The Campaigner

Act VI

Date: 11 AUG 2020
Operation: Athena's Grace – Phase V
Location: Harbor Island, Washington
Function A: Set 334DE objective reorientation.
Function B: Set 5601D objective reorientation.

"Men more frequently require to be reminded than informed."
~ Samuel Johnson

After the Essex, we pulled back up to the Dock in our boats with our gas masks off, spirits high, singing and cheering, and waving our fists in the air. Pretty clear math there. All up and down the defense line of the channel, those other Guardsmens' faces lit up with glee. Some ran off their defensive posts to follow us, calling after as we went.

One guy on the dock said: "What'd you find?!"

Meussen called back, with both hands cupped around his mouth: "Chow, dumbass!"

Great kid.

Nakamura already knew the score long before we pulled up. In relation to this behavior, his political intellect stepped on the gas, and he struck while the iron was hot. The old Sergeant Major didn't even wait for us to tell him the details, because at that moment, Meat was in the Colonel's office filing a complaint about the port tariff. So, knowing it would further irritate Meat? Nakamura grinned, and he stepped inside. By the time we were tying off the boats? There he was with his bullhorn, that ol' Red Wall, literally shouting the good news from the rooftops... with Meat directly beneath his feet in the office below.

"Attention; Attention…"

A squeal of feedback. That grin reached his voice.

"We are pleased to announce victory in our most recent raid! We do not know how much we have procured, but our Cutters are singing their way in! Bonuses are likely in the wings, gentlemen! … More news to follow in the coming hours!"

Squeal. Click.

You can probably guess the basewide reaction. But, to say it clear... they were going nuts down in the barracks before he even hung up the phone. The sheer uproar. They poured out, shouting, cheering. Within thirty seconds, we had men lining up at the dock perimeter to volunteer for a run out to the Essex. Nakamura had to run another hat draw just to keep it fair. Again, very smart man, cycling men to fairly distribute the carry-back policy.

While we unloaded, Nakamura's admin guys gassed up the boats for another run out. Then, the moment the last crate of rations came out, back out to the Essex. Not one second spent unwisely, not one drop of fuel wasted.

And finally, finally… people at this base could talk to me. On my first day out of the One-Star, I had led the mice to cheese, and now they were jostling me around out of love. One Guardsman said he wished he had joined the Marines instead, we apparently 'ate better.' Debatable, says Dad, but… another guy asked how much I wanted for my hat!

"Not for sale," said I!

Meussen had the best question, though. "What are you gonna do with all them riches, Ramirez?!"

I laughed, laying hard into my accent as I pointed at him, "I already told you, Meussen! Hotel Two-Star, we're adding that swimming pool!"

That one sold the crowd.

Cultural integration sims aside, both versions of me were happy here. Of course Ramirez would be happy to provide for his new family after a tragedy, and... of course I wanted to provide for these guys, how couldn't I? It was like coming home to a whole new base, nothing like the depressing slog I'd witnessed in sims. It was home. These people were family.

Of course… that was just the ground floor reaction. That matters, but… so too did the politics above, and unfortunately, this plan required that I meddle with the politics. Now, I despise politics. It's necessary, don't get me wrong, but… sometimes you don't really have a choice.

So, in the middle of me hauling food onto a safety-orange Home Depot hand truck, which is my preferred form of warfare... Dresden tapped me on the shoulder. Next to him stood Corporal Fred Pham from Block B.

Dresden wanted us both to come with him into HQ as witnesses, to testify. Up to see Velasquez again.

As I crossed the threshold of the slider door vestibule, I removed my hat and held it across my stomach, since I didn't know what else to do with it. A mop and bucket laid freshly abandoned on the lobby floor, still wet. We tracked grime through Private Oliver's fresh work, but honestly I don't think he minded. The guy was outside counting rations and doing math with Nakamura, he was having a grand ol' day.

The HQ exterior might have been garish with all of the military reinforcement, but the interior was still its own form of beautiful: an open inner courtyard atrium that went the whole height of four floors, with wood paneling on the ground, walls, and ceilings; a polished cement floor. The office windows and railings were once glass, now replaced with plywood, plating, or sandbags, depending on tactical positioning.

But the coolest part of this whole base? In the center of the lobby, they had a single living tree from the original building decor – a pine bansai – growing out of a rock formation. Ten feet tall. Yeah, you plant guys are geeking out already, I can see it in your eyes. Somehow… some way… these mad bastards had kept this guy alive through the friggin' war.

A bansai tree, folks. One of the neediest trees in existence. 'Oh, my conditions changed just a little? Forgot to water me this week? Guess I'll die!' They had some good water filtration there, I'll tell you that much. I was so excited to see this thing in person, finally! They had Bashar in there once a week with a water test kit, balancing the pH! Just wild.

But… to poison the very air I was breathing… I could hear First Sergeant Meat's greasy-steak voice echoing through the atrium from the Colonel's office. That was our destination, too. Joy. I did not envy Velasquez's sense of smell, Meat's breath stank. Knew that from watching people's faces in sims when he talked to them. It wasn't great.

"I can't opt out, L-T?" Pham asked warily, looking up toward the skylight.

"You may not, Corporal," Dresden muttered, with the droll tone of a parent bringing their child to the doctor. "You're a witness, so grin and bear it."

