“I do not know what it is you are wanting me to be saying.”

The short-haired brunette stopped at a glass case displaying a de-constructed Chaktaw rail gun. A half dozen assistants in various combinations of lab coats, overalls, and casual dress tinkered with items at work benches and tables around the garage.

She explained to him again, “My job is allocating resources. And then people make things from those resources. And then I have to make sure that those ‘things’ get put on trains or in trucks and make their way to where they are needed. So here’s the point, Omar. You get a lot of resources. You get technical people. You get lab equipment. I spend a lot of Continental dollars on your storage depots, on your personnel, on the recovery teams, even on the power you use. The question is, what am I getting for it?”

She gave him an opening and Omar replied from what he perceived as a position of strength: “What do you get from my humble efforts? Let us see here-hmmm-have you noticed those really big fancy ships with aircraft upon them? What do we call them…”

Lori tapped her foot and rolled her eyes but allowed Omar to vent.

“Oh, yes, the Dreadnoughts. And then there are the active camouflage suits if I am recalling correctly, and the Eagle transports that have been known to pitch into the effort.”

“Omar,” her patience ran out. It usually did. “What have you done for me lately? Our resources are running out. The matter-makers down in Atlanta are running full-bore for bullets and fuel. In a few weeks those facilities may be in The Order’s bombing range. Meanwhile, I’ve got the Excalibur over in Pittsburgh that isn’t back in the game yet because we don’t have the people or the parts to finish its repairs. I’ve got to start making some decisions on what gives us the most hope of staying alive. I hate to say this but-“