The warmth was spreading. That had been the biggest and most important item on Margie’s Christmas list, and the one she had been least sure of getting. Now the sons of bitches survived at her pleasure!
“Thanks, major,” she said. “I want you to show me how to work this thing, and from then on I want it in your possession or mine, twelve hours a day each, until further notice.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said unemotionally. “And I have something your father asked me to hand to you personally.”
It was a letter, not a microfiche. A paper letter, in an envelope with her name on it in Godfrey Menninger’s own handwriting. “Thanks, major,” she said again. “Go get settled in, and take the controller with you.” As he turned, she added, “Major? Are things pretty bad at home?”
He paused, looking at her. “Pretty bad,” he said. “Yes, I would say that, colonel. They’re pretty bad.”
Margie stood holding the letter for a moment. Then she jammed it in her pocket and went out to see how the unloading was coming along, because she wasn’t quite ready to get the uncensored word on how bad “pretty bad” was.
Putting it away did not let her forget it was there. While she was chewing Sergeant Sweggert out for talking up two of the new girls when he should have been shifting cargo, she was fingering it. When she was breaking up an argument over what had become of a case of flashlights — “Jesus, colonel, I just put them down for a second; I thought one of the other guys took them!” — her hand returned to it. When the mess tent called a halt for breakfast, she could resist no longer, and she took her tray and her letter back into her office and ate while she read.
Marge, honey, You’ve got it all, everything on the list. But there’s no more where that came from. The Greasies have ordered our rigs off the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. It’s a bluff. We’re calling it. But every drop of booster fuel is now sequestered for missiles until they back down — and then there’s Peru. The Peeps have flanged up a phoney “election,” and we’re not going to sit still for it. So we’ll be at full military alert for months to come, maybe longer than that. You’re on your own, honey. Figure at least a year. And it may be more than that, because the president’s being threatened with impeachment, maybe worse — there was an assassination attempt with two National Guard tanks last week. I told him what to do. Declare martial law. Send Congress home. Crack down all around. But he’s a politician. He thinks he can ride it out. If he does, that means the rest of his term he’ll be trying to score brownie points with the voters, and that means cutting back a lot of important programs. And one of them might be you, honey. I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t think you could handle it. But it looks as if you’ll have to.
That was all, not even a signature. Margie sat with the letter in her hands and minutes later noticed that she had forgotten to finish her breakfast.
She no longer wanted it, but neither would she waste food — especially not now. She forced herself to eat it all, and it wasn’t until she had swallowed every scrap that she realized the sound of the camp had changed. Something was wrong.
While Sergeant Sweggert was eating he heard two sounds, not very near and not very loud. They sounded like shots. No one else in the mess tent seemed to have heard anything. He scraped the plate of its canned ham and dehydrated eggs, picked up the big chunk of bread, and strolled toward the entrance, still chewing.
There was a third shot.
This time there was no mistake. Some dumb son of a bitch was playing with his piece. You couldn’t blame him — if Sweggert got a Krinpit in his sights he would have been tempted to blow it away, too. But three shots was wasting ammunition. He speeded up and headed toward the perimeter. As he rounded the cook tent he saw a dozen people standing around the uphill emplacement peering up the trail toward the spot where the resupply ship had landed. Others were converging on the post, and by the time he reached it there were twenty, all talking at once.
The shots had come from the trail. “Who’s out there?” he demanded, grabbing Corporal Kristianides by the shoulder.
“Aggie and two grunts. They decided to get another load in before they bucked the chow line. Lieutenant Macklin just took a patrol up after them.”
“So sit down and shut up till they get back,” Sweggert ordered; but it was an order he didn’t want to follow himself. It wasn’t like Aggie to shoot up the jungle. The crowd was getting bigger; Colonel Tree came trotting up, looking like a little China doll, then half a dozen from the mess tent, then the colonel herself. Ten people were talking at once, until the colonel snarled, “All of you, at ease! Here comes Macklin. Let’s see what he has to say.”
But Macklin didn’t have to say a word. He came stepping along the worn place that had become their path, carbine at port arms, looking both ways into the jungle. As he got closer they could see that the two men behind him were carrying someone, and the last soldier was backing toward them, carrying her weapon as Macklin carried his.
What they were bringing in was a body. It was female, and that was all you could say. The face was unrecognizable. When they dropped her down, it was plain that not only the face had been attacked. One arm was shredded up to the shoulder, and there was a bullet hole between her breasts.
“Krinpit,” snapped Major Santangelo.
“Krinpit don’t have guns,” said Colonel Menninger, tight-lipped. “Maybe Krinpit, but they had company. Tree! Check the perimeter. I want every weapon manned and a reserve at every point. Santangelo, call the off-duty troops in. Give Sweggert and me two hundred meters, then follow us. Sweggert, take three people, and you and I are going to take the point.”
“Yes’m.” He spun around, took Corporal Kristianides’s gas-operated recoilless away from her, and picked three from his squad at random while Colonel Menninger was listening to Lieutenant Macklin’s report. He had got only about halfway up the trail, where he found the casualty and a couple of spilled and ransacked cases of supplies. Where the other two were he didn’t know. He had come back for reinforcements. Marge Menninger listened to no more. She turned him over to Major Santangelo and signaled Sweggert to move in.
At twenty-second intervals they dogged it across the open space that was the field of fire, reforming under the arch of a many-tree. As Sweggert waited for the others, he could hear the rattle and moan of some shelled creatures, but not very near. The next man in heard it too and turned a questioning face to Sweggert, mouthing the word Krinpit. Sweggert nodded savagely and motioned silence. When Colonel Menninger crossed the field of fire, she trotted ten meters past them, then dropped to a knee and looked around warily before raising a hand and ordering them in.
Fucking hairy, thought Sweggert. It was like that bitch to pick him for something like this! She’d had it in for him ever since he had it in her. He hand-signaled the rest of the patrol to move up one at a time, two on one side of the trail and the other with him and the colonel on the other, and when they had made their run he waited ten seconds and then sprinted to drop down beside the colonel. “That’s where they got her,” he breathed, pointing ahead on the trail, where half a case of fluorescent tubes lay crunched and scattered on the ground.
“I see that, sergeant! Keep moving, I don’t want Santangelo running up my ass.”
“Yes’m.” He stooped low, dodging through the underbrush, and flopped down. The distant Krinpit rattle was still audible, but not closer. The patrol leapfrogged through the jungle until the bulk of the resupply ship loomed ahead, with its tramped-down clearing before it. He waved to catch Colonel Menninger’s eye, then pointed to the top of a many-tree. She nodded, and when his turn came again he raced for the nearest of its trunks, slung his GORR over his shoulder, and started up the clump of growth. It was not much like climbing a real tree; it was easier. The flat, arched branches were like a series of steps, and the stalactitic growths that hung down between them made good handholds. The problem was that it was hard to see. Sweggert had to change position twice before he could get a clear view of the rocket.