaps it had something to do with the whiskey, but what else was to do while on leave? It wasn't as if he was getting new information while his squadron was grounded. He'd hoped a change of setting would help him better decipher the maze of details, but this turned out to be more of a distraction than anything else.
The Yates Installation's Officer's Club was as decadent as would be expected, though far more crowded than Seth would have guessed. Perhaps aligning the officers' leave limited opportunities for information to leak out.
"Never figured you for a drinker," said the stubble-faced blond Lieutenant approaching Seth's corner table.
"Would have figured you, Lieutenant Sunden," Seth answered, avoiding his gaze, "for the type to take full advantage of administrative leave and go off-premisis."
"Ehh, most people here been on this base long enough they got nothing waiting for 'em on the outside," Sunden said. "Might as well shake down some locals for dirt."
"Perhaps my driver isn't quite so unique," Seth said.
"What's that, sir?"
"Nothing." Seth went back to his reports. "Lieutenant, when we engaged on the eastern border route last month, did we collapse the left flank before or after the convoy regrouped at the third waypoint?"
"Uh, Captain, it was a month ago," Sunden answered, "and we had seven other engagements before our leave started. All I really recall is blowing up a bunch of bad guys. And, all due respect, sir, we're on leave. It's kind of like a vacation, if you've ever had one of those. Continuing to work while on vacation is, customarily, discouraged."
"I'll be sure to mention that to Keegan the next time he asks for his weekly assessment."
"All right, Cap, that's fair. But you're in the Officer's Club right now. I don't want to tell you how to fulfil your duties as Captain, but here, most people observe different figures."
Sunden nodded towards the bar, where most of the socializing was happening.
"I'm sure they do," Seth replied, looking back at his reports and taking another sip of whiskey.
"All due respect to the chain of command, sir, but let me tell you how this works: You are the captain of a highly successful, yet still classified fighter squadron. Women, especially lower-ranking women officers, can smell that kind of clout from a mile away."
"All the more reason not to socialize, Lieutenant."
"Nah, they don't want your military secrets, Cap. Just like guys want to hook up with a supermodel, female officers want to one-up their friends when it comes to swapping stories. And you got more going for you, if I may say, sir. Reslo rarely turns out any officers at all, making you something of an anomaly on base, especially to these blue-bloods."
"Interesting theory. Anything to base it on?"
"Men and women may have their differences, but they're both human, and humans are just a slightly-higher form of animals." Seth glanced at the Lieutenant, who saw he was not impressed by this reasoning. "Also, I have an older sister stationed at Fort Erwin. They're animals over there."
"Well, that's Erwin. This is Yates."
"They may not be the same, sir, but there are similarities. Take that red-head corporal over by the bar."
"Should I?"
"I think you should. She's been eyeing you all night."
"She's more than welcome to. It is a public place, after all." Seth went back to his reports.
"You know what? Don't say I never did anything for you."
Sunden rose from his seat and approached the corporal in question. His departure was enough to distract Seth yet again. He watched the Lieutenant for a bit as he spoke to the woman. He had to admit, she was attractive. She was fit, likely maintained by the physical regiment instilled by the Academy. She'd let her fiery red hair down. It reached down to her waist, so she hadn't cut it at the Academy, which indicated she welcomed the challenge which came with maintaining long hair in the military, and there were all sorts of things Seth could read into that.
But watching a lieutenant chat up a pretty corporal was not on Seth's to-do list, so he took another shot at sorting out the battle reports while taking another sip of his whiskey.
Overall, the squadron's ammunition efficiency was largely unchanged over time. Army accountants always liked that. But looking further, while ammunition use per kill didn't change, overall kills were decreasing. Looking at the parallel reports from the ground forces, their overall kills were decreasing as well.
