| Donut on the Hunt |
| Summary: | Kincaid catches up on Military Police happenings and asks Constin about a research project of his own. |
| Date: | 08 Jul 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | The Game. |
| Players: |
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| Security Hub - Deck 6 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| More than just an office for the Marines and their XO, this room has remote surveillance views of the Brigs as well as a state of the art communications center built into the far bulkhead. A locked and heavily armored door to the aft leads into another room, the white lettering on it reading 'ARMORY.' There are a few desks scattered around the room for getting necessary paperwork done and the Commandant's picture hangs on the wall next to one of the President. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #132 |
Kincaid is the 'desk officer' today, controlling the in's and out's of various people to the office. But as most of the people coming in and out are fellow Marines, it means that Kincaid has the ability to be looking over some sort of stapled set of papers in front of him, occasionally making notes in the margins.
Constin enters from the Deck 6 main hatchway, dividing his attention between the ground before him, and the file held open in one hand. The sergeant's expression is that of a scowl as he steps into the Security Hub, turning the file's page for a look at the next.
Kincaid glances up when Constin enters; it's what the desk officer does. Look up when people enter. "Sergeant," says the Lance, nodding. "Something troubling today more than usual?"
"Lance. Nah, this is about the usual degree of troubling, these days. Which is pretty frakking troubling, if ah were to think about that fact long enough." Constin mutters back, before looking up to regard Kincaid with the last: "What's the word, Donut?"
Kincaid shrugs his shoulders. "Well, where do you want to start? We've got the intermix situation on the Deck, Trask going around the bend, and then all of the usual things that go on around here." He pushes his folder aside.
"Trimix is sorted out," Constin drawls, exhaling in a bullish manner out his nose. "Deckies found a tampered trimix sampler, print work confirms Morgenfield, by now they've run a full check of all the tanks and trimix cannisters on the boat. The Cap went out with spent trimix cannisters.. which is why it took them a bit to start gassing out." A fresh intake of breath does not lessen his scowl. "Still waiting on full autopsies on Morgenfield and Orr. Got a couple notions kicking around on that front, but can;t do shit on it until medical gets those done. Which leaves Lieutenant Trask."
Kincaid nods, as if that makes sense to him. "Want to double-up on his interrogation?" asks the Lance. "I've heard he's a real hard-ass. Might take two of us to get anywhere with him, assuming he doesn't lawyer-up or clam-up on us."
"You're welcome to the task, Donut," Constin drawls. "But ah don't expect he's enough of a moron to get his ass arrested. Major Hahn was pretty forgiving when he was all riled up after a murder-suicide and a bit of the old gun-to-his-head jitters. If he refuses to cooperate with questioning now? Can almost promise you she'll have no issue yanking his flight status and pressing Obstruction of Justice charges. Everything ah see and hear of him says Trask is an asshole, not stupid."
"Who knows at this point? Everyone's got enough issues to make anything possible." Kincaid sighs and makes a note in his margin. Put that interrogation on the list, the note seems to say. "Hey, Sarge. I had a weird question for you. You've been on Cerberus since the start, right?"
"Trask, Ambrose.. and maybe another one before the day's out," Constin mutters to the list of interrogation subjects, before regarding Kincaid at the man's last question. "Yeah. Ask away."
Kincaid quirks a brow at Ambrose — that's not a name he's heard before. But he continues on: "You do inventories and stuff? Or get the results? Because I was looking at some of the information QUODEL had about Cerberus and I came across something odd."
"Inventories are scheduled regular," Constin drawls back. "Some departments more often than others. We had a full manual count made of the arms lockers, munitions, and Ordnance Deck.. About four weeks ago. What'd you find?"
"And we still don't have enough for half the operations any normal Company would undertake," the sergeant mutters back, growling, "Command wouldn't even authorize basic sniping rifles. Frakking penny-pinchers." Blue eyes narrow on Kincaid, "There something funny about that?"
"It means Cerberus was perhaps the first project in the history of the military to come in not only at cost, but with /more/ than was promised." Kincaid clearly has to explain here, the former reporter suddenly realizing that the inner-workings of the Admiralty aren't intuitive to others. "See. Normally, the military either comes in over-cost or, if it's a politically important project, at cost, but having skimped on the little things. Cerberus? Someone /deflated/ the costs on Cerberus to make sure that it got more supplies and /still/ came in at cost."
"That sounds a whole bigger of a thing than any 'someone' could manage, Donut," Constin opines in return, settling into a chair facing Kincaid as he kicks this information around. "It's common knowledge the Quorum was gonna cut off more Battlestars after the Cerb. What then- you thinking something important got cut behind the scenes?" he wonders, after jumping aroud the possible implications.
"Might have to be digital. And if it is or it ain't, anything crucial might've been wiped," the sergeant muses. "You DO know you ain't working for the Quorum Delegation anymore, yeah Donut?" Constin drawls with an eye fixed on Kincaid. "Still, if you ain't got enough to occupy your time already? Ah'll check about pulling that for you, so long as we get something clear upfront.."
"Ah pull whatever information you need, you do whatever research you deem appropriate, and if you wanna bring folks in for questioning, you give the cause and ah'll even haul them in for you, if we can do it without comprosimisng ongoing investigations. But pulling files is not- ah'll say that again: NOT authorization for you to approach potential suspects and discuss the case like you did with Stavrian. That understood, Kincaid?"
Kincaid pauses for a moment, turning this over in his head. Or perhaps just turning over his response in his head. "Yeah, Sarge. You got it. I have no idea if this is even going to turn into anything. But I figured I'd take a look."
Constin gets back to his own feet with a nod as Kincaid makes his answer. The sergeant had been about to turn and walk off when that last 'by the way is spoken'. Half turned, he looks back to regard Kincaid, waiting for the man to finish his thought.
"I've got a college degree." Kincaid's voice is dry and wry, a vaguely amused tone to it, but with a deeper point lying just underneath that. "When the call went out for volunteers, I could have gotten a commission as some desk-flying officer in here and made you snap-to and salute me, even though you hated my guts because I was just a know-nothing reporter that wormed his way into your Marine Corps. But instead I decided to enlist and work for a living." A beat. "So you can give me whatever nickname you want — that's your prerogative — but I figured you could just think about that fact before you do." A quick grin. "Have a good one, huh?"
"Never called you a know-nothing, Kincaid," Constin answers with a snort. "Called you a 'get fat, do-nutin'. Speaking plain? Thought you'd wash out by the second week of basic. Now ah'm not all educated like you," the big man notes with a shrug, "But if it seems to me that nicknames are for the one giving them as much as the one getting them." That one blue eye which Constin had turned toward Kincaid sidelong holds it's stare on the Lance. "Not many men have proved me wrong, Donut. You oughta be proud of being one of them."
Kincaid considers this for a moment, and then nods once, as if finding something profound in that. "Keeping my head held high, Sarge. It's the only way Marines can hold 'em, right? Hoo-ah." The Marine call is delivered with a certain ironic flatness to it. But still, he grins. "I'll catch you around."