“Thank you, sir.”
Klyber nodded. “I assume you have no desire to go back on active duty?” He tried to act nonchalant; but his cold, blue eyes met mine and I saw a glint of excitement which I quickly dashed.
“Join the Marines again? No, sir.”
“Understood, Lieutenant. Then I suppose we should regroup after the summit and discuss your options. You’ve spent two years on the lam as it were, and I see no reason why you could not turn up absent without leave again.” With this he started for the door.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
He turned back and gave me a sharp-edged grin that revealed his top row of teeth. “And now, Lieutenant, perhaps we should head out to the conference room.”
Four armed guards met us as we stepped out of Klyber’s suite. They were Army, dressed in formal olive greens and armed with M27s. They marched with perfect precision, matching our pace as they walked in a pack directly behind us.
I also had my M27. Beyond that, I had spent some time earlier this morning patrolling the route from Klyber’s room to the conference area. Golan security had posted guards along the route the day before. My job was to escort Admiral Klyber to the door of the conference room and then, after the conference, to deposit him safely on his transport.
We traveled down a brightly-lit hall with gleaming white walls and bright ceiling fixtures. Our footsteps echoed off the walls as we approached the final stretch of the corridor. As we drew closer, I heard loud chatter. From here, the summit sounded like a cocktail party.
We rounded that final corner and there it was, a large glowing lobby, obviously prepared especially for the purpose of this summit. Surrounded by the stark white corridors of the Golan executive complex, this lobby looked like a mirage. An oversized Persian carpet covered the floor. Black and red leather furniture sat in small formations around the room. There was a long table covered with bowls of fruit, pastry trays, and silver carafes.
From what I saw, the meeting looked more like a college reunion than a military summit. Officers in dress uniforms spoke cheerfully as they caught up on old times. I saw more bars and stripes floating around that gathering than I had ever seen in my life. Old generals with graying hair, stout bellies, and well-trimmed mustaches talked in genial tones like old friends swapping stories in a bar. One Army officer held a fat cigar in his fingers. He waved his hands as he spoke. The cigar smoke seemed to tie itself in a knot above his fingers.
Behind every swaggering general and admiral stood a couple of lesser officers watching quietly and taking mental notes about everything that was said. Admiral Halverson, Captain Johansson, and a handful of Navy men stood off in one corner waiting for Fleet Admiral Klyber. He was their shark. They were his remoras. When they saw Klyber, they drifted out to greet him, then silently fell into his entourage.
Having delivered Admiral Klyber to the summit, I started to leave. I had rounds to make. I wanted to check in with the security station and do one last sweep of Klyber’s quarters, but Klyber summoned me back. “Stay for a moment, Harris,” he said, making a very discreet nod to the right. Following his eyes, I saw Admiral Huang heading in our direction. “This may be my moment to do a bit of body guarding on your behalf.”
“Admiral Klyber,” Huang said in a tone that was rigidly formal but not unfriendly.
Admiral Che Huang stood just over six feet tall. He had broad shoulders, a massive chest, and a commanding presence. Standing beside Huang, Klyber looked old and frail.
More than two years had passed since the last time I had run into Huang, years that had not been especially kind to the man. I remembered him as having brown hair with streaks of gray. Over the last two years his hair had changed to salt and pepper with large gray patches around his temples. His cheeks had hollowed.
Huang’s eyes narrowed as he turned toward me. “Lieutenant Harris. I heard you were here.”
I saluted. The admiral did not bother returning the salute.
“The lieutenant is here with me,” Admiral Klyber said.
“Yes,” said Huang. “So he’s on the crew of your mysterious ship.” With this he left us.
We watched him walk away, then Klyber gave me a wry smile. “How much does he know about my ship, I wonder?”
“He should not know that you have a ship at all,” I said.
“Yes,” Klyber agreed. “I really must have a word with Captain Johansson before we return to the Doctrinaire .”
General Alexander Smith, secretary of Air Force and head of the Joint Chiefs, called everyone to attention. “Gentlemen, it’s time we begin,” he said, and the party started to funnel through a nearby doorway.
“This should be an all-day affair,” Klyber said.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Do you have plans for the day?” Klyber asked. “I hope you’re not going to waste the entire time checking and rechecking these same hallways.”
“That’s the plan, sir,” I said.
“Have you read the book I gave you?” Klyber asked.
I nodded. “The story about Shannon?”
“Did you learn anything?” he asked.
“Not to expect hospitality in the Catholic colonies,” I said.
“That’s one lesson,” Klyber said. “See you after the summit.” He joined up with Admiral Brocius and they entered the conference room.
As I turned to leave, I had a dark premonition. I imagined Admiral Klyber stepping up to a podium to explain about the Doctrinaire . I pictured Admiral Huang stepping up behind him and whispering something. Klyber turns pale and looks back at him with a stunned expression just as Huang plunges a diamond-edged combat knife into his back.
In my bizarre fantasy, I watch Huang’s knife jab in and out of Klyber’s white uniform. Huang stabs him four times as he turns to run and the other summit attendees close in around him. They stab Klyber again and again until his dress whites turn red.
My disconcerting daydream ends with Huang looking down at Kyber’s corpse and saying the phrase that must have been hovering in my subconscious: “Beware the Ides of March.”
According to the Earth date, it was indeed Tuesday, March 15.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The summit lasted ten hours. I met Klyber at the door when it adjourned. More than anything else, he seemed tired as he emerged from the meeting. He walked slowly, talked softly, and stared straight ahead. His breeding did not allow for slumped shoulders or bad posture; but he was, nonetheless, a defeated man. “We’re in for a tougher fight than any of them know,” he said. “Stupid bastards are too young to remember the last war. Kellan wasn’t even born yet.”
General John Kellan, the new secretary of the Army, made big news a few years back by attaining the rank of general before his thirty-fifth birthday. His father and two uncles, all three of them senators, threw a party to commemorate the achievement on the floor of the Senate.
When it came to mixing politics and service, Kellan was a mere piker compared to the illustrious fleet admiral. Nobody respected Kellan’s combat-free war record. Klyber had political connections that ran all the way up to the Linear Committee, more than forty years of active service, and an impressive war record. Even his role in the creation of Liberator clones meant something in Washington. The politicians may not have liked his Liberators, but it was the Liberators who saved the day in the last war.
But Klyber did not look like a war hero now. His frosty blue eyes seemed lost in their sockets. He looked fragile instead of vibrant. This morning I might have described him as haughty. Seeing him now, the only word that came to mind was “wilted.”
I led Klyber back to his room, our four-man Army escort in tow. We went to his room, and he stood silently near the door. I wanted to ask what happened, but I knew better.