Changing of the Guard

29

Net Force HQ

Quantico, Virginia

Jay sat in his office, staring at the wall. Maybe coming into work had not been such a good idea. He should be on-line, in VR, should be hunting for clues that would lead him to Natadze, but he couldn’t get going, couldn’t seem to overcome the inertia.

He felt… tired. As if he hadn’t slept in weeks. Stalled.

He looked up to see the new military commander, Colonel Kent, in the doorway.

Kent said, “You all right, son?”

Jay started to nod and wave him off, but somehow, the feelings he’d been having boiled up, and before he could help himself, he said, “I’ve been better.”

Kent raised an eyebrow. He stepped into the office.

Feeling as if he were suddenly riding a runaway horse over whom he had no control, Jay started talking. He was aghast at himself as he began to spill the story about being shot and how it made him feel — the fear, the inability to help himself.

Why am I saying this?! To somebody who is almost a complete stranger?! I haven’t even told Saji!

But even as he thought this, he couldn’t stop, not until it had all poured out.

When he was done, Jay said, “I’m — I’m sorry, Colonel. I didn’t mean to run on like that.”

Kent shook his head. “No problem, son. I’ve heard it before. Felt it myself. They used to call it ‘shell shock,’ then it was ‘battle fatigue.’ Now it’s called Delayed Stress Syndrome. It happens to men in harm’s way — soldiers, cops, firemen. After things are all over, it sets in. It’s not something you can control.”

Jay shook his head.

“It’s true. Even in guys who have trained their whole lives for combat, career military men, it happens. The map is never the territory. It’s the reason no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy. VR can be realistic as hell, but some part of you knows you won’t die when a bullet hits you in a computer scenario. That same part knows when the pucker-factor is real and you could check out at any second.”

Jay said, “Yeah, I guess.”

Kent looked at him. “Let me tell you about my old friend Anson. Maybe it will help. Anson was D.I. I met him when I was in the Corps. He did his thirty years, then retired and went home to Kansas City. One Saturday night a couple years back, he took his date to a nice restaurant. Now you need to understand that Anson was a sawed-off fence-post of a guy, maybe five-seven, a hundred and fifty pounds, but tough as a trunk full of rawhide dog chews.”

Jay stared at him. Where was this going?

“So Anson and his date have dinner, and while they are working on dessert, a couple of big ole country boys two tables over start getting loud. Celebrating something, and washing it down with a lot of beer. One of the guys gets up to go to the head. He leers at Anson’s date, gives her a ‘Hey, baby!’ and says something to the effect of, ‘Why don’t you drop this shrimp and join us, we’ll show you a good time!’

“The woman smiles politely and tells him no. The guy, who is a real big bruiser, muscles on his muscles, shrugs and goes off to the can.

“So Anson and his date finish, pay their check, and head for their car. But in the parking lot are the two guys who were being raucous inside.

“Anson doesn’t say anything, just goes to his vehicle and unlocks the passenger door to let his date in.

“One of the guys, the bigger one, calls out, ‘Hey, Momma, it’s not to late to join the party!’

“Anson straightens himself up to his five-seven, turns and looks at the guy, and says, ‘She said she wasn’t interested. ’

“The bruiser gives Anson a go-to-hell look. ‘Hey, Gramps, how would you like it if I came over there and stomped on you?’

“Anson just ignores him. He looks at his date and says, ‘Let’s go.’

“So the bruiser smiles, a nasty expression. He nods at the woman with Anson. ‘Yeah, that’s right old man. Run away.’

“Now Anson’s getting pretty steamed himself by now, but he keeps his head.

“Bruiser starts heading toward them now, slowly. ‘C’mon, babe,’ he says to Anson’s date. ‘You can do better than this guy.’

“Well, Anson’s had about enough of this. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘you’ve had your fun, and you’ve had your chance. The lady doesn’t want to go anywhere with you, and to tell you the truth, I’m getting pretty sick of looking at you myself, so why don’t you just go away before you get hurt.’

“Now maybe Anson shouldn’t have said that. Insulting a guy like this is about as effective as trying to put out a fire by throwing gasoline on it. But like I said, Anson was getting pretty mad by now himself.

“ ‘You’re crazy, old man,’ Bruiser says. ‘You don’t know who you’re talking to, do you?’

“ ‘Doesn’t matter, son. For the last time, turn around and go away while you still can.’

“Next to Anson, the woman is speechless, her eyes wide, and she’s thinking that Anson is about to get himself a major whipping for goading this guy.

“Bruiser’s buddy, who is almost as big as he is, catches Bruiser’s arm as he starts for Anson. ‘Don’t do it, man. He’s just another jerk, the world is full of ’em.’

“But Bruiser is ready to rumble, and you can almost hear what he is thinking: This little guy had just dissed him in front of a good-lookin’ woman!

“ ‘I’m gonna make it one less full,’ he says to his friend. ‘Pal, you’re about to get crap-stomped by Harley William Dahl. I don’t care if you’re some kind of karate or kung fu expert showing off for your lady, I’m a two-time winner of K-1, and the North American Heavyweight NHB champ. I break men twice your size in half just to warm up, and I am gonna pound you into the ground like a tent peg!’

“Harley takes a couple of steps, then pulls up short, as Anson comes out from under his jacket with a forty- five slabside, cocked-and-locked.

“ ‘Pleased to meet you, Harley. I’m not anybody special — just an old retired Marine who can shoot Expert with this here antique Colt. Now like I said, why don’t you take a walk?’

“ ‘You can’t do that!’ Harley says. ‘It would be murder. ’

“ ‘You just told me what a champion fighter you are in front of a witness. I wouldn’t have a prayer against you hand-to-hand — no jury in the world would convict me for shooting you.’

“Harley glowers. His buddy pulls at his arm again. ‘Leave it, man!’

“Harley doesn’t want to do that. He is mad. ‘They’d fry the little coward!’

“ ‘The man has a gun, Harley! What do you care what a jury thinks? If it gets to that, you won’t be around to see it!’

“Something filters through. Harley backs up a step. ‘If you didn’t have that gun—’ he begins.

“Anson cuts him off. ‘If the world had been flat, son, Columbus would have sailed off the edge, wouldn’t he? I may be just a little coward, but I do have the gun, my ace beats your king. Go home and live. Come at me, and die. Your choice, it really don’t much matter much to me.’

“And Harley looks into Anson’s face and sees that the man would just as soon shoot him as not, and he lets his friend drag him away, cursing as he goes. Anson holsters the gun, opens the door for his lady friend, that’s that.”

Kent leaned against the wall. “Now, Anson is a modest man, not prone to bragging about how he does things. I heard the story from his date, who became his wife shortly thereafter. Nice lady, great cook.”

Jay looked at Kent. “I must be missing the point.”

“The point, son, is that no matter how big or strong or smart you might be, those don’t offset everything. Here was Harley, a martial arts combat champion, and if he’d jumped Anson, he’d be pushing up daisies.

“You couldn’t have beat the man who shot you — he had the superior weapon and the tactical advantage. You are an adept in your field, you could wipe up the floor with the guy in a computer duel, but it wasn’t your