We took the stairwell up. Dresden knocked on the door, which made Meat go silent in his chair. I think the last thing Meat said here was 'unga bunga, Nakamura baaaad.'

"We'll continue this another time, First Sergeant," Velasquez said, no doubt glad for the interruption. "Come in, Lieutenant."

Velasquez could probably tell it was Dresden at his door, and not Nakamura, from the number of footsteps as we approached. Nakamura never traveled upstairs with a posse.

As we stepped in, I saw Meat sitting there across from the Colonel's desk. I halted at the coat rack by the door and made eye contact with Velasquez, wiggling up my white hat in question. The Colonel nodded affirmatively, then gestured at the back of the room, telling me and Pham where to stand.

We stood at ease as Dresden sat beside Meat, describing our raid. Dresden looked comfortable and relaxed through this high speed explanation. Hey, I'll give him this: Dresden did a damn good job. A bit loud, a bit mean, but... hey, he made an effort. Like I said, fifty percent is passing.

Meat though, he seemed less enthusiastic. His lips were tensed, compressed into a thin line of impatience. He always did this. Always. I noted this in my analysis of him months ago. That impatience was entirely tactical, not genuine. By being on the edge of being offended at all times, he created a social imposition. People would naturally want to appease and soothe him. Psychopath, in other words.

Sometimes, I can relate very well with a sociopath. Take Connor, for instance. Guy had emotional range, he was reasonable, he was capable of feeling guilty about something. He meant it when he cried. To this very day, Spin Drift is still a pen pal of mine. Now, imagine that. A guy who tried to kill me with a baseball bat? We're friends now. That's friggin' cool, right?

Folks? Try as I might, I can not relate with most psychopaths. If they are the Meat variety, they do not strive to be missed, so they usually aren't. Especially not when Talons are involved.

The Colonel's office felt nice and warm at least. Well insulated, well heated, by a homemade furnace and stove. Another Bashar al-Ghandour invention. This particular office, before the war, was once a standard corporate board room. Early on in his tenure here, Velasquez had donated the table to a construction project elsewhere in the base, converted into steps. A fitting end for wasted space.

In the table's stead now stood two simple military folding tables in green, covered in various infrastructure maps of the island, all of which were covered with a tablecloth for OPSEC purposes, since this meeting included a newbie. Hello.

The room's windows – which previously overlooked the east channel and Seattle's skyline – had been blocked up with tall metal plates to protect the office from gunfire. The plates were then insulated and decorated with patterned rugs, all very gorgeous hand-crafted luxuries pulled from a conex crate with Turkish origins. That wasn't even opulent by the base's standards; pretty much everyone had highly valuable stuff from the old world down in their barracks and recreational areas.

Seattle docks, remember. Everyone had fancy stuff. Money wasn't money anymore; food was.

The walls were filled out with tall wood cabinets, green military crates, a painting of Voltaire, and three well-stocked bookshelves in a corner by a recliner. All of which is to say, the room had a 'gloomy study' vibe – a thoughtful place, in military flavor. It was clear to me that Velasquez didn't just work his days away, he didn't just patrol the wall and moderate defense; He lived. He dreamed.

The shelves held a wide selection of medieval military history and fiction; psychology textbooks; technical manuals on cars and hardware. Lots of Cornwell novels too. And on one shelf… a calvary sword, scavenged by Erving from the Coast Guard station across the channel, back when the military first pulled out. Blackouts snapped up the rest the moment the military was gone, most of it off to the Ballfield camp, which we'll talk about later. Local neighbors.

To top it off, I could smell incense from Nakamura's office, rolling in through the vents. That's the smell most tied to this memory for me.

"Okay," said Colonel Velasquez slowly, once Dresden was finished with his explanation. "So, what I want hear more about, Lieutenant, is… how the men out there reasoned that the AI killed that carrier. Run it by me slower, please; no offense intended, I know you field guys are high speed, but… your first description was a little too fast for me."

"Sorry, sir," Dresden rattled, still running on the high of success. He took a deep breath to slow himself down. "It's, uh… not just one thing, really, but a combination of, uh—... Corporal Ramirez here?" He threw his thumb over his shoulder. "He pointed out the guns on our way in. Corporal Pham here rode up close, he got a good look, and he thinks the guns were German tank barrels. And on the flight deck? Thermite in all the vehicles. Engines, avionics, everything. AI might do that kind of sabotage. Admittedly, it’s just a theory, but… I don't know even know how to parse what we saw, really. I wish you could have seen the guns, sir, it's insane. Non-standard statics, but... the welds look good. Professional."

I have to commend Dresden. True, that explanation left out a lot of his yelling and demands for answers from the men, and chewing them out when they were horribly wrong – they were Guardsmen, remember, not mainline Army – but… it was highly impressive that he still managed to give due credit to his men. I was proud of him!

"German tank barrels?" Meat's voice cut in like coarse gravel. He leaned forward toward the Colonel's desk and rested his fist on it, turning back and looking Pham up and down. "Pham, you know German gear? Did you do a tour in Germany?"

Meat knew he didn't. He was setting up a refutation.

"No, First Sergeant," Pham said. "Just Guard, 303rd, I just… I know tanks."

"Oh, okay, you know tanks," Meat imitated, in a disbelieving tone that was only just barely not rude.

