A fruitless search under uncomfortable conditions, Griffin thought, wasn’t going to do any good for morale. But orders were orders, and there was nothing to do but go on.
The radio in the ’Mech’s cockpit crackled. A moment later, a voice came through on one of the secure channels.
“Command, this is Balac Two.”
“Go ahead, Balac Two,” Griffin replied.
“I have an aircraft on visual.”
Griffin felt a stirring of excitement. Were the task force’s long hours of heat and discomfort finally about to pay off? A man could always hope.
“Do you have an ID on the aircraft?” he asked.
“I make it a Donar Assault Helicopter.”
The Donar was a known Steel Wolf unit. Even better, the identification matched with the aircraft the boy had described the night before. Thank you, youngster, Griffin thought. I think we’ve got a hit.
Aloud, he said, “Good work, Balac Two. Have you been spotted?”
“I don’t think so. Looks like he’s doing a routine patrol.”
“Any sight of something that might be a DropShip?”
“That’s a negative. No DropShips.”
“The Wolf has to have come from somewhere. Stick with him, Balac Two; see if you can follow him home.”
“Yes, sir. Balac Two out.”
Brigadier General Michael Griffin was happy. Outside the cockpit of the ’Mech, all he could see was deep blue water out to the horizon on his right hand, and grassy brown sand hills out to the horizon on his left, and the rutted dirt track that was the grandly named Kearney Coastal Highway stretching out ahead. But somewhere beyond all that, at last, lay the object of the past several days’ tedious search—the hiding place of Anastasia Kerensky’s DropShips.
He raised his aide-de-camp Lieutenant Jones on the command circuit. “Balac Two’s spotted our Wolf.”
“High time,” said Jones. “Shall I put the troops on alert?”
“Continue reconnaissance here on the ground, but have them ready. There’s no guarantee the Wolf won’t come after Balac Two and bring his buddies with him.”
Time passed. Griffin sweated, from tension as much as from the heat of the ’Mech’s cockpit. The only thing moving within his field of vision that wasn’t the Highlanders themselves was something four-legged and reptilian throwing up a flurry of sand off next to the road. Griffin, native to the Kearney coastline, recognized the signs of a scaley-bogle going after slower-moving prey.
Good for him, Griffin thought. He’s going to eat tonight.
The radio crackled again. “Command, this is Balac One.”
Balac One was the VTOL taking the seaward leg today, while Balac Two did the landward search. “Go ahead, Balac One.”
“I have Balfour-Douglas Petrochemicals Offshore Drilling Station Number Forty-seven on the horizon.”
“Any sight of the DropShips, Balac One?”
“Negative, sir. No DropShips in sight.”
“Give Balfour-Douglas a flyover, see if you can raise them. Maybe they’ve noticed something that we haven’t.”
“Yes, sir. Heading toward Balfour-Douglas now—wait a minute. Sir, I have Balac Two and the Wolf both on visual, heading this way.”
Quickly, Griffin opened a second circuit. “Balac Two, this is Command. Have you been spotted?”
“Negative. Looks like our buddy’s in a hurry to get home.”
Griffin frowned. The Wolf was heading out to sea, toward Balac One and away from the landward-searching Balac Two. Not the direction he’d have expected for a VTOL returning to base, not unless—“Damn,” he said under his breath, and keyed both of the secure circuits back open.
“Balac One, Balac Two—he’ll be heading for the VTOL pad on that Balfour-Douglas rig. Shadow him—don’t let him spot you—see what’s up out there and report back to me.”
Anastasia Kerensky’s on-planet field headquarters, close enough to be vulnerable to a quick strike out of Fort Barrett—General Griffin was already juggling troop numbers and battle scenarios in his head as he made ready to pass the word along to his aide.
We haven’t yet found the DropShips, he thought happily, but maybe we’ve found the next best thing.
