“Oh, that’s perfectly delightful!” Madam Chang-Sturdevant banged her fist angrily. Jamison Franks was well-known in the political world of the Confederation since he came from a prominent family that contributed liberally to various parties, chief among them the one Madam Chang-Sturdevant represented. “We don’t have much time, Glecko. Assemble my cabinet. Make sure the Combined Chiefs are there, especially whatshisname, the Chief of Naval Operations.”
“It is already being done, ma’am.”
“Has anyone tried to contact the Cambria?”
“Yes, ma’am. They are not responding.”
Madam Chang-Sturdevant shook her head in exasperation. “So there’ll be no negotiations.” She grimaced. “Well, find out all you can about this Army of—of—what do they call themselves, the Army of Zion? And find out what the hell we’re doing on—on Kingdom, did they say? Christ, I remember something about that place in a meeting months ago now, but damned if I can remember the circumstances. Find out why these guys are upset with us.” She stood up. “Okay, let’s get to the war room.”
Admiral Joseph K. C. B. Porter, Confederation Chief of Naval Operations, ran a hand nervously over his enormous muttonchop whiskers and looked at his reader again. “Madam President, we have a fix on the Cambria. She’s approximately seventeen hours out of Earth orbit, given her present course and speed, which seem fixed. It gets dark in this hemisphere at this season beginning at about nineteen hours on the eastern seaboard, so it’ll be full dark here at Fargo by twenty-one hours tonight. If they really intend to blow the Cambria up, they’re going to do it sometime tonight. It’s nine hours now. We don’t have much time to react.”
“Can we react?” Chang-Sturdevant asked. All eyes turned to Admiral Porter, who was not enjoying the attention.
“Yes, ma’am, we can have a ship at her location in two hours. But a rescue operation might be very chancy. If they’ve rigged the ship with explosives and intend to immolate themselves along with her, we could lose a navy ship and its entire crew.”
“Well, gentlemen, my chief of staff informs me we have a break. The damned fools—this Army of Zion, as they call themselves—neglected to send their message to anybody but us.” She paused.
“How does that give us a break, ma’am?” a cabinet officer asked.
“Simple. Since the rest of the world doesn’t know what’s going on, we can minimize the embarrassment of being ridiculed by these fanatics by striking first. It’ll be bad news for Sewall and Lloyds, but I think we can work out some subsidies that’ll keep the company and its insurers afloat until they can make up the losses. We can find an explanation for the disaster that’ll satisfy public opinion.”
“Madam President, are you saying that . . . ?” Admiral Porter shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I am saying, gentlemen, that we dispatch a destroyer to the position of the SS Cambria and blast it out of space before the fanatics do it for us, in front of half the world, to the utter embarrassment of this administration and the frustration of our foreign policy, which demands that we deploy our military forces whenever and wherever they are needed. I am not going to stand for a bunch of crazies dictating to my government. The damned fools who took over the Cambria screwed up when they didn’t send their message to the goddamned press. We have to act quickly and decisively before they realize their mistake, before they execute their threat.” There was utter silence in the war room.
“Gentlemen, the passengers and crew on that ship are doomed no matter what. I believe—we believe—this Army of Zion intends to immolate itself along with them. I will not risk the entire crew of a navy ship to attempt a rescue.” Madam Chang-Sturdevant turned to Admiral Porter, who unconsciously was slumping as far down in his chair as possible, as if that would excuse him from what he knew was coming. “Admiral,” the President of the Confederation Council of Worlds said calmly, with complete confidence in her voice, “give the order.”
Captain Lewis Conorado, Confederation Marine Corps, lay in his bunk thinking. There was no doubt in his mind that the fanatics who’d taken control of the ship were going to kill them all. Otherwise, why sabotage the navigation system and the lifecraft? Nobody, not even the terrorists themselves, was going to get off the Cambria alive. Conorado knew he had to act. He had to do something, no matter how desperate. It was not in his nature to sit by when threatened.
