by Grant, Peter
“Ah… yes, Sir.”
“Very well, Captain Zargham. Thank you for giving us the benefit of your insight. You may go.”
“Thank you, Sir.” She hesitated. “May I ask whether the inquiry into the allegations against Major Moshira has vindicated him yet?”
“They aren’t allegations, Captain – they’re formal charges. That’s why he’s still confined to his quarters. I believe there’s more than enough evidence to convict him of insubordination, blatant disrespect for the office of the Military Governor, breach of trust, corruption, misuse of official funds and black-marketeering.” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “I’m well aware that an Army court-martial can’t try the case of an SS officer. However, I’ve sent details of the matter to Bactria and requested the empanelment of a fully-fledged inquiry into the conduct and operations of the entire SS operation here on Laredo. We’ll see what the Satrap has to say about that. It’ll be his decision as to when and where Major Moshira’s case is heard, and by whom. Meanwhile, until another senior SS officer can be sent from Bactria to take over the local office, you’ll continue as its caretaker Commanding Officer.”
“Yes, Sir.” She snapped to attention, half-bowed formally, turned and left the gallery.
The General paced back and forth across the viewing gallery, occasionally glancing down at the Operations Table and the staff who bustled around it. At last he turned to his aides. “Three battalions, over a hundred assault shuttles, and an entire morning for us to watch it here – all wasted! We accomplished nothing!”
Captain Dehgahn shrugged. “Sir, we acted on the information available to us, and this time we came up empty-handed. All we know for sure is that the rebels are no longer in the bases we’ve just seized. They may have left as soon as they learned we’d captured one of their senior officers at their Matopo Hills base. They’ve done that sort of thing before, after all. However, since we don’t know when – or even if – they found out he’d been taken alive, we can’t pin down their decision process.”
“You don’t think they learned anything from Colonel Kujula, or something they might have captured aboard his shuttle?”
Dehgahn frowned. “Sir, he’d have been a complete and utter imbecile if he took classified materials about unrelated operations into the field! I can’t believe that an officer of his seniority would have made so elementary a mistake.”
“Might they have tortured the information out of him? He was SS, after all, and you know how the rebels hate them.”
“Yes, Sir, but they’ve never used torture. Frankly, I’ve often wondered why not, since the SS uses it against them. They’ve limited themselves to killing everyone who fell into their hands, and even that was in response to us doing the same to them first.”
“Yes, that was one of my predecessor’s most stupid and ill-advised decisions. If he’d offered the rebels honorable terms, perhaps with some concessions to salve their pride, we might have ended this war long ago and saved thousands of lives, ours and theirs. I wish I could have changed it, but when the rebels assassinated Major-General Strato last year, they stated explicitly it was in retaliation for that policy and his reprisals against the civilian population. When the Satrap appointed me to succeed him he told me not to change those policies, because if we did so it might be taken as a sign of weakness or lack of resolution; so we’re stuck with them.” Huvishka sighed as he turned to his junior aide. “What do you think of this morning’s fiasco, Lieutenant Yazata?”
She hesitated, then thought, Why not be direct? What have I got to lose?
“Sir, I believe it’s possible the SS are underestimating the rebels. Colonel Kujula was a prime example of their mindset. He was an arrogant man, secure in his vision of himself as a puppet-master manipulating everyone around him. He was so busy analyzing other people, judging them, trying to figure out ways to use or block or influence them, that he allowed that perspective to color his official bulletins. He didn’t appear to examine his own motives or actions in any detail. That’s a subjective impression, of course, but I worked with him for several weeks. I think it’s valid. I think the same can be said of Major Moshira, and perhaps of Captain Zargham as well, although I don’t know her personally. I think the rebels may be stronger than any of them would care to admit. Colonel Kujula’s death and the destruction of the engineer patrol may be indicators of that.
