Hampton Roads LOG Base, VA, Blue Zone 10, Sol III

March 19, 2080 AD

"Can I see some ID, sir? Driver's license? Service ID?"

I got up pretty damn early for this crap. Three hours driving separated his home in the Georgia Piedmont from Fort McPherson, Georgia, home of GDI's Forces Command. Perched just off of Interstate 75-85, the sonic fences and numerous steel composite structures hid a mass of secure buildings. Since it commanded all the combat forces in the GDIWest, its secure meeting facilities were top-notch but the press hardly noticed it. If a large number of military and civilian personnel suddenly congregated in Fort Myers, Virginia or the Pentagon it would be noticed; places like that were carefully watched but not Hampton Roads. Serviced by Hartsfield Airport, the largest in the United States, and covered by Richmond's notorious traffic, the only people who noticed the gathering were the carefully selected soldiers acting as military police. But, while the soldiers had been carefully selected, they had not been selected from the ranks of MPs.

"Thank you, sir," said the somber gate guard after a thorough study of Mike's driver's license, service ID and face. "Take the main road to a 'T' intersection. Turn right. Follow that road to Forces Command; it is a gray concrete building with a sign. Go past the main building to the guard shack on the left. Turn in there and follow the MP's direction."

"Thank you," said Mike, dropping the Beetle into gear and taking the proffered ID.

"Not at all," the guard said to the already moving Beetle. "Have a nice day." The GDI Commando in an MP uniform picked up a recently installed secure phone. "O'Neal, Michael A., 216-29-1145, 0657. Special attention Lieutenant General John Horner." For a moment the sergeant first class wondered what all the fuss was about, why he was wearing rank three grades inferior to his real one. Then he stopped wondering. The ability to quell curiosity was a desirable trait in a long-term Commando. Damn, he thought, that guy looked just like a fireplug, then dismissed him from memory as the next civilian car pulled up.

"I'd forgotten how much he looks like a fireplug." Lieutenant General John J. (Jumpin' Jack) Horner murmured to himself, standing at a comfortable parade rest as the Volkswagen puttered into a parking place. Over six feet tall and almost painfully handsome, the general's appearance was the epitome of a senior military officer.

Slim and hard looking, stern of mien, the only time he smiled was just before he pulled the rug out from under an incompetent junior officer. Erect of carriage, his Battle Dress Uniform fit as if, contrary to regulation, it was tailored. With closely cropped, silver hair and glacial blue eyes he appeared to be exactly what he was: an iron-clad modern scion of the Prussian warrior class. Were he wearing a greatcoat and jackboots he would slip unnoticed into the WWII Wehrmacht Oberkommando.

His twenty-seven-year career had been spent exclusively in Zone infantry and special operations. Despite having never attained a keystone desire, command of the Commando regiment, he was undoubtedly the world class expert in infantry tactics and doctrine. Furthermore, besides being an excellent theoretician and staff officer, he was considered a superlative commander, a leader of men in the old mold. In his career he had come across many characters, but few matched the squat juggernaut rolling across the emerald grass towards him. Horner laughed internally, remembering the first time he met the former NCO.

"Howarya, Mike?" General Horner asked, as the approaching figure brought him back from memory lane. He extended his hand.

Mike shifted the cedar box under his arm and took the outstretched hand. "Fine, sir, fine. How are the wife and kids?"

"Fine, just fine. You wouldn't believe how the kids have grown. How're Sharon and the girls?" he asked. He noticed in passing that the former soldier had lost none of his musculature. The handshake was like shaking a well-adjusted industrial vise. If anything the former NCO had put on bulk; he moved like a miniature tank. Horner wondered if the soldier would be able to retain that level of physique given the demands that would shortly be placed upon him.

"Well, the girls are okay," said O'Neal, then grimaced. "Sharon's not particularly happy."

"I knew this would be hard on both of you," said the general, smiling slightly, "and I thought about it before I called you. If it wasn't important I wouldn't have asked."

"I thought generals had aides to meet low-level flunkies like me," said Mike, deliberately changing the subject.

"Generals have aides to meet much higher level flunkies than you." Jack frowned, taking the opportunity to leave it behind.

