by Rick Shelley
“Sir?”
“It was I who selected your unit for a special mission, Lieutenant. I know that you have been alerted for movement, but that you have not yet been told where you are going, or why. You will receive a full briefing en route, but because of the nature of this mission, I did want a few words with you first.”
“Yes, sir.” David felt completely bewildered. The longer the king talked, the more desperately lost David felt.
“I wanted to be certain that the best man for the job was chosen, not just whoever’s turn it was to be sent out next.”
“I don’t understand, sir, any of this.”
Henry smiled again. “I am talking in circles, aren’t I? Come. Let’s sit and be comfortable. After all, we’re not on parade here. These are the private apartments. Here, by the window.” He gestured toward a pair of intricately carved chairs that faced a small table that had been carved to match them. David waited until the king was seated, then lowered himself carefully onto the other chair, sitting only on the edge, and trying to remain at something approaching attention.
“The first battle of this war was apparently a naval encounter over the world of Camerein,” the king said. “I say ‘apparently’ because the Commonwealth ship that was there simply vanished, as did two others that were later dispatched to the system, in sequence.”
“I know that, sir. There were Marines I knew on all of those ships.”
Henry nodded. “My brother George was having a spot of holiday on Camerein at the time, at the most isolated resort on the world. That fact has not been exactly a State Secret, but it is something that has not been bruited about.” He paused, and sat drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.
“Camerein has only minimal military value to either side. It has economic value, and political value, but its population has always been rather small and there have simplybeen too many other worlds that required our attention more urgently. But the time has finally come for us to fully contest Camerein. That is where the 2nd Regiment will be heading.”
“Yes, sir.” David nodded hesitantly. There was obviously more. He had to wait through another long pause, though.
“We have had absolutely no news from Camerein since the start of the war. We lost three ships there early and, since then, we have thought it safer—more prudent—to avoid sending other ships until such time as it became possible to send sufficient forces to take care of whatever may be waiting for us.” This time, King Henry paused for only a beat.
“Your commando will be going in ahead of the rest of your regiment, but not on the type of mission you might normally be given. Instead, you are to infiltrate a part of Camerein that is one hundred eighty degrees removed from where the main invasion will take place. Your target is a hotel, the Commonwealth Excelsior.”
“That is where your brother was, sir?” The question came out very timidly.
Henry nodded. “Since we have had no news from Camerein, we cannot know whether George is alive or dead, captured or simply marooned in the middle of a continent-wide jungle. We suspect that if the Federation had captured him, or knew that he had been killed, we would have had some word long before now. That leads us to believe, to hope, that he has merely been stranded for these last seven years, along with the others who were at that hotel when the war started.”
“You want us to find him and bring him out?”
“Yes, if he is alive. And if he is dead, or has been captured, we would like to know the details, if possible. If there are people who have been stuck in that jungle for seven years, we want them all rescued. This is not entirely for one man, no matter who he might he.”
“We’ll do our best, Your Majesty.”
“That is all anyone can ask, Lieutenant, and that is why I specifically requested that your lot draw the assignment.”
The king opened a drawer in the table and took out a thin portfolio. The royal crest was on the front of the dark blue case. Henry opened the portfolio and looked at the document inside for perhaps thirty seconds. Then he nodded, closed the case, and handed it to Spencer. David took the case and stared at it, uncertain what he was supposed to do.
“Go ahead, open it,” the king said. “It concerns you directly.” His smile was subdued.
David opened the portfolio and looked at the top paper. He started to read but did not get through to the end. “I’ve been promoted to captain, sir?”
The king’s smile grew. “Effective today, Captain Spencer. When I first proposed to entrust this mission to you, one of my advisors suggested that it would be improper to send a lieutenant to do the job. Before I assigned that advisor to, ah, less demanding, duties, I decided that perhaps others might feel the same way. In any event, your record certainly shows that you deserve this promotion. May God go with you.”
The audience was clearly at an end. Spencer stood, bowed, took one step backward, then turned and headed for the door.
David was scarcely aware of the long trek back to the door on the west side of the palace. He followed Harold, staying close to the scarlet coat. That took only minimal attention. The rest remained focused on what the king had said, and on the implications that David could foresee. As much as the coming campaign, though, he thought about the document he was carrying under his left arm. That was the greatest shock of the morning.
When his hat and gloves were returned, David nodded absently and said something along the lines of “Thank you,” but he was still barely aware of what was going onaround him. The staff car was waiting. The driver got out and opened the rear door.
“You look as if you’re half the galaxy away, sir,” the naval rating said once both were in the floater.
David blinked several times and looked around, almost surprised to find himself out of the palace. “You may be nearer right than you imagine, lad,” he said, trying to pull his thoughts closer to where he was.
The drive back to the Combined Space Forces base at the edge of the Cheapside district of Westminster took a half hour. Spencer did his best to put the king’s comments completely out of mind for the duration of the ride. He stared out the side window, watching the passing scenery, buildings, and people.
