S. Sgt. Delbert O’Hara, the chief steward, was stocking one of the three food stations mounted against the bulkhead common to the sleeping cubicles. Almost all of the station’s food was pre-prepared earth side, brought up in refrigerated bins, and stored in the hub. As needed, it was transferred to the dining modules. O’Hara, who reported to Deputy Commander Milt Avery, but might as well not have, was responsible for the menu, and he did a credible job with what he had to work with, making frequent changes in what the machines had to offer. Over time, in fact, he had devised new recipes of his own for the specialists on earth to develop into pouchable products. O’Hara had also labeled each of the three dispensing stations — “Junk,” “Back Home,” and “Cuisine.”
Pearson kicked off from the corridor edge and drifted up to the Cuisine station.
“Good morning, Delbert.”
“Morning Colonel.”
“What’s new here?”
“Not much on the breakfast side,” the sergeant said. “But try the Back Home. I just loaded a Texas Omelet that’ll knock your socks off. If you had socks.”
Pearson smiled at him. “You guarantee it?”
“Don’t need to. Major Munoz had three of ’em this morning.”
“That’s a five-star rating.”
“Damned tootin’.”
Each of the stations had six selections, and Pearson opened the second Plexiglas door of the Back Home station, extracted a pouch labeled “Texas Morning,” and shoved it into the microwave. While it was cooking, she got herself an orange juice and “Coffee, Black.” The juice was already cold, and the coffee already hot.
She looked around. The porthole was showing a slice of earth, heavily clouded this morning. The large-screen TV was mercifully blank. The big mural of Tahiti appeared serene. A lieutenant from the nuclear section was playing one of the dozen electronic games lined up against the outer bulkheads. The dining rooms on Themis were the only places where one could actually find a table and chairs. Not that anyone actually sat in them; they strapped themselves in to maintain position while playing checkers, chess, backgammon, or cards with game pieces that were lightly magnetized, as were the tabletops. And some people liked to eat sitting down, or appearing to sit down.
Two sergeants were engaged in a mean game of chess, soft drinks floating nearby.
That left Kevin McKenna sitting alone at a table by the port.
He smiled at her.
So she clamped her breakfast pouches in one hand, pushed off toward him, and caught herself as she reached the padded chair opposite him.
He actually released his restraining strap and stood up, holding onto his coffee.
“Good morning, Amy.”
“Good morning.” She strapped herself down, and McKenna refastened his own straps.
“You’re looking radiant this morning.”
“Come on, McKenna. I look the same every morning.”
“I know. That’s what brightens my day.”
Shaking her head, she pulled the sipping tube free from the side of the orange juice pouch and took a sip.
McKenna said, “You’re actually going to eat O’Hara’s Tex-Mex special?”
“If Tony can handle it, I can.”
“Hoo-kay, but remember the Tiger has a stomach lining made of depleted uranium alloy.”
Almost all of the food served was in finger-food form. Handling silverware was too much trouble, when the peas were going to fly away, anyway. Some hot meats were served with tongs. Liquids were something of a problem, too. No gravy or sauces, unless they were imbedded in the mashed potatoes and meat.
Pearson peeled the plastic zipper open, rolled the covering down, tested the heat of the eggy roll with her forefinger, and took a bite of her Texas Omelet. She chewed twice before she got zapped.
“God… damn!” she blurted.
Over by the food stations, O’Hara grinned and called, “I caught one of your socks, Colonel.”
“Isn’t that the best damned jalapeno pepper you ever tasted?” McKenna asked.
She sucked on her juice, but had the feeling nothing would relieve the spicy coating on her tongue and the inside of her cheeks.
“It is good,” she said, determined to finish it now.
By the fourth bite, her mouth was acclimated, but she thought she would feel the heat until midmorning.
At least, McKenna didn’t laugh at her. He asked, “What’s on for today, Amy?”
“At one o’clock, I’ll give the squadron a briefing.”
“Covering?”
“The photos Dimatta got on the last run, for one thing. We got quite a few more naval vessels. Then, I’ll background you on some of the principal players.”
“Who, for instance?”
“The tail numbers you identified on the two Tornados makes them part of the First Squadron of the Twentieth Special Air Group assigned to New Amsterdam. The wing commander is a Colonel Albert Weismann, a good old boy who’s been around for quite a while.”
“What’s the makeup of the wing?” McKenna asked, then sipped from his coffee.
“A little strange, from what the DIA has in its files. There’s two squadrons of Tornados and Eurofighters — commanded by Major Gustav Zeigman and Major Wilhelm Metzenbaum, a squadron of transports, and one of helicopters.”
“That is a bit weird. Lot of variety for one wing.”
“Yes. It looks to me as if an entire wing is devoted to support of the well sites. Then, there’s Admiral Gerhard Schmidt.”
“Who’s he?”
“The missile cruiser Hamburg turns out to be his flagship, and Schmidt’s assigned as commander of the Third Naval Force. Now, Schmidt’s an old hand, too, in his early sixties, and the data says he’s a hell of a naval strategist and tactician. By all rights, he should be in command of a fleet.”
“Which means?”
Pearson ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, trying to erase the traces of pepper. She unlatched the sipping tube on her coffee. “Which means that something about those wells makes them important enough to require the services of top echelon commanders.”
“Intriguing, Amy. You do a good job.”
She nodded slightly to acknowledge the compliment. “I’m still trying to track all of the vessels attached to the Third Naval Force, but at the briefing, I’ll also give you a rundown on the pilots we think are assigned to the Twentieth Special Air Group. Believe me when I say they’re all hot dogs and aces.”
“I always believe you, Amy.”
“Do you? Why don’t you like me, McKenna?”
His eyes widened, and he grinned. “Not like you? Damn, my dear, I think you’ve got it all backward.”
“Don’t call me ‘dear,’ please. If you had any respect for me, Colonel, you’d treat me as the professional I am.”
“You want me to treat you differently than I treat Brad Mitchell or Polly Tang or Frank Dimatta? I can give you the prima-donna bit, if that’s what you want, or I can be a brass asshole, or I can be me.”
She just stared at him for a moment, then gathered her empty pouches for the trash vacuum. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Put it off. We’ll talk.”
“Talking with you is too exasperating,” she said. “And I’ve got to check on the civvies.”
Releasing her lap belt, Pearson pushed off the chair, dumped her breakfast remnants in the receptacle, then kicked her way toward the blue hatchway door leading into Spoke Sixteen.
Traversing the spoke, she passed the four lifeboat stations, one of the reasons Spokes Sixteen, Ten, and Fourteen were off-limits to civilian personnel. Sight of the yellow hatches emblazoned with the black letters, “LIFEBOAT,” was not considered morale-maintaining for the civilians. The lifeboats were not very complex and could not survive reentry into the atmosphere. They were just simple capsules with food and air that would last thirty days. In the event of a catastrophe that consumed the entire station, each boat could sustain life for ten people while it drifted in space, waiting for a MakoShark or a Mako or, if necessary, a HoneyBee to rendezvous with it and retrieve the inhabitants.