Beth Radford was a good conversationalist, easy and confident, and Ross found himself relaxing, enjoying the experience. And the wine helped. They chatted casually through coffee, until Beth caught him contemplating the heavy bracelet on her wrist - silver and turquoise - the sacred stone of her people. She smiled faintly.

"I haven't abandoned everything Navajo, you know," she sighed. She held her hand out to him, and he took it lightly in his own, fingering the ornament.

"Beautiful work," he agreed, unaware that she had given up anything Navajo, but wondering if this had something to do with her estrangement from her brother.

"For which the craftsman would be paid pennies for ever dollar the trader would get on the open market," Beth replied, taking her hand back, trying unsuccessfully to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "My former father-in-law made this for me, years ago. A good man. He died too young. Cirrhosis of the liver." She looked away, suddenly. "I'm sorry."

"Your brother used to talk with me about the difficulties faced by your people," he prodded her. She looked up at him sharply, and he knew he had hit a nerve. She took a deep breath, as if coming to a decision.

"Have you seen him, recently?" she asked.

"A few months ago," Ross replied. "Before that, it had been a long time. When I saw him last, he gave me a letter, an antique. The man he bought it from claimed it was written by Ira Hayes. Oliver always had a great deal of respect for Hayes. As I do."

If he was trying to impress her, though, the attempt backfired. Radford made a face.

"Of course," she sighed, "Ira Hayes. The great Native American folk hero. I can't tell you how many times Ira Hayes has been held up to me as some sort of cultural icon. But the truth, Commodore, is that Ira Hays was nothing but a drunk. A stupid boy who got his fifteen minutes of fame by being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and being unlucky enough to find himself standing in front of a camera while he did it. He went on to do nothing of note with his life, died in a ditch too stoned to lift his face out of three inches of water. And my brother wonders why this is not the role model I want for my son."

Ross pulled back a little under the bitter assault.

"I'm sorry," she said, seeing his expression. "My son, Eric, will be old enough to enlist in a few months. Oliver used to fill his head with stories about Hayes, about 'fighting men,' about the 'good old days in the AI rebellion.' I'm afraid, as his mother, I have a different view of things. I want him to stay in school."

Ross nodded, but said nothing. Radford lifted her wine glass, contemplating the rich color. "I haven't seen my brother in eight years," she mused. "Haven't even heard from him in almost five. I had a house on the reservation, in Utah, that was broken into a few years ago. Oliver took care of things for me. Actually, I think he adopted the young thug who did it. Got him into the Marines. I believe the boy murdered someone not too long ago, and was executed for it. I'm sure Oliver was devastated. He does hate to see his good faith go to waste."

Ross remembered his friend's pain over that young man's fall, and remember Radford's hope that the dead boy *would* redeem his failed life through an act he would not even know he performed. Romantic, perhaps, but Oliver Radford had meant it from his heart, of that Ross was sure. And the ploy had proved a vital one for Operation Round Hammer.

"Perhaps you underestimate him. Perhaps he believes even the dead can redeem themselves," he replied, using Radford's own words.

Beth merely shrugged. "I'm sure he does," she agreed. "Redemption is one of Oliver's favorite themes. I was supposed to be *his* redemption, you know."

Ross cocked his head.

"It didn't matter that he had left the people he professed to love and rarely returned to the reservation. *That* was to be my job, my contribution. As long as little Beth was earmarked to take her talents and her education back to the reservation when she was finished and lead the People into the future, a people who did not particularly care to be lead *anywhere*, let alone forward, then he was justified, somehow, in his leaving. He was free to make his way, and have a damn good time doing what he wanted to do. I was his hostage to fortune."

Ross raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm sure his life has not been as carefree as all that," he protested. "And you don't exactly look like a hostage."

"I know," Beth replied. "And my brother has never forgiven me for it."

"What do you mean?"

Beth looked at him thoughtfully a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not he really wanted to know.

"How much do you know about The People, the dineh, the Navajo?" she asked him.

"A little," Ross replied. "What your brother has told me, what I've read."

"We are a people steeped in tradition. Some might say mired in it. We still live almost entirely on 25,000 square miles of desert in the American West. You will rarely find a Navajo living anywhere else. You will find blacks, Asians, In Vitros, other races in all corners of the world, but no Navajo. The People do not leave their land. Their minds don't leave their land, either. Their thoughts and their lifestyles are still centuries old. Do you know that most of The People still live in one room hogans? We have a university on the reservation, but even in 2064 we still deal with problems of illiteracy and unemployment well above the national average. Technology, modernity, has completely passed us by.