There were three of them in the main part of the ship and two more in the propulsion unit. The three he had seen were all armed with military hand-blasters. If he could just get one of the bastards, he’d have a chance at the rest of them. But then what? Evidently they were going to set off some kind of bomb in the propulsion unit, and when it went, everything else would go too. So suppose he somehow could overpower the three men up here. How could he get to the ones in the power plant before they set off the bomb? Probably it was already set to go off, so if he did succeed in eliminating all five of the terrorists, how could he defuse the damned bomb? What a prizefight, and he was the underdog!
Okay, okay, Conorado told himself, think it through, take it one step, one round, at a time. First step: get the three up here. How? He suddenly sat bolt upright in his bed, grinning, and swung his legs to the deck.
Round one to the Marine?
CHAPTER
* * *
TWENTY-TWO
The hours crept slowly by for the three men in the makeshift police operations center. Hamnes and Buskerud stayed constantly on the radio and vid hookups with the teams as they laboriously went from site to site, approaching cautiously and effecting traumatic entry into the cabins. Not a few citizens were terribly surprised to be interrupted at their long winter’s pastimes as heavily armed men burst into their bedrooms.
Colonel Ramadan had already smoked two of his precious Anniversarios and shared a third, cut into equal halves, between Hamnes and Buskerud. After the one he had just popped into his mouth, he would be out until he got back to Camp Ellis.
“How many more sites do we have to search in those mountains?” Ramadan asked.
Buskerud shook his head. “Lots, Colonel. We have only just begun.”
“Well, the cops are sure on duty, but where in the hell is the Dragon?” Ramadan groused, looking at his watch again for the umpteenth time. “They should’ve been here an hour ago! Inspector, how’s the weather holding?”
Inspector Hamnes finished talking to a team chief who had just come up with another dry hole and turned to Ramadan. “We’re in luck there, Colonel. The weather report has been revised. The storm will last at least until morning. And when the sun finally rises, we’ll have surveillance over every square meter of those mountains, especially on the routes leading to the sea. Do not worry, Colonel, we will get them.” He went back to talking to the teams.
“This is an exceptionally good cigar, Colonel,” Buskerud said, holding up his half of the Anniversario admiringly. “I compliment you on your judgment in smoking materials.”
“And I on your taste, Ollie,” Ramadan answered, bowing slightly toward the little man. Colonel Ramadan had decided that if Ollie Buskerud appreciated a fine cigar, he couldn’t be all that bad. And he was indefatigable in his work, constantly plotting the sites to be searched, expertly guiding the teams to their targets.
“Your embassy is on the line at last, Colonel! I think your Dragon is down,” Inspector Hamnes announced.
“Gentlemen,” Ramadan said as he slipped quickly into his foul weather gear, “I’ll be back within the hour.”
It had been a long, long time since Colonel Israel Ramadan had driven a Dragon. The entire instrument panel seemed to have changed since his days as an enlisted man, but the power-up sequence had remained the same. The mechanic who had driven the Dragon to the embassy compound from the spaceport only shrugged when Ramadan refused his offer to continue as driver. The commander of the Marine security detachment at the embassy raised his eyebrows in astonishment as the colonel mounted the ramp and buttoned up the Dragon, even after
his offer to go along had been politely refused. But he was a captain and Ramadan was a bull colonel. The captain discreetly closed his eyes as Ramadan unskillfully slewed the Dragon through the main gate, knocking over a pillar as the behemoth slid out into the late afternoon traffic. The mechanic laughed outright but he shut up immediately at a withering glance from the officer.
Ramadan plowed along at twenty kilometers per hour, happily reliving his youth in the driver’s seat, but he quickly regained his confidence and the Dragon picked up speed. A huge cloud of blown snow marked its passage down the streets of New Oslo. Drivers pulled to the curb to let him pass and pedestrians gaped in wonder as the monster roared along.
“We have a break!” Inspector Hamnes shouted as Ramadan clomped back into the command center. The inspector looked up and paused. Ramadan’s face was flushed bright red and his face split from ear to ear with an enormous grin. “Colonel, you look twenty years younger than you did an hour ago!” the inspector exclaimed.
“I feel younger!” Ramadan exclaimed. “Been a long time since I drove a Dragon! Man, do we have a powerhouse there! What’s up?”
