GWOT VII - Read In

GWOT VII - Read In

So I basked in the glory, covered in laurel wreaths, and took a month off, with plenty of pleasant lingerie-wearing company to enjoy my time with...

Not a chance.

This is the California Republic, and there's a war on don't you know.

Actually, there isn't. But keeping it that way is the job of our diplomatic corps, and I've just been appointed - by the Governor no less - to join it.

I had my movement orders by the end of the day, and the Governor lent me a sedan and driver to take me down to Monterey.

The Naval Militia base was much as I remembered it, including the heavy machine guns that muzzled you if you took the clearly marked 'Military Vehicles Only' exit that was the only vehicular entry to the base.

The checkpoint procedures were the same as last time, too, expedited because I'd been there before. In rapid succession I was issued Quarters, Officers For the Use Of; a fairly thick stack of cash that I had to receipt against expenses; a briefing pack that was merely several hundred pages to read by tomorrow; and an appointment card for 0800 at the 'Gold Building.'

I ordered in dinner. This allowed me to read while I ate. I put the briefing pack in the room safe and reset the combination.

Reluctantly, because my hand hurt, I took two painkillers instead of one.

###

"Element, charge!" I ordered desperately.

The skeleton crane of the missile erector taunted me. We had to destroy it, at literally any cost. Right the fuck now.

There was no time for subtlety or for strategy. It was charge the machine guns time, and not for a bunch of refugees either.

Dead Hand. Russian communications rocket. If it launched, it would transmit the launch orders to the entire Russian Strategic Defense Force - understanding 'Defense Force' the same way as our own SDF.

My guts spilled around me as I saw the missile exhaust make a perfect arcing trajectory. I couldn't see the radio signal go out, nor would I live to know how many cities died.

My spilled intestines became worms, then snakes, then started eating the rest of me.

###

I blinked awake, crawled to the toilet, vomited, and drank a lot of tap water. I would have gotten up to piss, but found that I already had while I was vomiting.

This was not a new experience for me. So I matter of factly mopped up with one towel, then showered with the other.

No breakfast room service. Buffet style, consisting of a cold Danish and ersatz coffee that must have dated to the early Resistance period.

I barely made it on time to the Gold Building, and that by jogging.

I then waited in a bare reception room for a good half hour. I could not help but notice the incredibly deep, plush chairs so useful for making an arrest, and the utter lack of any other amenities.

Finally I was ushered past the guardian, a man so bland that I could not recall a single distinguishing feature about him, and to a richly appointed office.

I can't tell you who the man was behind the desk. I know, but I can't.

He had a small 'I love me' wall, with a faint outline of two darker spots where rectangles had been taken down. A black bordered picture of him with his family. A picture of him with several men and women with discreet bars over their nose and eyes - to hide their identity. A picture of him shaking hands with... someone who didn't need a bar over nose and eyes. Agent Knight.

He introduced himself. He was very easy to talk to. Soon I found myself bringing him up to speed on my life's story.

I stopped suddenly.

"You're a psychologist!" I accused.

"One of my many degrees. I am also a medical doctor, a professor of ancient history and a lawyer, for my sins. Please do forgive my lack of candor, I have been told how you feel about the second oldest profession."

I nodded, and became wary.

He put me at my ease again. It took a while, and several detours. Finally we were discussing Iowa.

"You seem to take this unusually personally."

"I killed half my men, Doctor."

"And saved, by anyone's count, several hundred thousand lives. I think maybe more, considering what Iowa would have looked like in a year without you."

"Not all lives matter. Hypothetical lives, certainly not."

"Well, that's why you're here. You may have heard that 'A journalist is a man without honor who lies at home for personal profit; a diplomat is a man with honor who lies abroad for his nation.' You have been appointed the latter, a military attache."

He then gave me some bad news.

"Senior diplomatic staff mostly smile at each other. Like dreadnaughts in the age of battleships, too valuable to risk, too powerful to speak. It is the junior diplomatic staff, the cruisers and destroyers if you will, who do the actual work."

And die, presumably metaphorically, by the numbers.

"This afternoon you have an appointment in the SCIF."

Secure conference room. To discuss things that are very secret.

"Tomorrow you start training. We have six days to train you in a course that normally takes six months. So the rest of our time together, we will spend determining how much of a head start you have in each topic area."

A military attache must be a superb communicator. They must dress the part. They must also conduct themselves according to diplomatic protocol, particularly the Vienna Convention of 1815. They are at high risk of capture. They may, although it is unlikely, have to briefly fight like a wailing banshee. They are much more likely to function as an open spy, shown enemy military secrets and in being so exposed, take careful notes. They may also have to function as real spies, secret spies, performing such menial tasks as servicing dead drops, or such essential tasks as bribing their way past checkpoints, recruiting agents, or cleaning up (figuratively or literally) after intelligence operations.

I figured with my experience in the bathroom this morning, I had that last one down pat.

We had lunch in the executive ballroom of the Gold Building. It was a training class, teaching me everything from how to use a second fork ("eat your way in"), to making sure I knew how to use chopsticks (yes), to recognizing the early signs of being poisoned ("if it is numb or fizzy on your tongue, call it out - don't let the ambassador take a bite!").

Then I got to go to the SCIF and was taught the three great secrets of the California Republic, the reason why I was being sent to China as one of our diplomats.

The first secret was alarming, but not surprising.

The second secret was truly horrifying. The stuff of nightmares that made last night's look like a wet dream.

There was a nondescript wastebasket in the room, which was convenient when they told me the third secret and I immediately threw up.

There were no good answers.

But if we did nothing, twenty five million Californians would be incinerated within the year.

###

It was gently suggested that I should go to downtown Monterey and get badly drunk.

I didn't have anyone to go drinking with.

This was corrected. I was added to a training class of diplomatic personnel, who would graduate in weeks rather than days.

###

Crap.

I knew exactly what a cold concrete bunk felt like, courtesy of Homeland.

I was on one again.

My mouth tasted like someone had taken a shit in it.

Not one of my kinks.

I blinked and rolled over. Was this a HROC - High Risk Of Capture - exercise, or...

"You are under arrest," said the Monterey police officers who had been waiting for me to wake up, in their jail cell.

Aw, shit.

###

I identified myself by name and affiliation. The Shore Patrol came to come get me. They hauled me up, stinking, in front of the duty officer.

"Administrative punishment. One day in the naval brig, a fine of $5,000."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Their medical bills. May go higher."

One thing about fights in California. Now that all health care was covered by the Republic, beating people up became expensive - those busted jaws and broken teeth were coming out of taxpayer funds, and the Republic demanded compensation.

"Or you can select a court martial...?"

I mumbled "Administrative" and discovered that my own jaw was sore. Someone had decided to improve on Homeland's cut rate dental work. Informally.

###

Lunch was applesauce.

Dinner was formal, but served in my cell.

###

The next day, I was interviewed by three very earnest people from the Collections Office, whom I cannot name or describe.

They assured me that I had not compromised anything during my drunken sojourn.

Or I would have choked on my own vomit instead of waking up.

###

The breakneck pace of training continued.

The two hiccups involved dressing me in civilian clothing, and getting me laid.