"We are a people who some say cling passionately to our heritage and traditions, and others suggest refuse to climb out of our slough of passivity and despair and embrace the modern world."

"And what do you say?" Ross asked her.

Beth ignored the question. "My role, my charge, was to go out into the world and acquire an education for the express purpose of coming back and leading my People out of the dark ages. For a while, I even accepted this fate."

"What changed your mind?"

"I had a child. After I finished my doctorate I went back to the reservation to teach, as had always been planned. I married there - a charming, ambitionless boy - and had a son. I wasn't very happy, I suppose; I found it hard to find contentment teaching rudimentary subjects to the handful of students who cared to show up every day. Then, one day when my son was two years old, I took a walk. It was spring, so there was still water in the arroyo. I went and sat beside it, and asked it what I should do.

"There is a tradition among The People that the spirits of the elements will speak if one is pure and patient. I don't know if I was either, and I don't know if that river spoke to me, but in that moment I could see it as clearly as I saw the water running through that arroyo what I had to do. If I was going to survive, I had to get away. I had to find a different future for my son. I had to have hope. For Eric. For myself. I never looked back. And Oliver never forgave me for abandoning them. We fought about it for years. Then we just stopped talking at all."

She stood up suddenly, and walked across the room, stopping beside his bookcase. She turned and looked back at him wearily.

"But aren't you forgetting the other side of that?" Ross insisted gently. "The peace, the surety that your brother always spoke of, the connection to the past, to the land?"

"Easy to romanticize when you don't have to live it every day," Beth sighed bitterly. "Look, you're right, I'm not denying those things are real, and important. I *am* Navajo. I feel them, too. And the honest truth is, it scares me, sometimes, what I do. The things we are planning, this terrible power we are trying to steal, and then to harness. I do sometimes long for the peace and security of the land and its spirits. But it's not just the traditions I'd be returning to.

"I don't want my son to forget who he is, and I don't want him to forget where he came from. But I don't want his heritage to become his horizon. Can you understand that?"

Ross nodded slowly, his expression troubled. "Yes."

She turned away. "I wish Oliver could."

He stood up and walked over beside her. "Are you sure those are the only choices? That it must be one thing or the other? It's a tragedy to allow your family to be torn apart because of a difference in life-style."

"I know," she replied softly, and he could hear both anger and pain. "But it's not just a life style. It's a way of life. We're big into that you know - 'ways.' All of our sacred ceremonies are called that: the Blessing Way, the Water Way, the Night Way prayer. There is the Navajo way. Or the other."

Ross sighed, and did not say anything. Elisabeth lifted a framed photograph from the top of the bookcase, scrutinized it thoughtfully. He smiled a little, now. It always struck him, how people were drawn to that simple black and white family grouping. McQueen could never come into his office without picking it up and having a look, either. As if he was reassuring himself of something.

"Family?" she asked.

"That boy there?" he pointed over her shoulder, "That's my great- great grandfather."

Elisabeth smiled softly. For a moment she said nothing more, just held the picture in her hand and stared down at it.

"I miss him, you know," she finally sighed, and Ross could hear the sorrow. "He's my brother. He raised me." She choked slightly, on the last word. Ross reached over and took the frame from her fingers, set it back down on the shelf. When she looked up at him, he could see her eyes glistening, though she did not cry. She leaned toward him, suddenly, and he put his arms around her pulling her against his chest, holding her gently. He could feel her shaking. Slipping one hand into her hair, he cradled her head against his shoulder, rocking slightly.

"It's all right..."

For a long time they just stood there, him holding her, her struggling not to cry. Then she drew a deep breath and straightened up in his arms. Ross released her, taking her face a moment in his two hands. He brushed faint tears off her cheeks with his thumbs. She smiled slightly, her lips parting just a little, and with a suddenness that left him breathless, tender concern changed to a desire so overwhelming it made his legs shake. It would be so easy. He could see in her eyes that she would welcome him, he could smell the scent of her, feel it in the inclination of her body toward his. His own body leapt at the thought. He could lean down now, kiss her... His mouth tingled with anticipation. He could draw her back to him, lock the door, lead her to his bed, and she would come to him willingly. Then he looked again, and saw something in her eyes that looked an awful lot like despair. His body aching in protest, he let her go.

