Weapons of choice

"What, you're saying women miss their kids more? That sounds awfully old-fashioned, Doctor."

"Fucking A, that's what I'm saying, Colonel. And it's true."

Jones was mildly surprised by her fervor, but he chose not to argue with her, even though just that morning he'd found a young marine sobbing on the shoulder of a female petty officer. Jones learned that the man's wife had given birth to a son just a few weeks before the ship had left for East Timor.

On the other hand, he knew, not everybody was upset by their circumstances. He was aware of a pilot on the Clinton who'd broken out in a huge wolfish grin when he realized he'd escaped three ex-wives and one fat, famously unsympathetic Chechen bookie named Anxious Stan, to whom he owed about forty grand.

And some lucky individuals, he guessed, were probably too stupid to comprehend the situation at all. They'd react as they did to all the important events in their lives, by continuing to find undiluted enjoyment in eating, sleeping, and evacuating their bowels whenever the opportunity presented itself.

"So, how serious do you think it could be," he asked. "We're living in a heavily armed village here, Doc. Wouldn't do to have the natives go weird on us."

Francois took her time with the question, and he knew why. Under normal circumstances, most of the twelve thousand men and women in the task force understood that they might be injured, disfigured, or even killed while on duty. They knew, too, that there was always a fair chance that they'd never see or hold their loved ones again. But even the combat veterans, always the most fatalistic types, knew that war spares many more than it takes. And the cherries naively thought it would all happen to somebody else.

Jones doubted anyone really knew what the circumstances in which they now found themselves meant.

"Depression's not something a biochip will pick up," she said finally. "I can't scan for it, but we've got to figure it'll be there. Everyone's going to fit somewhere along the spectrum, from mildly ticked off to thoroughly suicidal. But how that will manifest, I can't tell you, Colonel. I'd say there'll be a few incidents over the next week or two, as everyone adjusts. But I'd be hopeful that most would adjust, and pretty well, too. These aren't normal people. They accepted the prospect of their own deaths when they signed up. I guess we'll see."

Jones weighed the plastic bag in his hands. It felt very light to be the sum trace of a man's life.

"It's not death, though, is it?" he muttered. "More like exile."

A couple of exhausted seamen arrived from the mortuary to clean out the cabin. Francois gave them their instructions before pushing off back to the hospital. She was due to fit an artificial heart in eight hours and wanted to check on the patient's preparation. Jones fell in beside her.

"Here's a question, Colonel," she said. "How are you going to get the money to his family?"

"Dunno, Doc. Hadn't really thought that one through. Now you mention it, I can't exactly authorize a Net transfer."

"No net."

"Right."

"Another question, seeing as how you got so much time on your hands. Even if you find a bank to deposit the money in, how much do you actually put in? One of your platoon leaders probably pulls down as much a year as President Roosevelt did in nineteen forty-two. Did you think of that?"

Jones felt a little peeved.

"No, Doc. But thank you so very much for pointing it out."

"Well, it raises more than a few questions, don't you think? If we're trapped here. Like, who pays our bills and wages? You've got marines going ashore in Honolulu for a few hours' liberty tomorrow. How are they going to buy a beer? Amex credit stick?"

"Damn. I've got no idea."

Before Francois could entangle him any further his flexipad began to beep. So did hers. They excused each other and took the calls.

Both swore at exactly the same moment.

Their eyes locked and they knew they were dealing with the same issue.

"Secure the site," said Jones in a flat voice. "I'll be there ASAP."

Francois signed off and gave Jones a challenging look.

"I'm going, too. I worked Srebrenica and Denpasar for the UN. I'm crime scene qualified."

Jones held up his open palms.

"I'm not standing in your way, Doc."

The admiral's stateroom was so much larger than her cabin back on the Trident that Halabi felt lost in it. She'd tried to convince Kolhammer she could just as easily act as task force commander from her own ship, but he'd insisted she work from the Clinton during his absence. He wanted the locals to give her the respect she was due, and nothing demanded respect like 130,000 tonnes of fusion-powered supercarrier. Even if it was a little scratched and dented.