Final impact

Though Judge had already been married for six months, Kolhammer still saw the intensity there, despite the fact that they’d been able to spend very little time together. Halabi’s last two weeks of leave had been spent on board the Clinton while her husband bedded down the last of the retrofit and prepped the great warship to go back out to sea. She’d worked just as hard as he had, lending her invaluable experience in re-equipping the Trident with what the locals called “Advanced Technology” but the uptimers all thought of as museum pieces. Like the six-barreled 20mm Vulcan cannon that replaced the Clinton’s laser packs and Metal Storm mounts.

It hadn’t been much of a honeymoon, as Judge admitted, but at least they had managed to get one day and one night to themselves, staying at the log cabin Kolhammer had bought for himself up at Clear Lake.

Jones broke in on Kolhammer’s train of thought. “I saw the new fighter squadrons out at Muroc the other day, Admiral. It was a beautiful thing, watching those Skyhawks get busy. Of course, my guys were all over yours, Mike.”

Before Judge could respond, Kolhammer cut him off. “You can lay your bets later, gentlemen. I just wanted to make sure nothing’s getting jammed up here at the last moment. So, Mike, you happy with your aircrew? They’re about ninety percent ’temp, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir. And I’ve got hundreds of requests from the ship’s original complement, asking to return to combat duty, but we still can’t justify putting our own people in harm’s way. Not when they’re of more use in research and development. It does make for some sore feelings, though, Admiral.”

“Bruised egos,” Kolhammer grunted.

“Nothing to be done about it,” Jones said. “It’s been the case since we got here that anyone with an engineering degree-or any technical qualifications, for that matter-is going to be of more use in the lab than out on the battlefield. I’ve lost some of my best combat engineers to Caltech because of it. And one of my best company commanders, too, who just happened to major in fucking fluid mechanics, all because he was hot for some bimbo surfboard designer back in college.”

“You know, it’s been noted-rather uncharitably, I might add-that the three of us are all going back into combat,” Judge observed.

Kolhammer shrugged it off. “We’ve been through it a hundred times. Somebody has to command this battle group, and it’s a very different gig from running Spruance’s task force, even with the AT stuff they’ve been bringing online. The whole world is watching Calais right now, but soon enough they’ll be watching us, too. Tojo isn’t the only one who wants to see us fall on our asses.

“So if there’s nothing else I can do for you gentlemen, I suggest we all get back to work. And I’ll see you in San Diego.”

Both men nodded in agreement, then signed off. Kolhammer returned to the business of handing over the Special Administrative Zone to his deputy, Colonel Viviani. She would be empowered to act in his stead for the duration of the deployment. That meant he was almost free. There were about two hundred documents requiring hard-copy signatures, a final sit-down with the colonel, a quick tour of the campus to say good-bye to his department heads, and then he was outta there.

The only way he could be more excited was if they’d let him fly one of the new Skyhawks out onto the Big Hill. But that was an indulgence reserved for younger men. No, he’d be catching a C-130 down to the base.

Kolhammer pulled the stack of documents toward him and reached for his fountain pen. He brought the D-Day coverage back up and noticed that the byline on the air assault video was Julia Duffy’s.

Dan’s ex.

That had been a hell of a piss-poor show, their breakup. It had gutted Dan, killed him if truth be known. The big doofus had insisted on going back into combat afterward, whether to prove himself or to escape, Kolhammer wasn’t sure. Didn’t matter, though. Poor bastard never even made it to Pearl. His transport had crashed on takeoff from Muroc. Still, it wasn’t his place to judge. What chance had they really had, coming from such different worlds? It had been noted, more than once, that almost all relationships between uptime women and contemporary men failed in the end-although, intriguingly, the reverse was not true. Perhaps the angrier feminists of his time had been right and all twenty-first man had really wanted was an old-fashioned wife. God knew there were any number of movies being made about it now. They screened as straight romances throughout the rest of the country, but were marketed as comedies inside the Zone. In the same way that Reefer Madness had once played so well with stoned college students.