Her brow furrowed slightly in confusion, and then she smiled faintly, and turned away. Reaching out, Ross turned her back to face him, his fingers holding her lightly along her jaw. No words passed, and none where needed. Finally, she smiled in earnest, and he smiled back at her.

"It's late," she said quietly. "I should go."

For a moment, he reconsidered, and almost changed his mind. But he knew in his heart that he could not take advantage of her emotional state, even though he could see it was something she wanted. Cursing his own misplaced nobility, he nodded.

"We both have long days ahead of us, tomorrow," he agreed. She let him lead her to the door. She looked like she might say more, then she sighed.

"Glen," she said softly. "Thank you."

"Good night, Beth," he replied.

1100 hours, GMT, and they were still hours away from Shamash, hours away from potentially changing the whole nature of the conflict, and perhaps of the known worlds. Flight Deck 15 was not deserted, but it was quiet. The initial assault on Shamash would be launched from another deck and the Hammers on Fifteen would not be used for hours, yet. Maybe not at all if the ground forces were unsuccessful in securing the moon base. Preparations were being made, checks run, weapons and ships charged and fueled, but there was little sense of urgency. It was much too early in the game for that.

Nathan West sat in his cockpit, watching the flight crew moving about, trying to absorb their cool efficiency. There was something soothing in the systematic process of preparing the planes for battle. He sighed to himself, fingering the controls under his hands, and wished he felt as calm, and half as prepared, as the crews around him.

His current state of mind confused him. He had been fighting Chigs for a year, now, had sat in this cockpit, flown against the enemy, shot him with his rifle, crawled along the ground to take him hand to hand more times than he cared to count. So what was different about *this* mission, what was so unusual this time that the anticipation of deployment made his stomach hurt? The question, of course, was rhetorical, even to himself. He knew what was bothering him. It was the fact that he would be in command this time, that Shane would not be there. He would be alone with the responsibility for the rest of the squadron and the AeroTech civilians, and the idea was unnerving him. He would be carrying the full weight of accountability this time. The decisions, right or wrong, would be his. It weighed on him.

Part of it was the presence of AeroTech. He did not, could not, would not trust those people. He had seen first hand who they were willing to sacrifice to meet some private, corporate goal. He remained convinced that AeroTech had known about the Chigs when they sent up the Tellus colony mission, that they had understood the risk to the colonist. Perhaps they had even expected them all to die and this war to start, although he could not figure what might be the motive. Kylen Celina, his first and only love, had been lost on that mission, dead or captive he did not know. He, himself, would have died there had he not been bumped at the last minute. It was not a memory to inspire confidence, and the fact that these same people would now be his responsibility to protect did nothing to ease his mind.

But he also knew it was more than that. He was, quite simply, worried about his ability to lead them. West knew he was a hot pilot, a first rate warrior. His situation awareness was top notch. Even though he had not come to the military to fight, but as a means to reach Tellus, even though war had been inconceivable when he had first joined, the year he has spent there had hardened him. He was no longer a boy looking for a way to join his girlfriend, he was Marine. He had no doubts on that score. But command...

Of course, he had toyed with the idea when the war had first erupted and the Fifty-Eighth had been thrust into the thick of it. He had been a section leader with the Tellus mission before he had gotten bumped, he had expected to be a leader with the Marines, as well. There was a vast difference, however, between directing a cadre of polite and reasonable scientists and technicians through the details of a civilian endeavor, and leading a squad of warriors into the thick of battle. And Shane Vansen had proved so able, right from the beginning, that West had found himself deferring to her naturally, even before McQueen had designated her more or less permanent honcho, even before her promotion had placed her over them in rank. Even in those early days, when they were still sorting out their roles and West had had occasional command of a mission, the fact that Vansen had been there gave him confidence in himself. She would not be there this time. He was on his own.

He was not sure he could do it. And he could not shake the feeling that McQueen had placed the Five-Eight back with the AeroTech people instead in the front line assault because McQueen was not sure he could do it, either. However, such speculation was getting him nowhere. The mission was his, whatever his personal reservations. He should be spending his time getting mentally prepared, not wallowing in insecurity. Leveraging himself out of his cockpit, he waved casually to the deck chief, and left.

