Chapter 3: Operation Early Bird

It began with horses. Marty Peabody had been a cowboy when he was younger—a real one. He was now the president of a mechanics union—but he had a miniature ranch with a small horse herd and several big dogs. I drove up to the house and was mobbed by the dogs.

"Hello!" I shouted over the dogs. "I'm Tom and I'm expected. Will you take me to Marty?"

Usually it is a bad idea to get out of a car when there are big, protective dogs around. I guessed that it was safe and got out of my car, a battered old two-door sedan named after a planet. The dogs herded me to the barn. I don't know if the dogs really did understand me or if I was just lucky. He was in the barn with his horses.

"I'm Tom," I announced. "Your dogs took me here."

"Marty," he was a short, stocky man with balding gray hair and a short beard. He wore soiled jeans, scuffed cowboy boots and a worn western shirt. "We talked on the phone. How did you get past the dogs?"

"Just talked to them," I said. "I wanted to find you. I think they understood me."

One of the horses nudged me from behind—a large black one.

"That's Liberty," Marty said. "You have work for my union?"

"Oh, yes!" I said. "I know that you're busy already, but I need twenty mechanics—if you can spare them. I also want you and your horses and dogs. Bring your wife."

"You're one of them."

"Guilty," I said as another horse shoved its head under my arm and snorted. "My rank and organization is lieutenant and the Division of Naval Engineering Research. I pronounce it 'dinner' because it is an Earth command and will be dinner when the Sa'arm arrives. Are you familiar with the Finnish Army of the Cold War era? They knew that Finland had a snowball's chance in Hell if their neighbor, the big red bear, invaded, but they were going to be the baddest snowball in Hell. The mechanics that remain behind are going to build and maintain anti-spacecraft systems for this area."

The animals were crowding me as I explained that Marty was going to play Noah and bring enough horses and dogs to set up a breeding program in space—if he were interested.

"My critters really like you," Marty mentioned. "I never had time to take that crap test--"

"CAP—for Capacity, Aptitude and Potential,"I corrected. "I am offering you an exception because you like horses and dogs. You will have to come up with your own title. Normally you have to get a high CAP score and be fertile. Frankly, we humans have two Confederacy jobs—we fight and we fuck so that there's a new generation of fuckers to fight the Sa'arm. By the way, I'm a lousy salesman. Another reason I'm here is that I need you to front for me with your union."

Mechanics were needed for Confederacy equipment—even with fabricators, even with repair bots, human hands connected to a human brain were superior at troubleshooting. I had been in Army communications and most of my work was over after I answered these two questions: is it plugged in? Did you turn it on? That was as much as 60% of the work. Another 20% was setting the controls correctly. Then it was signal path. Only a small amount required actual sweat. Mechanical work didn't worry about electrical power—and today, most electronics was "computer electronics." Radio hardware was now microchips that were programmed as transmitters, amplifiers, filters, receivers and other modules—including on-line voice scramblers for secure comms.

Marty was worth more to the Confederacy as a horseman than as a mechanic. I guessed that his days as a breeder were over. I knew that he was a Vietnam-era draftee and had been Navy—mechanic's mate. Don't ask me the Navy ratings—I was Army!

"Let's discuss this over dinner," Marty said. "Meanwhile, give me a hand. The horses really like you."

Mrs. Peabody was obese, but a good cook. The two, Marty and his missus, were clearly deeply in love with each other, even if she looked like an overstuffed sausage in her sweat pants and football jersey. She scowled at me until I presented her with the standard offerings I bring when a dinner guest: a loaf of French bread, a handful of flowers. It was a habit I picked up in Europe. Sometimes I even sprung for wine—but not tonight.

Yes, I was practicing poor operations security. I approached a key person openly, but at his home. We didn't talk business over dinner. Dinner was for networking—or bonding—whatever you want to call it! Mission success depended upon how well Marty could trust me. I was offering him a trip to the stars and perhaps a century more of life—wrangling horses and raising dogs.

"I think that the scientists are wrong about dogs descending from wolves," I have opinions, a lot of them. "There are wild dog breeds. Wolves and dogs may have common ancestors, they can cross-breed and produce fertile off-spring, but I think that dogs were a separate species that made an ancient compact with Man over 50,000 years ago. As for the horse, they are what we humans have made of them."

"The horses really liked you," Marty commented. "The dogs, too."

"If I said that I get along with most animals I'd be bragging," I said. "Like humans, some creatures don't like anybody."

"I gelded Liberty because he was too aggressive as a stallion," Marty said. "He never did like strangers much. Still doesn't."

"You passed our dog test," Mrs. Peabody didn't say much to me at all during dinner. "I noticed that the dogs really liked you too."

The Dog Test. That got me in the door.

Three nights later I was set up for a quick escape if things went south. The union hall was packed. Most of the rank and file were men, but there were a few women. More than a few were Earth First, and many just hated the Confederacy. I was alone.

Marty introduced me as "dinner for the dickheads."

"He has a number of opportunities for you," Marty announced, putting the first slide up on the big screen. "We're building an anti-spacecraft shield that will keep both the Confederacy and the dickheads off our world. The compensation package..."

The compensation package was worked out after dinner with Marty. Money wasn't going to be any good. Instead, there were medical upgrades to give perfect health to mechanics and their immediate families, a food source for when food rationing was instituted, and both weapons and combat training. An irregular training team would teach basic tactics and marksmanship with a man-portable missile launcher that would fire five small homing missiles of 37mm. The missiles would gouge out a hole a foot wide in a Sa'arm warrior—and punch through the sides of those wheeled combat vehicles the Sa'arm used. A cold launch system disguised the launch location—and then the missile's motor ignited, giving it a range of three miles. A human could carry the launcher and twenty missiles. It was designed to be fabricated on Earth.

For the record, guerrilla warfare is the wrong way to fight the Sa'arm. Successful guerrillas rely on an enemy that mostly follows the Law of War. Sa'arm harvested living creatures as food. They did not take captives, nor worry about being tried for war crimes.

Next was a proposal for twenty workers to leave Planet Earth to work in space for a year. If anybody was interested, they could call from any cell phone or log onto a web site.

"You might not return," I said. "There will be two basic functions: making trade goods to sell to other Confederacy citizens, and you will be setting up the defensive network off-Earth. You don't need to take that CAP test, but if you do, you won't be offered Confederacy citizenship unless you score 6.5 or above and have finished your year-long contract. Should you fall in contract default, you will be returned to Earth early unless your breach of contract includes any of these crimes."

The screen showed thirteen capital crimes, mostly murder and sabotage.

"I know some of you are Earth First and this is your chance to spy on the Confederacy," I added. "That is expected. Simple espionage using your natural senses and your memory—and your permitted letters home—will not be punished. Your compensation package is high, but you will have earned every penny."