29
Balfour-Douglas Petrochemicals Offshore Drilling Station #47
Oilfields Coast
Northwind
February 3134; dry season
Ian Murchison stood looking out across the water toward the Kearney coast. It wasn’t his usual hour for spending time on #47’s observation deck—bright noon, with sunlight dazzling off blue water and a breeze blowing off the land, and the scavenging sea-birds wheeling and calling overhead—but this was not, even in his current circumstances, one of his usual days.
The strangeness had begun with a summons from Galaxy Commander Anastasia Kerensky, bringing him post-haste from sickbay up to her quarters, where the body of Star Colonel Nicholas Darwin lay sprawled across the wide bed in a welter of blood. Anastasia Kerensky stood nearby, a silent presence in black leather.
Murchison checked the body for breathing and pulse, and found neither. Darwin’s throat had been cut brutally and efficiently, with his arms trapped in his clothing to give him no chance for resistance. “He’s past anything I can do for him.”
Anastasia said, “That was the general idea.”
“What happened?”
“You were right.”
He suppressed the urge to say that he was sorry. The Galaxy Commander had the look, at the moment, of someone who would kill the first person who expressed sympathy. Instead, he asked, “What do you need me to do, then?”
“Help me get him outside and up to the observation deck. I want to make it crystal-clear what happens to people who think they can sell out the Steel Wolves.”
Why me? Murchison wanted to ask, but he knew better.
He had already figured out that his relationship with Anastasia Kerensky, as her personal Bondsman, possessed levels of complexity that—as one not raised in the Clan culture—he could not truly understand. This was apparently one of those levels. Beyond that, however, he had pointed Anastasia’s suspicions in Nicholas Darwin’s way to start with; and he could not help but feel that the act made him, in some way, complicit in Darwin’s death. It was fitting, therefore, that he be involved in the sticky aftermath.
He considered the technical aspects of the problem. At least no one was trying to hide the body . . . “The easiest way is probably to roll him up in the bedsheets and carry him out between us. Those sheets are going to be a write-off anyhow. And the mattress.”
“There are other beds to sleep in,” she said curtly. “Wrap him up.”
Together, they heaved the body and the sheets off the bed and rolled them up into an ugly bloodstained sausage of flesh and blood-soaked fabric. Murchison had pulled on a pair of latex examining gloves by habit when he first approached Darwin’s body—he carried them in his belt pouch along with shears and a screwdriver, much as Kerensky and her Wolves habitually carried knives—but Anastasia worked barehanded. It made sense, he thought; there was already blood on her hands.
He took one end of the finished bundle, and Anastasia the other. In death, Darwin made a limp, ungainly weight. They didn’t need to go far to get to the observation deck—down the corridor, down the cross-corridor, into the elevator, up and out—but it was too great a distance to cover unnoticed. They only encountered one person along the way, another from the general forgettable mass of Steel Wolf Warriors, who said nothing while watching them, avid-eyed—but by the time they emerged with their burden onto the observation platform, a small crowd already stood waiting.
Anastasia Kerensky was full of a magnificent disregard. Murchison, for his part, was grateful that nobody expected a Bondsman to explain anything. She let her end of the Darwin-bundle fall to the platform’s surface with a muffled thud, and he lowered his a bit more gently.
“Rope,” she said. “Or chain, it doesn’t matter.”
Murchison didn’t ask questions. He went in search of rope and left Anastasia standing over Nicholas Darwin’s sheet-wrapped body, with the wind off the land whipping her red-black hair back from her face like a bloodstained sable banner. More Warriors had gathered on the observation platform. Gossip moved as fast with the Steel Wolves as it did with anyone else, and by now every soul on the rig probably knew that something had happened.
Nobody said anything to Murchison. He was the Galaxy Commander’s Bondsman, after all, and what he did was her business and not theirs.
He found the rope—a coil of nylon line hanging from a hook next to one of the emergency lifesaving stations—and brought it back to Anastasia. As he came up to her, she bent down, grabbed the edge of the sheet in both hands and jerked. Darwin’s body rolled out onto the deck.
“Tie it around his feet,” she said.
