and Filipino. They'd managed to get past it during the course of the cruise and were now, to the extent a lieutenant and an enlisted man could be, friends. But it had been a long road to that point.
“It doesn't get logged?” Berg asked, shaking his head. “Okay, I guess we're going to have to . . .”
“It get logged,” Portana said. “But it in deep structure. Got to get a program to parse it out. And mission log's encryp'ed so got to decryp' first. Not something you can just press a button and there it is. Gonna be work.”
“I don't suppose . . .” Berg said, grinning.
“I got fifteen Wyverns to configure,” Portana said. “You know how long t'at take. Not sure I'm going to be done by mission time. One being you new one. But, good news, you mission log survived. Well, right up to when you get all fried and stuff.”
“Chither,” Berg said. “Dump the raw mission logs to my computer and I'll see what I can do . . .”
“Well, I guess it's good I'm working so late, lately,” Eric said as he got in the truck. “How was work?”
“I'm trying to learn how to tell customers, 'Sorry, I'm married,' ” Brooke said, sighing exasperatedly. “Actually, I just hold up the ring. But some guys can't take the hint.”
“Try 'I'm happily married to a Force Recon lieutenant who'll bust your face if you don't keep your hands off me,' ” Eric said, closing his eyes and leaning back in the seat.
“That won't exactly help with the tips,” Brooke pointed out. “Not that this particular group of jerks left much of a tip, anyway. One of the other waitresses handles it just fine, but she's been doing this for a long time. I'm trying to figure out how she does it. But most of the time, it looks to me as if she really is willing to go home with them. Then if they get too crude she just . . . hammers them flat and they like it.”
“It's a game,” Eric said, shrugging. “Nobody really expects to go home with the waitress. Well, except The Envoy. You just have to come up with standard answers to the come-on. 'Sorry, but unless you can touch the back of your head with your tongue I'm not interested.' ”
“Eric Bergstresser!”
“ 'Well, gosh, sir, I would go home with you. That is, if I didn't have a husband with the stamina of a lion and hung like an elephant . . .' ”
“I could never say that!”
“Why? Waitresses said both of them to me,” Eric pointed out.
“You . . . oh!” Brooke replied, shaking her head. She looked over at him and frowned. “Are you shiny, honey?”
“Beat,” Eric said. “I got a new duty dumped on me today and it's kicking my ass.”
“More VD reports?” Brooke asked, dimpling. “I never thought I'd say something like that in my life.”
Given that things like VD reports and MWR reports were anything but classified, Eric had willingly discussed those with her. He opened his mouth to reply then closed it with a clop.
“No,” he said after a moment. “Something . . . else. One of the things I'm not supposed to talk about. Which is why I didn't bring it home.”
“Shiny,” Brooke said, restraining her curiosity with difficulty. “Did you hear there's going to be some sort of broadcast by the President tomorrow night? And that it's going to run over an hour?”
“No,” Berg said. “What about?”
“Nobody knows,” Brooke said. “The TV said it was on a matter of great importance that has been, up to this point, classified.”
Eric's eyes flew open and he looked straight forward. Just then, his implant dinged.
“Tomorrow?” Weaver screamed, looking at his secure e-mail. He'd just gotten home and keyed on his computer to find the warning message.“No, no, no, no!”
“Weaver,” Prael said over his implant. “Back to the office, stat. We've got a secure link with the secretary of Defense in thirty minutes.”
“I'm on my way, sir,” Bill replied, picking up his uniform blouse. “Chither! Why now?”
“Not by
“It doesn't get logged?” Berg asked, shaking his head. “Okay, I guess we're going to have to . . .”
“It get logged,” Portana said. “But it in deep structure. Got to get a program to parse it out. And mission log's encryp'ed so got to decryp' first. Not something you can just press a button and there it is. Gonna be work.”
“I don't suppose . . .” Berg said, grinning.
“I got fifteen Wyverns to configure,” Portana said. “You know how long t'at take. Not sure I'm going to be done by mission time. One being you new one. But, good news, you mission log survived. Well, right up to when you get all fried and stuff.”
“Chither,” Berg said. “Dump the raw mission logs to my computer and I'll see what I can do . . .”
“Well, I guess it's good I'm working so late, lately,” Eric said as he got in the truck. “How was work?”
“I'm trying to learn how to tell customers, 'Sorry, I'm married,' ” Brooke said, sighing exasperatedly. “Actually, I just hold up the ring. But some guys can't take the hint.”
“Try 'I'm happily married to a Force Recon lieutenant who'll bust your face if you don't keep your hands off me,' ” Eric said, closing his eyes and leaning back in the seat.
“That won't exactly help with the tips,” Brooke pointed out. “Not that this particular group of jerks left much of a tip, anyway. One of the other waitresses handles it just fine, but she's been doing this for a long time. I'm trying to figure out how she does it. But most of the time, it looks to me as if she really is willing to go home with them. Then if they get too crude she just . . . hammers them flat and they like it.”
“It's a game,” Eric said, shrugging. “Nobody really expects to go home with the waitress. Well, except The Envoy. You just have to come up with standard answers to the come-on. 'Sorry, but unless you can touch the back of your head with your tongue I'm not interested.' ”
“Eric Bergstresser!”
“ 'Well, gosh, sir, I would go home with you. That is, if I didn't have a husband with the stamina of a lion and hung like an elephant . . .' ”
“I could never say that!”
“Why? Waitresses said both of them to me,” Eric pointed out.
“You . . . oh!” Brooke replied, shaking her head. She looked over at him and frowned. “Are you shiny, honey?”
“Beat,” Eric said. “I got a new duty dumped on me today and it's kicking my ass.”
“More VD reports?” Brooke asked, dimpling. “I never thought I'd say something like that in my life.”
Given that things like VD reports and MWR reports were anything but classified, Eric had willingly discussed those with her. He opened his mouth to reply then closed it with a clop.
“No,” he said after a moment. “Something . . . else. One of the things I'm not supposed to talk about. Which is why I didn't bring it home.”
“Shiny,” Brooke said, restraining her curiosity with difficulty. “Did you hear there's going to be some sort of broadcast by the President tomorrow night? And that it's going to run over an hour?”
“No,” Berg said. “What about?”
“Nobody knows,” Brooke said. “The TV said it was on a matter of great importance that has been, up to this point, classified.”
Eric's eyes flew open and he looked straight forward. Just then, his implant dinged.
“Tomorrow?” Weaver screamed, looking at his secure e-mail. He'd just gotten home and keyed on his computer to find the warning message.“No, no, no, no!”
“Weaver,” Prael said over his implant. “Back to the office, stat. We've got a secure link with the secretary of Defense in thirty minutes.”
“I'm on my way, sir,” Bill replied, picking up his uniform blouse. “Chither! Why now?”
“Not by
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