Luna Marine(38)

“We have a guest, Sergeant,” Fuentes replied. “Dr. Alexander. He’s just arrived to investigate the UN archeological dig outside. And you just volunteered to be his assistant.”

Kaminski sagged just the slightest bit with relief. That ought to be easy enough. A real skylark detail. He’d seen the new arrivals filing from their bug transport, of course, but had had no idea that Alexander was aboard. “Uh, yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

“He’s in Hab Three, with Dr. Billaud and the other UN scientists we captured. Suit up, hotfoot on over there, and make yourself useful. That is all.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!”

He came to attention again, whirled in place, and dived for the ladder. Hot damn! If they had to roust him from a friendly game with his squadmates, at least it was for an assignment that ought to be interesting.

The last few days, since the Marine assault on Picard, had been downright boring.

He had a happy feeling that that was about to change.


Hab Three, Picard Base

Mare Crisium, the Moon

0815 hours GMT

They’d been shouting at the prisoners when David had walked into the hab compartment, moments before. “You had damned well better cooperate, mister,” the Army colonel bellowed, his voice ringing off the metal walls as he leaned over the prisoner. “I’m losing my patience! It is one hell of a long walk back to Earth, and right now, we are your only hope of a ride!”

Dr. Marc Billaud stared past his tormentor with an icy indifference. “Je ne comprends pas,” he said.

“He’s lying,” the Army captain at the colonel’s side said. “His record says—”

“Ah, Colonel,” David said, interrupting, “I really don’t think you’re going to get anything out of them this way. Do you think I could have a few moments with them?”

The interrogators—three Army officers who’d made the trip out aboard the Clarke—stared at David for a moment. The senior officer, Colonel Thomas R. Whitworth, opened his mouth, then closed it again, as though fearful of appearing foolish. The other two, Major Dahlgren and Captain Slizak, glanced at one another, but said nothing.

Stiffly, then, hands clasped behind his back, the colonel glared at David. “For your information, Doctor, these…people,” he replied, “have information that we need. They speak English…or at least this one does. But they’re not cooperating.”

“I understand all that. I also know Marc Billaud.”

“Eh? How’s that?”

“He’s a friend of mine.”

“Dr. Alexander, how the hell is it you’re friends with this UNdie?”

“I met him before the war, Colonel. There was such a time, you know. It only seems like the war’s been going on forever.”

“Hmpf. My orders—”

“Are these people prisoners of war, Colonel?”

“Technically, no, Doctor,” Dahlgren said. “They are civilians, and unless we can prove that they’ve borne arms against American military forces, they must be treated as civilians according to the terms of the Geneva Convention.” The major was staring at Whitworth as he spoke, and David had the feeling there was no lost love between the two.

Well, being cooped up in a tin can with thirty-some other troops for the three-day coast up from Earth could do that to people. David was glad once again that he’d been able to spend much of the voyage up forward with the pilot.

“I am well aware of the legalities of this situation,” Whitworth huffed. “But these people know things that are vital to our operation here. I will not see this mission jeopardized by—”

“Give me a few moments with them alone, and perhaps I can get him to talk to you. Without the histrionics.”

Whitworth’s eyes narrowed with an expression hovering between disbelief and outright suspicion while Major Dahlgren looked carefully noncommittal. The major, it turned out, was fluent in French and had been serving as interpreter…though Whitworth appeared dedicated to the age-old linguistic theory that speaking very loud and waving the arms about would hurdle all language barriers.

As though suddenly arriving at a decision, the colonel cocked his head, shrugged, and exchanged a glance with the other officers. “Well, of course. This isn’t a formal interrogation. Not yet, anyway.” He gestured at the French scientists. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out. I’ll be back…later.”

“A friend of yours?” Billaud asked in English, rolling his eyes toward the doorway through which the colonel and his entourage had vanished.

“A friend? No, my God. An acquaintance only. I met him on the transport bringing me here. I think the major, the one with the mustache, is Army Intelligence.”