Clawing Back from Chaos: Book 9 in the Cat Among Dragons Series (A Cat Among Dragons) Read online

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  Copyright 2017 Alma T C Boykin, all rights reserved.

  Cover

  Title Page

  1: Wintertide Respite

  2: “Remaineth Forever Remorse”

  3: Glories of Spring

  4: Colonies and Consequences

  5: Changing of the Guard

  6: Old Flames

  7: In-Laws?

  8: Winter and Discontent

  9: New Faces, Old Complaints

  10: When the Lights Go Out...

  11: Enemy Within the Gates

  12: The World Burns Down

  13: Aftermath

  About The Author

  The Powers

  The Colplatschki Chronicles

  The Cat Among Dragons Series

  “Consider it the Graf-General’s farewell tour,” Captain Maria de Alba suggested as she looked over the list of things they were supposed to have had done already. In early December General Joschka Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg would be making an “informal inspection” of the 58th Regiment of Foot, better known as the Global Defense Force’s British branch, forcing everyone to catch up on all those things they hadn’t had time to do because they’d been too busy doing what they were supposed to do.

  The adjutant shook his head, “No, if it were a farewell tour there’d already be t-shirts for sale, and I haven’t seen an order form for the commemorative DVD.” The rest of the staff officers and their advisor groaned at the Israeli’s abysmal joke. Even Commander “Rachel Na Gael” managed a laugh and Moshe grinned even more broadly. He liked the one-eyed alien and he missed hearing her laughter and her wise-ass comments. Ever since the regiment’s return from Germany, she’d been growing quieter and quieter, and Captain Moshe ben David worried about her.

  “Actually, this is his way of settling bets, since there was a large chunk of the pool that wagered he’d just fossilize behind his desk and get rolled out for meetings and receptions like Jeremy Bentham,” Colonel Tadeus Przilas, the executive officer, confided to the others, drawing another round of chuckles. He switched topics. “Commander, what’s this I hear about no Christmas crackers?” It had been a hard few months and everyone was looking forward to the Christmas holidays, even the non-Christians.

  She snorted. “Utter codswallop, as usual. Someone decided that,” she mimicked the logistics officer’s tone, “‘out of concern for those suffering from PTS,’ we would only have crackers that did not make a popping sound. Which, of course, do not exist. Thus no crackers.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, whispering “or so Oatmeal thinks.” Captain Edward O’Neil, now branded “Oatmeal” because of his behavior during the Harz campaign, had earned the disgust of the rest of the officers, and they made no effort to hide their unprofessional snickers. Then the conference room door opened and Regimental Sergeant Major Sheldon Smith, Captain O’Neil, Father Mikael Farudi and Major General James McKendrick joined them.

  “Remain seated,” McKendrick ordered as chairs began sliding back. He took his usual place, and once everyone but the chaplain had taken their customary seats, he started the briefing. Rachel gave her place to the Anglican priest and instead leaned against the wall. Father Mikael had a Most Secret clearance, so his attending the regular briefing was not a problem. “First things first,” the Scottish redhead rumbled. “Congratulations are in order for Maria and Edward. Both of you will receive promotions at the new year, Maria for her ongoing service and excellent work on developing the satellite use capabilities of the Branch, and Edward for his combat role in Operation Heart’s Blood.”

  A round of congratulations flowed through the room and, as much as she hated to admit it, Rachel agreed that O’Neil had earned his major’s crown. “To spike the logical rumor, I put Moshe in for promotion as well, but the Israeli Defense Force informed me that he lacks time in grade. However, you will get a raise and I assume you will be fast tracked, Moshe.” The Israeli shrugged. The IDF was notoriously picky about what it demanded of career officers, so he wasn’t surprised by the denial.

  “Now for our regular business.” McKendrick snorted a little as the others chuckled. The meeting went swiftly and finally the general announced, “Father Mikael has a request.”

