“Wrong way, foster.”
The Dragoon officers had convened in the communications center. Its facilities were being used to reach all Dragoon locations on An Ting. Wolf and the dozen other officers present were seated in a circle on the broadcast floor of the studio. Bright lights illuminated their worried faces. Lean and Dechan joined them.
Once seated, Dechan could barely see the banks of monitors that had been set up to face the seated officers. The rest of the Dragoon officer corps on-planet were attending via two-way video link. Each monitor carried a strip identifying the unit or location of the transmission's source. One row of screens was dark except for the white letters that read “Hephaestus.” A last monitor came to life, revealing the face of Colonel Jeremy Ellman of the Training Command.
“Now that you're on-line, Jeremy, we can begin,” Wolf said. The Colonel's voice cut through the hushed babble of conversation and drove it down into silence.
“I realize this is irregular, but we are unable at this time to contact the rest of the Dragoons. I require the advice of all command-level officers.”
Wolf paused, and the whispered comments of the officers resumed. Most of them already had a good idea of what the call meant. Wolf's words were merely a confirmation.
Lean elbowed Dechan's side in an “I told you so” gesture just as Wolf began to speak again.
“Gentlemen and ladies, we are in a difficult position. You all know about the problems we've had over the last two years. Our employer has been pushing us hard, but we haven't pushed back. But now they're trying to force us into actions that could be branded outlaw. They've been very careful, too. Everything they've done can be disavowed or explained away as the actions of independent parties. And we can prove nothing.
“For those of you who have not heard, Captain Shadd reports that the ComStar facility is barred to us. The Adept in charge is already referring to us as outlaws. We don't know if this is ComStar's official position or if the man has simply become the dupe of our local enemies. It doesn't really matter. Without access to the hyperpulse communications, we must rely on courier service to contact the rest of the regiments.
“We are hamstrung there as well. An Ting System Command is refusing all our requests to change orbit or depart for the jump point. They are referring all requests to the PSL office, which has suddenly become too busy to deal with the problem. All they've had time for is a warning that any repositioning of Dragoon aerospace or deep-space assets will be construed as hostile. Obviously, they do not want us talking to the rest of the regiments.
“I think you can all guess what they're using as an excuse.
“The Hephaestus, or at least some part of it, has been captured by parties claiming to be Kurita patriots. Major Blake's intel operation suggests that the hostiles were introduced as part of a batch of local technical talent taken aboard the station to supplement our strained repair force. They are terrorists. I believe that they are also agents of House Kurita. Again, the truth doesn't matter. The situation does.
“It's New Delos all over again. This time, it's on a bigger scale—better-organized and more ruthless. Twelve years ago, we failed in our oaths to protect our civilians, some of whom were taken hostage and killed. We failed our oath, but swore to prevent it ever happening again.” Wolf paused, giving dramatic emphasis to his next words. “Will we let it happen again?” he called out.
The outraged roar was a clear answer.
“Hegira?” Wolf shouted his question.
The room went silent, a silence louder than any voice.
Jeremy Ellman was the first to break the stillness. His face was grim and his movements slow, weighted by decades of a soldier's hard life. He stood and repeated the single word, “Hegira.” One by one, each Dragoon officer stood and spoke the same word.
Dechan, as a junior officer, was among the last. He didn't understand all that was happening, but he believed in the Dragoons. He had faith in his fellow officers. Trusting their judgment, he stammered out, “Hegira.”
Finally, after all had spoken, it was Jamie Wolf's turn to stand. He spoke with a strange, almost old-fashioned accent that Dechan had never heard any other Dragoon use before. From the faces of the other commanders, both those in the room and those on the screens, he could tell they understood the Colonel perfectly. Lean had been right, he was still a foster. Only Tech Chief Scott, who, like Dechan, had joined the Dragoons in Steiner space, looked puzzled as he strained to make sense of Wolf's words.
