Only Foss out of all of them has the presence of mind to provide any cover as they pull the door wide.
They’ve stopped by the river, just before the bridge. Stephen Greaves steps in. Nothing to say for himself, he just jumps right up onto the platform as the doors open, like a hitchhiker who can’t believe his luck is in. His kit bag bulges at his side, even fuller than usual.
“Thank you,” he says. “I’m very sorry to have slowed you down. We probably should go now. The town is on fire.”
21
“You violated standing orders,” Colonel Carlisle says. “I need to know why.” He is aware that he has said it before, and he is aware of how inadequate it sounds, but it is the least of a whole box of evils. He needs to adhere to the bloodlessness, the formality of regulations and procedures in the same way that Odysseus needed to tie himself to the mast when he passed by the island of the sirens. The seductive voices in this case will lure him into anger, and Lieutenant McQueen will meet him more than halfway.
“You didn’t see what Lutes looked like when they were through with him,” McQueen says, as though that’s an answer. After a half-second pause he adds a “Sir,” like throwing a scrap to a dog.
The two men face each other across the long diagonal of the crew quarters, as though this is a duel. The rest of the crew stand around the edges, all except for Greaves who has hidden in the lab, away from the dangerous emotions. The boy’s instincts are sound, the colonel reflects grimly. His own men and the science team are all still stunned by what just happened, but as they thaw out, their reactions are tending to extremes. The soldiers are angry and hurting because one of their own is dead. Samrina Khan is furious for a different reason, the lieutenant’s unilateral barbecue party far from forgotten, and her voice carries a lot of weight with the whitecoats. However this plays out, it has the potential to polarise them, to set them all at odds.
So the colonel treads lightly. He stands by the book. The book isn’t angry with anyone, and the demands it makes are ones the soldiers accepted the first time they put on their uniforms.
“Explain to me,” he says to McQueen, “why you fired the flamethrower in the absence of a direct order.”
McQueen shakes his head as though that’s the sorriest excuse for a question he has ever heard. He doesn’t answer. So Carlisle tries again. “Lieutenant, you used the mid-section guns without permission, and without verifying that all personnel were aboard. If there was a clear and present danger that justified this course of action, I need to know about it. Because if there wasn’t, you endangered the entire crew for no good—”
“They’re still alive,” McQueen says, between his teeth. “All but one of them. All the ones who stuck with me. Did you miss that? I did what had to be done to bring us out of there. I secured a position and then I requested an extraction exactly as per standing bastard orders. The flamethrower was just to let them know that if they hurt one of ours we hurt them back.”
“Damn right,” mutters Lance-Bombardier Foss.
Samrina gives Foss a look of incredulous contempt. She hasn’t bounced back yet from the whole ordeal. Her face is haggard with stress and exhaustion. “Damn right?” she echoes. “What, did they teach you that at sniper school? Somebody hurts you, you hit back with the biggest weapon you’ve got, no matter who might be in the way?”
Foss shrugs. “Nobody was in the way. We got out. We got out in one piece.”
“And the ends justify the means. Right.” She indicates McQueen with a jerk of the head. “You’re a bigger idiot than he is.”
Foss arches an eyebrow. “Well now,” she says mildly. “That’s a conversation we can take up another time.”
Samrina talks over her, eyes on the colonel. “Stephen was MIA,” she says. “He could have been in any one of the buildings this fucking moron torched. I don’t know how this works, but I want some assurance that he can never touch those turret guns again. I’d rather take my chances with the hungries.”
McQueen lets the insult pass. “In this instance,” he points out levelly, “you would have been taking your chances with junkers. And let’s not forget that Greaves going off-mission was the catalyst for all of this. Lutes was killed trying to find him and escort him back.”
“If I might be permitted to voice an opinion,” Dr. Fournier breaks in. “Speaking as civilian commander.”
“With due respect, Doctor,” Carlisle says heavily, “I’m attempting to settle a matter of military discipline.”
“Which impacts on the mission.”
True enough, but so does everything. Which is why having two mission commanders never made any sense.
“Lieutenant,” Carlisle presses, “what prompted you to fire the mid-section guns? Please explain.”
McQueen makes a gesture, palms up and open. This is all I have to give you. “I suppose, sir,” he says, “I fired them because I felt that Brendan Lutes’ death mattered. If you disagree, feel free to discipline me in any way you see fit.”
The challenge rests there. Carlisle gathers himself to pick it up.
“If I may be allowed to speak,” Fournier tries again. “The presence of junkers in the town more than justifies the lieutenant’s action. I would be inclined to overlook the breach of regulations.”
“The presence of junkers wasn’t verified,” the colonel tells him bluntly, and turns right back to McQueen. “You used the flamethrower contrary to regulations. In an enclosed and compromised space, and without regard to the safety of the crew. You were firing in a broad arc, ignoring the headwind and our own acceleration. Not only could you have killed Mr. Greaves, you could also have set fire to Rosie if the propane stream had blown back on us. I respect your feelings, but I can’t condone your actions.”
“I can live with that,” McQueen says.
“I’m therefore taking away your commission.”
McQueen takes that blow full in the face. He blinks a few times, as though to clear his sight. There is a silence that spreads out from him to take in the rest of the room. Even Dr. Khan can’t find anything to say right now, although she nods just once. Good. The slamming of drawers and the clatter of instruments—Greaves, at work in the lab—seem to come from a great distance.