The average time of engagement decreased at roughly the same rate. It could be assumed that as the campaign progressed, the number of capable enemy forces decreased, leaving fewer targets for Seth's pilots. This would mean the Sworders were indeed a victim of their own success, and the Council would no doubt-
"Aren't you one of my Banshees?" came a familiar voice. It was the redhead from the bar, placing her amber-colored drink on his table and leaning on it with both hands. There was a light blush on her cheeks from the drinks she'd already consumed, and Seth couldn't help but notice her arcing her shoulders back, putting her bosom more forward than it would be otherwise.
"Scabbard?" Indeed, she sounded a lot like Storm Flight's dispatcher.
"Captain's bars," she said, looking at his lapel. "That would make you Claymore. Nice to finally put a face to the voice." She held out her hand to him. "Helen Eirenes. And I believe you owe me a few drinks."
"Declarations made on the battlefield have a tendency to be non-binding," he replied, "or else we'd have a lot more court marshals for disrespect to commanding officers." He took her hand in kind. "Captain Seth Riker."
She considered him a moment, then said, "I think I like 'Claymore' better. Sounds stronger."
"There is logic in that," Seth answered. "The Claymore was a broadsword. Its greater mass made it difficult to wield, but with it came greater momentum, letting it more easily cut through primitive armor. My pilots said as much when they agreed my skills exceeded theirs, and elected I assume the callsign. As to your preference, 'Claymore' is the name with which you are familiar, and humans are indeed creatures of habit, tending to prefer something to which they've already grown accustomed. But callsigns are for the battlefield, so 'Riker' will have to do for now."
Her eyes narrowed, and she straightened up. "Are you and that LT trying to hustle me?" she said, gesturing toward Sunden, his face in his hand and suffering a fit of laughter.
"What are you talking about?"
"Chuckles over there bet me the next five rounds you would be the most stuck-up son of a bitch I'd ever met."
"Sounds like the sort of thing he might wager."
"He's got a good point. But you're nothing compared to my step-brother."
"And that would be..."
"Lieutenant General Cahal."
"Duly noted. By all means, then, collect your winnings," he said, and looked again at his reports.
He only got halfway through Testa's statement on the engagement before he sensed someone sit down next to him.
"Why was Katana sent to intercept the Helcats?" came the Corporal's voice. She had picked up the data tablet and was scrolling through the mission log, her five drinks being brought to their table by the bartender while Sunden watched, no longer laughing.
"It was the right call," he said.
"But Cutlass was closest..."
"And facing the wrong direction. By the time he decelerated to maneuver, Katana would have already been in firing range."
"But this shows Foil was closer than Katana," she turned the data tablet towards him, showing the tactical map at the time, "and only forty-five degrees off axis."
"He had bandits on his six, and I was counting on Scimitar and Cutlass to take them out while he engaged the hostile bearing down on Katana. Run playback and you'll see what I mean."
She ran the playback. Her eyes widened when she saw what he was talking about.
"You saw all this in the middle of a fight?"
"Situational awareness was a key component of my training."
"I've never seen a squad leader look that far ahead. The Colonel swears it's the equipment, but these reports..."
"The birds are good, like the Colonel says. With the requisite training, any pilot could achieve air dominance on that platform."
"But without your instructions, Katana probably would have gone after Foil's bandits, not the Helcats, who would have broken through the convoy's left flank. Like it or not, you're the key element of Storm Flight."
"It stands to reason. I was involved in the Sworder's development, so as the lead test pilot, I know the birds perhaps better than anyone else alive."
She shook her head and sighed. "You really are unbelievable."
"What are you talking about now?" Speaking with her was becoming annoying.
"You're a pilot from the back country. You're supposed to be some kind of arrogant son of a bitch, but with a likable attitude. But here you are, playing the logic-driven intellectual. You're not going to make many friends like that."
"I'm not here to make friends."
"Well maybe you should try anyway. Squad members find it a lot easier to respect their CO if they like them, in case you want a tactical excuse."
"If that's the case, and you're such a font of wisdom this evening, how would you suggest I begin?"
She glanced at the tray of drinks set on the table by the bartender. "Loosen up with a drink or two, courtesy of your generous Lieutenant with a poor gambling streak."
