“Bugger off,” Kowacs said, glaring at the green letters which shone demurely against the white background of the screen. “I’ve got today’s report to do.”
“Figured you’d get Hoofer to do that,” Bradley said. “Like usual.”
Kowacs leaned back in the chair that was integral with the portable console and rubbed his eyes. Hoofer, a junior sergeant in First Platoon, was good with words. Usually he’d have gotten this duty, but . . .
“Naw,” Kowacs said wearily. “It’s knowing how to say it so that nobody back on Tau Ceti or wherever gets the wrong idea. And, you know, burns somebody a new one for shooting a woman in the back.”
“She shouldn’t have run,” Sienkiewicz said.
“Right,” said Kowacs. “A lot of things shouldn’t happen. Trouble is, they do.”
He looked expectantly at the two non-coms. He was waiting to hear why they’d interrupted when they, of all people, knew he didn’t like company at times like this.
Bradley eased forward so that the curtain surrounding the small enclosure hung shut. “We went for a drink tonight at a petty officers’ club with Gliere, the Tech 8 in Sitterson’s office. The Mil Gov bars have plenty of booze, even though you can’t find enough to get a buzz anywhere else. He got us in.”
“Great,” said Kowacs without expression. “If you’d brought me a bottle, I’d be glad to see you. Since you didn’t—”
“Thing is,” the field first continued as if he hadn’t heard his commander speak, “Gliere’s boss called him back after the office was supposed to be closed.”
Kowacs raised an eyebrow.
“Pissed Gliere no end,” Bradley said. “Seems Sitterson wants him to clear the data bank of all records relating to the bunch we brought in today. Wants it just like that lot never existed—and the file overwritten so there aren’t any gaps.”
Nick Kowacs got up from the console. The chair back stuck; he pushed a little harder and the frame bent thirty degrees, out of his way and nothing else mattered.
He began swearing, his voice low and nothing special about the words, nothing colorful—just the litany of hate and anger that boils from the mouth of a man whose mind is lake of white fury.
“What does he think we are?” Sienkiewicz asked plaintively. “They were on our side.”
“Right,” said Kowacs, calm again.
He looked at his console for a moment and cut its power, dumping the laboriously created file into electron heaven.
“That’s why it’s Sitterson’s ass if word gets out about what he did.” Kowacs continued. He shrugged. “What we all did, if it comes to that.”
“They’re still in the holding cells,” Bradley said. “The prisoners. I sorta figure Sitterson’s going to ask us to get rid of that part of the evidence. ‘Cause we’re conscienceless killers, you know.”
“Except the bastard won’t ask,” Sienkiewicz said bitterly. “He gives orders.”
“Right,” said Kowacs. “Right. Well, we’re going to solve Sitterson’s problem for him.”
He sat down at the console again, ignoring the way the damaged seat prodded him in the back.
“Sergeant,” he said, “book us to use the drydock late tonight to wash the trucks—between midnight and four, something like that.”
“Ah, sir?” Bradley said. “The main aqueduct broke this afternoon. I’m not sure if the naval base has water either.”
Kowacs shrugged. “Sitterson said he’d get us a priority,” he said. “We’ll operate on the assumption that he did.”
“Yessir,” said Bradley.
“Who do you have on guard duty at Sitterson’s office tonight?” Kowacs went on.
“I haven’t finalized the list,” Bradley said unemotionally. “It might depend on what his duties would be.”
“The doors to the holding cells are controlled by the desk in Gliere’s office,” Kowacs said.
“Yessir,” Bradley repeated. Sienkiewicz was starting to smile. “I got a lot of paperwork to catch up with. I’m going to take the midnight to four duty myself.”
“So get your butt in gear,” Kowacs ordered. He powered up his console again.
“Sitterson ain’t going to like this,” Sienkiewicz said with a smile that looked as broad as her shoulders.
Kowacs paused, glancing up at two of the marines he trusted with his life—now and a hundred times before. “Yeah,” he agreed. “But you know—one of these days Toby English and me are going to be having a drink together . . . And when we do, I don’t want to look him in the eye and tell him a story I wouldn’t want to hear myself.”