Her voice wasn’t particularly loud, but it rang out in the silence like a bell. The Steel Wolves on the observation deck weren’t watching or listening to anything else but her, and she was paying them no attention at all. Murchison squatted down next to the body and worked with the nylon line until he had a snug loop fitted around Darwin’s ankles. He stood up again and waited, holding the coil of line in his hand.
Anastasia said, “Make the other end fast to the rail.”
Her voice never changed, her face remained an impassive mask, and there was blood drying red and sticky on her hands. Murchison was torn between cold-to-the-bone fear of her very presence and a reluctant admiration. God only knew, he thought, what her Wolves felt at the sight of her.
He tied the other end of the line to the top bar of the safety railing that surrounded the observation platform, and stepped back.
“Good,” she said. She stooped then, knees bent, and took Darwin’s body under the armpits. “Get his feet.”
Murchison obeyed. He didn’t need to be told anything further—they both rose, lifting Darwin’s body up with them, and the change of direction in her gaze was enough. They held Darwin between them, raised him shoulder-high to clear the railing, and threw him over. The line paid out, whistling, and snapped taut.
“No one sells out the Wolves and lives to spend the money they got for it,” said Anastasia Kerensky.
“No one.”
She stood at the rail, her back to her assembled Warriors, staring fixedly out to sea and gripping the rail in her bloodstained hands. There was a long silence. The Warriors were waiting for her order to disperse, and she wasn’t saying anything.
Then Murchison saw her eyes widen. She was looking at something now, not gazing blankly out at the landward horizon. He followed her gaze.
A dot. No, two dots, moving rapidly and growing larger, one of them following the other. Aircraft.
Anastasia Kerensky spoke. Her voice had a different tone to it now, the snap of action rather than the measured beat of judgment. “How many birds do we have up on patrol? Anybody?”
“One, Galaxy Commander,” a voice replied out of the watching crowd.
“Then we have been found. Pass the word to the VTOL pilot: Weapons free, eliminate pursuit if possible.” She swung away from the railing to face the assembled Wolves. “For a little while, we still have the element of surprise. Prepare to lift the DropShips and attack.”
30
South of Benderville
Oilfields Coast
Northwind
February 3134; dry season
Brigadier General Griffin’s task force continued southward in the reported direction of the Steel Wolf VTOL. The day continued eerily quiet, with nothing to look at but the sea and the grassy sand hills and the cloud of dust thrown up by the reconnaissance column. Despite the apparent calm, Griffin’s muscles were tight with worry and the need for action. He wanted to be fighting something, releasing his tension by putting the Koshi through moves designed to cause death and destruction, rather than continuing his steady pace forward while he listened to the running reports from Balacs One and Two.
“Command, this is Balac One. Our Wolf is definitely making for that oil rig. Balac Two is on his tail.”
Griffin keyed on the circuit. “Balac One, this is Command. Does the Wolf know Balac Two is on him?”
“That appears to be a negative . . . no. Damn. He’s putting on speed.”
“Command, this is Balac One. I’ve been spotted.”
“Stay with him, Balac One,” Griffin ordered. Thoughts passed through his head in a rush. There was a slim chance that the unidentified VTOL belonged to Balfour-Douglas—coming back from a supply run, maybe, or responding to a medical emergency—and that this was a false alarm. “Hail him and request identification.”
Even as he gave the order, he admitted to himself that he didn’t believe in the VTOL’s innocence. But learning that Anastasia Kerensky had possession of an offshore oil rig still wouldn’t give him an answer to the main question—where in hell were the Steel Wolves hiding their DropShips?
He raised his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Jones, on the command circuit. “Owain.”
“Sir?”
“Send a message to the CO back at Fort Barrett: ‘Possible enemy base sighted. Recommend you put all local forces on high alert.’ Put my name and codes on it; you know the drill.”
“Yes, sir.”
There. That was covered. Griffin went back to waiting and listening. The sweat that ran down his back and shoulders was not all from sitting in a ’Mech’s cockpit in the noonday heat.
The radio crackled. “Command, this is Balac One. The Wolf is not responding to hails.”
