Weapons of choice

He still didn't know how he felt about it. She was the most challenging and vibrant woman he'd ever met. But sometimes he found himself wondering what planet she came from. She shared with De Marco an ability to deal dispassionately with the most gruesome of subjects. It was kind of off-putting.

The pretty lieutenant was still talking, and he dragged his attention back to the briefing.

"In nineteen forty-four the Army Rangers who rescued the POWs from the camps had extensive help from local guerrilla forces, which we can't expect because of the confused situation on the ground in Luzon. However-"

Dan found himself wondering whether this woman had ever kicked a man half to death. If you got past her beauty, she certainly looked competent enough in her camouflage fatigues.

"— the rescue was accomplished with the loss of only two Rangers, Corporal Roy Sweezy and Captain James C. Fisher. One of the prisoners died of a heart attack during the extraction."

The screen behind the lieutenant filled with still photographs taken by combat photographers from the 832nd Signal Service Battalion, who had accompanied-or would accompany-the Rangers on the rescue mission to Cabanatuan. The images drove all thoughts of Julia from Dan Black's mind. Like his fellow officers he gaped in horror at the skeletal, nearly inhuman creatures who stared out at them.

"These are the defenders of Corregidor, gentlemen," said Colonel Jones, taking over from De Marco. "Your comrades and our forebears. Thousands of others did not make it. Some were killed during the siege of the island, but most died on the forced march into captivity and during years of internment in the death camps. There is nothing we can do for the men who are gone, but there are thousands of our people we can still save."

Black wondered whether he was the only one in the room who noted the colonel's use of the phrase our people. More than a few of his contemporaries had been mouthing off on the way over about having to work with Negroes and Mexicans and uppity women, completely oblivious to the hovercraft crew that contained examples of all three. Black was surprised at how tiring he found the endless gripes on the subject, and wondered how Kolhammer's people managed to keep a lid on their temper.

The briefings continued for hours, finishing late in the day with an address by a female "combat surgeon." "We'll need more transport," said Captain Francois, "enough for about twenty to thirty thousand men. And most of them will be in very poor shape, so we can't just toss them into the hold of a troopship. They'll need something better than that if they're going to survive the return trip."

She stood in the briefing room of the Kandahar, five hours after Lieutenant De Marco had opened the session. The air in the room felt close and stale to Black, even with the air-conditioning running. Papers and coffee cups littered the floor, and normally crisp uniforms were becoming disheveled. The planning session was taking so long because of the need to constantly explain basic issues such as in-flight refueling to the "temps." Black wasn't sure how he felt about being called a "temp." It didn't sound very dignified.

"The good news," Francois continued, "is that the sort of care they'll require is intense, but very basic. There's not much apart from some drugs and megavitamin and mineral supplements that we'd need to add to the amenities you already have for treating the sort of malnutrition and illness we're likely to see. What we need from you are medics and lots of berths on big comfortable ships."

Nimitz raised his hand to speak.

"Excuse me, Doctor. I can deal with that right away. We have a lot of converted liners that have just finished ferrying troops to New Caledonia and Australia. They moved about fifty thousand men, and their equipment. They might fit the bill. They're not as luxurious as they once were, but they'd be more agreeable than a hammock in the hold of a Liberty ship."

"That sounds just fine, Admiral. What about medics?"

"We'll round them up," Nimitz promised.

Rachel Nguyen was growing accustomed to these strange conferences that were as much history tutorials as intelligence briefings. This group was smaller than many she'd spoken to over the last few days and was composed entirely of twenty-first-century Special Forces-SEALS, SAS, Marine Recon. They should have been a more intimidating audience, but unlike some others they accepted her right to be here. Whatever she had to say, they wanted to hear.

She keyed a control stick, and the wallscreen split into four sections.

"These are the best contemporary overheads we have at the moment, gentlemen. As we draw nearer, we'll have drone coverage to verify their accuracy, but the 'temps who've just been there vouch for the Singapore maps, and the images of Cabanatuan are drawn from official DoD archives, so we'll take them on faith until we have real-time vision."