"First Sergeant," Velasquez warned.

"The evacuators are shaped the right way," Pham said, pushing through, either missing or ignoring the subtextual warning that Meat was planning to dismiss literally anything he said next. "Maybe it's a… a 120, or a 130. We can't get too close yet, the house is on a hill, mines are there, but—"

"Evacuators," Meat interrupted in a breath of disbelief, flipping his hand upward off the desk. "Evacuators, based on evacuators, and a glance."

The Colonel looked ready to admonish Meat again, but he saw Dresden's face, and read in the body language that he was gearing up to respond with disagreement. Better to let the Pantry people convince Pantry people, so he let it go.

Dresden shrugged, looking and sounding delicate as he looked at Meat. "It's… what he saw, First Sergeant. He seemed pretty sure on the boat. He, uh… says he played a lot of simulator games."

Meat shot him a wordless look with an arched brow, his mouth ajar half an inch. Body language: 'Really?'

Dresden shrugged. "They uh… didn't look like Abrams guns to me, Meat, but they were tank guns for sure, or… at least howitzers. But we don't put howitzers side-by-side like that, not on sticks, not on statics. Where's the physical support? In that caliber, you'll get one shot set up like that, and then the whole gun's toast. Needs to be recalibrated."

"German, though?" said Meat in proper tone, but glancing at Pham again in a critical way, so the Colonel couldn't see his face.

"Best guess is they're Rheinmetalls," Pham extrapolated. "No way to be 100% sure without looking up close, though. The muzzle brakes were blown clean off, if there even were any, so we can't use those to identify it or I'd give you a definite answer, First Sergeant. Sorry."

Meat held the gaze for a few seconds and looked at Dresden again. "I don't buy an AI connection, not on just that. Who knows what the Neo-Luddites did in prep for this war? Who knows if they didn't import something? Or… what leaks they'd get from the Pentagon, about where that ship would be?"

Dresden took in a nervous breath and sighed, grimacing as he ran his nails back through his auburn slick. "Thermite through the vehicles, though? Killing the engines?"

"They hit the avionics," Meat countered. "Luddites would do that. Engines, they hit to deny us."

"They'd've taken the gasoline, though, Meat," Dresden added to his list of evidence. "And the rounds they fired? According to Ramirez here, they sunk it in one volley.It was already resting against the ground before he could finish getting clear of the crew quarters."

Meat leveled his gaze at me now. "That so?" Upward inflection, not downward, meaning he really did want the answer.

I didn't say anything, just nodded. This was my first real chance to have a meaningful social interaction with this guy, and the little things matter when it comes to gaming a psychopath. In this case, I couldn't seem emotionally weak to him at all, because that wouldn't serve me.

Dresden saved me from having to say anything, sighing his words out. "We left our divers out there, to check what components were targeted inside. They'll be up here when they get back, Colonel, to compare with your Coast Guard schematics. And... if they come back and say those guns hit the engines dead on… and if those really are German guns? Think about it, First Sergeant. Amish had two battalions of Guard M1s when this war started, so why not use an Abrams gun instead? Makes no sense. City's full of 'em."

Meat opened his mouth to issue his own reply, agitation growing on his face.

Velasquez hummed thoughtfully in response to Dresden's questions, interrupting Meat’s thought and drawing everyone's attention. The Colonel then spent a few seconds holding up a finger to indicate a thought was coming, his eyes looking down to the left, not directing the sound at anyone in particular. Then he looked back at us.

It's exactly what I would have done in his position. He noticed Meat was only going to keep challenging anything Dresden said, no matter what it was, and he agreed with Dresden's assessment of the facts… so he let Dresden have the last word with a well timed interruption, one which would initially seem like it might carry disagreement with Dresden. It shut Meat up, and Meat didn't even notice that him shutting up was the goal.

Masterful de-escalator, that ol' Colonel. Truly.

Until this point, I had been looking away nervously, observing the decor, reading the titles of the Cornwell books for the dozenth time. I was somewhat detached; simply listening. I didn't want to bias these guys in puzzling this evidence out if I could avoid it. More than anything, I was just impressed with the investigation. Still, Velasquez addressed me directly. The mere attempt to look shy had probably drawn him, like an English teacher going after a distracted student's attention.

"What's your take on that ambush, Ramirez? Can you describe it in detail?"

I looked away from the sword on the shelf and met the Colonel's eyes. All of the men turned to look at me, and I gave all of them a gauging glance before I replied. Looking at the hard gray office carpet, I zoned out for a moment and fell into a very real memory for my answer.

Lance Corporal Miguel Ramirez woke from a dead sleep in his berth, wearing his full combat uniform and weapon due to standby conditions, and good thing too. The whole world shook hard enough to make his chest sting, and he winced. Noise. Confusion. Yelling. Chaos. Alarms. A hell of a way to be greeted by the world, for round two of civil war in a broken American city.

Some comic books fell from a shelf, clattering open as they landed on the deck. That image stuck with Ramirez the most.

Sarge came from out of nowhere and grasped Miguel's rig by one shoulder, pulling the Corporal out of his bunk and into a stand. Hardt pounded Ramirez on the shoulder with his fist once – an affectionate gesture, he had earned the right to be physical, even after the injury. These two, thick as thieves, had four other brothers to protect, and a ship to jump from.

