The Complete Hammer's Slammers, Vol. 3

Central Repair was one of the larger employers of local personnel. CR was where heavily damaged vehicles were brought: for repair if possible, for stripping and scrapping if they weren’t. Line maintenance was mostly done at company level, but at battalion in the case of major drive-train components; Central Repair dealt with more serious or complex problems.

Fencing Master was thus far the Regiment’s only serious battle damage on Plattner’s World, but there were plenty of things that could go wrong with complex vehicles transiting between star systems. Furthermore, there were a dozen blowers deadlined from the previous contract. They’d been shipped to Plattner’s World for repair instead of being held behind and repaired in place.

Late in the day, Huber got around to checking addresses. There were many groupings of employees who gave the same home address. That didn’t concern him. Besides members of the same family all working in the booming new industry, war, many of the personnel came into Benjamin from outlying locations. Those transients lived in apartments or rooming houses here in the city.

Three of the mechanics in Central Repair lived at what the voter registration records—forwarded to Huber by Doll Basime; he didn’t go through Hera to get them—listed as the address of Senator Patroklos Graciano. That was a matter for concern.

Huber looked around the office. Hera was out of the room; off to the latrine, he supposed. That made things a little simpler. Kelso, the local who’d driven the rescue vehicle the night before, looked up and caught his eye. Huber gestured him over, into the area of the privacy screen.

“Sir?” Kelso said brightly. His thin blond hair made him look younger than he probably was; close up Huber guessed the fellow was thirty standard years old. Kelso dressed a little more formally than most of the staff and he seemed to want very much to please. Looking for a permanent billet with the Regiment, Huber guessed; which was all right with Huber, and just might work out.

“I’ve got three names and lists of former employers here,” Huber said, running hardcopy of the employment applications as he spoke. “I want you to check these out—just go around to the listed employers and ask about the people. I’m not looking for anything formal. If the boss isn’t in—”

He handed the three flimsies to Kelso.

“—but the desk clerk remembers them, that’s fine. Take one of the section jeeps, and I’d rather have the information sooner than later.”

“Sir, it’s pretty late …” Kelso said with a concerned expression. “Should I chase people down at their homes if the business is closed, or—”

Huber thought for a moment, then laughed. “No, nothing like that,” he said. “But if you can get me the data before tomorrow midday, I’d appreciate it.”

“You can count on me, sir!” the fellow said. Holding the hardcopy in his hand, he trotted past the consoles—some of them empty; it was getting late—and out the door just as Hera returned.

They passed; she glanced questioningly from the disappearing local and then to Huber. Huber waved cheerfully and immediately bent to his console, calling up information on the Officer in Charge of Central Repair. Hera might have asked what was going on with Kelso if Huber hadn’t made it pointedly clear that he was busy.

Which he was, of course, but it bothered him to treat her this way. Well, it’d bother her worse if he told her what he was doing; and there was also the risk that …

Say it: the risk that this bright, competent woman, attractive in all respects—would be loyal to her brother if push came to shove, instead of being loyal to the regiment of off-planet killers she happened to be working for at the moment. Surviving in a combat environment meant taking as few risks as possible, because the ones you couldn’t avoid were plenty bad enough.

CR was at present under the command of Senior Warrant Leader Edlinger; Buck Edlinger to his friends, and Huber knew him well enough from previous deployments to be in that number. Instead of doing a data transmission through the console, Huber made a voice call. It took a moment for Edlinger to answer; he didn’t sound pleased as he snarled, “Edlinger, and who couldn’t bloody wait for me to call back, tell me!”

“Arne Huber, Buck,” Huber replied calmly. He’d been shouted at before—and worse. Edlinger’d been squeezed into a place too tight for him to wear his commo helmet, and he wasn’t best pleased to be dragged out of there to take a voice call slugged Urgent. “I’ve got a problem that may turn out to be your problem too. Are your people working round the clock right now?”

“Via!” Edlinger said. “No, not by a long ways. You’re in Log Section now, Huber? What’re you about to drop on us? Did a ship-load of blowers come down hard?”