  The Lebanese priest smiled. “I need help. I need someone who can read Hebrew, and a Greek-speaker if at all possible, to assist with the Christmas Eve service. Just to read two passages of scripture—they can come and then leave again if they need or want to. And if any of you know of a good high-treble singer in your sections, let me know so I can try to persuade them to sing with the choir that night. Male or female will work. First Sergeant Lee will be gone on leave.” Rachel smothered a bit of a grin. Poor Tony—he caught hell for singing countertenor. That he remained single and never cursed fueled less amusing rumors and now she smothered a sigh.

  Everyone agreed to ask, and an unusually cheerful McKendrick adjourned the meeting. “Ah, Commander, a moment please.” He let the others leave, then nodded for Father Mikael to shut the door. “Is something wrong, Rachel?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  The two men exchanged a glance. McKendrick didn’t press but just said, “I’m sorry you won’t be singing with us this year. And I’m sorry that Vienna has denied my request to award you either the Silver Cross or the Honor Medal.” Those were two of the GDF’s highest awards, one military and the other for civilians working with the Defense Force.

  Rachel smiled a little. “Thank you for nominating me, sir.” She had nothing else to say so McKendrick dismissed his advisor. She walked out, her cane giving the familiar “step tap step” cadence as she returned to the laboratory.

  The general and the priest waited until her steps had faded away. “PTS again?” Father Mikael asked.

  “I don’t know. I just hope that General von Hohen-Drachenburg’s visit will improve things.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m told that they are very old acquaintances.” He replaced his spectacles. “I never thought I’d say this, Father, but I miss her bad jokes and wise-ass remarks.”

  “As do I, General. I also miss her singing,” the priest sighed a little, worried about his unusual parishioner but not certain what to do for her.

  “Ten-SHUN!” RSM Smith bellowed as General Joschka the Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg, military commander of the Global Defense Force, stepped out of his car and accepted Major General McKendrick’s salute, then returned it. In a very rare show of formality, the regiment stood in ranks at attention for inspection. Even though it was cold and he was tired, Joschka returned the courtesy, studying the formation and the appearance of the men and women drawn up on the cloudy December afternoon. He made note of some people whom he would be seeing later that evening, then complimented the formation and the work the branch had done recently. As quickly as was seemly, he ended the inspection, and Joschka followed McKendrick and Col. Przilas inside the regimental headquarters. “Dismissed!” Smith ordered, and the ranks broke as people set new speed records getting inside out of the cold. Not that they begrudged giving the Graf-General the honor, but the wind chill was vile.

  Commander Na Gael, who had been standing with the staff officers, watched the soldiers disperse before making her own slow way around the rear of the building to the rose garde
n. She checked a few of the cones covering her precious roses, making sure they were secure, adding more snow to the mounds protecting the Sweetbriar and Goldbusch. She wanted to see Joschka, but it was probably for the best if they didn’t spend any time alone. She didn’t want him catching her bleak mood, especially this year. As she made her rounds, she sang one of the suicide praises from Ilmto under her breath.

  Meanwhile, inside the warm building, Joschka savored a hot coffee and made mental notes of what he’d seen. Not counting the September Disaster, it had been many years since he’d visited the British branch, and he approved of the changes he saw, both in the buildings and the personnel. The British branch was small as the GDF went, but its reputation and activity level made it stand out. To have served and survived a rotation here was a good mark for advancement and promotion within the other GDF divisions. Not that all the Branches weren’t excellent in their own way, and not that the British were without fault! But there was just something about them that made the Brits different.

  After the initial professional talk was out of the way, General McKendrick decided to venture a question. “Sir, do you know much about Rachel’s background?”

  With an understatement that would have done a native Briton proud, Joschka replied, “A little. Why?”

  “We’re worried about her, my lord General.” The Austrian leaned forward, his bright blue eyes intent as McKendrick continued, “She’s not been herself since we returned from Germany. It’s been a difficult autumn, between the Vreenahlwee and the episode we had here, but Rachel’s been more subdued than I can remember since taking command.”