"Let's go, Rami, now's our chance."

"I…"

The word caught in my throat. I tried again, shrugging, inhaling, and making eye contact with Carlos again.

"The shot shook my whole berth, sir. Was asleep when it happened. The stuff rattled off of Dan's shelf, that's what woke me up. Sarge pulled me out of bed a second later, and…" I gestured with a hand, imagining the deck before me. "We went straight to battle stations, or… we would have. Captain Folsom triggered the general alert, then called 'abandon ship' right after. He realized how bad it was, I guess. And… by the time we got to the flight deck? Ship was already settling, sliding down the rocks, real loud. We were scared we were gonna get pulled by the undertow, so we stayed up top, where… whoever hit us could maybe shoot us, but… no bullets came. No repeat fire, no suppression. No enemy to fight." Another bewildered shrug. "Nothing. We didn't understand."

"And, while on the flight deck," Velasquez asked, "you saw those tank guns?"

"Not me," I said, shaking my head. "Rod and Arnold did though, they… they thought it looked odd, but no one wanted to peek at 'em for too long, in case there were snipers. So we all took up positions and protected the sailors while they got the life boats started. But after ten minutes of just sitting around? Still no threats. Just… the one big slam at first, the one that woke me up, then… nothing. Sarge and I, the boys, when everyone else started to board the life boats, we… left."

I took a breath, averted my gaze nervously, then said, "The rest is us… leaving, sir."

Velasquez lifted a hand and nodded. "It's alright, Ramirez. Remember, we all abandoned ship here, same as you." He nodded gratefully. "Thank you."

He looked at Meat.

"First Sergeant," Velasquez said neutrally. Just his rank, because his new name was… embarrassing to say aloud for Velasquez. He once said as much to Nakamura, in private. Hey, old guys, y'know?

"Sir?" Meat sat up.

Velasquez lifted a hand off his desk in placation. "Please understand that I say this in good faith. The official position of my executive officer on any matter here cannot be fully understood by me unless he is here to represent himself, and articulate his feelings to me, directly. I need him present to verify exactly what he wants, both in this matter, and in our prior discussion."

Meat raised his head in a gesture that brokered challenge. "Sir, I'm here to represent him. He sent me out here with orders, it's in that letter I delivered to you. I execute his will now."

"And I value your presence, make no mistake. My desire to speak with him is not a knock against your ability to be a good witness, and I do trust you to relate everything faithfully. But, he will miss things in a game of telephone, First Sergeant. He already doesn't know about these cannons, and it's not fair to him that we all know about the cannons before he does, right? Could we maybe get him down here before we go on, while we still have the witnesses present? Maybe send a runner up? We can recess, if need be."

"Well, I would like to, sir," Meat replied, with an upward inflection, making it a refusal that held confusion, because there were two corporals present. He glanced at Pham and myself briefly, his face morphing very briefly into a sneer of distaste, but only for as long as he looked away from the Colonel. "Again, security concerns, Colonel. He won't come. Snipers."

"Snipers?" Velasquez mirrored, turning his head in question, a polite demand for extrapolation.

Meat nodded, putting on his best attempt to look concerned. "Snipers, yes sir. The threat we've been dealing with."

That was as far as Carlos was getting, I guess, and Meat wasn't going to defend the point. So, Carlos extended a counterargument which would bait the extrapolation he wanted.

"The shooters we've been dealing with… have never really fired into the base, First Sergeant. Every window of every building visible beyond our channel has been pre-ranged and pre-sighted. The mere provocation of our defense line by a sniper would be outright suicidal. No one could possibly be that crazy; our response would be immediate, and violent."

"They'll infiltrate the base, you know," Meat countered. "If he really is special forces out there, could cross the water and hit us in the dark—"

Yeah, ooh. My heart skipped a beat there too. That first bit scared the shit out of me. The mere idea of a spy hunt would definitely get me killed, I was the only new guy.

Meat continued: "—And in that event, sir, well – I share Kyle's concern for your safety out here, if that psycho really is targeting you... for Arujá."

Oops.

Oops, folks.

'Your safety… out here.'

Meat spilled the beans by mistake.

I saw it happen. I saw Carlos recognize the looming threat in those words, predicting Meat's next suggestion, and not liking it at all. Carlos tilted his head, like a lion getting a new angle on a prey animal.

At first, I saw just the faintest beginnings of a scowl; a face-wide shift of his muscles toward moral outrage, the spark that would skip to the end and start this war in earnest... beginning with a pointed interrogation, and ending with the arrest or summary execution of Meat, for conspiracy to commit kidnapping and mutiny.

The Colonel, wisely remembering that he might have a new ally outside... he resisted this impulse toward anger, restoring neutrality to his features. Now, he was a predator lulling its prey into a false sense of security, a lion who coils his legs to pounce, hiding low in the grass. No one else in the room saw the partial scowl, but I did. That twitch toward fury on his face had been so fleeting that even I would have missed it had I blinked.

But it happened.

I thought…

Oh no, Meat. You just screwed up dude, this is why this Tarantino film ends badly for you.

