Margiu had heard this before, from many a Fleet officer, but she was just as glad to be on something solid.
"Think they'll try to invade?" asked the professor.
"I don't know." The pilot shrugged. "Who knows what they're going to do? They're not telling us anything. Let's get all of you under cover, and see what else you might know. Does that corporal you rescued need a medical assist?"
"No, sir; I can walk." Corporal Meharry still looked pale to Margiu, but he was reasonably steady on his feet.
"Good. Chief, get this craft secured; I've arranged transport for the corpse. We'll need statements from all of you . . . where's that major?"
"Still pretty groggy, I imagine," the professor said. "I'm afraid I may have administered a stronger antinausea patch than necessary. I'd like to talk to your base commander, if I might."
Margiu looked at him. He had been calm and even cheerful until he'd thought of the mutiny, but now his face had stiffened into a grim mask. He caught her eye and managed a smile, but with none of his earlier warmth.
The little base headquarters seethed with tension and activity both. The major who had met them ushered them to the base commander's office. Lieutenant Commander Ardsan glowered at them for a long moment.
"It's not your fault, but I could wish you'd figured it out an hour earlier," he said. "Even an hour might've given those people a chance."
Margiu felt guilty, but the professor clearly didn't. "Nonsense, sir," he said. "An hour before, we were dealing with a corpse, a survivor, an oncoming squall . . . and I doubt very much that hour would have done more than prolong the carnage. The mutineers will have had accomplices on that station, as they had on Stack Three."
"You're probably right," Ardsan said. "But it's so frustrating—we don't have land lines everywhere, and with the mutineers in control topside, we can't get anything through the relay satellites." He pushed a data cube from side to side on his desk. "We have short-range ground radio, but they can interdict that from topside if they choose. They've cut off the weather information, too, which is going to make it hard to fly from one base to another. Polacek wants everyone to gather at Main, but that just makes us a handy target, the way I look at it."
"Are we sure of his loyalty?" the professor asked.
"I'm not sure of anyone right now. I never thought anything like this would happen, but then the whole Xavier mess shocked me. I don't understand it—"
"I think the point is how to handle it now," the professor said. "I have a very specific problem in mind. I'm a weapons specialist; I was on my way to Stack Two to consult on the progress of some of their research." He handed Ardsan a flake. "You'll want to check my clearance, of course."
"Of course," Ardsan murmured. He swung around and slid the flake into a slot in the cube reader. Margiu caught a glimpse of the screen before Ardsan flicked it off. "Well, that's clear enough." He looked pale. "I don't think I ever saw a—" He glanced at Margiu and away. "—Anyone with that level clearance before."
"Probably not," the professor said. "But we put our pants on one leg at a time, the same as you. Now. I happen to know that there are weapons under development there which you do not want the mutineers to have. And the fact of the matter is, if someone on that base is not part of this, I'll be very surprised."
"Why do you say that?"
"Why else would they start a mutiny here, in this system? Why not meet in some quiet out-of-the-way location, safe from discovery? I would wager that if Commander Bacarion had not been killed—if all had gone according to plan—one of those LACs would have picked up personnel and weapons from Stack Two. I suggest you check the records of the personnel stationed there very carefully."
Ardsan frowned. "We don't really have the facilities for that, Professor. I can look up who's in command, but that's about all. I'm not even sure I can get a list of personnel. With the mutineers in control of our communications, we can't access the personnel records back at Main, and we don't keep copies here at Dark Harbor."
"I see." The professor drummed his fingers on his knee for a long moment. "Well, Commander, if I were you I'd figure out a way to send some troops out there to secure the base."
"But—how?"
"We flew out there before. Can't we do it again?"
"But we have no weather data—they've cut off our feed from the weathersats."
The professor leaned forward. "Commander, I'm telling you—if you don't secure that base, and keep the mutiny from getting hold of those weapons, you'll wish you had to the end of your life, which will probably not be a long one. Now several things can happen. We can try to go back and not make it and crash in the sea. We can try to go back and—if enough of the personnel are involved—they might shoot us out of the sky, if they happen to notice us. We can get there and fail to secure the base, although I believe if you send along enough troops that won't happen. We can get there and secure the base, and the mutineers topside can land a force and drive us off . . . but if we have enough time, we'll have destroyed at least the worst of the weapons. Or we can sit here and do nothing, and be dead with no chance of helping out." He sat back. "I personally think that is the worst option."
"I—I should contact Commander Polacek."
"No, Commander, you should not. You've already said you aren't sure of his loyalty. You know communications are compromised. You know what my authority is."
"He's right," Margiu said, surprising herself by speaking up. "If we're going back out there, we have to do it before they send shuttles down."
Ardsan looked from one to the other, frowning. Finally he sighed. "All right. All right . . . let me think. We need transport that can land at Stack Two and carry troops—" He touched his desk comunit. "Chief—look up what we have on the personnel at Stack Two. And give me an estimate of our security forces here."