  Joschka frowned, hiding a surge of worry for his oldest friend. “Is she still carrying out her duties?” She’d sounded fine in their occasional late-night phone conversations, but Joschka had seen her bluff before.

  “Oh yes, sir, as admirably as ever, and I have no complaints about her performance, my lord General. But,” McKendrick’s voice trailed off. “She’s refusing to sing anymore, sir. She doesn’t give a reason and she won’t even participate in the Christmas Eve service.” McKendrick was not in an especially festive mood himself, but this was a very worrying development.

  The Graf-General sat back in his seat in McKendrick’s tidy office. “General, what I’m about to tell you goes absolutely no further. You are correct—I know a fair amount about Commander Na Gael Ni Drako’s past.” At the Scotsman’s puzzled look Joschka nodded. “That’s her actual name, although she doesn’t use all of it.” And he told McKendrick the barest bones of Rachel’s personal story, omitting her ongoing service with the Azdhagi.

  When the Graf-General finished, McKendrick didn’t know quite what to say. “Good Lord, sir. I’m surprised she’s still here and still sane. I knew that she was the winter Guardian, but the rest . . .” After a bit he concluded, “Thank you, sir. I’ll keep that in mind and see what I can do for her.”

  Joschka smiled and stroked his beard. “You’re welcome. And I’ll try to see if she’s willing to talk to me. Now,” and he opened his briefcase and pulled out a handful of papers. “Walk me through some of these names, please, so I don’t embarrass anyone—including me.” He could get through most European surnames, but some of the others still gave him difficulty and Joschka didn’t want to make a mistake during the awards ceremony. It was too bad Rachel’s contract didn’t allow her to receive official recognition. At the time, restricting her because she wasn’t a native had seemed like a good idea and fair. Now he regretted Brigadier General Eastman’s decision.

  He found a chance to talk to Rachel the next day. “Commander Na Gael,” he said at dinner, “If you have some time free, I’d like to see this glasshouse that I’ve heard stories about.” She looked up from poking at her baked fish and nodded. She’d not had much appetite since the end of the last mission.

  “Certainly, my lord General. Whenever it is convenient for you.” Rachel wanted to show off the glasshouse, but wasn’t feeling good. I just need time away is all, she tried to tell herself. Come spring I’ll take a long decade and go to the Azdhag empire, go trading, maybe visit that wonderful spa that Zabet keeps gushing about. The Wanderer suspected that her problem went much deeper than simple fatigue, but she shoved the thought away.

  “Fourteen hundred hours, unless you have anything I need to see?” he inquired of his hosts. McKendrick and Przilas both claimed to have nothing special planned—not that they would have admitted it if they had.

  Ninety minutes later, Rachel opened the door for the Graf-General. “This way, sir.” Joschka noted the well-trampled path in the snow and followed it down the edge of the rose garden, then around a semi-ornamental hedge. He spotted the glasshouse and stopped, studying the simple glass and steel building, then continued forward. Rachel followed two paces behind him, then trotted ahead to get the door.

  “I apologize for the mess, my lord General,” she began, but her old friend waved her off.

  “No, I apologize for straying from the program and intruding on your personal retreat,” he said, reassuring her. She showed him the rose starts and winter herbs and vegetables, and he complimented her efficient use of space. “Where does the heat come from?”

  She smiled conspiratorially. “You are standing on the thermal exhaust for the underground parts of the headquarters.” Joschka looked down, scuffed away a bit of the gravel, and saw very tight metal grating. “The heat vents here. That’s why General Whitehead accepted the engineers’ proposal for the glasshouse—it fits the overall plan of this sort of building complex, plus it camouflages the excess energy if someone were to do an IR scan.”

  Joschka shook his head. “Was this all your idea?”

  “Not entirely, but some.” She studied the ground, embarrassed.

