Jack exploded with a very bad word, then went on, still steaming, ''Like hell she did. She was hiding in the runabout's bathroom, clutching two life pods. I don't know how she planned on using both, but she had two survival pods, one in each hand.''
''I thought you were far enough behind us that you weren't in any danger,'' Kris said.
''We were, but don't tell that to Adorable Dora. And don't tell me that she saw any of the fight. She was in the bathroom, with the door locked. Glad the rest of us didn't need to go.''
Ray hit the channel switch again. ''From such things are the history books written. So Kris, you had poor Jack following two steps behind you and you didn't even need him.''
''Couldn't tell what might have happened while we were behind Milna. Had to have a relay boat. Unfortunately, I picked Dora's boat, and she insisted on riding along. Doesn't Jack deserve a Wound Medal?'' Kris joked. Then she remembered the price others had paid for their medal and felt sick at her stomach.
''A Wound Medal and a Meritorious Service Cross,'' Grampa Trouble jumped in. ''Plus we need something for heroic displays of self-control under combat conditions. After all, he didn't throttle that reporter. How about instituting the Ray Cross.''
''How about a Right Cross.'' Ray waved a fist at his friend.
''Stop there,'' Sandy said. ''That's Winston Spencer, of the AP, my newsie. Let's hear his story.''
The screen showed a man with a cast on his left arm. ''At this point the Halsey had closed to within five thousand kilometers of the enemy flagship. She was hurting, but still fighting and hadn't fired her ten pulse lasers. Captain Santiago was looking for a good shot, but with the battleship now bouncing around as well as the destroyer, that just wasn't happening.''
His picture vanished to show a view of tiny ship images dodging and jinking their way through black space.
''I was in the Combat Information Center, the ship's command hub,'' the reporter's voice went on so calmly, so matter-of-factly, ''when the skipper risked taking her ship out of its evasion maneuvers to get that good shot. Before she could get back into evasions, the Halsey was hammered, and we lost all power, but I've constructed what happened next from other sources after they brought us survivors out of the wreck of the Halsey.''
Sandy fidgeted with her own casts and eyed the floor.
''We know the enemy flagship was in bad shape, hurting from the Halsey's attack and many others. At this point, Princess Kris Longknife, the acting Commodore of Fast Patrol Boat Squadron 8 called to offer the intruders a chance to surrender.''
Kris sat up straight.
''That's how you're going into the history books, kitten,'' Grampa Trouble whispered.
''While negotiating, the enemy apparently tracked the signal and, while still talking surrender, fired off a blast at our flagship. Lieutenant Tom Lien, the skipper of PF-109, in which Princess Kris was riding, was watching for just this. He had his helmswoman, 3/c Mary Fintch, dodge away while he fired back at the battleship. Meanwhile, the ancient destroyer Cushing, under Commander Mandanti, called back from retirement, managed to limp into range and fired off their six pulse lasers. Or maybe three. I'm still trying to find out how many of them actually worked. That was all it took. The enemy flagship blew up even as PF-109 was heavily damaged. Lieutenant Lien, 3/c Fintch, and several others aboard the 109 boat are among the heroes who paid the full measure to save Wardhaven from this unprovoked attack.''
''Where do we find such people?'' Kris asked no one.
''We don't find them,'' King Ray said slowly. ''They find us. They step forward when we need them. I don't know what we do to deserve them.'' He paused. ''And God help us if we dam up that special well from which they come when we need them so desperately.''
None at the table could add to that.
On-screen, the reporter struggled with the question topmost on everyone's mind. ''Where did those ships come from?''
''There are no survivors from any of them. A check among the larger chunks of wreckage shows their survival pods were defective. We've recovered bodies in them, but being in them didn't help the crew. Now, Todd, as someone who spent several hours in one, awaiting rescue from the CIC of the Halsey, let me tell you, they are very simple and easy to operate.
''The Navy complains about using the lowest bidder,'' the anchorman said. ''Sounds like someone used an even lower bidder.''
''It does sound like that. Meanwhile, the Navy is going over what wreckage they can to identify who made it. However, I'm told that they aren't optimistic that it will tell them much. Designs have been shared across the Society of Humanity for eighty years. Items from one planet are used in other planets' products and built into other planets' finished ships. Whoever did this didn't want to be known, and now it seems that dead men will tell no tales.''
''Hmm. Well, thank you for sharing your harrowing voyage, the last voyage, so it seems, of the good ship Halsey.''
''I shared it with a lot of good men and women. The best we have, Todd. I hope we never forget that or forget them.''
''And now, at five minutes before the hour, we'd better update you on the election returns.''
''Let's don't and say we did,'' Ray said, and nipped the channel. Ten flips later, he put it back on the beer sign.
''What are you grumping about?'' came from behind Kris. ''It looks like my vacation is gonna be canceled on account of election results.'' So saying, General Mac McMorrison, the former chairman of the Joint Staff, slipped into the seat beside Ray.
Kris started to jump to attention, something hard to do with a table in front of her. Especially with the barkeep trying to slap a plate of hamburger and fries in front of her and another one in front of Jack.
''Relax, Commodore,'' Mac said.
''I'm sorry about that Commodore thing,'' Kris said.
''I'm not,'' Mac said. ''Somebody had to rally the troops. I couldn't. My resignation had been requested, and I was on terminal leave. Admiral Pennypacker had always wanted my job in the worst way. I just didn't know how badly. He came out of retirement to take it and did just about the worst job anyone has ever done of it.'' Mac shook his head.
''Well, if you're retiring,'' Trouble started, ''I've got this chicken ranch up in the foothills of the North Range. Hardly ever visited. Perfect place; your wife will love it. Ruth does. Keeps asking me when we're going to retire to it.''
''Don't be too quick to sell off that old place,'' King Ray muttered. ''This mess has got me thinking I need reps on every planet, watching them closer than I can. Maybe doing a better job. How'd you like to be Duke Trouble of Wardhaven?''
Trouble made a rude sound, but Kris noticed he didn't say no. Was poor Grampa Trouble ready to let a Longknife draft him into another rough job? Did Grampa Ray need help that bad?
Mac shook his head. ''I hate to get between you two old war buddies, but Trouble, I don't think I'm in the market for a retirement business. I got a call a half hour back from this young Lieutenant's father. Seems he thinks his party is going to win the election, and he might be moving back into Government House. Wants me to take my old job running Wardhaven's military. Expand the fleet some more.''
''How are the farmers going to take to that?'' Kris asked.
''Farm coalition is one of the stronger movers on that. Seems someone passed around the farm policy that they have on Greenfeld. Not a nice one. What you grow, you sell to the government at the price the government sets.''
''Why the Greenfeld farm policy?'' Sandy asked.
''Well, while that guy you were listening to might be towing the official line that we don't know where those ships came from, there're an awful lot of folks who are hearing through the grapevine that a lot of that stuff has a distinctly Greenfeld flair to it.''