"Nathan, buddy." Vansen was awake when West walked into the sick bay. "Have a seat."

He smiled and sat down on the edge of her bed.

"How're ya feeling?"

"Like someone drained all the blood out of my veins and replaced it with weak tea," she told him, smiling back. "Better, actually. I must have slept for hours. I guess I missed the Colonel - the docs told me he was here for a while yesterday when I was still sleeping. I never woke up."

"He's been pretty worried," West agreed. "We all have. You scared us..."

Vansen looked a little sheepish. "So how is everyone? They told me this thing is pretty contagious."

"Yeah, but we're all okay. They've got us on some kind of regime that's supposed to keep us from getting it."

Vansen nodded, and West could see how weak and tired she was, despite the designer antibiotics and the recovery they said she was making. He patted her hand and moved to go. Vansen closed her fingers around his.

"So, what's the matter?"

"What do you mean," West asked with a frown.

"Come on, Nathan, I know you," Vansen chided him. "I know that look. What's buggin' you?"

West shrugged. "You're tired..."

"I'm still breathing. I can listen. Come on, fess up."

West looked down at her hand in his. "We've got a mission."

Vansen nodded. "You honcho?" West just nodded. "And you're worried about it," Vansen concluded. It was not a question. West looked at her in shock. Vansen smiled faintly. "I told you I know you..."

"Does it ever get to you? Command, I mean? Does it ever scare you?"

Vansen sighed. "Come on, Nathan. You know it does. You work through it."

West shook his head. "I don't know why," he continued hesitantly. "It never bothered me like this before. But I think about being out there, about everyone looking to me for decisions... It's like a weight. I don't know if I want it..."

"Nathan, you're just spooking yourself."

"I know," he replied. "I never thought I'd feel like this. On the Tellus mission, I was a section leader. I've honchoed missions before..." Though not in a long time, he reminded himself. "I don't know why this has me so rattled. We're not even part of the first assault..."

"So what's the matter?"

"I don't know," whispered West.

Vansen shifted a little on her pillow. "Nathan, everybody get the jitters, sometimes, before a mission. Especially when you're the one in charge. It's normal," she started - and then an echo in the back of her mind said >everyone gets that< and she smiled.

"What?" West asked.

"Nothing," she chuckled, "just something McQueen told me once about going out and coming back. Or not. I think he was trying to make me feel better."

West laughed. "Yeah, that sounds like the Colonel."

"The point is, he was sort of right. There's no such thing as luck or fate or destiny. Only knowledge and ability and skill. You're smart and you're careful. Don't do anything stupid. It'll be all right."

West made a face. "Easy to say."

Vansen sighed, collecting her thoughts. "You have the ability, Nathan, you know that..." and then she remembered a little bit more of what McQueen had said to her that day. Not in words, exactly, but in his tone, in his body language, things that had given her courage even though she had not realized it until later. "I know you can do this, Nathan. You're a capable leader. I have faith in you, and so does McQueen or he wouldn't have named you honcho."

West thought about that a moment. Vansen sagged back on her pillow.

"Damn," West said suddenly, helping her settle back into bed. "I've worn you out, now, and if I get you sick again, the docs will kill me. So will McQueen. I'm sorry..."

"Well, at least, then, you won't have to worry about the Chigs."

West snorted. Vansen closed her eyes. He stood up to leave, and then hesitated. "Shane..."

She opened one eye.

"Thanks."

Vansen smiled. "You'll be fine, Nathan. Stop worrying." She reached out and gave his hand one last squeeze. Then she closed her eyes again, and slowly the grip on his fingers relaxed as she drifted off to sleep. He stood there and watched her for a moment until her breathing settled into a regular rhythm. Then straightening up and squaring his shoulders a little, he left the room.

Commodore Ross leaned over the railing on the bridge, watching the screen at the LIDAR station over the operator's shoulder. There was nothing to see, which was good news. Not that he was expecting anything. He walked back to the central console and star chart display, glanced at their coordinates. They were still hours away from their destination. He expected a quite ride. Unable to rivet his attention on anything in particular in the throbbing quiet of the well order bridge, Ross found his thoughts drifting back to the evening before - to what had happened, and what had not. He felt torn somewhere between regret and relief, unsure of what he really wanted once he got past his body's own emphatic voice. That Beth Radford was an attractive, and available, woman went without saying. That he wanted her, physically, was almost beside the point. Desire he could deal with. Nothing scary in that. This went beyond mere physical need, though, and he knew it. There was something dangerously compelling in this mixture of brilliance and naivete, of vulnerability and strength. And Glen Ross *knew* he was in trouble. What he was not sure about, yet, was whether or not he wanted to be.