The professor interrupted. "Are there any heavy cargo craft based here?"
"We have the heavy-duty aircars we use along the coast, but we don't like to take them out over the open ocean. They sink like rocks if the power plant fails. That's why we use the amphibs."
"How long would it be before the mutineers could send shuttles down?"
"Depends on whether the station had any short-field shuttles ready to go. The usual shuttles require longer landing fields; there are only four long fields on the whole planet, and two of them are only used for emergencies. The LACs from Bonar Tighe can do it, of course, but they'll require refueling and service—at least a couple of hours of turnaround. Those other ships . . . I don't know which had LACs, and if those LACs were ready for drop. Then unless a ship did a low pass, the LACs would need several hours—I don't really know how many—to fly in. If they launched additional LACs immediately after taking the station, the mutineers could be on that island now. Or, if they're delayed, it could be tomorrow or the next day."
"And the flight times of your available craft?"
"Depends on the windspeed and direction—and we have no weathersats now. Five hours, six—I can't say exactly."
One of the enlisted men poked his head in the door. "Sir, Stack Two has thirteen civilian scientist personnel, five officers, and twenty-nine enlisted. Commander's a Lieutenant Commander Vinet. We've got fifteen NEM assault troops, and thirty ordinaries, plus the base police."
"Thank you. Carry on." Ardsan grimaced. "Enough to tempt us into trouble, and not enough to get us out—and if I strip Dark Harbor, there's no one to protect the people here—" Then he shook his head as if to clear it. "All right. It's something definite, at least. Professor, I assume you're going—"
"Absolutely," he said. "You need me to disable those weapons, and the scientists and engineers know me."
"Ensign, I'm assigning you to the professor, since he seems to have confided in you before. You are weapons-qualified, right?"
"Yes, sir." She had gone hunting as a girl; she knew she was good with firearms, and her qualifying scores had always maxed out.
"Good. I'll have the armsmaster i
ssue you weapons; I want you to stick to the professor like glue, and watch his back. Just in case any of the people we send along aren't as loyal as we think they are."
"Yes, sir."
"Professor, it'll take some time to fuel the aircraft, brief the aircrew, and assemble the troops. You'd better eat and rest while you can. Ensign, you too—but you stick with him, you hear?"
"Yes, sir." She realized suddenly that she was very hungry, and also tired, and that she would have to go back out over that cold, wet, vast ocean . . . in the dark.
In the mess, where she and the professor ate, she overheard another conversation.
"It's that damned rejuvenation stuff," the crew chief said. "It doesn't take a grand admiral strategist to see what enormously prolonged youth will do to the career curve of anyone below rejuv age. Promotions started slowing down ten or fifteen years ago, right about when they were doing those senior NCO rejuvs . . . you don't spend all that money on rejuvenating someone and then retire 'em, now do you? And the people who might expect to step into that job see they won't have a chance. Expansion helped some, but how big a space force do we need?"
"But . . . mutiny, Chief. Can you see mutiny?"
"Not right away, no. And not for me, personally, ever. But there's been a rumor that something was wrong with the NCO rejuvenations, and some people—not me—said they were bollixed on purpose. It was one thing to have too many young-old admirals, but they didn't want the enlisted getting ideas."
"Now that makes no sense," the professor broke in. "Senior enlisted are the backbone of every successful military organization—always have been. Admirals are fine, and if you have a strategic genius you certainly want to keep him, but day to day, you need senior NCOs."
"Militaries have made that mistake before. Rank-heavy, officer dominated . . ."
"Well, I used to work in Personnel Procurement," another chief said. "Back when I was a young sergeant. I saw projections of need by rank and grade, and back then, at least, the planners knew they needed more master chiefs than admirals. So I don't think they'd deliberately sabotage a rejuvenation program for chiefs."
"Somebody sure did. Remember Chief Wang last year? We had to watch him every second, or he'd put a six-star fastener in a four-point hole, and tell everybody to do the same. I never saw anything like it, and it wasn't pretty."
"I thought they said it was some brain virus or something, from his fishing trips to the mountains."
"That's what they said then, but when we got that directive on removing rejuved chiefs from active duty until they'd been checked, that's who I thought of. 'Course, he was medically retired by then, but I asked Pauli in sickbay, and he said he thought it probably had been a bad rejuv."
"Bad rejuvs would let the people below move up . . ." a sergeant said softly. "Not that anyone would do something like that . . . I saw Chief Wang right at the end."
"Maybe they didn't know what it would do. I remember giving my mom's pet sarri a cookie once, just sharing, y'know, and it went into convulsions and died. I had no idea they couldn't eat our kind of food. But it was just as dead as if I'd poisoned it on purpose."
"That's true. Never attribute to malice what could be stupidity. It's just as likely to be a cost-containment effort by procurement or even the manufacturer."
