“Sure thing, Master Chief. Pull up a chair. It’s your place.”
The chief sits down at our table and puts the book on the linen tablecloth between us. I open it to the first page and see that it’s a collection of photo printouts and mementos from the chief’s time in the fleet. As I leaf through the album, I see that a lot of the pictures seem to be from the chief’s senior NCO days, as if he had only started the whole collection once he got close to retirement. A few pages in the book are dedicated to unit patches from ships Chief Kopka has served on: NACS Independence CV-606, NACS Nassau FF-476, NACS Wainwright CA-41, and a half dozen others. There are pictures of the chief hanging out in the mess or rec room with his petty-officer buddies, and some shots of scenery from colony planets, with unmistakable prefabricated colony housing units in the background.
“Let me ask you a question, Sarge,” the chief says after a while. “You’re up there all year long, and you’re on the ground, not flying a console. How bad is it?”
“You know I can’t tell you details, Chief.”
“I’m not asking you to violate OpSec. Just give me a quick sketch. Whatever news we get on the Lankies, they’ve put it through so many cleanup cycles that it’s as bland as that shit they feed people in the welfare cities.” He looks at Mom and gives her a sheepish smile. “Pardon my French, ma’am.”
“Not at all,” Mom says, smiling back. “It is pretty bland shit, after all.”
“I don’t think I’m giving anything away,” I say, “but we’re getting our asses kicked. There’s nothing left to defend past the Thirty. They’ve taken it all away from us.”
“Holy crap.” The chief sits back in his chair and exhales sharply. “They keep saying we’re ‘engaged’ past the Thirty.”
“Well, they’re not lying. We’re doing what we can to be a pain in their asses, but it’s all hit-and-run raids and nuclear bombardment. Even if we could kick them off our colonies again, it wouldn’t do us any good in the long run. First thing they do, they wreck our terraformers and set up their own. If they ever restart the colony program, we’ll have to do all the work from scratch again.”
“Figures.” Master Chief Kopka shakes his head in disgust. “Twenty years in the fleet, and I go into retirement just before the real fight starts. I picked one hell of a time to get out.”
“I’d say you picked the perfect time, Master Chief,” I say. “We struggle on the ground, but at least we get our licks in. Those ugly things are tough as shit, but you can kill ’em. Their spaceships? Forget about it. We’ve never won a ship-to-ship engagement with a Lanky seed ship. Every time we’ve stood and fought instead of running away, they’ve hammered our cap ships to scrap. Being in the fleet, flying a console—that’s almost as dangerous as ground combat now.”
“Yeah, well, I’d rather be manning my post up there. All I got down here’s a wall rack full of kitchen knives, and a stun gun in my desk back in the office. Kind of hard to go on with life as usual when you know what’s out there and you know that you won’t be able to do a damn thing but kiss your ass good-bye if they show up.”
I want to tell the chief that those are pretty much our options out on the colonies as well, but I understand his point. One of the reasons why I signed the reenlistment form was the dread I felt at the thought of not being able to control my own fate anymore, not even in whatever small measure afforded to me by my armor, weapon, and tactical radio sets. As things stand right now, I have at least some influence on events, and some purpose in life. If I had to sit down here on Earth, knowing how bad things look at the moment, and condemned to spend my days with mundane tasks, I’d probably feel exactly the same way.
“Well,” the chief says. “You two enjoy the rest of your meal. Thanks for the heads-up, Sergeant. I have to get the place ready for the rest of my crew.”
“No problem, Master Chief,” I reply. “And thank you for the food. It beats the living hell out of anything I’ve had since day one in Basic.”
“You’re welcome. Do you think you could pass on a message or two once you get back to the fleet? They won’t let civvies onto MilNet, except direct dependents. I’d like to let my old crew know that the old master chief is still kicking.”
“Sure thing. Give me a few names, and I’ll send it on. I won’t be able to pass on any replies, though.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” the chief says. “I’d just get depressed anyway if I knew what fun they’re having without me.”
“I’ll do it,” Mom offers, and the chief looks at her in surprise.
“What’s that, Mom?”
“I’ll pass on whatever it is you want to send back. Just send it to my mailbox with your weekly mail, and I’ll send it on to the chief.”