"Sir?"

Ross turned sharply and found Boswell at his shoulder. A tall girl, she almost looked him in the eye.

"You wanted to see these reports from sick bay as soon as they came up, sir."

Ross nodded as he took the proffered paperwork. "Thank you, Lieutenant." This outbreak of meningitis was reaching epidemic proportions - as if he did not have enough to worry about. Every few hours Boswell brought him more news of the stricken. He scanned the report. Not as bad as he had feared, not as good as he had hoped. The sick list was no shorter than the last one, but blessedly still no key personnel were down. And the flight surgeon assured that the situation was under control. He glanced at Boswell, could tell by her expression that she had read it, too. Well, it was not sealed, there was no reason to expect her not to.

"How are *you* feeling," he asked her, laying a hand lightly on her arm as he handed the reports back to her for filing.

"Fine, sir, never better," she assured him.

"Good," he said, giving her arm a quick squeeze before he dropped his hand. "I don't know what the hell I'll do if *you* go out on me..."

Boswell beamed. "You don't have to worry about that, sir," she replied happily. "Will there be anything else?"

"Not at the moment, Lieutenant, thank you," he told her, feeling somewhat better for having made her smile. He watched her leave the bridge, then sighed at the star chart, and told his exec that he would be in his quarters if anyone was looking for him before they made planet fall.

He did not go to his quarters. Perhaps he had never intended to, but intentional or not, his feet somehow took him down to Loading Bay 3. The bay was empty. Even the AeroTech equipment had been packed up, stacked away in a corner waiting to be loaded for the trip home. The echoing quiet in the place that had been filled, hours earlier, with so much bustle was a little eerie. Commodore Ross climbed down the platform to the deck, and looked around. He was not quite sure what had brought him there, but he had expected to find someone, at least, in the throws of final preparation. The ISSCV hatch was open. It looked lonely, standing there, vulnerable in an odd sort of way. Ross walked up and leaned his head in, listening. He could hear movement, faint but distinct, inside. Frowning, he mounted the ledge, and climbed into the hold.

"Hello."

It was so dark he could barely make her out. Beth Radford sat back in the shadows on the one bench they had left inside, between two stacks of containment vessels.

"Hello," Ross replied. "Is everything all right?"

She nodded. "Just thinking. Are we almost there?"

"We have a few hours yet. Are you anxious?"

She snorted. "I suppose you could call it that." She looked up at him thoughtfully. "I had some conversation with your Colonel McQueen, yesterday," she said. "He found me reading Robert Oppenheimer. Asked me if I was having a crisis of conscience."

Damn that man's presumptuousness, sometimes, Ross felt a brief flash of anger. But Radford did not seem particularly affronted by McQueen's challenge. If anything, she appeared amused. Ross cocked his head at her curiously.

"And what did you tell him?"

She smiled. Sliding over a little on the bench, she gestured for him to sit beside her. "Back in the early stages of the Manhattan Project, one of Oppenheimer's colleagues made a frightening discovery. According to his calculations, the detonation of the bomb they were then designing would be so powerful and so hot that it would likely ignite the Earth's atmosphere. Of course, the project leaders were horrified, and all further development stopped until the calculations could be verified. After a series of re-calculations, it was determined that the original estimates had been too high, and that the risk of atmospheric ignition was really not that great. Three chances in a million, to be exact. The risk was deemed acceptable, and the project resumed. They considered a three in one million chance of setting fire to the atmosphere and eliminating *all* life on the planet acceptable, because we *really* thought we needed that new bomb that badly... "

"The atmosphere did not ignite, however," Ross reminded her. She gave him a look as if to say that was hardly the point, then shook her head.

"Sometimes, when I let myself think about it, I'm terrified of success. I'm terrified of what we will do with this technology. I guess maybe I *am* having a crisis of conscience."

"But aren't you forgetting something?" Ross asked, frowning at her. "The Chigs already *have* this technology. And they will use it against us, if we don't defeat them first." He hesitated, realizing that this was not the argument that would reassure her. "If nothing else, the balance of power may give us the bargaining chip we need to sue for peace."