It had taken a long time, but the war had finally changed daily life in the capital. At every corner, and on every advertising column, there were warnings and instructions—where civilians should go and what they should do in case of enemy attack. Constables of the Metropolitan Police had taken extensive training in emergency procedures. Units of the Buckingham Home Defense Force, a military reserve, took turns at one-month tours of active duty to provide additional manpower in the cities. There had been at least three Federation incursions into Buckingham’s near space, but none of those raids had managed to strike at the world itself. The navy had intercepted the attackers and either destroyed them or chased them away first.
Two other core worlds of the Second Commonwealth had not been so lucky. Lorenzo had been attacked successfully from space twice, the target for hundreds of missiles. Those raids had left considerable damage and thousands of civilian casualties. And Coventry had suffered from a Federation invasion and occupation.
There were two separate ID checks before David got to the barracks area of the Marine 2nd Regiment. Each time, the guards took ID chips from both David and his driver and ran them through their scanners. David no longer gave that security a second thought. It had been going on for so long that he would have been shocked by its absence.
“Thanks for the ride, lad,” David said before he closed the floater door outside regimental headquarters.
“Any time, sir.”
Spencer climbed the short ramp to the building’s entrance. The door opened automatically. David would have preferred to head straight to his quarters to get out of the formal dress uniform, but his instructions were to report to the regimental commander immediately upon his return from the palace.
Regimental Sergeant Major Alan Dockery was at his desk in the colonel’s outer office. Dockery got
up as soon as he saw Spencer. “I see you made it back in one piece, sir.” The two had been friends since both were junior noncommissioned officers, David a corporal and Alan a new sergeant.
“I may look in one piece, Alan, but …” David shook his head and handed the blue velvet portfolio to the sergeant major.
Dockery did not have shock to slow his reading of the order. He grinned as he closed the case and handed it back. “Congratulations, Captain Spencer.” He drew himself to stiff attention, clicking his heels noisily, and saluted crisply.
“Stuff that malarkey, Alan.” There was a note of pleading in David’s voice. “This morning already has me wondering if I’m one step from Bedlam and physical restraints.”
Dockery laughed. “That’ll teach you to go hobnobbing with the toffs.”
“The colonel wanted to see me.”
Alan came around the desk. “I know, and I’ve been remiss in my duties not getting you in there straightaway.”
The sergeant major knocked at the colonel’s door but did not wait for acknowledgment. “Captain Spencer back from the palace, sir,” he said.
“Send him in.”
Dockery held the door, then closed it behind Spencer.
“Come in, David. Have a seat.” Colonel Zacharia hadtaken command of the regiment when its previous commander made brigadier. Before that, Zacharia had been commander of 1st Battalion. As David sat, the colonel cleared his throat noisily. “It sets a poor example for the lads when an officer is out of uniform, Captain.”
David glanced at the lieutenant’s insignia on his shoulder. “I haven’t had a chance, sir. I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet, if you know what I mean.”
The stern look on the colonel’s face slid into a grin. “Sorry, David. I wasn’t permitted to give you any warning.”
“You knew what was coming?”
“I knew that His Majesty planned to present you with your promotion. And I suppose that I know at least some of what he must have said to you about what’s up for the regiment, and what your lot is being sent in to do.”
“Yes, sir. What but not when. How much time do we have before we’re off out?”
Zacharia leaned back and rotated the chair to look through the one window in his office. “If you’ve made plans for this evening, you’ll miss them,” he said after a moment. “I want your shuttles off the ground by 1600 hours.”
Spencer glanced at the clock. “That doesn’t give us much time to get ready. Less than four hours.”
“The 2nd Commando Detachment was alerted while you were off larking at the palace. By the time you get back from the officers’ mess, your people should be just about ready to go.”
“I really ought to go to them straightaway, sir.”
“You’ll do better at the officers’ mess. It’s the only chance I’m going to have to give you a bit of a briefing before you start to wade through the written orders for the mission.”
“Yes, sir” was the only acceptable answer.
“By the bye …” Zacharia opened his desk drawer andmade a show of rummaging around in it. But the small box he took out had come immediately to hand. “You’d best slip these on in place of those pips you’re wearing before we go.”
3
The commando detachment of the 2nd Regiment consisted of two platoons, each with a lieutenant as platoon leader and thirty-two other ranks. Ten other men were assigned to the headquarters squad. Every clerk was a fully qualified commando first. Every Marine in the unit was a combat veteran and a graduate of the commando training school. And every man in the unit had volunteered for the duty.
News of David Spencer’s promotion had preceded him. The sign next to the door leading to the detachment’s offices already had his new rank painted over the old. Lead Sergeant Mitchel Naughton had come from 3rd Battalion. He got to his feet as soon as Spencer entered the office.
“The lads will be ready for embarkation forty-five minutes before the lorries are due to take us to the landing field, sir,” he said.
“Did Colonel Zacharia give you any details about the mission?” David crossed to his private office. Naughton followed.
“Not a clue,” Naughton said after he closed the door behind them. “By the way, sir, congratulations on the promotion.”
