Into the Fire

^{CHAPTER SEVENTEEN}

Corporal Hector Mata looked at the information his buddy Irwin handed him and shook his head. “That’s not enough. A form 431-B needs more—”

“That’s all I’ve got. That’s what the colonel gave me, that and ‘Make it happen; your pal in requisitions can do it.’”

“Yes, but I need something for every one of these boxes, or my colonel will be on me about it. You can’t just have transport for six people without their names, their units, and the name of the authorizing officer.”

“All I know is what my colonel said—”

“I can’t do it, Irwin. Give me something to put in these blanks.”

“It’s a classified transport, see? Nobody’s supposed to know about it. So the colonel didn’t tell me, and—”

“Classified? That’s not a form 431-B. Classified transports are 433-R. For Restricted.”

“My colonel said, get your friend in Requisitions to do the form 431-B. He didn’t say 433-R. 431-B. C’mon, Hector, just do it. Keep us both out of trouble.”

The last thing Hector Mata wanted was trouble, with his name up for the next promotion board. But one thing that would get him past sergeant—he hoped—was his meticulous and prompt handling of his administrative duties. Fast, accurate, honest: using the wrong form for a category wasn’t. And yet it was never good to put yourself in the middle of a struggle between bosses. His own colonel was out on leave, the major had left on a TDY the day before and wouldn’t be back for a week, and the lieutenant in the office was green and not likely to stand up to a colonel’s request.

“He’s good for it?” Mata asked.

“Of course.”

“All right. At least give me some names. It’ll take me a few minutes. Don’t hang over my shoulder; I hate that.”

Irwin handed over a list of names, minus units. Then, when Mata waved a hand at him, Irwin shrugged and went out. Mata went to work. One of the names sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t make a connection. Not his problem. He filled in the form as best he could, using the main database to find unit designations. Irwin would probably think he made them up. He did make one of them up, not finding it fast enough. There were a lot of Gossins in the database, several with the same initial. As it was not the correct form for classified transport, he felt smugly certain it was fine to make copies—several—to cover his butt in case something went screwy. He put the copies under his blotter, and when Irwin came back—just long enough away for a visit to the head and the coffee machine—he had the single form with its own triplicate copies attached—blue, pink, yellow—and handed it over.

“There you go. I did kind of get creative with the other boxes; hope your colonel won’t mind.”

“He won’t. Thanks, Hector. Owe you one.”

When Irwin was gone, Mata thought about it, and then dug into the database again. What was tickling his memory? It was later that day, when—after working on a half dozen other things—he remembered. Several of those names had been mentioned in the media coverage of the shuttle crash that killed the Commandant of the Academy.

It did not take long to find out that the names he’d been given were listed, just once, as survivors of that situation. Survivors, he realized, who had never been seen on the vid. Never been interviewed. Nothing had been heard of them since their return. Why would someone want the wrong form for the classified transport of those particular individuals? The same instinct that had kept him from investing in his second cousin’s pyramid investment scheme, from buying a vehicle from a salesman later prosecuted for selling stolen ones as legitimate secondhand, from marrying a handsome and charming man who (it turned out) had murdered two previous spouses… told him this stank like week-old dead fish.

Without letting himself think further about it that afternoon, Mata quietly put the copies he’d made into an unmarked folder, went to the head where he slid the papers under his shirt and taped them flat so they wouldn’t rustle, and spent the last twenty minutes of his shift doing his usual end-of-the-day filing and straightening, to leave the desk clean and ready for the next shift. On the way out of the building, he greeted the guard the same as always, indicating his plan for a beer at Shelby’s before an evening watching the Port Major/Grinock Bay match in the semifinals, and then drove off-base to consider what to do next.

Shelby’s was no place to sit and think clearly—the pregame crowd was there and already getting loud, but he drank his beer as usual, then went out looking for ideas. Who should he contact? Not his boss, who was away. By no means the green lieutenant, of whom he had formed no very flattering opinion. This could be serious, something bad going on that someone—someone senior to himself—should know about. He worked his way up the grade levels he knew. He wanted at least a staff sergeant, maybe a master sergeant—but none of those he thought of were exactly right. Then it hit him. Sergeant Major Morrison. Anyone could contact her, ask her advice. Known as a straight arrow, absolutely honest and as picky about doing things right as he was himself. Maybe more so. He’d been to some programs she did for junior enlisted.