“In conclave we have deliberated, trothkin. Sealed and bonded, I stand as Oathmaster. The rede you have spoken is my will. Thus shall it stand until we shall fall.”
A chorus of voices answered, “Seyla!”
The Dragoons sat down. Dechan and Scott, taken off guard by the sudden move, awkwardly followed suit. For a full minute, there was silence.
“Then the word must go out,” Wolf said. He turned to face a monitor bearing the label of Boupeig barracks and spoke to one of the officers assembled there. “Captain Shadd, execute Contingency Plan Mohammed.”
“The Seventh is on its way, Colonel. The Robes will never know what hit them,” Shadd said with a savage grin.
Blake nodded his approval. “That's the way it has to be, Shadd. No evidence,” he cautioned. “Nothing to link the Dragoons to the raid.”
“We're ghosts, Major. We won't let the people down.” Shadd saluted and moved out of the camera's range.
Wolf turned to another screen. This one showed the face of a single Dragoon, Colonel Jason Carmody, head of aerospace operations. Carmody's dark face tensed as Wolf addressed him.
“Jason, barring word to the contrary from me or from the Hephaestus, you will begin Operation Recovery on Captain Shadd's transmission. In the meantime, we negotiate with the brigands holding our people and pretend we'll do business with them.
“We are committed, ladies and gentlemen,” Wolf announced to his assembled audience. “Ready your 'Mechs.”
43
ComStar Compound, Cerant, An Ting
Galedon Military District, Draconis Combine
3 January 3028
“Malkin' bugs!” the ComStar Acolyte muttered, slapping his neck at the sting. He scratched at the spot and cursed again.
“They're always bad this time of year, Seldes,” his companion said. His grin at his friend's discomfort vanished when one stung him, too. “Damn! They're big this year. If they get worse, we'll need antiaircraft artillery.”
“We'll need the artillery all right, but not for the bugs. The Dragoons won't take it lying down that ComStar has refused to let them send out messages. Mark me, Kent. They're gonna try something.”
“What can they do? ComStar is neutral, protected by all the Successor States so it can serve them all. Even if the Dragoons weren't on Kurita's bad side, the Draconians would defend the compound. This guard duty is a waste of time. Standing out all night trying to look watchful. What a pain! We should be getting a good night's sleep. We've got nothing to worry about. Anybody who tries to get in will get caught at the wall. You've seen those Kurita volunteers, haven't you? Tough mothers. I wouldn't want to cross any of them, would you?”
The answer was a ragged snore. Kent glanced over at his companion. Seldes had slumped against the archway, his head leaning against the lintel.
“Guess you're gonna get your sleep anyway.” Kent stifled a yawn. “It's not a bad idea. Hope the Precentor don't catch ...” The rest of the thought went unspoken as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground.
A man-shaped shadow detached itself from the darkness and passed between the sleeping guards. It entered the building and joined the blacker darkness within. A few seconds later, it was back in the archway, waving twice before it vanished again.
More shadows materialized from the night and crept after the first. All seemed to move with feline grace, except for one who stumbled over Kent's rifle. At the slight clatter, the other shadows dropped into defensive crouches and froze into immobility.
They remained fixed a few seconds before resuming their progress. One hustled the clumsy silhouette-man through the archway. Two others took hold of the fallen Acolytes and dragged them into the building. A fourth scooped up the abandoned weapons, and brought up the rear.
The shadow men flitted through the outer building and across the inner courtyard, stopping for a short, hushed conference at an unguarded inner door. Moments later, all but two remained at the entrance, sheltered in darkness.
Those two, one slim and graceful and the other stocky and clumsy, penetrated deeper into the edifice. The two shapes moved silently on soft-soled boots through the darkened corridors. Near a cross-corridor, the taller figure stopped its gliding progress and motioned to the other to wait. The second figure shuffled to a halt and leaned against a doorway. The first slid around the corner, out of sight. No one was there to see the waiting black-clad figure tremble as he huddled against the dark wood of the door.
