Chapter 3: Tuesday - Tribune William Whitefeather

The Fleet Auxiliary rating entered Tribune Whitefeather's office, bearing blessed gifts from ground-side. "One double-double ... whatever that is ... one black no sugar ... one tea, bag in ... and one sour cream glazed, one toasted whole-wheat bagel with butter, and one maple cream glazed."

As they thanked the woman, Major MacAllistor observed with a jaundiced eye the sugary delights his fellow officers were enjoying. "Healthy breakfast," he remarked sarcastically, biting into his bagel.

"This coming from a man from the land of the deep-fried Mars bar," countered Chan as he popped a piece of doughnut into his mouth.

"Alright, everyone," the Tribune announced, trying to get the meeting on track as he sipped his coffee-with-two-creme-two-sugar, "are we clear then? Anthony, you get to talk to any interested District Attorney. Jim, if I could have you talk to some of your contacts with the Royal Navy, and I'll hit up the North American side."

The other two officers nodded.

"As soon as we've finished our coffee, of course," Whitefeather added.

Tribune Whitefeather found himself being ushered into an otherwise anonymous office in the Pentagon, talking to an old friend, Admiral Richard Benson. The tall, handsome black man (CAP score 8.4) was in charge of the Bureau of Personnel.

"So, what do you want this time? Remember, active U.S. military are strictly off limits without permission."

"But retirees are not. And I need you to sort through your retiree list for the following: at least one, preferably four former carrier skippers, and at least one, preferably four, former submarine skippers. We'll also need four each with experience as ships' senior NCO. They'll have to have a CAP of at least 6.5, and for the submariners, instructor experience in the sub school at New London. We'd prefer it if they had a pre-pack ready to go. We need a list in 48 hours, and we need the chosen skippers and chiefs to be ready to go with their concubines on a moment's notice after that."

"I'll have to order them here ... oh hell, that's not a lot of time, is it? Don't worry. You'll have the lot by Friday morning." The Admiral was intensely curious. "Why those particular skills? Is there some advantage when out in space?"

"Sa'arm don't like water. Note that, as it's possibly the best hint I can give you for your operations when they get here. You can take that to the Director of Naval Operations, and his opposite numbers around the planet." He made a face. "We still haven't delayed their expected arrival date by much, let alone persuaded them to go elsewhere."

Admiral Benson grimaced. "And how is the Diaspora Project going?"

Tribune Whitefeather was grim in his assessment. "Slow, and with the 'help' of the Earth Firsters and the religious nutters, getting slower. We keep losing perfectly suitable candidates for Confederacy Marines and Navy, and candidates to lead the troops here when the Sa'arm arrive, to their fellow humans. It's like the low-CAP idiots don't want the human race to survive."

"Anything you can do to help us mount our desperate last stand?"

"As far as equipment goes, I don't know so I can't say. But any tactics or techniques that these guys work out for my watery colony will be passed along to the navies of Earth. Just do me a favour: share and share alike. Don't hold any good or not so good ideas back from each other or from these admirals, and I'll keep the pipeline open back this way for what works for the Confederacy."

"How are you going to handle extraction?" the Admiral demanded.

Tribune Whitefeather considered for a moment. "We can always use the clinic ruse. Have them and their next of kin show up at a common clinic, and extract them as they show up. Doesn't even have to be the same clinic at the same time, although that would be easier. I guess we'll take it case-by-case."

"We'll see what we can do," Admiral Benson promised.

After seeing the Admiral, Whitefeather decided to see another old friend, retired U.S. Marine Corps Colonel and amateur historian Henry "Howlin' Mad" Hollister. Henry was, as usual, delighted to see a visitor at his humble apartment. He pumped Tribune Whitefeather's arm enthusiastically. "Bill, it's been too long! What are you here for this time?"

"Do I always need a reason?" protested the tall Tribune, looking down on his old mentor fondly.

"These days, you do. I know, I know," the grey-haired old man assured him as he led his guest into the comfortably overstuffed living room, "you have a real job on your hands what with the Sa'arm and all, which means you don't have much time to chat usually."

"I don't, you're right about that, but today I did have some business down at the Puzzle Palace and that means I'm in town for lunch."

"And that bullshit means you need to pick my brains." Henry regarded the younger man shrewdly.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I could use your advice and counsel." Tribune Whitefeather confessed, a trifle embarrassed at the Colonel's gentle teasing.

"All right, let me put the kettle on, you can tell me your horrible troubles over a nice steaming mug of tea."

As they sat and drank Henry's tea and ate Henry's homemade ginger snap cookies, William Whitefeather laid out his predicament.

"I've got a request for carrier captains, submarine skippers, and at least one officer experienced with amphibious landings."

"Hmmm, that last one would be difficult. The last amphibious assault was in the first Gulf War, and most of those officers are still unavailable under your current rules. You'd have to get permission to extract any of them..." Henry stood up and walked over to his battered old desk. He pulled out a PDA.

"Here's the man you want. He's long retired, they were actually prepared to remove him by force I suspect. Thinks outside the box, and you know how much the Marines hate mavericks during peacetime!"

Whitefeather transferred the contact information to his AI interface. "Think he'll volunteer?"

"If you can guarantee his daughter's family an exit. He dotes on his two grandkids."

"How many are we talking about here?"

"Eight year old twin boys, no husband — he bought it about three years back, when his F-18 ate a bird. Don't know her CAP score."