Captain Jack “Quinn,” born Jack O’Neal, was a short, homely, young-looking man with carrot-colored hair and so many freckles that it was hard to tell whether he was a fair-skinned man with brown dots or a brown-skinned man with fair spots. Anyone who at first made the mistake of classifying him as a little shrimp would be surprised at the strength built into his wiry frame. His team favored “Blackjack” for any mission that involved moving around underwater. The man simply would not float, but had the stamina to be one of the strongest swimmers in DAG. This might have had something to do with his having swum daily in saltwater since before he could walk.
Right now, he was rubbing an army-brown towel over his sweat-soaked hair and squinting into the sun across the O-course to the massive brigade XO, Major Frederick Sunday “Kelly,” jogging across the turf to meet him. One or two of the men looked up as the XO approached. Most hid their curiosity, jogging back to the barracks or the gym for a quick shower and a thorough check to make sure, again, that absolutely everything was clean and squared away for the first look by the new CO. And their first look at him, of course. The ubiquitous PDAs had improved the speed of the ancient grapevine system by leaps and bounds. Captain Quinn and all of his men knew exactly when the colonel would be looking them over, and were determined to ensure that their customary excellence was improved to perfection. He had George O’Neal “Mauldin’s” first impression of the new CO. Now he wanted Boomer’s. He loped down the side of the course to meet the major halfway.
The excessively large officer stopped in front of him and returned his salute before turning to walk beside him back in the direction of the HQ.
“Okay, Boomer, what’s he like?” Quinn said.
“I dunno, Jack. As first impressions go, I don’t think he’s gonna be a bean-counting weenie, and he doesn’t come across as a weasel, but he was kinda quiet. Didn’t give me a lot to go on. His record looks really good, but what the fuck can you tell from them these days? Likes his coffee, but how much can you tell from that?” Major Kelly shrugged. “Speaking of coffee, let’s check out the mess hall and grab a cup. Make sure they got the word. This week would be a hell of a time to burn the stew.”
“Think he’s likely to be too good?” The captain scratched the end of his nose, looking sidelong at his childhood friend.
“Your guess is as good as mine. In case anybody didn’t get the memo, remind them that their opsec has to be flawless until we have a much better idea of what we can get away with.” The major lit a cigar and blew a stream of smoke towards the sky, “Wouldn’t do for him to twig and us lose all this free training. Wouldn’t do at all.”
“I’ll take care of it. Not like I should need to, but I’ll make sure. Doesn’t do to tempt Mr. Murphy,” Jack said.
“Okay, now what do you think of our new Command Sergeant Major?”
“Well, they obviously know each other from way back. I think he’s sharp, he’s going to be the colonel’s eyes and ears. He’s going to be around more; we need to be twice as careful around him,” the captain said. “The good news is, he seems like kind of a blow-hard, you know? Think a thought, say a thought. Subtle ain’t his middle name. So we should be okay with him.” He nodded to the XO and broke into an easy lope, leaving Kelly to his cigar and his thoughts.
Like most DAG personnel, Quinn didn’t live in the barracks. Unlike most of them, one of the privileges of rank he indulged in was keeping a couple of fresh uniforms in his office and taking advantage of the small cubicle shower at the end of the line of stalls in the head down the hall. Before cleaning up, he took out his PDA and phoned the master sergeant who was Bravo’s senior NCO.
“Harrison, go through and remind everybody one more time that with a new CO this is absolutely not the time to get sloppy about anything. It’s probably overkill, but be sure they understand. I’d hate to have to put everybody on corn and soybeans for a week.” The captain said the last in a joking tone, but it was the most serious part of the message, telling the NCO that Bane Sidhe OPSEC was what he most wanted his people to be careful about.
“Hooah, sir,” Harrison acknowledged.
Security taken care of, Quinn headed for the shower. Wouldn’t do to be all sweaty and stuff when the new CO arrived.
It was a brilliant, cold, windy fall day. The kind of day at the coast where you didn’t dare step outside without a pair of sunglasses to protect your eyes from the bright reflections of the sun and the grit in the air. Cally had accompanied Shari on an island-only shopping trip that was really an excuse to wander around the store and buy some of Ashley Privett’s best fudge. Most of the things they needed themselves were either already back at home, or were on a list for Cally to pick up on the weekend trip to Charleston she had announced that morning at breakfast, telling the kids that no, they couldn’t come this time. It was a mommy trip. She felt a little guilty that Shari assumed that, going alone, she was going to confession — but only a little. She really was going to take at least a little time to shop for stuff to wear at the family reunion next week like she’d said. She’d just probably shop, well, quickly.
Another purpose of this morning’s trip to, as Shari put it, “beautiful metropolitan Edisto,” was to let them discreetly gawk at the changes in the store. On the island, frequently you had to make your own excitement. Cally waved and smiled at Karen Lee, the wife and coconspirator of an active Bane Sidhe agent. Karen’s family were local for a few years to give the authorities time to forget about them before they went back out to a new posting with fresh, young identities. Karen was a quiet person, who seemed to find the Clan O’Neal personalities on the island a bit overwhelming at times.
True to type, and probably for the best, Granpa had handled the negotiation with the Bane Sidhe over the code key sale. She looked around at the changed store, impressed. Papa O’Neal could get things done in a hurry when he decided he was On A Mission.
With so many FedCreds at stake, they had been remarkably easygoing about the sales commission. As soon as the keys were flown into Charleston, Cally had made delivery to Michelle. The payment, in cash and small denominations, had come in the kind of briefcase that made her feel like the holodramas’ stereotypical drug dealer. She’d paid out their commission to Granpa, who had come back home with a trailer full of trade goods for the store. Charleston being a main port, his large purchases hadn’t caused so much as a raised eyebrow. Similar large cash buys of available light consumer goods were routine there.
Postwar, areas around the world where unusual things could grow or be mined had been rapidly recolonized, leading to the rebirth of the coastal or river-based city-state. Off-planet migration being the poor man’s route to rejuv, that interesting development looked like it might even last awhile. The population to rebuild genuine nations just wasn’t there. The city states’ greatest need, besides essential trade goods, was for the basic end-user products and small comforts the residents couldn’t make for themselves — which was rather like the O’Neals on Edisto, now that she thought about it.
Island finances being what they were, the end result of all this was Granpa becoming a silent partner in the store. Before, Ashley had had to make the store look full, or at least not empty, by spreading the off-island goods out at the front of the shelves, interspersed among locally made home crafts. Now, the shelves were actually full, and with manufactured goods and things that weren’t merely regional. There were frozen turkeys and canned cranberry sauce to be had for Thanksgiving dinner this year. Mike and Duncan Sunday — who of course still thought their last name was Thompson — were happily applying an olive drab coat of paint to the store’s exterior walls, no doubt for exchange credits to apply to the purchase of some of the goodies inside.