Without warning, the door on the opposite side of the hall opened, spilling light into the corridor. The man who opened it wore the elaborate robes of a ComStar Precentor. By the look on his face, he was almost as startled as the shadow he had surprised. His hand reached again for the knob, but the intruder's gun spoke in a series of stuttering coughs before the Precentor could take the first backward step.
Bright bursts of blood starred the man's robes, and his body jerked as he staggered back into the room under the force of the continued impacts. He tumbled backward over a chair to land splayed on the floor. Slugs continued to tear into his body long after it had stopped moving of its own volition.
The first shadow returned. Its head-covering hood had been removed, revealing the face of Anton Shadd. The commando leader's face was set in a mask of rage. His hand snaked out to slap the pudgy, black-clad figure across its concealed face. The blow broke the paralysis that had welded the man's gloved finger to the trigger of his weapon.
“Unity, Scott!” Shadd gritted out. His voice was low to keep it from carrying too far. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”
Tech Chief Scott gasped like a gaffed pisciform. His left hand came up and dragged the hood and Blackwell night goggles from his head. His face was pale and slicked with sweat. He gobbled air. It took two tries before he could find his voice. Imitating Shadd, he spoke in a whisper.
“He came through the door. I thought he was going to give the alarm.”
“So you shot him!” Shadd's voice was full of disgust. “That was the Precentor. We needed him for the transmission codes.”
“He surprised me. I thought he was going to give us away.”
“You panicked.”
“So what if I did?” Scott shot back. “I wasn't trained for this. I'm a Tech, not a professional killer like you Sevens.”
Shadd clenched his jaw, biting off a retort. Instead, he said, “I found the HPG control chamber. Let's go.” Shadd closed the door on the carnage and returned the corridor to darkness. “Next time, leave any killing to the professionals.”
Not a word passed between the two Dragoons on the short walk to their destination.
Smoke from the presence lamps hung in a greasy haze below the chamber's high, domed ceiling. The red-tinted glass filled the room with a ruddy glow, and incarnadine reflections glinted from shiny chrome and pale plastic hardware.
The HyperPulse Generator's bulky regulator equipment and horseshoe-shaped control board dominated the center of the room. Heavy, shielded cables emerged from the machinery and ran to the north wall, behind which was hidden the massive generator. Lesser communications devices, computer consoles, and data storage units lined the walls.
An open stairway led from the entrance to a catwalk that circled the chamber three meters above the floor. The walk extended out to a platform overlooking the controls. The velvet-draped, high-backed chair was the Precentor's throne, positioned to give him a view of the actions of his Acolytes as they performed the transmission rituals.
Shadd checked for other entrances while Scott walked to the control console and studied the layout. The commando found a small door on the south wall. From the orbital photos of the compound that he studied, he knew it opened into the private garden of the Precentor's residence. There was little likelihood of disturbance from that quarter. The only other portals to the outside were the shuttered windows along the catwalk.
A rattling sound made Shadd swivel suddenly, his subgun at the ready. Seeing that the noise was only the Tech Chief removing a panel from the front of the control board, he relaxed. Scott was poking and prying at the exposed wiring and circuit boards in a desultory fashion.
“Come on, Scott. Every minute you waste fiddling with that thing means we're more likely to get caught.”
“This isn't easy, Shadd. This malking machine's a patchwork. It's been crosswired eight ways to Sunday. There are patches on top of patches in the wiring. So many that I can't be sure what circuit is what. I don't think the Robes had any idea of what they were doing.”
“I don't want to hear it,” Shadd growled. “You're supposed to be a communications wizard. Prove it!”
Scott grimaced but bent back to his work. His curses rose in a regular stream while Shadd busied himself checking the locks on the doors. At the back entrance, he was sliding a pair of file cabinets across the door when a subgun suddenly barked outside the chamber.
“Damn!” Shadd muttered. Somebody had slipped up, or else they'd found the Precentor's body. Either way, their penetration had been discovered.