  “Very good thinking, Rada,” he switched to Trader. “Since you’re here and there are fewer eager rumor mongers,” he started. Rachel braced herself. He studied his old friend, noting how thin she seemed even compared to earlier in the fall, and watching her reaction to the news. “Pending approval by the Secretary, Colonel Rahoul Khan will return to Britain as commanding officer with a promotion to brigadier general.” Rachel bit her lip and swallowed hard. “What’s the matter?”

  “I just,” she turned away and leaned on a potting bench. “Dear Lord, Joschka! I remember when you were a gawky corporal and when Rahoul was a wide-eyed lieutenant reeking of Sandhurst! And now you’re retiring from being the highest ranking soldier on this planet and Rahoul will be commanding here.” She hung her head. “And I’m still playing the resident wiseass and running from shadows.” To his vast surprise Rachel had tears in her eye, and Joschka pulled her to himself, holding her against his chest as she cried.

  “Shhhh, shhhhh,” he soothed. “Truth, Hairball, what’s wrong?” But she didn’t answer, just fought to regain control of herself. After a bit, he tried a different tack. “McKendrick wanted to know if I understood why you aren’t singing at Christmas Eve mass this year. I hadn’t heard.”

  Rachel pulled free and turned away, hugging herself. “I can’t sing anymore, Awful. The songs died inside the mountain. There’s nothing left but ash and shadow.”

  “Not even ‘David’s Lamentation,’ or ‘Coventry Carol’?” he asked quietly. The Christmas after Johann’s death, Magda had asked Rachel to come to the Drachenburg and she’d mourned with and sung for the grieving family, helping ease some of their raw pain. “Not even for me?”

  The small woman straightened up and he watched her shoulders rise as she inhaled. But instead of “Lulla, lullay my little tiny child,” what Joschka heard was “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing but darkness and silence where the music used to be.”

  “What does the Gospel of John say? ‘The Light shone in the darkness, and the darkness overcame it not’,” he gently reminded his oldest friend. “Just promise me you’ll think about it, please?”

  Rachel wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Joschka grew more concerned when she didn’t answer him. Instead, she opened
the door so they could return to the lab. At last, moments before they reached the main building, she said quietly, “I promise.” That was all he’d asked, and he accepted her words. But Joschka’s heart hurt for the pain he sensed hiding below the surface and he worried for his friend and love.

  The Graf-General left the next day, and soon it was December twenty third. Rachel grumbled as she finished her end-of-the-year financial report. She actually had almost a hundred pounds left over and needed to hide or spend it before December 31 or face having it cut from the next year’s budget. What to do? As she fretted, someone knocked on the door. “Oh, come in” she grumped.

  “Ah, I’m not interrupting anything, ma’am, am I?” First Sergeant Anthony “Tony” Lee asked a bit hesitantly. Hesitantly, because chemicals and alien technology were not the only things that had been known to explode in the lab.

  “No, just giving myself a headache is all,” Rachel grinned at the tall, lean NCO. Then she tipped her head to the side, studying his clothes. “Not your usual uniform,” she observed.

  He looked down at the black tunic and trousers with brass buttons and red insignia. “No. I’m off duty and heading for home. Decided to go on and change, since as soon as I reach Manchester, mum’s going to put me on kettle duty.” It was not well known or understood, but Lee’s parents were both “Sally Anns,” as the British called members of the Salvation Army. Lee was one as well, although his was more of a reserve commission because of his military career and lack of wife.

  Rachel stood up and grinned, extending her hand. “God bless, Tony. That’s hard work and much needed.”

  The scout sergeant turned the handshake into a quick hug. “Thank you, ma’am. I just wanted to say Happy Christmas before I left.” He looked a bit shy, and the woman gave him a true smile.

  “You too, and thank you. Have a wonderful leave.” She gently shooed him on his way. Rachel sensed a winter storm winding up in the Irish Sea, and the roads and rail schedules could get bad quickly.