“Keep on him, Balac One. Balac Two, do you still have both units on visual?”
“That’s affirmative,” came the distant, tinny voice of the pilot of the second Balac. “The Wolf is still on course for the oil rig—no, wait, he’s turning.”
“Command, this is Balac One—the Wolf’s doubling back on me. Permission to engage?”
“Permission granted, Balac One.” Balacs mounted a single heavy machine gun and a pair of Advanced Tactical Missile three-packs. The armament loadout wasn’t meant for prolonged engagements—Balacs were cavalry, not artillery, meant to strike hard and get out fast—but this encounter wasn’t likely to be prolonged. “Balac Two, can you see what’s going on?”
“Affirmative, sir. Balac One is firing—it’s a clean miss—the Wolf is holding fire and maintaining course and speed toward Balac One—Balac One’s firing again. The Wolf’s hit!—but he’s still coming, he’s letting go with all his missiles at once, and Balac One’s been hit . . . Balac One is down . . . Permission to close the distance and engage, sir?”
Balac Two sounded hungry for action, wanting it badly—the pilot of Balac One had probably been a friend. Griffin knew how he felt. The knowledge wasn’t going to help.
“Permission denied, Balac Two—they have to know by now that we’re on to them. Turn around and get back here as fast as you can.”
“Yes, sir. Balac Two returning t—” The voice transmission ended in a burst of earsplitting cacophony.
“Balac Two?” Griffin tried the circuit again. “Balac Two?”
Nothing came through in response except the painful noise of fried or jammed comms. Resigned, already knowing in his heart what would happen, he tried first the command circuit—“Owain? Lieutenant Jones?”—and the general circuit, without success. “Damn.”
At least everybody can see me, he thought, and raised the Koshi’s massive arm in the visual signal for the column to halt. Then, moving stiffly—it had been a long tense morning and the day wasn’t over yet—he unstrapped from the cockpit’s command seat, stashed the neurohelmet, and made his way out and down the exit ladder to the sandy ground outside.
The stiff breeze chilled him at the same time as it blew white sand against his sweat-slicked arms and torso, coating him with a fine layer of grit. Lieutenant Jones was already waiting for him with water—over a gallon of it, in a collapsible plastic jug. Griffin poured half of the tepid water ove
r his head, neck, and arms, and began drinking the rest in long, thirsty swallows.
Jones said, “The bastards jammed us. Sir.”
“I know,” Griffin said, between pulls at the water jug. “At least it eliminates any doubt that these are the Wolves we’re dealing with.”
“Orders?”
“Keep the troops on alert, make ready to head back to Fort Barrett on my word. We don’t have what it takes to winkle Anastasia Kerensky out of an offshore hideout, but they do. And keep trying the comms; whatever trick the Wolves played isn’t going to last forever.”
After that, there was nothing to do for a while except drink more of the water and wait for Balac Two to make its appearance. Griffin knew that the column couldn’t remain halted indefinitely. At some point—and this was what the Regiment paid people like him for—he would have to make the call, decide that Balac Two had joined Balac One in the deep water off the Oilfields Coast, and march back north leaving what remained of the Balacs and their pilots behind.
Thinking about it later—but not much later—Griffin realized that Balac Two had made good time on the return flight. He’d barely begun to consider the various worst-case scenarios before the VTOL came screaming down into a cloud-of-dust landing on the dirt road ahead of the recon column.
The Balac’s cockpit opened and the pilot climbed out. General Griffin and Lieutenant Jones hurried to join him.
“Sir!” The pilot was panting—as much from nerves, Griffin judged, as from exertion. “Some sort of jamming burst—I couldn’t get through—”
“We know, son,” Griffin said. “All our comms are down hard as well. Any pursuit?”
“No, sir. I don’t think the Wolf spotted me.”
“Or he had other things on his mind.” Griffin frowned. If I were Anastasia Kerensky, he thought, and I’d just figured out that my secret base wasn’t so secret any more, what would I do? Put that way, it was easy. “She’s going to move up the schedule for the main attack.”
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