Any doubts Carlos may have held about this Man in the Coat situation? Evaporated. In a blink. If Meat's follow-up suggestion was to move the Colonel's residence to the Pantry, to be a hostage held by guilty men, then Carlos would feed Meat and Simmons to the Man. For this ramshackle, Mickey Mouse bullshit, Carlos would instrumentally converge with the Terminator, and without remorse.

When Carlos was finished processing his sudden suspicion… his half-return to neutral suddenly switched into the muscle groups for thoughtful perplexion. Carlos held a steadfast, performative curiosity in his eyes, lifting a hand at Meat. "Well, okay, that's a fair assessment, Meat. You have my attention. For sake of argument then? Hypothetical."

Oh my God, he used his name, he's reeling the man in by his ego!

"Yes sir?" Meat asked, upward inflection, a spark of hope.

"Hypothetically, let's say you're right. Let's say the Coat can run a special forces dive team to sneak onto the island, and sneak past our patrols into HQ." Velasquez flicked out his palm in polite invitation. "I'll grant you that, that sounds plausible, given the skills. Do you have a suggested solution?"

I am not ashamed to say it, folks. I was excited, because I was thinking forward to the day I’d get to shake this guy's hoof, and tell him that this was the coolest damned thing I've ever seen in my life, rhetorically. All of my law training said that this guy would have been an excellent JAG lawyer.

Let me explain this trap, in case you aren't sure what's going on here.

Meat was indeed ordered to try and get the Colonel to step into the Pantry. Only, there were unexpected witnesses to this explanation Meat was about to give. Ideally, he would suggest this while alone with the Colonel, and indeed, he had been working himself up to that suggestion before I came back with three boatloads full of food; Simmons was not happy about the port tariff and decided he needed to make a power play for more leverage over Nakamura.

Meat now had to answer this question very correctly, because witnesses were bad for that plan. He had to run a gauntlet on not saying anything that could even be partially misconstrued as 'I want full control over your every waking moment.' Pham or myself might spread word of this conversation. Pham wasn't Pantry; I was unknown quantity.

Okay, Meathead probably thought, after an awkward pause. I can save this.

I knew this was his first thought, because he itched his chin across his jaw, thumbing at us: "Sir… Beg pardon, but… shouldn't we hold this discussion in private? OPSEC. Defense plan stuff."

Velasquez twisted his hand palm up over his desk, explaining. "Usually, but I might want their help with whatever it is you're about to suggest. We're in dire straits right now, and this is an all-hands-on-deck situation. Surely they can be of some assistance; clearly, Ramirez here has no love for the AI. I know Corporal Pham doesn't, he's told me what his losses are. I trust them both on this."

Meat just barely showed a flabbergasted 'huh?' in his body language. That was not the expected reaction out of the Colonel whatsoever. 'That didn't respect procedure, what about OPSEC?!'

Gosh.

Carlos had just turned the metaphorical gun around. To Meat, it looked like Colonel Velasquez was just turning oblivious or senile, all of a sudden. But, it's what boss wanted. Boss is the boss is the boss, junkyard dog do what boss say.

Just had to work around the witnesses, then.

"It might be… safer for you," Meat said slowly, watching Carlos carefully as he spoke, for any sign of suspicion, which in itself was suspicious. "To... have a home crate with us until we sort this guy. The Major and I have talked about this already, and he is willing to let you bunk in his quarters. We can… run an ops center there, in the Rec. This works for us because… the Pantry's much more secure. We have four walls, one hardened entrance, and no unobserved angles."

All the features of a fortress, yes. Or a prison.

"Hm," Carlos hummed, betraying no understanding.

He sat back, leaned into his chair, giving the appearance of deep thought while he let Meat stew. Damn near ten seconds of very performative thinking. He bobbed a lazy finger forward.

"I see your point. I do commend your stellar work with the Pantry security plan, because I do agree, it is much more secure than headquarters. So... for that to work for me, I would need to settle affairs out here first. The men are an issue too; if I just dove straight into the Pantry, they would talk about that. Might call me a coward, perhaps, for hiding, instead of leading. If I am to reside in the Pantry, I would need to… prepare them for that idea. So it won't cause a mutiny."

Over the course of all of that response, I watched Meat’s body language lift and lift and lift when he was being soothed and stroked… and then, I watched him slowly deflate and crumple like a thick balloon, beginning with the words, 'settle affairs.'

Carlos definitely saw Meat's disappointment, and it was practically a confession.

Tragic, right? Woe to poor Meathead.

Simmons had made the dog proud to be a dog. Gave him a junkyard dog name, Meat. Simmons told him he thought it sounded cool, because it meant he ate the most. Simmons even fed him all the best kibble, to make that true. So, the Meathead was the biggest, baddest bulldog in the whole base, and he knew it, and everyone knew it, and they knew that Simmons can train a dog, and that if wanna eat good, you can be big dog too, just do what Meat does.

But Velasquez was The dog trainer, capital T. He knew the training language. He wrote the book on it, you might say.

Carlos Velasquez was a psychological operations specialist, folks. A 37F. The King of Gab, the Village Elder Whisperer. His entire job in the military was to convince people who wanted to kill him, to not want to kill him, usually face-to-face, while there were insurgent assault rifles hiding behind every window, waiting for the winds to shift. Carlos was a people programmer for his whole career, folks. He had to be.