“However, what we didn’t find this morning is also an important indicator. There were no records, no weapons or ammunition, no vehicles, no stores or supplies. That might indicate they had sufficient warning to move everything to another place; but we have no intelligence about any rebel base large enough to hold the contents of three others. To build such a big base would have taken a long time, but we’ve seen no signs of construction or excavation; so if it exists, it must be in a remote area where it was built under conditions of extreme secrecy. Lieutenant-Colonel Yardley didn’t tell us of such a base, but if it exists he must surely have been aware of it.”
She threw up her hands in frustration. “Then there’s the fact that no traffic was detected moving away from the three bases over the days prior to our assault. We were keeping them under drone surveillance all day and night. Admittedly there was cloud cover and some rain, but we should surely have picked up at least some indication of an evacuation. Since we didn’t, that means either the SS’s sensor network and the Army’s drones are less effective than we think; or the rebels have some way of misleading or jamming them; or perhaps there wasn’t an evacuation at all. Perhaps the bases really were abandoned some time ago. If so, what does that say about the rebels’ surviving strength? Are they truly as weak as the SS believes they are?”
“Those are all very good questions,” the General rumbled. “How are we to answer them?”
“I don’t know, Sir,” she replied frankly. “I’m far too junior to be party to all the information the SS has gathered about the rebels. I knew what our agents in and around Tapuria had uncovered, because they used to report to me, but it wasn’t much – certainly not enough to suggest that the rebels have any local military capability. I suspect much of the SS’s fear of spies verges on paranoia, Sir.”
“What’s the old joke?” Captain Dehgahn mused. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.”
She couldn’t help laughing. “Yes, Sir, I suppose you’re right.”
“He is,” Huvishka admitted with a smile, “but it doesn’t solve my problem.” His face sobered. “I have to decide whether to allow the Satrap’s big parade to go ahead as planned. If there were any concrete evidence that the rebels had sufficient military strength to threaten it, or any indication that they were planning to attack it, I’d be justified in requesting that it be postponed; but there isn’t any such evidence. I can’t act on hunches or intuitions. I need solid information on which to base my decisions, and justify them after the fact if necessary; but there isn’t any – so what am I supposed to do?”
~ ~ ~
CARISTO GARRISON
“He’s at it again,” Todd whispered, peering through his night vision visor. “Not yet midnight and already he’s as tight as a drum.”
“Drunken sot!” another member of the squad sniffed.
“Don’t complain, Mike,” Dave warned. “It makes our job easier, so as far as I’m concerned he can drink all he wants.”
“Just as long as he doesn’t start singing,” another trooper murmured, and they all chuckled softly.
“Think he’ll hear us?” Todd asked.
“Not at this distance if we’re quiet,” Dave decided, “and not with that much rotgut on board.”
He clicked his microphone once. Over the secure scrambled network Tamsin sent back two clicks from her overwatch position, confirming that no other sentries were in sight. He knew the two snipers positioned on either side of her would intervene if a Bactrian patrol tried to interfere with the operation. He’d taken every precaution he could think of, so why
delay any longer?
“All right, let’s go.”
Todd lifted the bottom strands of the outer perimeter fence and supported them on forked sticks. They waited a moment, but no alarm came. Sergeant Dixon’s patch to the guardhouse watch console had enabled him to disable the motion sensors attached to the wire, and also substitute a pre-recorded loop for the feed from the security cameras covering the entire area.
Slowly, moving as quietly as possible, each man wriggled beneath the wire. Todd led them in a low crawl across the gravel strip of no-mans-land between the fences. It was supposed to be barren of all vegetation; but in this garrison that regulation, like so many others, was honored more in the breach than in the observance. Grass covered much of the surface, providing a welcome cushion against the sharp edges of the gravel, and here and there shrubs grew to knee height. Once safely through the inner wire they hurried across the brightly lit strip along the inside of the fence, running softly and silently on cushioned soles, and took cover in the shadow of the hangar wall.
Tamsin had monitored the area while they were moving. Now she called, “Area still clear. The sentry’s sitting against the wall by the side door, head slumped forward, not moving.”
