2: CALM WATERS AND CHOPPY SEAS
At 9AM sharp, Gabe walked down to the shipyard and out onto dock number one.
The Gears under his command stood at attention, in a neat line along the old wooden planks of the dock. Opposite them, on the side where the boats were moored, the sailors stood. Three per boat. Pilot, navigator, engineer. Technically they answered to Phillips, not him, but since being promoted Gabe had earned their trust and respect. He couldn’t remember the last time any of them had asked Phillips before following one of his orders.
There were sixteen patrol boats in all. They gleamed in the morning sun.
The Gears stood in full combat loadout. They were a pool from which to be drawn. When a patrol went out, a minimum of two Gears would accompany the sailors. Two was the norm around here, with so little activity on dry ground. A full squad of six could be deployed, though, and in a pinch as many as ten warriors could crowd in.
One hundred and sixty Gears lined the dock.
Gabe walked down the line of soldiers first, inspecting their kit as much as the look in their eyes. “Vacant stare” was what he drilled, and vacant stares were what he saw. As for the kit, things weren’t quite as satisfactory.
“Private Howe!”
“Sir!”
“Break that Lancer down and clean it again. I can see grit from here.”
“Sir!”
The man stepped out of the line and run-marched back to the armory.
“Corporal Davis!”
“Sir!”
“Is that a standard scope on that Longshot?”
“No, sir!”
“Well what the hell is it, then?”
“Sir, the scope is from a Pesanga boar rifle. Traded for it when I was—”
“Is it better than ours?”
“Sir, yessir! Their optics are—”
“As you were, soldier.”
The woman clapped her jaw shut.
“Adapt and improvise,” Gabe said. “Well done, Davis. Just clear it with me next time, please.”
She smiled, slightly. The smile vanished when Gabe threw an extra glare her way. It was a fine line, he knew. Most of his fellow lieutenants were all about regs. Everything by the book, the COG way was the only way, the COG way was best. Army before Navy. That sort of thing.
Gabe Diaz didn’t hate many things, but blind obedience bugged him. There were always other ways to do things. Creative ways to solve problems. It was all in one’s mindset. Thinking not just about results, but of consequences, what to do about them, and the consequences of those actions, too. Initiative and critical thought were as essential as a properly cleaned and oiled Lancer, in his book.
On the line of one hundred and sixty Gears, he counted six with fresh “NO80” tattoos. Several more had actually used a torch to emblazon the slogan on their armor. It was time, Gabe thought, to address the phenomenon directly.
“Private Abbot!” Gabe shouted at the sixth tattoo wearer. The man was near the end of the row, and stiffened at his name being called out.
“Sir!”
“Explain that.”
“It’s a tattoo, sir.”
“No shit, Private. What does it mean?”
The man’s posture shifted, suddenly nervous. “I’m sure the LC knows. Sir.”
“I’m asking you.”
“No eighty. No eightieth year of war.”
“An end to the war?”
“Yessir.”
“This year?”
The man nodded.
“And those of you wearing this, are you aware of some victory plan? Something that I’m not? A final push? A great offensive?”
No one spoke.
“Perhaps you plan to surrender on New Year’s Eve, then?”
They grew shifty. The silence remained.
Gabe stood there, staring at them, knowing that Phillips would be watching this from her office. He had to play this right, and wished now he had just ignored it. Phillips hadn’t told him to put an end to the slogan, after all, but he thought it was probably a test, considering she’d said nothing about it as of yet.
“This war, between the Coalition and the UIR,” he said, in his lowest tone that would still carry up the dock, “will end when people way above our pay grade decide it will end. This year, next, or ten more down the road. That’s not our decision. They make the strategy. We carry it out.”
Silence reigned on the line, but something else, too. A tension in the air. That barest hint of defiance or, perhaps, disobedience.
“We all want the war to end, Abbot, but it’s strategy that’s going to win it. That and all of us, doing our part to the best of our ability. It’s most definitely not an arbitrary timeframe chosen because it makes for a good tattoo. Am I understood?”
“Sir!”
“So I’m going to work under the assumption,” Gabe went on, “that when I see ‘no eighty’ on your arms and armor, painted on walls and hulls and signs, that what you’re telling me is that you’re going to kick so much UIR ass in the next six months that the Indies’ll surrender out of sheer exhaustion.”
They knew this tone, and what it prompted. A chant erupted from the line, all bellowing the single syllable in unison.
“HOO!”
“Good. Gears, dismissed.”
The Gears turned and marched off back to their duties. Gabe turned to the sailors, then, and repeated the process. Their half of the dock included the boats, though, and inspecting all of them took the better part of the afternoon. Whatever reservations they might have held about having someone outside the Navy inspect their boats had vanished a long time ago. Gabe had made sure of it, mainly by studying. He knew as much about their boats and procedures as any Naval officer, and with that knowledge he’d earned a grudging respect.
By the time he reached the last boat, the sun was already kissing the horizon. Gabe was invited, as was tradition, then stepped aboard and started with the engines. He’d already noticed that there was oil in the water beneath this craft, and the smell of it was everywhere. When the engineer lifted the hatch to access the engines, it hit them all like a fist.