Whoever placed the Yates Officer's Club directly between the Motor Pool and the barracks must have been a certifiable genius, Sandor had decided, lighting up another cigarette as he stood by the car outside the Officer's Club.
"How's the babysitting business, Private?" the mechanics would mock as they passed him, and tonight was no different.
"Vacation over, Private?" Sargent Amantea approached. "Captain Ace back in town?"
"Better him than the Ulrichs," Sandor answered.
"I'll bet that's a cozy job," Bramson said. As usual, he didn't know anything.
"You'd think so," Sandor said, offering them a smoke, "but they're kind of bitchy."
"Right, like you've ever met them," Branson said as he and Amantea accepted his offer.
"They were here. They needed a driver while on base."
"You?" Bramson said. "I don't buy it."
"Well, believe it, then. I'll tell you one thing, though: I hope the son doesn't inherit the seat. That one's a grade-A piece of shit."
"Is that who you were driving?"Amantea asked.
"Nah, I was driving Ulrich's wife."
"She doesn't ride with the old man?"
"She doesn't do anything with him except pose for pictures," Sandor said. "Old man rode with his mistress."
"No shit? He's getting some on the side?" Branson, again, with the obvious question.
"And the wife knows about it?" Amantea said.
"Here's the kicker," Sandor said, finishing his cigarette and starting a new one, "the wife's way hotter than the girlfriend."
"All right, now we know you're full of shit."
"Believe what you want. But I'd tap the wife, given the option."
"All right, smartass," Branson said, "why were the Ulrichs here?"
"What do you think?" Amantea answered for him. "Councilman's looking at programs to cut."
"That's the going theory," Sandor said. "Spent a long time talking to Velasco."
"Why would they cut programs?" Branson asked.
"Some in the Council think demilitarization would promote peace with the separatist regions."
"Bad idea," Amantea said. "Rebels are gearing up."
"How do you know?" Sandor asked. Finally, he'd given up enough gossip to get something new in return.
"Recon photos. Got a look at them when Lieutenant Sarto dropped his files when getting out of his car," Amantea took another drag from his cigarette, "like he always does."
"Well, he'll never make Captain like that."
"No shit. Bet you he doesn't report it, either. Gotta wonder how he even made Lieutenant."
"Don't worry too much about it," Sandor said. "Officer's school has a pretty low bar for graduation, I hear."
"Either way," Amantea said, "we should be gearing up, not disarming."
"What's going on?" Branson asked.
"The border with Sallen," Amantea said. "Everyone's said they're disarming, but those first-aid posts look a lot like MRCs."
Mobile repair centers, Sandor translated silently. There was only one reason to put repair centers that close to the border; to repair combat units to rapidly return to the front.
"You sure about that?" Sandor asked.
"I was a greasemonkey in the Tore skirmish. I've built more than enough of those shelters to know what they look like."
"Well," Sandor said, taking a mental note, "I'll keep that in mind."
At this the doors to the Officers' Club opened, and Captain Riker emerged with a red-headed Corporal. They headed straight for Riker's car, albeit staggering a bit.
"Have a good evening, sir?" Sandor said, opening the driver's side rear door for the woman.
"Confirm my meeting with Keegan tomorrow morning," Riker said when the woman had gotten into the car.
"Sir," Sandor said, closing the door after the Corproal, "may I suggest you postpone the meeting?"
Riker looked in his eyes. Liquor couldn't sway the Captain's attention, but he was bad at picking up social cues.
"Perhaps make it an afternoon meeting?" Sandor said, glancing at the rather attractive Corporal.
Riker glanced at his companion, then back at Sandor with the slightest glimpse of a smirk. "Duly noted, Private. Pick me up at thirteen-hundred tomorrow."
"Roger that, Captain," Sandor said with a short nod, rounding the car to open the other rear door. "I'll message you a reminder at eleven-hundred?"
"That'll be fine," Riker said, climbing into the car after his companion.
"Roger that, sir." Sandor spared himself a glance at the mechanics' bewildered faces.