“It seems everyone in the regiment knew about it before I did. Sit down, Mitch. I’ll give you a quick summary. Thisis Most Secret until we’re aboard ship and well on our way.”
“Aye, sir. Hush-hush.” Naughton waited until Spencer was seated before he sat.
David needed only two minutes to lay out the essentials. “I won’t know more myself until I receive our operational orders. We’re going in ahead of the rest of the regiment, and we’ll be on the opposite side of the world. A real commando operation, not any of the old I&R drill. We go in, stay hidden, reach this hotel in the middle of nowhere, find what we’re there for, and get back out.”
“If there’s nothing else on that side of the world, we shouldn’t have much trouble, should we?”
“That is my sincere hope, Mitch, but nothing ever goes that easy for us, does it?”
“Not often enough to suit me, sir.”
“Has the orders packet come through from regiment yet?”
“No, sir, but the alert I had said that the packet would arrive shortly after you returned.”
“Get my driver to run me over to officer quarters. I need to pick up a few things to add to my kit here.”
“He’s standing by. And I inspected your kit myself to make certain that you weren’t missing anything.”
“Thank you. Pass the word to let the men relax once they’ve got their kit in order for movement. I’m not about to pull an inspection on them. Their platoon sergeants will have done a better job than I could. I might have a few words for the men when we muster for the ride to the landing field. And tell the platoon leaders that I’ll want a few minutes with them as soon as I return with my gear.”
Lieutenant Anthony Hopewell led first platoon. Lieutenant Jonathan McBride had second. Neither was much more than half Spencer’s age. They were reserve officers, products of the Royal Marine Reserve Officer Training Academy—six months from private to lieutenant, a wartimeinnovation. Each had seen combat before and after the Academy.
At a distance, it might have been hard to distinguish between the two. Each was near six feet two inches in height, muscular, athletic. Hopewell’s hair was a slightly darker brown, the color of his eyes. McBride had green eyes and a slightly fuller face. The two were waiting in their commander’s office when he returned. A sealed orders packet was sitting in the middle of Spencer’s desk. Hopewell and McBride had been staring at it while they waited.
“Sit down,” David said after a round of congratulations on his promotion. He went behind his desk and read the brief instructions on the cover of the orders packet.
“It says that the orders are not to be opened until we make our first jump to Q-space,” David said, though he was certain that the lieutenants would have read that much in his absence.
“Do you have any clue where we’re going?” Hopewell asked.
David sat. “More than a clue. I’ll give you what I know now. Until we get to the point where I open this orders packet, though, none of this goes beyond this room. Don’t even discuss it between you after you leave here. Understood?”
They nodded, and David gave them the same briefing he had given Lead Sergeant Naughton.
“That is straight from His Majesty,” David said. “Then, to soften the blow, he gave me these.” He gestured at the captain’s insignia on his shoulder. “My guess is that he does not expect this to be a simple walk in the woods.”
“How much in advance of the regiment do we go in?” McBride asked.
David shook his head. “I don’t know. I presume that information will be in there.” He pointed at the orders packet.
Then he opened the lower drawer on the side of his desk, pulled out a bottle and a stack of glasses. T
his had become something of a ritual among the three prior to leaving ona mission—and on returning. The bottle contained a single malt scotch whiskey. David poured three generous portions, and all three men stood.
“To success and a safe return.” David lifted his glass to the others. They touched glasses, then each emptied his drink.
“We’ll form the men for movement at 1515 hours. The lorries should be here to carry us to the landing field within minutes after that,” David said.
Commando shuttles were not the standard infantry version. They were smaller, converted from other uses, supposedly as an interim measure while a totally new design was being constructed. Each commando shuttle could hold forty men with weapons, field packs, and stores to last twelve days in the field (according to quartermaster corps estimates of what “normal” usage should be in combat situations). The entire detachment could—with a little squeezing—have fit into a single standard infantry lander. But that would have put the entire commando at risk of a single enemy hit. With the men split between two shuttles, by platoons, there was a better chance that at least half of the detachment would reach the ground safely, and be operational.
Captain Spencer rode in one shuttle. Lead Sergeant Naughton rode in the other. Half of HQ squad rode with each. The additional supplies were also divided evenly, matching loads.
Since the 2nd Commando was being inserted on an enemy-held world separately from the rest of the regiment, it would not make the journey aboard HMS Victoria. Instead, it traveled aboard HMS Avon, one of several auxiliary frigates that had been modified for the purpose. Those ships carried significantly less firepower than other frigates to allow room for a commando detachment and its shuttles. Even so, it meant cramped quarters, especially for men accustomed to the more spacious accommodations aboard Victoria and other ships of her class.
“It’s a good job these trips only take a day or two nowadays,” Platoon Sergeant Alfie Edwards said while he and the other platoon sergeant, Will Cordamon, were trying to fit their gear under the bunks in the tiny cabin they shared. The two were the only noncoms in the detachment left over from the days when it had been 1st Battalion’s I&R platoon. They had been promoted and become part of the core of the cadre for the new unit. “Sometimes I think this cabin is smaller than a foxhole.”