Radford made a face. "We've been there before, too," she reminded him. "We used that same argument to justify the proliferation of atomic weapons." She reached over and touched his hand lightly. "But you're right, I know that. I'm just tired."

"We have to trust that the powers who command us will use this technology wisely..."

At this, Radford laughed out loud. She took his hand in hers, palm against palm. "Nice try," she chuckled. "Glen Ross, I refuse to believe you're that naive. Anyway, if it was up to the scientists and the military, I wouldn't worry. We both understand the dangers, even if we don't always agree philosophically. It's the damned politicians that scare me to death. They don't have a clue."

Ross decided not to pursue it. Instead, he asked her why she continued to head the project if that was the way she felt. Her face fell slightly.

"Because I'm afraid," she said softly. "Because these Chigs terrify me more than the risk does. Because I have a son who will be old enough to sign up six months from now, and I won't be able to stop him. All the bitter, selfish reasons... " She hesitated, and he waited, sensing there was more she wanted to say.

"In the traditions of my people, what we are doing here is anathema. Inviting a foreign spirit into our demesne. We will pay a price for it. I can only hope to God I'm doing the right thing."

Ross looked down at the hand still clasped in his. He let it go, and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her gently against him. She relaxed against his chest.

"You are," he said, "I truly believe that. This enemy is the most horrendous I have ever faced. Already in this war we have lost more lives, more young men and women, than were lost in the combined wars of Korea, Vietnam and the AI rebellion. The losses are almost inconceivable. This war cannot go on. We must stop them. We must use whatever means are at our disposal. Whatever it takes. You haven't seen what I have seen, Beth."

"I may, in a few hours," she reminded him. He looked down at her head nestled on his shoulder.

"You don't have to go down there. This war is no place for civilians."

"I do, though," she argued matter-of-factly. "If the ore is to be successfully retrieved, it must be handled carefully. The requirements are precise. You know that. It has to be me, there is no one else."

He did know it. Or at least he had been told so often enough.

"When this is over," Beth continued softly, "I'm going to get in touch with Oliver. You're right. I can't let our differences continue to tear our family apart..."

"I'm glad," he whispered, pulling her a little bit closer.

She shifted a little on his shoulder, and he could feel her breath on the side of his neck. He suddenly found himself acutely aware of the silence, of the solitude. They were absolutely alone in a way that rarely happened on a crowded ship. They could have been the only two people in the galaxy; the war, the Chigs, the responsibilities far away in another life. She turned her head slightly to look at him. He leaned down. Lips touched, parted. Then her arms were around him, and his fingers were in her hair, and for a while there was only time and the moment. Finally he let her go. She smiled up at him softly, and the look in her eyes left him breathless.

"Are they going to looking for you on the bridge?" she husked. He took a breath before answering.

"Not for a while, yet," he told her, cupping her cheek in his palm and drawing her mouth back to his. When the kiss ended he stood up, and held his hand down to her. Without a word, she took it and let him lead her out of the APC.

In contrast to the bustle on the other flight decks he had just visited, Deck 15 was pregnant with stillness and anticipation. McQueen stopped at the air lock hatch and looked in, taking a moment to observe his people before they saw him there. He felt a sudden, but increasingly familiar, rush of pride as he watched them sitting quietly by their cockpits. It could be some time, yet, before they would be needed, and yet he knew that they would be just as alert, just a ready when they were called as they were at that moment.

He knew he experienced a rare pleasure for a commander, to look at his people and know with confidence that there were no weak links. Each individual had different strengths and limits, but none were liabilities, and each would rise to whatever the particular occasion demanded. He had no doubts on that account. There were no holes in this unit. His eyes found them each, in turn: Wang, Hawkes, Damphousse, West. He missed Vansen, briefly, but he knew she was mending well in sick bay and that she would be back for the next one. They were quite a team, his 'Cards. He stepped into the cavernous bay and walked over to them. They saw him approach, and came respectfully to their feet.

"Five-Eight," he began. "I don't need to remind you of the importance of this mission, or of your part in it. You've been chosen to escort and guard these civilian scientists, not only because of your prowess as warriors, but because your experience on Kazbek has prepared you for whatever you may find down there on Shamash.