“Your satellite surveillance got an infrared signal from a remote chateau, Colonel,” Buskerud answered. “The owners are in the city and they say there should not be anybody in there. We think it might be the kidnappers.” His face too was flushed with excitement. “Best of all, Colonel, none of the teams in the field can get up there for a long time. That means we get to go in!”
“Huh? Inspector Hamnes?” Ramadan turned to the policeman.
“Yes, Colonel, Ollie and I have discussed the situation. Your arrival is absolutely fortuitous. We have three aircraft down due to mechanical failure. None of the other teams is close enough to get to this site today. The break in the cloud cover was only temporary. The storm has in fact increased in its fury. Only land vehicles could make it up there now, and none of the teams is close enough to a road to get through. You and Ollie must go.”
“Then give me a gun and we’re off,” Ramadan said.
Captain Conorado rummaged through his luggage until he found it. The antique pistol was almost small enough to hide comfortably in the palm of his hand. He examined it closely now because he’d had no time to look at it when Dean and Claypoole had presented him with the thing back in Lima Company’s orderly room. In fact, had he thought about it at the time, he wouldn’t have bothered to pack the weapon in the first place.
It had a detachable magazine that fit snugly into a well in the butt. He pressed the stud on the right side of the grip and the magazine popped out. The magazine was spring loaded. There was a spot of rust on it. Rust on a weapon? Conorado smiled to himself as he thumbed seven tiny cartridges out onto his bed. He’d be sure to remind those lads about their dreadful lack of maintenance, giving him a rusty weapon, even if it might save his and everybody else’s life on the ship!
Conorado was familiar with the projectile weapons the Siad warriors had used on Elneal, so the tiny pistol held no mystery for him. He just wondered if seven rounds of .32 caliber ammunition would be enough to bring down three full-grown, determined men. Well, this particular pistol had worked well enough on Wanderjahr. Claypoole had killed a man with it at close range, shot him in the head, so it would do the job here—if he didn’t miss.
Conorado knew that in any kind of face-off with firearms, the first shot was the one that counted; not necessarily the size or power of the bullet fired, but where it hit the opponent. The central nervous system would be best. Disabling that would bring a man down instantly. A bullet in the heart or an artery would kill a man but not necessarily prevent him from getting off a shot of his own even after being hit. But Conorado realized if he couldn’t get a head shot, he’d have to shoot at the center of mass, the chest. And how many bullets would it take to bring down a man with a gun like this? Two? If he could only get one of the three men on the bridge alone, he was sure he could bring him down with the tiny pistol and take his more potent blaster. Then he’d have a fighting chance!
He reinserted the empty magazine, worked the slide, and dry-fired the pistol several times to get the feel of it. The action was smooth and it did not take much pressure on the trigger to trip the hammer when it was all the way down. If he cocked the hammer first, the gun would fire with almost no pressure at all on the trigger. There was a lever on the left side of the gun’s slide; when he pressed it downward, it decocked the hammer. As far as he could tell, that was the only safety device. He fiddled with the empty pistol for a while, then reloaded the magazine, pulled the slide back, and put the gun into battery. He decocked the weapon. He was ready. He would shoot his man at very close range, less than a meter, so aiming should be no problem. He wondered how much noise the gun would make when it fired. So long as it fired, that did not matter.
Conorado stood up and slipped the loaded pistol into a pocket of his coveralls. How would he get to his first man? “Important information” for their leader? What? What kind of information could he possibly dream up that’d get him on the bridge and make one of the terrorists let his guard down for only a second? He’d think of something. But wait a second! As soon as he brought his man down, that goddamned computer would sound the alarm, like it did when the terrorists killed the engineers in the propulsion plant! He took a deep breath. Oh-kaaaay, he’d have to get all three of them at the same time. He’d have to get to the bridge or wherever the three of them were congregating. That’d mean two quick pops apiece and one bullet left over for emergencies. Now what kind of cover story could he come up with to get that close to all three of them? Think! Think! he told himself. Conorado sighed. I don’t have a chance, he thought. Then: What the hell? They won’t be expecting an attack and I’ll hurt them at least, and by God I’ll go down fighting!
Conorado smiled. At least he wouldn’t be facing that kangaroo court at the end of this voyage! He shook his head, squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the companionway.