Dave clicked twice to acknowledge her message. “Nice of him to pick the one area round here that’s just outside the coverage of the security cameras,” he whispered to his team as they all pulled on thin gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints and DNA on anything they touched in the warehouse.
“The Bactrians probably teach it during basic training – ‘How to stay invisible while drinking’. Very tactical,” Todd quipped, and the others grinned.
Dave led them round the back of the warehouse and up the far side, lifting the blackjack clipped to his belt. At the corner he nodded to Todd, who stepped around the edge, took two steps, and gently lifted the cap of the somnolent sentry. Dave whacked him sharply – but not too hard – on the head with his blackjack. He slumped forward, never making a sound. Dave opened the side door to the warehouse office, then Todd put his hands under the armpits of the sentry’s limp body and dragged him into the small room. Mike picked up the man’s rifle and brought it inside, followed by the rest of the team.
“What next?” Mike asked.
Dave checked the sentry. Apart from being unconscious, he didn’t seem to be badly hurt. A trickle of blood ran down his lip from where he’d bitten it as he was struck.
“He’ll be all right. Lean him against that wall for now. We’ll put him back outside when we’re done. Vince, Eric, guard the door.” The two drew their blackjacks and moved to either side of the inside of the door through which they’d just entered, flattening themselves against the wall. “Listen for any warning from Tamsin. Todd, Mike, with me.”
He led the two men through an inner door into the dimly-lit hangar. Newly-delivered supplies for the assault shuttles were stacked high on racks and shelves running away from them along the nearest wall. The hulking shapes of the four newly-serviced shuttles filled the body of the cavernous warehouse, looming above them in the gloom.
Dave led them down the racks until he came to one that contained boxes of fusion micro-reactor fuel cartridges. “This is the stuff.” He couldn’t help whispering, even though he knew no-one else was within earshot. “I want to move these boxes, take three cartridges from the rear of the rack, then replace the others so there’s no sign anything’s missing. With luck it’ll be months before they notice some of them are gone.” He forbore to tell his men that within a few weeks it was likely no-one would be worrying about the supplies any more. They didn’t need to know that; and if they didn’t, the Bactrians couldn’t torture the information out of them if anything went wrong.
They worked steadily, piling the boxes to one side until they reached the rear of the rack. Dave passed out three fuel cartridges, then they set to work rebuilding the stack. They were only halfway done when their earpieces came to life.
“Someone’s coming!” Tamsin hissed as she studied an approaching figure through her electronic binoculars. “It looks like one of those two Sergeants who came out from Banka with the shuttle maintenance team, and stayed on to drill the troops for the Satrap’s parade. He’s headed straight for the hangar’s side door.”
Dave nodded to his two men to keep rebuilding the stack of boxes, then sprinted for the office on silent feet. He’d almost reached the inner door when he heard the outer one burst open, slamming back onto Vince where he stood against the wall behind it.
“What the hell – ?” a guttural voice demanded.
The intruder abruptly fell silent as Eric bludgeoned him with his blackjack. The Sergeant collapsed forward into Dave’s arms as he rushed into the room. He caught him, staggering at the sudden weight, and laid him down beside the still-unconscious sentry.
“Shut that door, quick!” he hissed.
He examined the Sergeant briefly. His eyes had rolled up inside his head, and he was breathing stertorously. “He’s out cold,” he told the others.
“What are we going to do about him?” Vince asked. “We planned to leave the sentry lying outside, because anyone finding him would simply assume he’d drunk too much. He wouldn’t even remember being hit – he’d just have a headache, which he’d put down to the booze. This guy’s another matter.”
“There’s only one thing for it,” Dave decided, holding down a gulp of dismay. He turned to the sentry and tightened his fingers and thumbs around the man’s throat.
“Wha – what are you – ?” Eric gasped.
“Shut it!” Dave whispered savagely.
