A Hymn Before Battle

35 Ft. Indiantown Gap, PA Sol III 0523 August 5th, 2002 ad

“Whoooee!” said Stewart, as he entered the company headquarters. “What a fuckin’ party!” Behind him the sky was just beginning to lighten, but it was still impossible to tell a black thread from a white. A very technical “before dawn.”

At the tableau at the CQ desk he stopped dead.

The room was not particularly large, what would have been a living room in a single-wide house trailer. The floor was cheap linoleum, the overhead bulbs shielded with simple plastic covers. On the far wall was a desk made from unfinished plywood with a phone on it. Above the desk was a sign welcoming the entrant to Bravo Company 1^st Battalion 555^th Infantry, “The real Black Panthers.” There was a door on the right with the sign “Day Room” over it and a corridor led off to the left.

Beside the desk, taped to a folding chair with wrap upon wrap of duct tape, was a chubby sergeant unknown to Stewart, his eyes wide over the gag. Behind the desk, butt firmly planted in a swivel chair and feet propped up, was Drill Corporal Adams, eyes closed. A massive gray machine gun of some sort was lying on the desk, the oversized barrel covering the door. His hand rested lightly on the pistol grip. By the door to the day room were three of his squad, similarly armed, machine guns slung on shoulder straps. All three had evil grins on their faces.

“What the fuck?” asked Stewart and stepped forward for his squad to enter behind him. At the first glimpse of the tableau the squad began to spread out, some of them taking up positions to look out windows while others fanned out through the room. Wilson simply spun around to cover Stewart’s back.

Adams rolled his head up and cracked one eyelid.

“Top wants to see you in his office,” rasped the drill corporal. “Now.” He jerked his head towards the corridor and closed his eyes again.

Stewart took one more look then headed down the corridor. The corridor followed the far wall of the barracks to another open area. In the open area was another desk that had Ampele sprawled across it, mouth open wide and snoring. An MP private was sitting in the chair of the desk, cleaning a 9mm on the oblivious private’s broad chest.

Along the left-hand wall of the corridor were three doorways. The first door had a hand-carved plaque that read “The Swamp.” The second had a piece of cardboard with the word “Latrine” scrawled on it in black magic marker. The last doorway was open. Its door was leaning against the wall a few feet to the side.

The door had a brass plaque on it engraved with the words “First Sergeant Morales.” The brass plaque was set in an expensive mahogany frame. On the hinge side of the door was a large bootprint. Stewart contemplated it for a moment by the light drifting from either end of the corridor. He picked up his own boot and compared the tread pattern. Then he held his boot up next to the mark. He shook his head and looked down the corridor. Ampele’s boots were in view. He peered at them, looked at the door, Ampele, door. He shook his head again and gingerly knocked on the shattered doorframe. The noise evoked a snort from Ampele. Then the snores started again.

“Come in!” said Pappas’ rumbling voice from within.

Stewart stepped through the doorway into opulence. The room was very small but almost overwhelmed with expensive objects. The desk was mahogany, hand finished and recently buffed. On it was a top-line twenty-two-inch flat-screen monitor. The carpets were Persian, turned in the lofty wool style of Isfahan. Prints of various quality were on all the walls and the light shone from reworked nineteenth-century oil lamps. They gave the room a warm yellow glow that complimented the deep garnet wood.

The first sergeant was bent over in front of a large antique safe turning the knob. He glanced over his shoulder then stood up, fury in his eyes.

“Stewart!” Pappas growled. “Where the hell have you been!”

Stewart knew better than to give the flippant reply he had rehearsed on the way from the parade ground to the barracks. If nothing else the bootprint made him very circumspect.

He assumed a position of parade rest. “Sorry, First Sergeant. If we thought you were having problems we would have been here sooner. I admit I pushed the ‘by sun-up’ thing. No excuse.”

Pappas shook his head. “Forget it. I knew you’d push it, but I didn’t feel like I could send a runner for you in there,” he admitted, gesturing with his chin towards the parade ground. “But we do have problems. I need this safe opened,” he continued, “and this computer cracked.” He gestured at the workstation on the desk.

Stewart didn’t even bother to protest. “Wilson,” he said in a raised voice, “get Minnet.” He walked over to the safe. Taking a small black device with an LED readout from his blouse pocket, he placed it on the face of the safe. Pappas took one look, shook his head and stepped out of the way.

“Yeah, boss?” asked Minnet, slipping through the door. Even smaller than Stewart, the elfin private was rapier quick in his movements. He stopped and looked around. “Jesus!” He picked up a small figurine of a ballerina and checked the bottom. “Damn, this is real Dresden! It’s worth a mint!”

“Put it back,” rumbled Pappas, without even looking to see if it disappeared. “It’s evidence.”

Stewart nodded his head and the figurine made its way back onto the shelf.

“And put back the lighter,” said Pappas, flipping through files in an unlocked cabinet.

Minnet looked surprised but slipped the solid-gold lighter out of his sleeve and set it back on the desk.

Stewart shook his head. “Minnet, take this thing apart,” he said, gesturing at the workstation.

The private nodded his head and got to work.

Stewart spun the wheel of the safe several times foward then back. After a few moments he nodded his head and began spinning the dial back and forth. In a moment the safe was unlocked.

“Don’t open it,” snapped Pappas. “We need the old man here.” He headed for the door then stopped. “And don’t.”

“We won’t,” said Stewart.

“Okay,” he said and headed out the door.

“Don’t what?” asked Minnet, contemplating the readout on the black-box he had produced out of his breast pocket. He frowned at the readings and touched a control. Apparently satisfied he smiled again.

“Don’t take nothin’,” said Stewart, “don’t move nothin’, don’t touch nothin’ you don’t have to.”

“Oh.” The private punched a button and shook his head. “People think they’re so fuckin’ smart,” he murmured. He inserted a floppy disk into the computer and started it up. When the password screen came up he punched the button on the black-box. The computer looked over the entry, decided that it liked it and let him in. “That’s what happens when you change the password for the CMOS.

“What are we looking for?” he asked a moment later.

“Take a look around,” said Pappas, coming in the door followed by Lieutenant Arnold and the MP private who was holstering his sidearm. “Take it from me, this is not normal décor for a first sergeant’s office.”

Stewart, overcome by curiosity, swung open the safe door and whistled. “Whewww,” he exclaimed. “Let me see. Stacks of bills, a case of vials of something called Tolemiratine and some green crystals.” He picked one up and examined it. “They’re not emeralds,” he continued, expertly. “What are they?”

“Well, I got a file that’s called ‘Company Expenditures,’ ” said Minnet, not to be outdone. “And it’s encrypted.”

“Make it decrypted,” said Lieutenant Arnold, coldly.

The private glanced up, got one good look at the acting company commander’s face and began frantically tapping keys.

“Sergeant First Class Tomas Morales?” said the MP lieutenant. His nose wrinkled at the smell of alcohol and pheromones wafting from the Annville apartment. The half-dressed male in his thirties stopped trying to pull on his silks blouse. The lieutenant could see a female form behind him. Unless he was much mistaken the bleached blonde on the bed could not have been of legal age of consent. The ACS sergeant had Coke-bottle-thick glasses and a head that cocked off to one side. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded agreement.

“You are under arrest,” said the lieutenant as the NCO with him stepped forward and secured the former acting first sergeant. “The charge is peculation and black marketeering of restricted Galactic Technology. You have the right to remain silent…”