And scuttlebutt had it she wasn’t staying on base right now, but at her city quarters, because some idiot had broken in and messed with her quarters and her office, and her dog had been hurt. What he was worried about couldn’t be the same thing—but she might be more willing to listen since she’d had trouble herself. And his skullphone had her number in it, since it had been available to anyone and he was, as well as meticulous about his work, careful to put possibly useful phone numbers in his implant.

It wasn’t too late to call.

Sergeant Major Morrison packed everything in her closet in a case for delivery to her alternative housing—the apartment first rented for the Rector. When she arrived, she showed the key to the doorman, who gave her directions to the correct elevator.

She felt a certain grim amusement at the change: this building was only a few blocks away from her own, but decidedly more upscale, from the plantings out front to the stylish lobby, the carpeting in the halls, and the size of the rooms. The view from the windows here looked east and north—a corner suite—and she could see between other buildings the beginning of Government Place, where the Rector’s office, the House of Laws, Government House, and the Presidential Palace sat in their wide lawns around the vast public plaza and gardens.

She had been in hotel suites of this size, years back when she’d splurged on a vacation in Makkavo with several friends. The kitchen—much larger than the kitchenette in her own apartment—would hold at least three people busily at work—staff, of course. She looked over the supplies and decided that since she couldn’t put her clothes away until the case arrived, she would find a grocery and purchase a few of her favorites.

When she came back, her case had been delivered to the suite, just as it might have in a hotel. She put her clothes away in the bedroom next to the larger bath, set out the necessary toiletries on the counter in the bathroom in the same order as in her own quarters. She put the water on for tea, and anticipated a quiet evening in which no one but Kris at the vet clinic knew where she was. And the Rector, but she had looked tired and was probably headed for an early bed.

It was after duty hours now; she might as well change into civvies and relax. But even as she headed to the bedroom to change, her skullphone pinged. It was always something, she thought, as she answered.

“Sergeant Major, this is Corporal Mata, transport division. I have a—a kind of a problem and I don’t quite know where to go…”

A young voice, so the problem was likely to be related to sex, money, or needing leave for family reasons.

“I know it’s after hours, Sergeant Major, and I’m sorry, but my colonel’s on leave, the major’s on TDY, and the lieutenant…”

His voice trailed off again. Morrison recognized every tone. A competent corporal, who would have trusted his commander, but didn’t trust the lieutenant, so the problem likely involved another command chain, where the lieutenant didn’t have the rank to stand up to someone. It would be one of those tedious situations, where the two officers at the top of their respective commands had had a difference, and the corporal felt trapped.

“Go ahead, Corporal Mata. What’s the problem?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain, Sergeant Major, like this. I’m, uh, in a bar.”

That didn’t sound good.

“Because it’s noisy and no one can hear if I murmur, but if it’s at all possible, I need to see you. Tonight, if—”

Whatever it was had to be urgent. And if he really did have a problem that required a personal visit with the sergeant major, then she’d have to stay in uniform. Well. Duty called in many ways; she gave him the address.

“Thank you, Sergeant Major,” he said, relief clear in his voice. “I’ll be taking the tram in from here.”

That was a bit odd, if he had his own vehicle. But she agreed, then looked up the schedule and realized she had twenty minutes she could spend making notes in her implant from her meeting with the Rector.

Mata, when he arrived, proved to be a short, square-built young man with the slight furrow in his brow she’d often noted with clerks in every division. His uniform was immaculate, his eyes clear with no clouding from drink or drugs, and his hand, when she shook it was firm and dry. All good signs.

“Come in,” Morrison said. She led him into the dining area, where she’d laid the files she’d brought on the polished table. Grace Vatta’s file was already locked in the suite’s safe. She noticed the slight relaxation when he saw a table with files and a teacup, familiar territory. “Have a seat. Do you want water or anything?”