Ramadan drove the Dragon while Buskerud navigated. In places the road into the mountains disappeared completely under heavy snow cover, and as they drove higher and higher, Ramadan began to worry about running off the roadway and over one of the dizzying cliffs that fell away into deep gorges. “Do not vorry, Colonel, I knows de vay!” Buskerud crowed happily as he monitored the terrain through the Dragon’s onboard navigation system. “Ah, dis is a wunnerful machine, Colonel, wunnerful!”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet!” Ramadan answered over the tactical net. “Watch me take out that peak over there!”
“No, no, Colonel! No!” Buskerud protested, not sure whether Ramadan was joking or not. “Dere is good chance of big landslide! Besides, de vay sound carries in dese mountains, firing your gun could warn de peoples at the chalet. Ve are only a few kilometers from dere now.”
“All right. You tell me when to park this thing and we’ll go take a look-see.”
After about twenty more minutes of climbing they reached a pass between two peaks where Buskerud indicated Ramadan should pull over to the side of the road, which had been exposed at that spot by the gale-force wind howling down between the peaks. The visibility there was greatly reduced by blown snow.
Buskerud opened an equipment bag he’d brought with him and took out snowshoes. “Ve vill need dese, Colonel. The chalet is in de forest on de leeward side ov de mountain, so da snow vill be very deep dere. Alzo, be absolutely sure dere iss no exposed skin on your face, or it vill freeze in dis weather.” They shrugged into heavy parkas and strapped on the snowshoes. Ramadan showed Buskerud how to use the tactical headgear he provided from the Dragon’s equipment locker.
“We’ll need this to communicate in that weather,” he said. Then he showed Buskerud how to operate the shoulder-fired blaster he gave him from the onboard weapons locker. “I will walk the point,” Ramadan said. “You guide me from a few paces behind and be ready to support me if we run into any hostile fire. Handling these blasters through gloves will be awkward, but just remembe
r, do not touch the firing lever until you are ready to shoot and sure of your target. And don’t forget, Ollie, I’ll be in front of your muzzle.” He grinned and slapped Buskerud on the back. “Ready?” Buskerud nodded, and then Ramadan lowered the Dragon’s ramp. A cloud of windblown snow gusted into the Dragon as they stomped down the ramp and onto the road.
“Go left, Colonel,” Buskerud said into his throat mike. “Dere is a path about thirty meters behind vere ve are parked. You vill see it as an opening in de trees. De chalet is about half a kilometer back in de voods.”
They slogged into the lee of the mountain and suddenly the wind died away. Under the trees, heavily laden with snow, it was so quiet the men could hear their snowshoes crunching on the frozen crust beneath them. But each breath burned with the cold, and visibility under the trees was almost zero because of the fine mist created by the ice crystals suspended in the air. “De trees vill thin out ven ve get near to de chalet, Colonel, and den de vind vill pick up again, so be careful.”
Ramadan guessed from the level of the snow packed up against the trees that it was at least two meters deep where they were. In time Ramadan began to sweat beneath his parka, but he paced himself carefully. The temperature under the trees had to be way below freezing, but out of the wind there was not a chill factor to deal with. Although the air burned fiercely as he sucked it in, he knew his body would heat it sufficiently by the time it got to his lungs so it would not do any damage. Long strings of ice began to form around the opening in his face mask, the frozen condensation of his breath. The trees began to thin. “Are we near the chalet yet?” he asked.
“Yes,” Buskerud answered.
The wind picked up again, and suddenly Ramadan could make out in a clearing to his front a rustic building buried almost to its eaves in snow. “There it is,” he whispered. He crouched beside the nearest tree. Buskerud came up and knelt beside him. They were silent for a few moments, catching their breath. A gust of wind howled across the clearing, swirling a cloud of snow that temporarily obscured the chalet. Ramadan put his arm around Buskerud’s shoulders. “I’m going in first,” he said, “when the next gust comes along. You cover me from here. Any fire from that house, you return it at once. Otherwise, come on up when I get to the front of the building. Have you been in touch with Hamnes?”
Starfist: Kingdom's Swords Page 24
