Steel Walls and Dirt Drops (5 page)

Misha reached out her hand to Lieutenant Colonel Britaine as he stood to greet her. She was startled to find him so attractive. He was only a few inches shorter than she was with shoulders just as broad as hers. She tried not to stare, but she would have given her left hand to have hips as slim as his. His eyes were startlingly bluish-grey under a wild mass of dark hair. She almost winced under his careful appraisal, wishing she had a more classic look about herself. Heavy-worlders rarely entered inter-planetary beauty contests. She knew she couldn’t even pass the nomination round for a beauty pageant on DropSix, and those pageants were less about beauty and more about the speed and accuracy with gutting sheep.

Bri
taine said, “I am Lieutenant Colonel William Britaine, Commander of the Kiirkegaard. Welcome aboard, Third McPherson.”

Before Misha could answer a paper airplane sailed between them. “Hey
, Muffins, don’t hog the new girl. Introduce us.”

In spite
of herself, Misha blurted out, “I am Third-Level Commander Hamisha Ann McPherson, Colonel Britaine. I have just taken over command of the 1392nd Allied Protective Expeditionary Service deployed aboard the Kiirkegaard.”

Britaine
's smile seemed to glow back at Misha, “Really, Third-Level Commander Hamisha Ann McPherson of the 1392nd Allied Protective Expeditionary Service, we don’t need to be so formal out of earshot of the crew, do we? Call me Bill or even William, if you have to, but Colonel Britaine seems to be a bit formal among fellow officers, don’t you think?”

Misha glanced behind him at the spacers in the Colonel’s office. There were half a dozen men and women in various chairs lounging about. By their collar
insignia, she could tell they were all officers, each with a set of pilot’s wings over their left breast pocket. Even the man with the medical insignia on his collar had wings on his chest.

The man who had thrown the paper airplane spoke up, “Billy or Willy, huh? Sorry, McPherson, but we call him Muffins for reasons I am not at liberty to explain. So, what do we call you,
darlin’?”

Britaine said, “
Nuff, Digger. Hamisha, isn’t it?” He pronounced the first syllable as if it were a part of a cured pig’s butt, not the proper DropSix pronunciation with the long a.

She was used to having her name mispronounced,
even though she had pronounced it correctly just seconds ago. She replied diplomatically, “Misha is fine, sir.”

Britaine nodded and pointed around the room at the assembled officers, “Digger Paradise is my XO. These others are Skunk,
Waterboy, Tinker, Spanker, Aces, Puke and Nuke.”

Misha was not surprised to see the names given did not match the name
s on their uniforms. Pilots and FAC crew used nicknames, often vulgar and offensive, rather than their given names. She had seen this on other AMSF spacecraft. Her first four-year enlistment had been with the AMSF in flight intelligence where she interacted with the spacecraft command and FAC jockeys.

Britaine continued,
“Puke is Doctor Richard Dimms, our esteemed fight surgeon. You are welcome to call upon his services as needed, although I do believe you have your own medical staff for the rest of your people.”

“Yes,
sir. I have not been able to meet with all of my people yet, just my seconds. However, according to my organizational chart, we are sufficiently staffed for most medical problems. Does Dr. Dimms have a staffing problem that precludes inter-service medical attention? I am sure my people could lend a hand.”

“No
, quite the opposite,” Britaine flashed a brilliant smile at her. “Puke has got an excellent staff. We find that on the Kiirkegaard it works best for Puke to handle mainly FAC crews, plus a few other select officers like yourself as ranking commander of your forces. He has a competent staff to handle the rest of the officers and crew. It helps to split the duties up for more specialized care.”

Britaine stepped to the
hatch of his office and bellowed, “Spacer, coffee in here.” He turned back to Misha and said, “Or would you prefer another beverage? No? Well, if I recall Third Cans mostly carried his own drink.”

Misha heard sniggers from
one or two of the officers in the room, but she decided to ignore it. Inter-service rivalry was as old as military service itself. However, she was surprised to see more than one officer roll their eyes or make a face behind Britaine’s back. She wondered if the facial expressions were directed at Britaine or because he mentioned Cans. It made her feel more confident to think that Britaine might not be as well liked by all of his crew as everyone pretended.

Britaine smiled. “From what I have heard of you, Misha
, you are just the gal to whip his old bunch of mud crawlers into shape. About your seconds, you will find your predecessor was a bit lax about them. It seems he let them run loose. Please don’t get me wrong. I am not about to tell you how to command your people. That is your business.”

She said, “Third Cans may have been a bit lax about a few things,
sir, but, I can assure you my seconds and I will get things in order well before we drop planetary.” Before she could say anything else a master sergeant brought in a tray with coffee and condiments.

Britaine said to the man, “Spacer
, why didn’t you bring us some donuts or cookies from the officer’s mess? I know they have them. And get a haircut, too. Dammit, man! At least try to look good even if you aren’t any good at your job.”

Misha was aghast
, but kept her face neutral. Spacer was a generalized name for the lower third of the nine enlisted ranks. It was never used on a sergeant or above. Sergeant was a title reserved for the middle three ranks. Proper military courtesy was to call a master sergeant by his full title of master sergeant, a senior master sergeant was a senior master or simply senior, and the top enlisted rank was the chief master sergeant or chief, an exalted and rarefied position. Calling a master sergeant a spacer was an insult that any enlisted man would not let pass if voiced by another enlisted. Misha could see no change of expression in the master sergeant’s demeanor. She wondered, “Surely the colonel knows the rankings of his own service.”

Britaine continued, “Now, Misha. Your
seconds are sort of like our enlisted noncoms or sergeants. So, I would appreciate it if you kept them out of officer’s country unless they are on official business.”

Misha said, “Sir,
I am sure you know we consider all APES to be enlisted. We don’t have officers at any command level.”