“No, Sergeant Major. I’m fine.” He sat down after she did, across the table from her.

“You realize I need to record whatever you tell me that bears on official business?” He nodded. “Good. So—what’s the story?” She flicked on the recorder built into the table.

The story, as he told it, brought up the gooseflesh on her arms, even before he mentioned the names.

“Do you have a copy?” she asked.

“Yes, Sergeant Major. Since it’s supposed to be a classified transport I really shouldn’t have, but Irwin—Corporal Irwin, that is—said his colonel insisted on a form 431-B. Classified transports are 433-R. So it’s not a classified form I made copies of, only that the transport’s supposed to be classified.” His look now was pleading.

“Don’t worry,” Morrison said, even as her own worries multiplied. “Do you have a copy with you?”

“Yes—all of them. I made three: one for the file, and one for my colonel. And one for, um, if it was needed.” His face flushed. “I, um, taped them together. Under my shirt.”

“You’re really worried,” Morrison said.

“Yes—it’s not right, Sergeant Major. It’s not just the wrong form, though we have two forms for a reason. If Colonel Higgs had been there, I know he wouldn’t have approved.”

Morrison knew Higgs; she agreed with that assessment. Higgs was the terror of the base when it came to shady transport requests from those who thought the system should be more flexible. And was this why transport of the survivors to a single location had not been immediate: waiting for Higgs to be away on leave? Had someone sent his second, Major Vargas, on TDY to clear the way?

“How long has the lieutenant been in your office?” she asked. “Fairly new or there for… say, the past year?”

“Twenty-six days,” Mata said, in the tone that conveyed too long. “He’s—I shouldn’t criticize an officer—”

Morrison shook her head. “We both work for a living, Mata: spit it out. With his name.”

“Lieutenant Andres Marban. He graduated three years ago and missed his promotion board for O-3. He looks good enough, but he’s always wandering off somewhere. I heard…” A pause in which it was clear Mata realized he might be accused of eavesdropping; she was pleased to note that he didn’t mention it or make up some excuse. “The major ripped into him four days ago—that’s Major Vargas and she’s, um, easily heard—about something.”

“How is he with the office staff?”

A frown. This was not someone eager to criticize officers, another good point. “He’s all right. A bit fussy, but then it’s important to do things the right way. Only he doesn’t, himself. I had something to take to his office and there were red-tabbed files on his desk. He wasn’t there.”

“Mata, you were right to come to me,” Morrison said. “I cannot tell you everything right now—”

“Of course not, Sergeant Major.”

“But there have been concerns, at a high level, about the survivors of the shuttle crash. There’s been difficulty in finding out more, obstructions. This is a very serious matter, and your information is vital. So is your silence. We may even need to protect you from any suspicion.”

“Seriously?”

“Very. Down the passage to the left, there’s a bathroom—get the copies out from under your shirt and bring them to me.”

He returned in a few minutes, uniform correctly put back together, and handed her the copies.

They were warm from his body; she noticed that first. She was familiar with both of the forms he’d mentioned, and ran her eye down the white page of the first copy. Names, ranks, serial numbers—

“Did the other corporal—Irwin—provide you this information?” If so, the opposition was stupid—and she didn’t think they were.

“Not at first, Sergeant Major, not even the names. I told him I had to have names. That’s all he’d give me; he said to make up the rest, but hurry. I told him to get out for a little while, let me work. And he did. Then I looked up the names in the all-branch database. The only one I had to make things up for was Gossin—there are a lot of Gossins.”

“Staff Sergeant Gossin,” Morrison said.

“The database gave me the units of the others, and serial numbers and all. I still didn’t have the signature of the requesting officer, but it had to be Irwin’s colonel—”

She could see the name in the box: Victor Prelutsky. She’d pull his file out of the database when she and Mata were finished. “I’m going to call someone,” she said to Mata. “Sit tight. Have you had supper?”

“No…” The uncertainty in his voice, the fear that he would bolt, stopped her for a moment.