An alarm began to sound as Shadd bolted up the stairs to the catwalk. He halted beside the window looking out over the inner court. The firing was coming from that direction. Careful to minimize his exposure, Shadd slid open the shutters.
Searchlights were sweeping the grounds. In their stark light, Shadd could see ComStar troopers and Kuritans trying to force their way across the courtyard. His team was laying down a withering fire with their silenced weapons. The sounds of the attackers' guns and the hooting alarm completely covered any sound those weapons were making. Shadd could not tell how many of his men were holding the entrance.
Shadd called down to Scott. “You've just been put on deadline, wizard.”
“It had better not be a short one,” Scott replied. His voice echoed out of the cabinet where he had stuck his head.
Returning his attention to the courtyard, Shadd spotted a trio of Draconians moving along the far colonnade, well on their way to achieving a flanking position. From the angle, Shadd could tell that the Snakes were out of line-of-sight from the entrance his men guarded. He swung into the window, fired a burst at the runners, and ducked back as soon as he lifted his finger from the trigger.
When no slugs came searching for him, he knew that the flash suppressor on his Ceres Arms Ranger had done its job. None of the enemy had marked his position. He risked a look to check the results of his fire. Two of the runners had dropped, sprawling. The third was skittering back the way he had come. The defense of the entrance was secure for a while longer.
Scott's shout of triumph brought Shadd around in time to see lights flicker, then stabilize into a steady glow along the control boards of the Hyper-Pulse Generator. A whine began that climbed in a steady tone before dropping into a steady hum.
“It's ready,” the Tech Chief announced with satisfaction. “What about the codes?”
“Bypassed them.”
“Then send the message. Exactly as the Colonel gave it to us. Not a word out of place.”
“I'm not a novice, Shadd,” Scott grumbled, turning to the keyboard.
With the lull in the fighting outside, Shadd listened to the clack of the keys that seemed to mark time like the ticking of some ancient clock. But time was in short supply. Every passing moment reduced the strike force's chance of escaping from the compound.
The crackling roar of a plasma flamer echoed across the courtyard, announcing the renewal of combat.
Shadd looked out the window to see the upper body of a Batt
leMech visible above the roof of the outer building. Silhouetted in the predawn light, the machine resembled a headless scarecrow. Shadd recognized the shape as that of a Vulcan, a fearsome antipersonnel 'Mech.
When the machine's right-arm flamer belched a second burst of plasma, the backflash lit its torso. Shadd recognized the symbol that decorated the 'Mech's left chest as the black dragon of House Kurita. So, the Snakes had raised the ante.
The Vulcan's plasma burst scorched everything it did not set aflame. Screams came from the entryway. Good men were dying.
Kurita soldiers came boiling from the outer building. Nothing slowed them as they rushed across the courtyard. No gunfire. No grenades. His men at the entrance to the generator building were dead. Shadd hoped that some had been able to retreat deeper into the building and take up a new defensive position where the 'Mech couldn't reach them. If they had, the Snakes wouldn't winkle them out easily. The commandos would trade their lives for time.
The lights on the HPG console dimmed briefly with the power surge as the generator sent its interstellar pulse into space. Shadd found the Tech Chief grinning in pleasure, oblivious to his surroundings. Shadd could do nothing but shake his head.
The commando leader keyed his comm unit. “Muhammad to base.”
The response was immediate. “Go ahead, Muhammad,” said Jaime Wolf.
“It's a Snake nest here. 'Mechs too. Don't expect us home.”
“Success?”
“The word it out, Colonel. Get the people out, too.”
“You will be remembered in the halls.”
Shadd cut the circuit. The men of Seventh Kommando lived and died in darkness and deception. Remembered in the halls, the Colonel had said. He couldn't ask for more. Clicking a fresh magazine into the Ranger, he walked to the door to await the assault.
44
Dragoon Administrative HQ, Cerant, An Ting
Galedon Military District, Draconis Combine
Wolves on the Border Page 31
