The strange thing was, as long as the Mogats did not return, we could have lived on that ship for days. There was plenty of food in the galley, though I suppose we would have needed a pressurized and oxygenated chamber in which to eat it. Since our suits had rebreathers that recycled our oxygen, breathing was the least of our concerns. Things might get uncomfortable if anyone needed to take a shit; but I figured these boys could hold it together as long as they had to.
Ten hours passed before the Kamehameha sent a ship out to search for us. Wheels turned slowly in the Unified Authority Navy.
Upon returning to the barracks in Washington, DC, I went to my room and took a long, hot shower. I shaved. I tint-shaded the windows of my quarters, making the room as dark as night, stripped down to my underwear, and climbed into bed. I was tired, but sleep did not come easily. Those same questions echoed again and again in my brain. Why were the Mogats watching a derelict ship? What secrets did it hold? How far away were they when we entered, and how had they heard the alarms? What about that second broadcast engine? Nothing made sense.
Less than an hour after I climbed on my rack, I received a call on the communications console. A car had come to take me to meet Admiral Brocius at Navy headquarters. Considering where I had been and what I had found, I expected a lengthy debriefing.
“So where is your friend hiding?” an angry voice demanded as I climbed into the car. It was that same guy from Naval Intelligence, but no longer dressed disguised as a chauffeur. He wore the dress uniform of a lieutenant commander—two and a half stripes on his shoulder boards and a star.
“Oh, it’s you,” I said as the car pulled away. “Couldn’t find Freeman?”
“I’m not joking around, Harris,” he snapped.
“Don’t you owe me a hundred bucks?” I asked.
“I’m going to give you one last chance to tell us where he is, Harris. After that, I’m hauling you in for a court-martial.”
“Does that mean I’ve been officially recalled to service?” I asked. Looking through the car window, I watched monuments and marble buildings shoot by as we weaved our way through traffic. We had already entered downtown DC.
“You’re not on active duty yet,” the driver said.
“Then you can’t court-martial me,” I said.
“Get specked,” the driver said.
“And you owe me a hundred dollars.”
“Why the speck would I give you anything, Harris? You’re a specking deserter.”
“Did Brocius send you, or are you just here for conversation?” I asked.
The driver did not speak again for several minutes. By the time he did, we were entering the main gate at HQ. This time, sounding more contrite, he said, “Look, Harris, if you know where Freeman is hiding, you might as well tell us. It’s only a matter of time until we find him. Help me out here, and maybe you’ll save us all some trouble.”
“Do you have my money?” I asked.
Still twisted around so he could look at me, the guy stretched out his right leg and dug his wallet out of his pocket. He opened it and fished through a wad of money. “Here,” he said, sneering as I took the bills from him.
“Thanks,” I said, glad to have some money in my pocket for the first time in months. “Let me know if you want to go double or nothing.”
“So?” the driver asked.
I looked at him, purposely donning a confused expression.
“Where is Freeman?”
“How should I know?” I asked.
“I hear you had quite an adventure,” Brocius said, as an aide let me into his office. A file with my name across the top sat on his desk. He picked it up. Flipping between the pages he said, “Entered enemy-held territory without clearance…boarded an enemy ship…”
“A wreck,” I pointed out. “It was the battleship that we sank. As I understand the aeronautical law, that made it common property.”
Brocius looked up from his report as I spoke, then looked back down giving no sign that he heard me. “Unauthorized reconnaissance operation…engaged the enemy…Your unauthorized side trip cost us a valuable self-broadcasting ship. It cost your pilot his life.
“Oh, here’s my favorite. You impersonated an officer. You led a team of SEALs to believe that you were a colonel in the U.A. Marine Corps.”
“You said you were going to recall me,” I pointed out.
“Not to the rank of colonel.” Brocius almost yelled this.
“I never told anyone I was a colonel.”
“You went in a colonel’s uniform!” Now he was yelling.
“I didn’t have any choice. That was the only uniform I had,” I said. “Hell, except for the clothes I arrived in, those were the only clothes I had.
“Admiral, if you wanted me to go to the Kamehameha dressed like a civilian, you should have said something.” He had me dead to rights, but I had to say something.
“So you misled six highly trained Navy SEALs into believing they were on an authorized mission with a colonel in the Marine Corps. One of those men is still missing in action,” Brocius said, lowering his voice.
He closed the report and stared at me, his face unreadable. “Admiral Brallier is calling for your head.” I did not know the name, but I assumed he was the commander of the Outer Scutum-Crux Fleet.
“Sorry, sir,” I said. But I wasn’t sorry. That was my first taste of combat in months. I had done what I was made to do, engage the enemy. I had felt the hormone in my blood, and it felt good. Even as I stood and apologized, I already had started plans for my next big excursion.
“Did you really send one of those SEALs back with the Mogats?”
“Yes, sir, assuming they didn’t catch him.”
Brocius shook his head. “Damn it, Harris, I don’t know whether to shake your hand or shoot you.”
“Semper fi,” I said.
“You’re not officially back in the Corps,” Brocius said. “As far as the Marines are concerned, you are still absent without leave or killed in action. Either one will land you in the brig.”
“I suppose,” I said. More than ever, I wished I was back on active duty.
“Do yourself a favor. Help us catch your friend, Freeman, and maybe I can get HQ to overlook your little adventure.
“Any idea where we can find him?” Brocius asked.
“Can’t say,” I said.
“Can’t say or won’t say, Harris?” Brocius asked. When I did not answer, he mumbled, “I suspected as much.”
“When are you contacting Yamashiro?” he asked.
“Not for a few more days,” I said.
“How do you plan on doing it?”
I did not answer. Brocius must have known I would not tell him.
“Have your labs downloaded the video record from our helmets?” I asked.
“They are working on it at this moment, Harris. What exactly will they find?”
I told the admiral everything. He listened quietly from the start. When I got to the broadcast engine, he pulled out a pad and began to scribble notes. “A working broadcast engine,” he grunted. “Sounds as if Warren Atkins has found some new technology to stack the cards in their favor.” Warren, Morgan Atkins’s son, presumably ran all Mogat operations.
“When Yamashiro comes, we’ll want to show those records to his engineers,” I said. “Maybe they can figure it all out.” I did not tell Brocius what I really thought. I doubted that the Mogats had come up with any of this on their own. Someone with a good grasp of strategy and technology had helped them.
Here is how I contacted Yoshi Yamashiro. On the appointed night, I went to Dulles Spaceport, boarded the transport, and sent out a kind of signal known as a virtual beacon. All very-low-tech mundane stuff. Sending a virtual beacon was the military equivalent of passing notes in school.
The beacon contained three words: “red light, go.”
Let the clowns in Intelligence try to decipher the message. In this case, the medium was the message. Yamashiro and I agreed that it would not matter what message the beacon carried. What mattered was that I sent out the beacon at all. When the communications officer on the Sakura located a beacon on that frequency, no matter what it said, he would tell Yamashiro to send an envoy to Washington, DC.