“I have bar food,” she said. “If you eat fried stuff with cheese on it, and watch the game on my big set, then you’ll be able to talk game with the others later, right?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes lighting.

“Good. Turn it on. I’ll bring the food in and then call.”

Shortly he was settled on the deep soft couch in the suite’s living room, watching the game—not as much fun as in a bar for him, she suspected, though these days she preferred being alone to having her shoulders pounded and her ears assaulted by the noise in a sports bar. The microwave made short work of heating up sausage and chicken chunks and melting the cheese. She put it all in a large bowl, on a large tray, added two kitchen towels, and set that on the table in front of the couch.

“I should warn you, I borrowed this apartment for a few days from a civilian, so we need to be careful about spillage. You would be anyway, but add another fifty percent.”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

“But don’t go hungry. I’ll be back shortly.”

Mata turned the volume up on the vid, not too loud but loud enough to cover whatever she said; she leaned against the doorframe in the bedroom and called MacRobert’s number.

“Sergeant Major.”

“Yes. I have just had a most interesting conversation with someone who works on base. It may be connected.”

“Yes?”

“Is Sera Vatta available?”

“I see. I will inquire.”

“Sergeant Major.” That was the Rector. “You have important news?”

“Yes. Not all that we need, but more names than we had before.”

“Can you come now?”

“No. I’m concerned about the informant. He’ll be missed if not on duty tomorrow.”

“Suspected?”

“Possibly.”

“We really can’t stash another at Helen’s.” Grim amusement colored the Rector’s voice. “Assessment of this individual’s acting ability?”

“Moderate. He’s watching the ball game and eating bar snacks.”

“Well, that’s normal enough. Drunk or sober?”

“Only one beer, not here. Sober enough.”

“We’ll call you back with a plan.”

Morrison joined Mata in the living room. “Who’s winning?”

“Port Major, but Grinock Bay’s not far behind.”

Grace had not yet been asleep—strange place, strange bed, strangeness all around—but lying eyes closed, thinking. Now, wrapped in a new robe, she sat at the kitchenette table watching Mac make coffee. “I wonder what fell out of the tree into the sergeant major’s lap to make her so tense?”

“She’s experienced, and she knows the problem. It won’t be trivial.”

“Oh, I’m sure of that. And now I’m hungry. She’s got a person she wants to protect—not another of the survivors, or she’d have said, which means it’s someone in the military, someone who found out something that bothered him or her and she needs…”

“Command,” Mac said, setting a cup of coffee down beside her and handing her one of the rolls he’d bought. “She can probably think up a plan, but she wants someone to tell her so.”

“It never bothered you to act independently,” Grace said, eyeing him over the rim of her cup.

“It did at first. A long time, in fact. I got over it.”

“Well, then, what’s the best approach to help her and her informant?”

“Get the informant back to the base and duty as soon as possible, with instructions to keep his or her mouth shut and act like nothing happened. Informant should take mild precautions. No alcohol at all, no drugs other than regular prescriptions. No comments about the sergeant major and no contact with her; she will contact the informant when it’s safe on her end, whenever that may be.”

“I’ll call her…”

“Eat, then call.”

“How secure are her communications over there?”

“As much as here; it was set up for you, remember.”

Sergeant Major Morrison listened to Grace’s suggestions silently, then said, “How can I get the hardcopy to you?”

“Via MacRobert. How many copies are there?”

“Three complete—that is, with the multiples intact. They’d all fit in a 25 x 33 centimeter folder. The relevant officer’s name is in the right box, but not his signature; these copies were made by the clerk because he was upset by the officer’s insistence that he use the wrong form. I’m thinking they should be dispersed and that I probably should not have one. The essential data’s now in my implant.”

“Bless finicky and honest clerks,” Grace said. “I trust you. Work out your own contact protocol with him.”

“Do you want his name?”

“Not at this time. Make sure you have it noted in more than one place—and perhaps that Security officer you mentioned—Major Hong?”

“Yes, Rector; I’ll see to it.”

“Send your informant on his way, then, and MacRobert will pick them up within the hour. Thank you, Sergeant Major; you’re being extremely helpful.”

