Last Full Measure - Michael A. Martin [9]
“Well, the acronym for Military Assault Command Operations sounds quite a bit like mako, the Maori word for shark.” She pronounced the word “mahko,” rather than the “may-co” that the MACO troopers used.
Mayweather’s eyebrows lofted of their own accord at this revelation; now he understood why the MACO contingent attached to Enterprise wore the image of a voracious great white shark on their uniform insignia.
“And Chang’s not the only MACO I’ve talked with who seems to feel this way,” he said. “It’s like they’re privileged members of a special warrior caste.”
A pained expression crossed Hoshi’s usually smooth, unlined face then. “Guitierrez has a bit of an arrogant side as well. I chalk a lot of it up to boredom and impatience. After all, the MACOs have been locked and loaded and combat-ready for months, and we still haven’t found a single enemy they can put in their crosshairs. I think it goes all the way to the top; even Major Hayes has been sort of snippy lately.”
Come to think of it, Mayweather thought, Captain Archer hasn’t exactly been Mister Congeniality lately either.
“They’re impatient?” he said. “I’m just as eager as Chang is to teach those Xindi bastards a lesson.”
Hoshi nodded, looking grave. “Me, too. But I’m willing to cut Corporal Guitierrez some slack on that score.”
“Why?”
“For starters, her academic specialty was languages and communications,” Hoshi said. She paused as a melancholy expression crossed her smooth features. “And she had some cousins and an uncle living in the same part of Florida that Commander Tucker did. The Xindi attack completely vaporized their hometown.”
Mayweather suddenly felt very small and petty. A protracted silence stretched between them, until he said, “Let’s just hope we find the Xindi before things get any worse.”
Not for the first time, he considered the notion that patience might well turn out to be at least as precious a commodity as antimatter, food, or water.
Three
COMMANDER CHARLES “TRIP” TUCKER III exited the shuttlepod, ducking to avoid the open hatch as he pulled himself up through the outer airlock door on his way down to the gangway of Launch Bay 1. Captain Jonathan Archer was standing outside the craft in the landing bay, with Sub-Commander T’Pol alongside him. Two engineers, Ensigns Nguyen and Camacho, were already checking the outside of the just-returned shuttlepod for repair needs and refueling.
“That’s what you wore?” Archer asked, gesturing toward Trip, a grim look of bemusement on his face.
Trip looked down at his clothes, a mixture of a kimono and a pair of jodhpur-like breeches, covered in pastel floral designs. “It’s what we needed to wear to fit in,” Trip said, his Southern North American drawl creeping in even as he fought back a more defensive answer. “It’s considered a very manly look on Haket’s Moon.”
“Especially when worn with these pointed shoes,” a smirking Lieutenant Malcolm Reed said, exiting the shuttlepod just behind Trip. He carried the lime-green shoes that Trip had earlier doffed, holding them aloft like a cobbler proudly displaying his wares.
“Yes, especially with the shoes,” Trip said, snatching them out of Reed’s hands.
Archer nodded, his amused expression sliding away until only grimness remained in his countenance. “Trip, those coordinates you sent us: Are you pretty certain we’ll find information there that’ll lead us to the Xindi?”
Trip put a hand up. “That isn’t quite what we said, Captain. We have a lead on a place that’s frequented by the Xindi—”
“Supposedly,” Reed added quickly, interrupting Trip.
“Supposedly,” Trip echoed. “Those coordinates are for a planet that houses a number of spaceports. Freighters and smugglers and traders, many of whom apparently do a bit of business with the Xindi. At least, so say the contacts we’ve developed.”
Archer nodded. “We’re en route there already. I hope this turns out better than our trip to Tulaw. I’ve had enough of trellium mines to last for a lifetime.” He began to turn away. “Let’s do a full briefing in the