Margiu had not even realized that some Fleet personnel had been rejuvenated; she couldn't remember anyone mentioning it in the Academy. She wondered if any of the people in that room had been rejuved. How could she tell?
When the professor finished eating, he touched her sleeve. "Ensign—we'd better get some rest while we can. Do you remember where Commander Ardsan said we could bunk?"
Margiu showed him to the assigned room—clearly an officer's quarters, now theirs for a few hours. They took turns in the shower, and changed into clean clothes. But before either of them dozed off, the commander told them that transport was ready.
This time the professor donned his PPU over street clothes, and then put his yellow leather jacket on top. "My friends out there will recognize this," he pointed out.
"You're a fine target that way." The major who had met them at the quay was in charge of the mission; Margiu now knew his name—Antony Garson. A Lieutenant Lightfoot commanded the troops.
"True, but if we have to make a hostile landing, at least our side will know who I am."
Margiu, who had on a clean PPU set to midnight blue, the default night-camouflage color, caught the major's eye. He shrugged, and went to check on the rest of the group. Though it was only afternoon, the heavy cloud cover and spitting rain made it seem much later.
By the time they neared the Stack Islands again, daylight had faded into murky night. They'd had clouds all the way, which was supposed to be protective, though Margiu found it dreary as the plane seemed to crawl between two layers of darkening gray. As the light failed, no lights came on in the plane—for security reasons, she was told—but she could feel, all around her, the bulky shapes of the NEMs. The professor had fallen asleep, snoring as musically as the first time, and Margiu leaned cautiously against his shoulder, letting herself doze. She couldn't lean the other way; the unfamiliar sidearm poked her. She woke when the plane slanted downward, and peered out the window into darkness.
"Umph!" That was the professor, almost choking on a final snore. "See anything?"
"No—it's all dark." How were they going to land? What if they ran into Stack Two, instead of landing on it? She could feel the plane sinking under her, and her ears popped repeatedly.
Then a sparkle of light appeared, somewhere in the gloom . . . a tiny bright line, then another line.
"Lights," she said to the professor.
As they drew closer, she could see that the lights outlined an ordinary runway, and other lights showed in buildings nearby. It looked so normal. . . .
The plane landed hard, bounced, came down firmly, and she rocked forward as the brakes caught. Instead of rolling up to one of the lighted buildings, the plane swung aside near the end of the landing strip. The NEMs were on their feet as soon as it landed. Margiu, lacking orders, stayed where she was; she and the professor had earbugs set to the same communications channel. Another plane, then another, came to a stop near them. In the dark, with only faint light from the runway lights, Margiu could just make out dark figures leaving one of the other planes.
Then someone forward opened the hatch of their plane, and a cold breath of sea air swirled into the plane, past the dark forms. Someone else muttered an order, and the troops began to move out into the night. Major Garson's voice in her earbug sounded calm: "Professor—you and the ensign come on, now." The professor heaved himself up, and Margiu scrambled out of her seat to follow him.
Outside, it was colder, but slightly less dark; Margiu could tell the professor from the others as a slightly lighter blur. She pulled up the hood of her PPU against the chill and stayed close to his side. A delicate red line pointed the way; someone had their laser guide on. She could feel the rasp of the runway surface under her boots. Was it safe? No one had fired a shot yet, and the troops seemed to know where they were going. She wasn't sure where the first troops had gone; she couldn't see them anymore.
"Looks secure for now, Professor," the major's voice spoke again in her earbug. "Come on inside."
Margiu felt more than saw the troops closing in around them, a protective cordon, guiding them to one of the buildings near the landing strip. Ahead, a door opened, spilling out yellow light. She blinked, tried not to stare at the welcome light, but watched for any threat. She couldn't see anything but the troops who had come with them, and the dark night beyond.
Inside, Major Garson was talking to a lieutenant commander; both of them looked tense and unhappy. Armed guards stood at each exit. Margiu looked past them to the civilians—the other scientists, she supposed—in the large room.
"Oh, Lord, it is Gussie," one of the civilians said to the others. "Complete with that ugly yellow jacket and a cute redhead in tow . . ."
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"She's not a cute redhead in tow, she's Ensign Pardalt." The professor nodded at her. "Show some respect; she's a very intelligent young woman—"
"Meaning he talked your ear off and you didn't object," the other man said, flashing a smile at Margiu. "I'm Helmut Swearingen, by the way." He turned back to the professor.
"When you didn't show up this morning, Gussie, and then those people took the station, we were afraid you'd been captured—"
"How far have you gotten?" the professor asked.
The other man grimaced and nodded toward the officers near the door. "Nowhere. As soon as we heard—and Ty was on the radio, trying to find out where you were, so we heard right away—I went to our base commander and told him we should start dismantling the work in progress, destroying notes. He wouldn't have it—insisted he had to wait for orders, that we were under Fleet discipline. Even said we might be mutineers ourselves. He's had us under guard, in this room—"
The Serrano Succession Page 33