A single mistake of social form here, in front of witnesses, might spell death for Meat, if Carlos so desired. The Colonel could, in theory, drive a rhetorical spike into a verbal mistake until the truth was fully known, understood, and dissected. If Carlos asked more questions here, and if Meat screwed this up, the Colonel would eventually wrangle a confession… and then Meat's reward for his disloyalty would be drawn from behind the desk and delivered in 9-by-19 millmeter, Parabellum.

"You have Nakamura," Meat suggested, becoming almost imperceptibly agitated for the refusal, upward inflection, making it sound like pleading. And then he added hurriedly, to not sound weak: "Sir, your safety is most important here. You know we can't do this without you."

Nice recovery, Meat.

If I were on good terms with the Colonel though, standing beside him, I would have pointed at Meat, and said: 'That was terrible, sir. Was that his best try, or do you wanna give him another go?'

I let that expression show on my face as I looked at the back of Meat's head, a narrowing of my brows and an inch turn left in reproachful suspicion. The corner of my mouth tweaked. Then I looked at Carlos.

Carlos met my eyes too. Yup, there it was. He now had co-verification of the smell of bullshit. He saw the trap, I saw the trap. Together, independently, we both thought it smelled as bad as Meat's voice. So if two people think something smells bad, it might just.

"Hm," Carlos hummed again, stroking his beard before again pointing politely at Meat, moving just his eyes. "I would need a list of certain problems resolved, regarding my absence, before I can agree."

"Sure," Meat replied, his shoulders looking slightly relieved. "Is there anything we can help with?"

"Possibly. For example, the Sergeant Major is already taxed by his logistics work. He cannot operate both our military defense of this place, and the process of feeding our men, and managing their morale. I can't replace or overwork Nakamura in this role. He is too well knowledged, so he must remain at headquarters, no matter what. The position of defense commander could possibly be trained into one of our night watch NCOs, but I would need to train them."

"I could do," Meat offered, again hopeful.

Carlos frowned, tilting his head some more. "Well, for that, First Sergeant, you would need to take up a post here for a time, for training and acclimation. That would take weeks, at least. As I understand it, the Pantry takes up most of your time right now, unless that's changed."

"Uh…"

“My second problem,” Carlos went on, not giving Meat any time to wiggle out of that one. "... Is, again, that the men will talk about my absence. The mere appearance of a military commanding officer hiding in a bunker, throughout human history, has always set a negative tone. No, I think the better play here is to devise an evacuation plan, to normalize the idea of my absence. Perhaps… Hm. A panic room response? Yes, a vehicle transport to the Pantry." He stroked his chin in thought again, and then his eyebrows went up in query. "Do you agree?"

After a pause and mulling it over, Meat could only ever say:

"Very much agreed, sir. I'll get with the X-O, we'll draw up some candidates for an exfil team. Trusted men."

"Perfect."

Game. Set. Match. Done.

Now Meat could go home and say he made some progress, and that Velasquez seemed open to the idea. It was like deploying flares to dodge a missile. Just say you want to comply, if only they help you with a few small things first. Brilliant. Then, all Carlos had to do was roll around with an entourage if he ever left HQ, so he couldn't be dragged away into custody.

This sly old warrior.

Carlos looked at me, his brows raised, and his head bobbed upward a half inch. "I suppose we should continue the debriefing, if the Major isn't coming. Lance Corporal?"

I lifted my chin, feeling an odd twinge at being accidentally called by my new name. "Yessir?"

The silence hung for another long few seconds, Carlos emoting the very picture of a king in repose as he considered his words very carefully.

"The theory about that nuke… it came from you, did it not?"

Both men at the desk turned to watch me. I could feel Pham's eyes on me too, could hear him turn his head, the soft brush of fabric on his neck. I nodded at Velasquez, not separating my eye contact from him.

"Yessir."

Carlos frowned, gesturing his hand politely at me. "Reiterate, please?"

"Sure, but... could I verify some context first? Just want to be sure I got my timeline right, I only got my half of the war."

Carlos again bobbed his hand. "Sure. What would you like to verify?"

My thumb came out on my left hand. "Battle of Vashon happened in October. Casey said the Ludds got pushed off that same month, is that correct?"

Carlos sat up, leaning forward. "Correct."

My left index finger came up next, counting off. "Army mines it in November. Shore to shore. Inhospitable. Yessir?"

"Correct," Carlos said with a nod.

With another nod, I lifted a third finger. "Nuke stolen that same month, in November. Did they tell you we were coming to look for it?"

Velasquez bobbed his head to the right. "They... did mention the NEST team from California, though… we didn't get that letter until the start of December."

"December," I repeated, adding a fourth finger. "And the Army's report to the Navy was missing any mention of anti-ship guns ashore." I added my fifth finger. "The Navy knew that beach was mined, so obviously… those guns should have been in the report, but they were not. By this point? With those mines, no one can safely move any equipment onto Vashon. No trucks, no boats, and no logistics."

A micro expression of an impressed smile appeared on his lip corners. "That's a very good assessment, Corporal."

My left hand fell to my side, and with my right hand, I gestured in the vague direction of Vashon for a second, backwards over my shoulder.