“Call me crazy, sailor, but I think we’ve got a leak here.”
“Negative, sir.”
Gabe glanced at the woman, ready to argue, but there was a calm in her face that gave him pause. She radiated confidence.
“Care to explain, Petty Officer Gian?”
“This is the CNV Righteous, sir.” She gestured to the twin engines below the deck hatch. Gabe knew the name. The boat had arrived from Merrenat a few weeks before, part of a program to test out changes and improvements to the old, trustworthy ship platform.
The engine bay was filthy. Amber liquid, burned black in places, covered nearly every surface. Some of those surfaces weren’t present on the rest of the fleet.
“They’ve added turbos,” he said, more to himself than Gian.
“Correct. Fifty percent improvement in raw power, once they’re spooled up.”
He nodded, impressed in spite of himself. “I’ll take your word for it, but that still looks like a leak to me.”
“No, sir,” she said. “The wrenches from Merrenat tell me that’s ‘expected venting of excess lubricant that results from prolonged use of…’ Etcetera, etcetera.”
Gabe frowned. “So we have fifty percent more power, but can’t use it without leaving a nice slick trail for the enemy to follow.”
“Plus it’s stinking up our docks,” Gian added.
“That, too.” Gabe swatted a bug behind his ear, not quick enough to avoid a bite though. “Well, give them whatever data they need, and call a leak a leak, will you? I’ll amend it with my feelings on the matter. Which is to say, I think it’s total bullshit in its current state. Useless.”
“Yessir!”
“In the meantime, run the Righteous at a lower power to prevent this excess venting.”
“Um,” Gian said. “That’s not possible, sir.”
“Pardon?”
“Design flaw, I think.” She gestured to the engine bay. “The turbos take up so much room that the engine is no longer sufficiently cooled, even when normally aspirated. We’re getting this, uh, expected venting, no matter how hard we push her.”
“You’d think those idiots would have noticed it before they sent her to us.”
“They did notice,” she said.
“Oh, did they?” he responded. “And what was their advice on the issue?”
She shrugged. “They said they only do engines. Venting and airflow design is run from a team at—”
“‘Not our problem,’ in other words.”
“Essentially.”
“Right. I’ll talk to Phillips, see if we can’t sort it out. Thank you, Gian.”
“What do you want us to do in the meantime?” It was the ship’s pilot, Mendez, who’d been standing silently behind them the whole time. He looked out of his element. Gabe studied the engine for a moment longer, then looked at the two of them in turn.
“Anything preventing us from tinkering a bit?”
Gian smiled. Mendez frowned, clearly not pleased with having to deal with all this untested equipment, and clearly aware that “tinkering” was unlikely to make his life any easier.
“Right,” Gabe said. “Here’s what I want you to do. Go over to the armory, and—”
“Armory’s under renovation,” Mendez said. “Sir,” he added as an afterthought.
“I’m well aware of that, sailor. Go over there and talk to the foreman. See if we can ‘borrow’ two sections of metal grid plating. They’re adding a second story and a catwalk over the warehouse floor, so they should have plenty.”
“Catwalk?”
“Yes, exactly.” He pointed at the deck hatch that covered the engine bay. “We’ll weld the mesh plates together and replace that hatch with it.”
“Allowing the excess heat to vent,” Gian said. “Very good, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Except for all the seawater that will get in there if we’re in choppy seas,” she added. He stared at her for a moment, impressed by her forwardness. The military could use more of that, he thought.
“Mendez,” Gabe said, “when was the last time you had choppy seas in the Lesser Islands?”
“Calmest waters on Sera, sir,” the man said, though he still sounded dubious. “Long as you stay clear of the north-facing sandbars.”
“See, Gian? Besides, I’m sure the fine wrenches over at Merrenat want us to test her effectiveness under a flooded-engine-bay scenario.”
“It is on the list,” Gian agreed, coming around to the idea.
“Then do it.”
No one argued this time. Gabe finished inspecting the ship, noticing several new pieces of navigation gear as well, but decided he’d given them enough to think about for one day.
By the time he left, Gian was already dismantling the hinges on the deck hatch, her face marred by a smear of grease.
* * *
The next morning Gabe repeated his running routine. Out past the razor wire, run along the beach, greet the fishermen and long for the simplicity of their lives, then back to the base and his duty.
When he reached the wall, it was not a patrolling Gear waiting for him, but Captain Phillips.
She eyed him from the top of the stairs, hands clasped behind her back. As Gabe came up the steps he realized he’d never seen the expression she currently wore. There was a moment, when he came to a stop and held up a hand to catch his breath, that he thought she was going to tell him the war had ended. That the noeighties had got their wish.
“About time you came back,” Phillips said.
“What’s happened?”
“That goddamn Ghost team ran into trouble, and now they need evac.”
Wyatt… Gabe tried to keep his immediate emotions in check. There were plenty of Gears out there, not just the one he’d grown up with.
The Captain turned and walked. Gabe fell in beside her.
“Call came in twenty minutes ago,” she said. “Fucking morons. Coming here and screwing up our stalemate.”