"Well the heck with you then." Mike laughed, handing the officer the box of cigars. "See if I cough up any more Ramars."

Even while on active duty, Specialist O'Neal and then-Lieutenant Colonel Horner had developed a close relationship. The colonel often treated Mike more like an aide-de-camp than a driver. The specialist, and later sergeant, was invited to eat with the colonel's family and Horner explained many of the customs of the service and functions in the staff that would normally remain a mystery to a lowly enlisted man. Mike in turn increased the colonel's computer literacy and introduced him to science fiction. The colonel took to it surprisingly well, considering that he had never read it before. Mike took great care however in the subject matter, starting with the great modern combat science fiction writers to pique his interest.

After Mike left the service they continued to correspond and Mike followed Jack Horner's career. They had lost touch in the last three years, mainly because of a disagreement over Mike's career. After Mike completed college, Horner fully expected him to take a commission, and Mike wanted to work in weapon design and theory, while writing on the side. The colonel could not accept Mike's reasoning and Mike could not accept Jack's inability to take "no" for an answer.

Mike sometimes felt that a career in the Army might have made more sense than civvie street, but he had seen too many officers' lives strained to the breaking point by the demands of the service. When his time to reenlist came he got out instead and went to college. The pressure to take a commission, especially during the tough years when he was just getting started and after Cally came along had been hard on him and hard on his marriage. He had never told Jack but the implicit blackmail was what had caused Mike to sever their relationship.

Sharon had experienced the problems that he only witnessed. Her first marriage to a naval aviator had ended in divorce, so she had no intention of letting Mike go back into the service. His brooding on the severance from Jack, in many ways like that of a son from a father, had distracted him from a discordant note: Jack's rank.

"Lieutenant general?" asked Mike in surprise. The morning sun glittered on the five-pointed stars of the new rank. The last Mike had heard, Horner was on the list for major general. Three-star rank should not have come for another few years.

"Well, 'when you care enough . . . ' "

O'Neal smiled at the reference. "What?" He retorted. "Given your well-known resemblance to Friedrich von Paulus, they decided major general wasn't good enough for you?"

"I was a major general until four days ago, Chief of Staff at the Eighteenth Zone Corps—"

"EZC-O. Congratulations."

"—when I got yanked out for this."

"Isn't that kind of fast to get 'the advice and consent of the GDI Council '?"

"It's a brevet rank," said the officer, impatiently, "but I have it on excellent authority it will be confirmed." He frowned at some private joke.

"I didn't think you could frock—" Mike started to say.

"That'll have to wait, Mike." The general cut him off, smiling slightly. "We have to get you briefed in and that will take a secure room."

Mike suddenly saw a familiar face that made him sure the conference was about science fiction. Across the lawn, surrounded by a sea of Air/Navy black, was a prominent writer who specialized in naval combat.

"Can you give me just a minute, sir? I want to talk to David," he said pointing.

General Horner looked over his shoulder, then turned back. "They're probably taking him in for the same conversation; you two can talk after the meeting. We have a lot of ground to cover before then and it starts at nine." He put an arm around Mike's shoulders. "Come on, Mighty Mite, time to face the cannon."

The secure conference room was windowless but it was probably on the exterior of the building; there was noticeable heat radiating from one wall. Another wall sported a painting of an Mammoth tank cresting a berm, cannon spouting fire; the title was "Seventy-Three Easting." Other than that the room was unadorned: not a plant, not a painting, not a scrap of paper. It smelled of dust and old secrets. Mike ended his perusal by grabbing one of the blue swivel chairs and relaxing as General Horner settled across from him. As the door swung shut, the general smiled, broadly. It gave him a strong resemblance to an angry tiger.

Mike's scowl deepened. "It's that bad?" Horner only smiled like that when the fecal matter had well and truly hit the fan. The last time O'Neal had seen that smile was the beginning of a very unpleasant experience. It suddenly made him sorry he had given up tobacco.

"Worse," said the general. "Mike, this is not for dissemination, whether you choose to stay or not. I need your word on that right now." He leaned back in his swivel chair, affecting a relaxed posture but with tension screaming in every line.