"This will have to be fast. By the time we get to your part of the mission, we have no idea how much time you'll have before enemy reinforcements arrive from Cirrus. Ideally, we'd like to be finished, and long gone, by the time they arrive. Now, I know you're down strength, but that shouldn't worry you. Army personnel will accompany each AeroTech ISSCV, and sentries will be staying behind from the initial assault to back you up. Besides, we don't plan to let these civvies down there until we are as certain as we can be that all threat has been eliminated. Your job will be to guard them, and to guide them. They've never seen an AI run Chig facility before. You have. Use that experience. Get in, get this done, and get out of there."

He hesitated, looking at each of them. Then he caught West's eye and nodded briefly. "Good luck. See you when you get back."

He turned and left the flight deck.

"So *that's* why we got picked to guard the geeks," Damphousse said, feeling better suddenly. "Because of our experience with the Kazbek facility. Makes sense."

West felt a sudden rush of exhilaration. He also felt a little sheepish about his concerns. Of course McQueen would assign them as he did for good reason. They had something special to offer this mission, something no other squadron of fighters had. His self-doubts had been groundless, foolish. He took a deep breath, happier than he had felt in days.

Ross was on the bridge when McQueen got there. He nodded at his commander, then frowned at him. Man looks distracted, he thought, which was unlike him, so close to the beginning of an engagement. Well, he's got a lot on his mind. He shrugged, then, and crossed to the command console in the center of bridge, rubbing his temples as he went.

"What's the matter?"

He looked up to see Ross staring at him worriedly. "Nothing," he sighed. "Just a head-ache."

These were not words to give the commodore ease. "*You're* not getting sick on me, now, are you?"

McQueen chuckled humorlessly and shook his head. The doctors had him so pumped full of prophylactic drugs he doubted he could catch so much as a head cold. He understood, though. This mission was cause enough for worry without key personnel crawling for sick bay. "It's *just* a head-ache..."

"We've raised Siduri, sir. We're about twenty-five AUs out."

Ross nodded and walked forward to the rail. "Any sign of enemy activity, Mr. Malcolm?" he asked the LIDAR operator. The man shook his head.

"No, sir, I don't think they know we're here."

"Mr. Kline?"

"We're coming up on the far side of the planet, sir. Moon will be in range in approximately fifteen mikes," the helmsman told him. Ross looked at McQueen, who just nodded at him.

"Let's get in there and do this," Ross said under his breath. "I want to be long gone before they've figured out we even arrived."

Behind them, the hatch opened, and Beth Radford stepped onto the bridge. Heads turned, including Ross'. He stopped in mid turn. She was dressed for the descent, in flight suit and boots, her dark hair pulled back from her face and contained in the traditional chignon of her people at the back of her neck. The transition was a shock and Ross found himself once again desperate to protest the use of civilians on this mission. Though his motivations where different, now. He took a deep, slow breath as she stepped up beside him.

"We're there?"

"We're coming up on the moon base, as we speak," he agreed. He reached out and took her arm, drawing her a little closer. "You shouldn't be up here..."

Radford nodded. "I know. I just wanted to see it." You, she did not say.

"There's not much to see," he replied. "A lot of numbers on screens..." Don't do this, you don't have to do this. There are others who can go...

She leaned, very slightly, and he could feel the pressure of her body against his arm. The memory, hours old, of that body under him, her skin against his, her arms holding him, her mouth on his mouth, paralyzed him. Emotion ran riot, and for a moment, a bare instant, he would have thrown it all over, abandoned his responsibilities, this mission, taken her away... And then the moment passed. He glanced up at the LIDAR screen, saw that they were rounding Siduri, it would be a matter of moments now before the first wave of the assault began.

"It will begin soon," he told her. He did not need to ask her to leave the bridge.

She nodded. "I'd better get down there with the rest of my team..."

She looked up at him, and Ross felt a sudden dread sense of foreboding. He pushed it away, harshly. Later, his eyes told her. When you get back, we'll talk about all of this. Beth smiled slightly, nodded, and stepped away from him. Ross dropped her arm.

"Good luck, Dr. Radford."

Radford look past Ross to find McQueen eyeing her inscrutably. Somehow, she had the oddest feeling that he had meant the words. She hesitated, then smiled politely.

"Thank you, Colonel," she replied. "Good luck to all of us." She nodded at Ross again. "If you gentlemen will excuse me?" She turned and left the bridge.