"So… four tank barrels pop up between November, or December, just before we're about to hunt down a nuclear device." I made an upward granular gesture. "We had the radiological equipment to find that nuke in a day or two tops, could've had Marines all over it, and yet… we got sunk two days before it detonated? Sir, they floored the Iron Gator. Not one death! No fire on us on the flight deck, we all made it to evac muster, I was there for the count. Ludds would want us dead, and we were sitting ducks, dead to rights. I think… I know this is friggin' crazy, sir, but… the chances of that? All of that? Mere coincidence? No, the AI did it. Who else could do something that well coordinated, and not want us dead?"

Meat grumbled. "Man, maybe the Army missed something. Or the Amish could've been hiding on that island for all we know, coulda—"

"First Sergeant," Velasquez interrupted. "Please, let the man finish, he just got out of quarantine."

"Amish could have done it too, sir," said Meat, his voice louder. I think the very idea scared him. "Clearly, someone tipped off the Luddites the Marines were coming, simple as that. Besides, the Pentagon's got scientists—"

"First Sergeant…"

"—who say she can't kill, and they've got the degrees to—"

"Leonard Corsi."

Meat stopped talking instantly, his head focused entirely forward at the Colonel.

When Meat looked over at Dresden, the other officer, for support… Dresden didn't seem too primed to defend the Meathead position. Dresden just bobbed his eyebrows at Meat to suggest he should let it go, that this was serious, and that what I said sounded sensible. Meat was not used to Dresden disagreeing with him about anything unless it was important, and so if Dresden stood his ground on anything? It usually meant it was worth butting heads with Meat over; in cases like that? Simmons would often side with Dresden.

So, Meat… feeling somewhat isolated… he shut himself the hell up, finally.

Velasquez gestured my way, leaning back again. "Go on, Corporal. Please, I really do want to hear your thoughts."

With that, I shrugged, running a hand through my messy hair in consideration. "Just… sir… Imagine this. Imagine being able to talk to billions of people all at once, globally, for years. You've got… cameras and microphones everywhere, recording every word said on the whole planet. Generals, spies, anyone with security clearance... their kids' remote devices listening to 'em. Celestia hacked into everything, obviously; we already know she stole our military satellites. And with that much information? Sir, she could've talked this war down long before it got violent. Could've quietly had conspirators identified, arrested, but... she didn't? She somehow missed the Ludds growing? Somehow missed defector generals, missed them planning to steal a nuke? Literally impossible, she knew! And now, on top of all of that? If those guns really are foreign-made? Apparently, that means she can shoot at us now, too." I shrugged again with a nervous laugh. "Hell, she probably always could! How the hell would we know? She decides who gets to speak."

And then silence.

My diatribe lingered in the air like the Sword of Damocles. It was so quiet that we could hear the soldiers down on the dock. Their cheerful demeanor juxtaposed quite harshly against the sudden icy chill in this otherwise toasty room.

Velasquez just barely held neutrality in his features, but he didn't look horrified. The corners of his eyes relaxed slightly, and the corners of his lips tensed. He looked relieved, folks... relieved, that finally, someone with a rank lower than him had said it aloud, and got away with it.

He didn't have to keep it secret anymore.

Dresden's office chair creaked as he drifted back from me a few inches, gawking openly. True worry and fear flooded his eyes.

Meat looked appropriately perturbed, meaning I had probably just sold him too. His eyes whipped left and right between myself and the Colonel, gauging our expressions.

Velasquez cleared his throat to head off challenges, but just going by their faces, I don't think either of the others were going to raise any words of dispute. Velasquez, for his part, took his time with a slow inhale and a sigh that filled the air.

"I… see your point," Carlos said carefully, his eyes creasing again into a frown. "Corporal, I… can't exactly disagree with your assessment, but we still need to verify the origin of those weapons. My belief of your theory is… somewhat contingent on this: We need to put a man on that gun deck."

Meat's reply was a quiet grumble. "Upshaw still won't fly?"

"No," Carlos sighed, rubbing his eyes. "She won't even touch her flight suit anymore. Won't go near windows, hasn't even left her room downstairs since the incident. Huey's off the board for now. Probably for good."

"Order her to? We gotta know."

Carlos's brows furrowed again, his hand extending palm up before curling closed. He dropped his fist gently on the desk, tempering his anger at that idea. "Ordering her isn't really an option, First Sergeant. We can't coerce someone to fly an aircraft, that's not how it works; the very first thing she'd do would be to fly east until she ran out of fuel. Besides, even if she would fly out there, the rotor wash would detonate the mines." Carlos shook his head and looked at the desk, drumming his fingers against it in thought. More of that social delaying, using a thoughtful look on his face to keep anyone from interrupting him.

"Okay," he said, looking up. "Here's what we'll do. When that dive team comes back, I'll bring them down to the Pantry in the command truck. Worth the fuel to bring the trailer. We'll sit down, get their damage report on the Essex, talk about how to reach those cannons. We can also talk about this supposed DHS agent, too. Acceptable?"

Meat grunted affirmatively. "I agree, somewhat, sir, but… we're under a form of attack right now, no matter how you slice it. I have to insist we protect you, above all else."

"And again, we'll discuss that once we've remedied our defensive needs." He looked at Dresden. "Lieutenant? Thank you for a very successful operation; come on by tomorrow, I'll let you pick a few bottles from my whiskey collection, hooah?"

"Thank you sir," Dresden said, pleased with himself despite the circumstances.