"Okay," said Mike and leaned forward. It suddenly seemed like a perfect time to reacquire a habit. He opened his recent gift to the general and extracted a cigar without asking.

Horner leaned forward in his chair and lit the cigar at the former NCO's lifted eyebrow. Then he leaned back and continued the briefing.

"You and about every other son of a bitch who's ever worn a uniform is about to be recalled." The smile never left his face and there was now a hint of teeth to it.

Mike was so stunned he forgot to draw on the cigar. He felt his stomach lurch and broke out in a cold sweat. "What the hell's happening? Did we go to war with China or something?" He started to draw on the flame but the combination of surprise and trying to light a cigar caused him to choke. He put the cigar down in frustration and leaned forward.

"I can't get into why until the meeting," said the general, putting away his lighter. "But, right now, I've got a blank check. I can bring you in on a direct commission . . ."

"Is this about that again? I—" Mike leaned back and almost started to rise. The statement could not have been more inflammatory given their previous arguments.

"Hear me out, dammit. You can come back, now, as an officer, and make a difference working with me or in a few months you'll be called back anyway as just another mortar sergeant." The general extracted his own Honduran from the box and lit it expertly, in direct defiance of the building's no-smoking regulation. They had both learned the hard way, and in many ways together, when to pay attention to the niceties and when the little stuff went out the window.

"Jesus, sir, you just sprang this on me." Mike's normal frown had deepened to the point it seemed it would split his face as his jaw muscles clenched and released. "I've got a life, you know? What about my family, my wife? Sharon is going to go absolutely ballistic!"

"I checked. Sharon's a former naval officer, she'll get called up, too." The silver-haired officer leaned back and watched his former and hopefully future subordinate's reaction through the fragrant smoke.

"Jesus Christ on a crutch, Jack!" Mike shouted, throwing up his hands in frustration. "What about Michelle and Cally? Who takes care of them?"

"That is what one of the teams at this conference will be working on," said Horner, waiting for the inevitable reaction to subside.

"Can Sharon and I get stationed together?" asked Mike. He motioned for and caught the tossed lighter and relit the Ramar. For the first time in three years he took a deep draw on a cigar and let the nicotine bleed some of the tension off. Then he blew out an angry stream of smoke.

"Probably not . . . . I don't know. None of that has been worked out, yet. Everything is on its ear right now and that's what this conference is about: straightening everything out." Horner looked around for a moment then made an ashtray out of a sheet of paper. He flicked his developing ash into it and set it in the middle of the conference table.

"What gives? I know, you can't tell me, right? OPSEC?" Mike studied the glowing end of his cigar then took another draw.

"I can't and I won't play twenty questions." General Horner stabbed the conference table with a finger and pinned his former subordinate with a glare. "Here's the deal," he continued, blowing out another fragrant cloud. The room had rapidly filled with cigar smoke. "This conference will last three days. I can hold you as a tech rep, for a really stupid amount of money, for the conference, maybe a week. But that is only if you agree to take a commission now. Further, we'll be locked in for quite a while afterwards, maybe a couple of months and any communications with home will be monitored and censored . . . ."

"Hold it, you also didn't say anything about a goddamn lock-in!" Mike snapped, his face stony.

"Debate is not allowed about the lock-in so don't even go there, it's been ordered by the President. Or you can go home and in a few months get orders to report to Benning as a sergeant." Jack leaned back and softened his tone. "But if you come on board now Sharon will get the tech rep check in a week—I can disburse it out of Team funds—and after that you'll be making O-2's salary and benefits including medical and housing, and so on." Jack cocked his head and waited for an answer.

"Sir, look, I'm working on a career here . . . . " Mike twiddled the cigar and contemplated the top of the conference table. He found himself unable to meet Horner's gaze.

"Mike, do not kick me in the teeth. I would not have requested you if you were stupid. I will make this as plain as I can within the limits of my orders: I need you on my team." He stabbed the table again. "Not to put too fine a point on it, your country needs you. Not writing science fiction or making web pages, but doing science fiction. Our kind."

"Doing . . . ?" Then it hit him. The other writer specialized in naval sagas. Space naval sagas, not "wet" navy.

Mike closed his eyes. When he opened them he was staring into a set of blue eyes as cold as the deep between the stars.