He squeezed grimly as the unconscious man gasped for air, making gruesome choking noises. It took him over a minute to stop moving. Dave held on for another two minutes, making sure that he was dead, then let go. He shook his aching hands to ease the tension in them, then clicked on his microphone.
“Tamsin, all clear out there?”
“Nobody in sight.”
“OK. We’re coming out.”
He turned to Vince. “Go get the other two and bring three fuel cartridges with you. Eric, help me get these two outside.”
They dragged the dead sentry and unconscious Sergeant through the door, then Dave fetched the sentry’s rifle. He leaned it against the hangar wall next to him, took its bayonet from the scabbard at the soldier’s belt and drove it up through the Sergeant’s ribs into his heart. The unconscious man gasped, choked, and twitched as he died. While he did so, Dave rearranged the bodies. When he’d finished the sentry was holding his bayonet, its blade still embedded in the Sergeant’s chest. The latter’s hands were now wrapped around the sentry’s neck.
Dave stood back to examine his handiwork, then splashed a little more of the sentry’s rotgut over his stained tunic before putting down the bottle next to his rifle. “If you came across those two for the first time, what would you think?” he asked Eric.
“I guess the Sergeant caught this guy drinking and got rough with him, which made him lose his temper and stab the Sergeant, whose hands stayed tight around the sentry’s neck long enough to kill him. No-one heard the noise of the fight; but out here, this far from the barracks, it’s not likely anyone would.” He hesitated. “Sorry about my comment in there, Boss. I didn’t realize what you were up to. Only problem is, the security cameras won’t show the Sergeant approaching.”
Dave squeezed Eric’s upper arm in a brief gesture of acceptance. “Let’s hope they accept the evidence of their eyes and are too lazy to check the recording.” He turned to the other three as they came out, each carrying a heavy box. “Back to the fence. I’m going to check inside one last time. They’re bound to search the hangar when they find those two, so I want to make sure nothing’s out of place.”
He ran into the building again and made sure that the hangar looked undisturbed. He shut the inner door, checked the office, closed the outer door behind him, and ran across the open area to join the others at the fence. They made their way beneath the wire, Todd removing
the supports from beneath the lower strands after they were all through, then using a brush to erase any scrape or drag marks left in the gravel by their passage. Moving quickly and quietly, they ran up the slope and down the far side, collecting Tamsin and the snipers from their overwatch position as they passed it.
They rendezvoused with Sergeant Dixon at the big farm truck he’d borrowed for the night’s work. He used his electronic warfare console to restore the garrison’s sensors to normal operation, then shut it down as they all piled aboard. He steered using a night vision visor rather than the lights as the truck moved off slowly down the dirt road leading to town, electric motor whining softly.
“Jeff’s waiting for us at the station,” he told them. “He stole four small collapsible fuel bladders from the storeroom, washed them out, and filled them with reaction mass. All he had to do was open the non-return valve at the station’s filling point. They normally connect tanker cars to it to refill the garrison’s tank, but in this case he reversed the flow and drained off eight hundred liters – two hundred in each bladder. It helped that they’d just refilled the garrison tank, of course. He says the bladders are damned heavy, though. It’ll take all of us to load them.”
“That’s us – stevedore soldiers,” Eric quipped, and they all laughed. It was as much a gush of release from the tension of the last half-hour as it was amusement.
“We’ll have them at the airvans within an hour, then it’s all aboard for the Laguna Peninsula,” Dave said with satisfaction. “We’ll have to laager up somewhere under camouflage during daylight hours, but we should be there by midnight if all goes well.”
March 10th 2850 GSC
LAGUNA PENINSULA
Dave and Tamsin stood silently as they watched a work party – cheerful despite the post-midnight hour – move the four heavy bladders of reaction mass and the three fuel cartridges from the two airvans onto a utility truck. The remaining members of Dave’s team gathered their kit, waiting for a guide to take them to the side cavern assigned to Niven’s Regiment.