“Tut tut, Misha, we know that is the
APES official propaganda, but we also all know differently, don’t we? The cream always rises to the top. And on the Kiirkegaard, we like to separate the cream from the milk.”

“Excuse me,
sir. But-”

Britaine interrupted
with a smile, “Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it soon enough. Besides, I don’t think you will be deployed here very long. We can get to your engagement orders quickly. As I said before, Third Cans was a bit lax. I believe we did not start off on the right foot here, Misha.” He gave her another of his dazzling smiles and continued. “I don’t want to come across too harsh on our first day together, but my people tell me that you came aboard almost four hours ago. Why is it that you are just now presenting yourself to the vessel commander?” Before she could answer, he continued as the smile slid off his face. “No, please don’t interrupt. I really do think we should adhere to military courtesy between services. I am the captain of this vessel and its senior officer. I realize you are not of FAC crew caliber, but surely even APES report in when deploying to a new command. Perhaps you could explain yourself to me and my staff.”

Misha looked at Britaine and his assembled staff. She wondered if he was joking or serious.
The return looks she got from the men and the women in the room varied enough to not provide any clues to Britaine’s sense of humor. She was sure some of the officer’s expressions were well practiced poker faces.

“With all due respect, Colonel
-” Misha began.

Britaine snapped back,
“Whoa! Hold on there, APE. I truly hate it when I hear a sentence beginning with ‘all due respect’. It is an inevitable indication that I am going to hear something I don’t like. Are you certain you want to continue in that manner?”

She began again, deliberately keeping her temper in check, “Yes, Colonel Britaine. With all due respect
-”

Britaine held up a hand for her to stop
and said coldly, “Enough, girl. Let me make this clear to you. This is a direct order. No embellishments, no ‘with all due respect’ excuses, no extenuating circumstances. You will come to attention as befits who I am. You will apologize for your discourtesy to me. And yes, I see your fine pretty little ribbon on your chest. Giving an Aires medal to a ground pounder is like feeding fine earth caviar to an enlisted man.” He looked over his shoulder for his officer’s agreement.

Misha slowly counted to ten, very slowly. Then looking Britaine directly in the eyes, while remaining at a comfortable at-ease stance, she counted to ten again. Inter-service relations were often strained, but she was sure relations on this craft would get real tense if she pounded this arrogant cretin. She was even pretty
confident she would come out ahead if she took on this whole bunch of flight weenies in unarmed conflict.

Most of all, Misha decided she was
not going to kowtow to this petty tyrant. She had met his type many times before. They called themselves flight jocks. They were men and women who would take their tiny and deadly fast attack craft (FAC) into one on one space bound dogfights against an enemy FAC or even larger transport craft or motherships like the Kiirkegaard. To Misha, it was crazy work. Sure, she fought inside a tin can, much like FAC jocks, but she fought sensibly on the ground in an atmosphere where if, gods forbid, something goes wrong, at least she could breath.

As a rule AMSF promoted pilots into command
positions and pilots promoted other pilots who in turn promoted more pilots. Many command level officers continued to fly their FACs into combat. They left control of their motherships to junior ranking flight crew, often rotating control to give them each the experience of commanding one of the large spacecrafts they called trash haulers.

A
FAC jock’s rally cry was “If you ain’t a pilot, you ain’t shit.”. This seemed to fly in the face of logic. It caused many of them to treat their mechanics, engineers, and weapons technicians as serfs or second-class citizens. It was the height of foolishness to insult, even by omission, the very people your life might depend on when you went into combat. She decided it would be prudent to never get into a small craft piloted by Britaine. It might not be safe due to equipment malfunctions of the preventable sort.

Misha thought briefly
about her earlier rampage through the APES held parts of the craft. It might have ruffled a few feathers, but she knew the main difference was that she and her fellow APES would be going into combat together. She knew an AMSF technician could easily leave a valve turned the wrong way or a button unpushed, then calmly go to lunch after launching a FAC off the flight deck, all without any damage to themself. Most AMSF personnel Misha met had too much pride in themselves and their service to do such a thing. However, if a FAC jock insulted and pushed the wrong enlisted person, it would be a long walk back to the mothership, with very little scenery to take their mind off the nagging lack of oxygen in space. Misha met more than her share of this type of officer in her time in AMSF intelligence.

Misha decided to let Britaine stew in his own juices. He
r father taught all of his children to argue, haggle, negotiate and generally verbally twist their way through most conversations. She had never been very good at negotiation, but one phrase she remembered very clearly. She could even hear her father’s voice as he shouted ‘the first man to speak loses’. Besides, in this case it seemed to be much more prudent to remain silent than to draw blood.

She continued to stare at Britaine in silence.

Finally he said, “Well?”

Misha smiled at him and replied, “Pardon me, Colonel. Did you ask something?”

“You know damn good and well I did, McPherson. I command here. I will not be insulted on my own spacecraft.”

“Colonel Britaine
,” Misha said, still smiling, “I may be a new third, but I am not ignorant of our respective service's contracts. I agree you are in command of this vessel. Without a doubt, sir, I agree.”

She stepped toward
Britaine, moving quickly to break through his physical comfort zone. Misha didn’t know where the man was from. If he was from one of the crowded worlds, he might have only a few inches of personal space. If he came from one of the agricultural worlds like her home planet of DropSix, he might have come to the AMSF with a bubble space of four or five feet. That much space would be greatly whittled down over the years of spacecraft service. However, she had never met a FAC jock who didn’t get uncomfortable when pressed physically, at least when they were sober. She was pleased to see a flash of concern in his eyes.

She said calmly, “I have a copy of the
APES contract with the AMSF for this deployment. It has been attached as Exhibit 11 of my orders. It is in my glass-pack. Do we need to review them, sir?”