“I’m also more worried about the other survivors. If they’re cutting orders to transport—”

“So am I,” Grace said. “Once I see the hardcopies, and dig through the other databases available to me, we should be able to get things rolling on a response.”

“Thank you, Rector.”

“That’s it for now, then,” Grace said. “MacRobert will be on his way when you’ve assured us your informant is gone.”

“Ten minutes,” Morrison said. “Not more than fifteen.” She sounded, to Grace’s ear, slightly less anxious but still grim.

“Marching orders,” Grace said to Mac, when that call ended. “You’ll be picking up copies of three complete forms, all the colored bits, and we’ll want one to Ky, one to Stella for Vatta files, and one for us to pore over.”

“You should get some sleep—you’re still not completely recovered.”

“I could not possibly sleep until I see what the forms say. Fifteen minutes, be at her door.”

“Twenty. I don’t want to see the individual or have the individual see me. Plausible deniability.” His mouth quirked.

“Your mission; your choice.” Grace looked around the kitchenette. “This place is too small to make fruitcakes and I really do feel the need to make them.”

“When did you start making fruitcakes?”

“In the psychiatric prison. We made them and the prison sold them to raise money for the prisoners’ canteen, little treats we could then earn good behavior points for.”

Mac stared at her, appalled. The grin she sent back was pure mischief. “They let you—you of all people—make—”

“Fruitcakes. Yes. The last four years I was there. I was being very good and kitchen work was a reward. And of course they were just fruitcakes, not any of my special fruitcakes. And though I never did it, others in the same facility working in the kitchen did, from time to time, try to drop things into the batter and make a special design on top so some family member would buy it and they could pass things in and out. Usually got caught, but it’s how I found out what you could bake at 175°C degrees and not ruin it. Including, once, poison that one of the women got hold of, to poison her family because they hadn’t gotten her released. I wasn’t suspected; my crimes were all violent, not sneaky. They caught her; I never saw her again.”

Mac said nothing for a moment, then said, “What of yours can I stick in my briefcase, something plausible to claim was left there when we cleared it to switch with the sergeant major? My excuse for going?”

“Spare lenses. You know I have multiple pairs, and after I got up from a nap, I discovered that the blue-tinted ones with the special prescription for reading at night in dimmer light weren’t with the rest.” She got up and fetched them. “Here you are.”

Mac made the trip to the sergeant major and back without incident. “She told him to keep quiet, and he said he would. She said he’s smart and he had already figured out he had hold of dangerous information.”

“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Grace looked at the first form. “Transport, Personnel, Routine Duty Station Transfer…”

“The sergeant major also gave me her sitrep and her assessment of the personnel she’s been in contact with. She thinks several in the assessment committee—though not the chair—were part of whatever group is behind the secrecy. She’s not sure about the commander who chose the committee; there could have been manipulation to make those members seem best suited.”

“Does she think it all goes back to the Unification War?”

“Not exactly—it’s older than that, but that may be when its focus changed from keeping Miksland’s economic potential secret to involving the military. She hasn’t been able to dig into the history—both lack of time and compromise of security in her office and quarters.”

“But we can do that.” Grace nodded. “We were on the right track, but we, too, ran out of time. Two parts to this. Immediately, we need to find those survivors before they’re permanently silenced, either by the drug effects or death. We can do that, thanks to this Corporal Mata. We don’t have to know the whole history until those people are safe. But then—”

“We need to know enough history so we can anticipate the source of interference with the rescue,” Mac said.

“Agreed. But not the whole story until afterward.” Grace tapped the form in front of her. “And we need more copies, then really secure storage options.”

“You said one to Stella, one to Ky: both those should be safe enough. And we need one. Though all three copies with Vattas is risky.” Mac picked up one of the copies and headed for the living room. “I’ll make some.”

Grace read on. The names were familiar, the same Ky had shared with her. The authorizing officer… she’d never heard of. In her office at the Defense Department, or in her own home before the gas attack, she had access to hardened lines to the complete military databases, direct access to all personnel records. Here, despite Mac’s attempt to secure her connections, she did not completely trust them.