“Now,” the supply offi?cer said, as he motioned for the other two to follow him. “Take a look at this!”
Santana arrived at the very last table to fi?nd that a complete set of cold-weather camos had been laid out on the table, including thermal underwear, heated socks, insulated vests, wind-and snow-resistant outerwear, and heavy-duty boots. All of which were identical to what the Legion would issue to its bio bods except for one important detail: Rather than the white-gray camo pattern that the Legion preferred, the uniforms spread out in front of the cavalry offi?cer were white and black, which was the iteration the navy issued to its personnel when they were forced to work on wintry planets like Algeron. Just one of the ways in which the various branches sought to preserve their precious identities. But what, if anything, did that have to do with Santana? He was mystifi?ed. “That’s some nice-looking gear, sir. Naval issue if I’m not mistaken.”
“No, you’re correct,” Hamby responded evenly. “Ironically, given our situation, the navy storage facility on the far side of the C-Ring has tons of that stuff. More than they will be able to use during the next fi?ve years.”
“But they don’t want to give it to us,” Kobbi said disgustedly. “Because an unforeseen emergency could arise —
and a certain admiral wants to cover his ass.”
By that time the true purpose of the meeting was starting to become apparent. Having attempted to obtain the cold-weather gear through offi?cial channels, and having been refused—Kobbi and the regimental supply offi?cer were contemplating a so-called midnight requisition. And, rather than order Santana to steal the supplies, which would be illegal, they were informing him of the need in hopes that he would take it upon himself to effect the necessary “transfer.”
The unoffi?cial assignment was a compliment of sorts, since it implied a great deal of trust on Kobbi’s part, but it was also unfair. Since the Legion could court-martial Santana if he was caught—while the more senior offi?cers would probably go free. He could say “no,” of course, by simply ignoring the entire conversation, which was clearly the smart thing to do. Even if that meant losing Kobbi’s sponsorship. But that would mean that the 1st REC’s bio bods would hit the dirt on Gamma-014 dressed for a summer stroll just as the temperature started to drop and snow fell out of the sky. The result would be unnecessary casualties. Which was why Santana was going to do the wrong thing for what he believed to be the right reasons. Kobbi detected the slight hardening of the cavalry offi? cer’s features and knew he had the right man. “That’s unfortunate, sir,” Santana said evenly.
“Thank you for the briefi?ng. Is there anything else?”
Hamby looked over to Kobbi, saw the general shake his head, and looked back again. “No, Captain. There isn’t.
Come on. I have a bottle of Scotch stashed in my desk—and there’s no reason to save it.”
The Legion had strict rules about who could legitimately have sex with whom, but there was always someone who chose to violate such regulations, even though the penalties could be quite severe. One such individual was Staff Sergeant Lin Schira who, having successfully seduced one of the clerks that reported to him, enjoyed having sex with her in the storage room adjacent to the offi?ce they shared with three other people. A rather mechanical process in which the lance corporal was required to drop her pants, bend over, and hang on to a storage rack while Schira took her from behind. And, because the sergeant liked to have sex just prior to lunch, everyone knew better than to enter the storage room at 1130 hours. Everyone except Company Sergeant Dice Dietrich that is, who had been aware of the daily assignation for some time, but had chosen to mind his own business. But that was then, and this was now, as the rangy noncom entered the BatSup offi?ce, ordered all of the enlisted people to
“take ten,” and made his way over to the door labeled “Storeroom.” Plastic buckled as Dietrich kicked the door in and a girlish scream was heard as the hard-eyed noncom entered with camera in hand. Schira swore as the fl? ash strobed, and there was a good deal of scuffl?ing as the lovers hurried to pull their pants up. “Yeah, yeah,” Dietrich said heartlessly. “Life sucks. But that’s how God wants it! Now, assuming you would like to own this camera, there are some things you’ll need to do for me. Or, I can send this puppy up to the general, who will pull your stripes and send you to a billet even worse than Adobe. So, what’ll it be? The choice is yours.”
Even though Navy Master Chief Yas Ruha could have spent the entire watch sitting on his can, while the twenty-one bio bods and robots under his command did all the work, he liked to pilot the bright yellow CH-60 loaders and took pride in his ability to do so. That was why the lifer was strapped into one of the fi?fteen-foot-tall exoskeletons, busy plucking cargo modules off the “three” shelf, when a “train” load of cargo modules arrived at the bottom of the four-lane access ramp. Which, in keeping with standing orders, his subordinates were quick to report.
Having placed the last module onto an outgoing power pallet, Ruha guided the huge walker over to the vast inprocessing area, where newly arrived supplies were routinely scanned into the tracking system, prior to being stored on the appropriate racks. Two neatly uniformed navy supply techs were waiting to greet the master chief as he put the CH-60 on standby and hit his harness release. Rather than use the builtin steps the way some newbie would, Ruha dropped onto an actuator, and wrapped his arms around a steel leg. Then, with a confi?dence that stemmed from years of practice, he slid to the fl?oor. “Good afternoon,” the diminutive master chief said as he crossed the pavement to where the other two men were waiting. “So what can you do for me?”
The joke was suffi?cient to elicit a chuckle from both the dark-haired chief petty offi?cer and the hollow- cheeked fi?rstclass who stood at his side. “A whole shitload of space armor just came off the Epsilon Indi,” Santana answered genially. And it’s supposed to go aboard the Cygnus pronto. Unfortunately the Cygy isn’t going to drop hyper until o-dark-thirty. So we need a place to stash the stuff until tomorrow, when we can boost it back up. All the tracking data should be insystem.”
“ ‘Should be,’ and ‘is,’ are two different things,” Ruha said cynically. “So it never hurts to check.” So saying, the master chief drew a pistol-shaped scanner from the holster on his right thigh and made his way past the tractor. As soon as he was level with the fi?rst cargo module, the noncom ran the scanner over the bar code plastered across the side of the box and eyeballed the tiny screen.
Santana held his breath. Sergeant Schira swore that while it was almost impossible to remove supplies from the system without triggering lots of alarms, it was relatively easy to add items, since thieves would have no motive to do so. That was the theory anyway—but would it work? Or would the little master chief realize something was wrong and call the shore patrol? Because if that occurred, it would soon become apparent that Dietrich and he were imposters. But, based on the way Ruha was acting, it looked like Schira’s theory was correct. Because the petty offi?cer was walking along next to the train, and each time he scanned a bar code, the noncom would nod as if satisfi?ed with what he saw. Had the master chief been paying attention to anything other than the numbers on his scanner, he might have noticed that all of the cargo modules had been freshly painted and equipped with the type of Legion-style grab bars that would enable T-2s to move them around.
Thankfully, Ruha wasn’t attuned to such matters, so once the cargo was checked in, all the imposters had to do was get a receipt, and turn some very small robots loose on their way out. Once on the surface it was a simple matter to abandon the stolen tractor, enter a waiting quad, and wait for the hatch to close before changing back into their Legion uniforms. Then, having sought fold-down seats in the otherwise empty cargo compartment, it was time to fi?sh a cold beer out of a cooler and start to worry. Phase one of the plan was complete—but what about