Ross looked to McQueen, found the other man watching him curiously. It had taken McQueen about a second to figure it out. That Beth Radford was, or had become, more than just the sister of an old friend.

"You have something to say?" Ross demanded under his breath.

McQueen just shook his head. "No, sir," he replied simply, but Ross could see the man's expression shift to one of mild affection, and perhaps just a hint of amusement, but mostly the gentle concern of a friend. Ross tried to glower, was only partly successful, gave it up finally and smiled faintly, instead. He turned back to the helm.

"Where's my moon, Mr. Kline?"

"Comin' right up, sir."

All eyes riveted on the LIDAR screen.

"Still no sign of enemy activity, sir. If they know we're here, they aren't in a position to react."

"Loading bays standing by, sir..."

Ross looked at McQueen. "Drop the Hammers," he said evenly. "Deploy the ground forces..."

"Aye, aye..."

And then they waited. It was not the heat of battle that caused the worst of the gut twisting, ulcer producing stress, it was the terrible waiting after troop deployment, the standing by for the first reports. That period of air silence when anything could happen, and no one knew for sure what was going on. The bridge crew held collective breaths.

It finally started, the sound of distant gunfire over the communications link, the chatter of battle-speak punctuated by relays of official reports. Paper started flowing, runners up from stations within the bowels of the 'Toga carrying messages, and a different kind of waiting commenced, the waiting for outcomes. Attentions strained, trying to filter sense out of the incoming noise.

"Sir! We're picking up an enemy transmission. Maybe a distress signal."

"Well, we expected that," Ross replied. He was relieved, in a way, that it had happened and that they had caught it. Now he did not have to wonder if the signal had been sent and they had missed it, somehow.

"I need an estimated time of arrival on those Chig reinforcements..."

"Aye, sir..."

The drone of battle filled the bridge like white noise. Time passed, but no one really noticed as they hung there, praying silently, waiting for each periodic report. And finally, the news they awaited.

"Commodore, the troops on planet have advised that the refinery is secure. Both AI and Chig presenses have been eliminated or driven into the surrounding countryside. Shamash is ours."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. I want all ground forces except those designated sentries extracted, now. Any sign of enemy reinforcements from the Cirrus base?"

"Nothing, yet, sir, but we have to assume they're coming. Estimated time of arrival, one-hundred twenty mikes."

Two hours. Ross looked at McQueen. "Not much time." He hesitated, then nodded, laying a hand lightly on the other man's back. "Launch the Five -Eight. And advise General Hazleton he may deploy the AeroTech teams when ready."

On the flight deck, Nathan West catapulted into his cockpit on a gesture from the deck chief, and awaited command from McQueen. It was not long in coming.

"Five-Eight. This is Queen Six. Ground forces have advised the refinery is secure. You have about two hours before the anticipated arrival of Chig reinforcements, so get those AeroTech people in there, do this, and get back here... Good luck."

"Roger that, Queen Six," West replied over his radio. "All right, 'Cards, let's do this."

The warning klaxon began blaring as the loud speaker demanded the clearing of the flight deck, and the flight crews scuttled out the air lock doors.

"Prepare for Hammerhead engagement," said the loudspeaker, and the Wild Cards' canopies came down.

In Loading Bay 3, Dr. Elisabeth Radford watched the last of her people load onto the ISSCV. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat and tried to convince her stomach to stop churning. Behind her, Hazelton cleared his throat, making her jump.

"Sorry," he said as she spun around to face him. "The bridge has advised that Shamash is ours. The refinery is secure. You have about two hours before they expect Chig reinforcements. Don't waste them. Securing technology would be nice, but it's not our main interest here. Our most important task is recovering that ore."

"Yes, General, I know that," Radford replied, irritated by his tone, and glad for the distraction annoyance provided. Two hours. Not a lot of time. They would have to spend all of their energies securing the ore, and she hoped against hope that the battle had not done too much damage to the refinery proper. If access was inhibited by the destruction... well, she would worry about that when she got there. She turned to board the ISSCV.

Hazelton reached out and touched her arm. "This is a hell of a job for a civilian, Beth," he said as she glanced back at him. "It takes a lot of courage to do what you're about to do. I know we've had our differences, but... Good luck, Doctor. And god-speed."

Surprised at this unexpected sentiment, Radford just frowned at him. Then she nodded.

"Thank you, General." She turned back again, and boarded the ship.

Next : Part Four

Previous : Part Two