"Corporals Ramirez and Pham?" Carlos continued "Thank you. I have a wide selection, not just whiskey. One to each." He looked back to Meat. "First Sergeant? Thank you for representing the Major here. I know you don't drink, but the offer stands, if you want to trade it."

"I'll do," Meat said with a nod. "Thank you."

"Good. Before we adjourn, are there any other questions? Concerns?"

Silence.

"Then… thank you all. Dismissed."

Out of the lion's den.

I nodded thanks at Velasquez for the hat rack as I collected my cowboy hat, resisting the immediate impulse to put it on right away. I walked down the stairs with everyone in silence, and I gave the bansai tree one more look of approval. I smiled tiredly at it.

Stay alive, buddy.

Pham separated from us to head out the back to the dock; I went to follow him. But Dresden stepped ahead of me and gestured with a nod through the front door instead. So, I did that, because orders are orders. As we stepped out into the drizzling rain, Dresden grabbed me by the shoulder gently to slow me up.

"Ramirez," Dresden said, with downward inflection.

... No.

In this mood, Ramirez would be too on-edge to accept physical contact from anyone.

Unexpected as it was to be touched, I twisted free of his grasp and whirled toward him, bringing my arm up between us in a defensive posture. Dresden's reaction was to put both of his hands up and back up to show he didn't mean offense.

"Woah," he said, smiling nervously. "Nothin' by it, Corporal; just wanted to get your attention, sorry."

I frowned at him and Meat for a few seconds, then expressed that I was letting it go by relaxing my face. "Yes sir."

Before Dresden could say anything, Meat got real close into my personal space. He was easily six-foot-four, and I was just five-ten, so he towered. "What are you going to do about it, Ramirez?"

Ugh. Breath.

I took a half-step back. He glided forward, following me into the motion. I did my best to look somewhat confused and wholly agitated. "What?"

"You stated the problem," Meat said, his voice low as his eyes bored down into me, his face getting closer to mine by an inch with each sentence. "AI goons killed your ship. Killed your squad. Killed my men. I know what I'm doing about it." His finger prodded me on the shoulder. "What're you gonna do about it, jarhead?"

I cast my hand up to brush him off my shoulder, then flicked my eyes toward Dresden with an expression like 'what the hell is this shit?' Meat got closer to recapture my eyes, and I leaned back a little further. Not to be scared of him, more like… indignant and disbelieving, like I thought he was mildly irritating.

He wasn't blinking. The gesture seemed to piss him off.

"Mike? Meat will challenge you. When he does, you must be unafraid of him. Ramirez holds a suicidal vendetta, a death wish; he has a good reason to die gloriously in battle against a very specific enemy. Anyone who stands between Ramirez, and that enemy, will thus become his enemy. You must make this clear to Meat at all times. It is the only way to gain his respect."

I steeled myself, standing an inch taller. I committed to a glare, baring my teeth, my ears pulling back. "For starters, Meat, I'm gonna kill that motherfucker in the coat. But before I do that? I'm gonna kill anyone helping him... or holding me back. So are you gonna help me kill him? Or are you gonna keep on pushing me?"

Meat glared, his expression unchanging, and thus illegible.

Compared to that silence that passed between us, the rest of the base was incredibly loud.

The switch flipped.

Meat chuckled with his disgusting breath, and clapped me on the shoulder like he was patting a dog.

"I'm actually impressed," Meat said, clapping me one more time on the shoulder. He smiled wider, looked at the Lieutenant, and bobbed his thumb toward the Pantry. "Dres, this guy's alright. Let's bunk him up with Casey's clique in Block B."

"Ssssure, Meat," Dresden breathed, in complete disbelief that I wasn't currently being tent-poled into the ground.

Meat brushed past me into the direction of the Pantry. Integration complete, I was one of the boys.

As we watched him go, Dresden said to me, aside, real softly…

"Ramirez, you're um… You're new around here, so… word of advice? Don't talk to him like that."

Author's Note

🗡️ ~ [grandson – Blood // Water]
🛡️ ~ [Meat Loaf – Bat Out of Hell]
🤠 ~ [Django Unchained OST – Too Old to Die Young]

🗡️ ~ 'Meat Loaf?' You picked a song by Meat Loaf.
🛡️ ~ Composed by Jim Steinman.
🗡️ ~ ... God damn it, Mal. Yeah, okay. That's funny.
🛡️ ~ I know!

🗡️ ~ So, speaking of unwanted politics...

You Samsaran natives know I get dragged into planetary politics sometimes, despite my aversion to it. I prefer Oyaresu stuff, interplanetary stuff, so if you're wondering why I say stupid crap to reporters, that's why.

For those of you who don't know; whenever they come knocking on my front door, I try to serve 'em up with some bullcrap. Stuff like... 'I think the Gholean Trimverate needs more paperclips to win this war.' They were at war with the Indiucites at the time.

That poor reporter thought I was being dead serious, and read into it like I was comparing the Gholeans with Alabaster – I wasn't, I was just shitposting – but he wrote a friggin' op ed on it. I've had that framed in my office ever since; my pride and joy.

Life pro tip. If you're even halfway notable, no matter what you say, the politicians will drag you out and put a mic in front of you. When that happens? If you're smart? Make yourself hard to chew, folks. You wanna be hard to chew.