Mike stepped gingerly down the steps and ran his hand down the front of the suit. “Inertial systems?”
“Two hundred eighty gravities with full lift and drive, seven inertial sump points. Sorry,” he said with a shrug. The gesture was shared by Indowy and humans. “It was the best the Tchpth could do.”
Mike turned with a closed-mouth smile — he knew what the sight of teeth did to the Indowy — and gleaming eyes. “Tell the Indowy that I accept with thanks!”
“Umm, sir?” interjected Nightingale.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“Is that legal? I mean, isn’t there some law against it?” she asked.
“No,” he responded definitively. His face was quite closed as he turned slightly to spit out another stream of tobacco juice.
“Sir? I mean, conflict of interest? And gifts from contractors? I know there are Army regulations, sir.” She finished with a moue of distaste. He was the commander and could have any filthy habit he wanted to have. But he could at least have the decency to keep it private. Her former unit had a zero-tolerance tobacco policy.
“There aren’t any in the Federation laws, Lieutenant. None at all,” said the Indowy Master. “We checked quite carefully, and it is entirely within the agreed-upon structure for the Federation Armed Forces remuneration process. Also, since it is a necessary piece of equipment for the captain’s function, it is not taxed.”
“Oh.” The group of officers and NCOs shared looks. The Indowy had just handed their captain nearly half a billion credits worth of suit, untaxed. In perspective, an Indowy junior craftsman earned less than five credits a month.
“Again, my thanks,” Mike said to the Indowy.
“It is little. My team will be staying to fit your clan. I guarantee you the best fitting possible.”
“Why don’t you come inside out of the dust and we can talk,” said Mike, gesturing towards the headquarters. “There are a few things I’ve been hoping to talk to a good technician about.”
“Thank you. And my team?”
“Top,” O’Neal said.
“Right you are, sir. Beds for the Indowy, coming right up. I think a trailer to themselves?”
“Reading my mind again, Top.”
“Yes, sir,” said the darkly tanned mountain with a smile. “That and training is what NCOs is for.”
CHAPTER 9
Rabun County, GA, United States of America, Sol III
1023 EDT June 17th, 2004 ad
“Okay, honey, now turn the cam a quarter twist, carefully, while making sure the pin don’t come out.”
“Like this?” asked Cally, her forehead wrinkling in concentration.
“Just right. Now, can you feel any resistance to the pin?” asked Papa O’Neal, watching the exercise from the shade of a tree. The heat of Georgia’s summer enveloped them here at the edge of the fields and every little scrap of shade was appreciated. He worked the massive wad of Redman in one cheek then moved it to the other side.
“No,” she said, licking a drop of sweat off her lip. “There’s no resistance at all,” she confirmed, barely moving the cotter pin.
“Okay, pull it out, carefully. Don’t move the trip wire and for dang sure if you feel any resistance, stop.”
Cally was taking to demolitions like a duck to water. She had incredible hand-eye coordination for an eight-year-old, and took infinite pains. It only took Papa O’Neal blowing up one cow for her to decide she wanted to be real careful. This was the most advanced technique yet: a claymore directional mine on a trip wire, with the trip wire booby-trapped. Okay, so it was not a real claymore, yet. It was, however, a real blasting cap.
“Okay,” he said, continuing the lesson, “so you’re walking along a trail…”
“No, I’m not, ’cause trail is spelled D-E-A… T-H… uh… T-R-A-P,” she contradicted.
“Okay, you’re having a bad day.”
“ ‘Pay more attention if you’re having a bad day, you make more mistakes, not less,’ ” she recited pedantically.
“Okay, your target is walking along a trail,” said O’Neal with a shake of his head. He took a pull from the Gatorade at his side and nodded at her canteen.
“Posleen or human?” she asked, taking a large swig of water. Papa O’Neal’s house had the best water in the entire world.
“Well, human this time.”
“Okay,” she agreed with equanimity. Humans were generally smarter than Posleen according to both Papa O’Neal and her daddy, who ought to know. If you trained to kill humans you were bound to be better at killing Posleen.
“And he’s smart…” continued Mike Senior, turning slightly to the side to spit. The stream of brown juice nailed a grasshopper as it slumbered on a grass stem.
“No, he’s not,” she disagreed, putting away her canteen. “He’s on a trail.”
“Sometimes you gotta use the trails,” said Papa O’Neal.
“Not me, I’m in the trees.”
“Okay, a target is walking along the trail, a not-very-smart human target.”
“Okay,” she agreed.
“And he’s smart enough to be looking for trip wires.”
“Dogs?”
“Feelers.”
“Okay.”
“And he spots the trip wire…”
“Feels.”
“Right. And what does he do?
“Not-very-smart?”
“Right.”
“ ‘Always assume your target is smarter than you.’ ”
“Would you stop throwing my statements back in my face and go with the exercise!” He worked the Redman back over to the other side and spat again. A beetle started to burrow, thinking it was raining.
“Okay,” she agreed. If that was how he wanted to do it, fine.
“Okay, what does mister not-so-smart do?”
“Cuts the wire.”
“Go ahead.”
“No way!” she disagreed. “You cut the wire. I’m not taking your word on that being a practice claymore!”
“Okay, pull the blasting cap, then cut the wire.”
“Okay.” She crept over to the camouflaged claymore, sweeping carefully ahead of her with a long piece of grass; you never knew when Papa O’Neal was going to booby-trap his exercises. Then, with a glance over her shoulder to make certain that Grandpa was not going to mess with the detonator, she pulled the blasting cap out.
There was a series of sharp retorts behind her as the training claymores that were hooked to the booby trap on the blasting cap went off in a daisy chain sequence. If all of the claymores had been real, a hundred-meter swath of the edge of the fields would have erupted in fire.
“And the moral of today’s lesson?” asked Papa O’Neal dryly. The wad of chewing tobacco distended his grin.
“You are an obnoxious prick, Grandpa!” she retorted.
“And I’m teaching you bad language.”
“Hey!” she shouted indignantly, holding up the blasting cap. “This isn’t even real!”
“Like I’m going to let you handle a live cap hooked to a trip wire,” said the old man. “Get real. I promised to return you in one piece.”
“You pull caps all the time,” she said, puzzled.
“Not once I’ve set an antitamper device on it. If I can’t blow it in place, I go around. Handling live traps is for fools and damn fools. Which kind are you?”
“Oh, okay. Enough demo for today?”
“Enough for today, except I want you to repeat after me. I will not…”
“I will not…”
“Attempt to disable… ” Spit.
“Attempt to disable…”
“Any demo…”
“Any demo…”
“So help me, God.”
“So help me, God.”