“What happened?” he repeated, forcing more authority into his voice, despite being outranked.
Phillips took a deep breath. “That is currently unclear,” she said. “All we know is they’re at Knifespire.”
“Knifespire? Why?”
“Classified,” she spat. “But that’s where they are, so that’s where you’re going.”
Gabe tried to picture the place. In an island chain of unimportant rocks, Knifespire had to be at the bottom of the barrel. It was small, for starters, and the westernmost island in the chain, a full mile away from the next closest piece of land. It had a rocky shore, save for maybe one or two small coves—he couldn’t really remember, never having had reason to study it. The unforgiving shore gave way to a long and narrow span of rocky terrain called Gatka Ridge, which ended in the island’s namesake, Knifespire. A nearly vertical spar of volcanic rock that rose four hundred feet almost straight up, ending in a sharp tip that resembled a dagger.
It was an unforgiving place. Other than the jungle around Gatka Ridge, nothing much grew there. So what the hell was Special Forces’ interest in it?
Nothing good, Gabe imagined.
And now they were in trouble. Which meant…
“Was the UIR already there?” he asked, leaving the implication unvoiced. If they were, it meant the COG had missed something. That the island wasn’t so useless after all. That meant someone screwed up. Possibly Gabe, if a patrol had failed to spot Gorasni activity.
Phillips wheeled on him. “Did you miss the part where I said we don’t know anything? I’ll repeat myself if I have to.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good.” She poked him in the chest with one damned strong finger. “They called for evac, then went silent. That’s all we have to go on. So get out there and bring them home.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want to make it clear, Diaz, that if we lose a spec-ops team, Vectes is going to be crawling with Ghosts by this time next week, and Hoffman will be with them. That’s the last thing I need.” She didn’t wait for an affirmative this time. She simply turned on her heel and stormed away.
Gabe frowned inwardly, watching her go. He wondered if he’d ever have a commanding officer who was looking out for something other than their own career.
“No wonder the pendulum still swings,” he muttered.
* * *
He went to the offices for the local Naval Reconnaissance squad first, saluting the staff as he entered. His was a face they’d quickly become accustomed to seeing. Gabe made for the charts room, flipping through the huge papers on the table until he found the one that included Knifespire.
The map was the same one he’d seen several times before. What interested him now was a filing index written in the corner. Gabe memorized it, then went to the cabinets on the wall and ran his index finger along the dozens of drawers until he found the one he wanted.
Knifespire’s folder was thin, but it contained what he needed. The latest notes Recon had made in their tireless observations of the whole theater. Short on time, Gabe scanned the most recent report, logged three days ago, looking for anything interesting.
“Damn,” he said. The effort seemed a waste of time, as all of the entries were marked with a simple NNR—nothing new to report.
As he closed the folder he noticed one marking, however. Not on Knifespire itself, but the ocean west of it. Gabe studied the comment, and the location, then snapped the folder closed. The tidbit of information might be nothing, but any knowledge was useful knowledge in his view.
He left, heading for the barracks.
As he pushed inside, he winced.
It was like any other morning, of course, but he’d hoped after yesterday’s drill that there’d be a bit more wind in everyone’s sails. Gears and sailors alike were in various states of dress, readiness, even consciousness. Only a few had their uniforms on and were in the process of heading out for duty.
“LC on deck!” someone shouted. The transformation was instant, and made him proud. Within seconds the disarray had all but vanished, resulting in two neat lines of men and women on either side of the room, all eyes forward, staring at nothing. Gabe didn’t bother with preliminaries or speeches. They were on the clock now.
“Mendez, Carter, Finn.”
The three sailors glanced his way.
“I want your boats ready to leave in five minutes. Not a drill. Go, and hop to.”
They stepped out of line, along with their assigned navigators and engineers. The nine sailors rushed past Gabe, no further instructions needed.
“Gian,” he said as the engineer passed him.
She stopped and turned, chin lifted in acknowledgment.
“She ready?”
“She’s ready, sir, but not tested.”
“Fair enough. Make me proud.”
She nodded and left, sprinting now to catch up to her crewmates.
Gabe turned back to the others. “Blair?” A woman stepped forward, eyes still front. She was the best Gear under his command. Tough, smart, and capable of independent thought. “Get a squad together, whichever Gears have their armor on and their weapons prepped the quickest. Be on the dock in five.”
“Sir!”
Gabe turned and left, crossing the yard to his own quarters as the sound of Gears filled the barracks behind him. They were competing to go on the op. He smiled, went inside his room, and pulled his own armor off its stand, determined to be there before any of them.
As he laced up his combat boots, Gabe found himself at eye-level with a framed photograph on his desk. Three boys stared back at him, ages thirteen, eleven, and eight, respectively. He and his brother Oscar were both smiling. Beside them was the scrawny form of Wyatt Callahan. He hadn’t been smiling that day and Gabe couldn’t remember why. The kid was always worried about trouble of one sort or another. Gabe thought that was probably still the case. The difference now was that Wyatt had figured out how to stay above it.
Or bury it.
Gabe hoped he’d get the chance to find out which.