by Grant, Peter
“That’s a nasty suspicious attitude, but I entirely approve of it. Oh, well, we’ve at least done all we can to be ready for any attack.”
“Yes, Sir.”
The pilot changed the channel on the aircar’s radio. “Laredo Six Alpha to Arena, over.”
“Arena to Laredo Six Alpha, go ahead, over.”
“Six Alpha to Arena, approaching VIP parking area bearing from me zero-one-fiver degrees, range from me two point zero clicks, squawking transponder ID zero-niner-three-one, over.”
“Arena to Six Alpha, we have you on our plot. Come ahead. Over.”
“Six Alpha to Arena, thank you, out.”
Yazata couldn’t help but compare the crisp professionalism of the career soldiers surrounding General Huvishka with the slackness of those she’d encountered in many conscript units – even among the black-uniformed minions of the Security Service. She shook her head in dismay. If I ever get to command a unit, she thought to herself, no matter what it may be, I’ve got a new standard for which to strive and against which to compare it.
The pilot brought the aircar slowly down towards the huge paved parking area outside the arena. It was mostly bare of vehicles this morning, but there were a hundred painted symbols evenly spaced across the plascrete where the shuttles would land after the flypast. The VIP entrance to the arena had been roped off, as had a special parking area beside it. A company of heavily armed troops provided security. Several of them doubled towards the spot where the aircar would land, forming a hasty honor guard.
The aircar touched down, rocking gently on its undercarriage, and the pilot cut the fans. As their hum died away the General, Captain Dehgahn and Lieutenant Yazata released their harnesses and climbed out. The bodyguard did likewise, but the General shook his head as he looked at him.
“Sorry, Staff Sergeant. The Satrap’s Head of Security has ordered that no personnel with loaded weapons may be present inside the arena, except his own bodyguards. You’ll have to wait with the pilot for us.”
The man frowned with professional disapproval, but said only “Yes, Sir,” as he got back into the car.
General Huvishka returned the salute of the officer in command of the hastily-formed honor guard. “Good morning, Lieutenant. Is everything as it should be out here?”
“Yes, Sir. Nothing to report. If you’d care for breakfast, Sir, we’ve set up a field kitchen adjacent to the parade control center in the commentary box. There’s still ten minutes before the first parade units arrive.” As he spoke, the pilot drove the aircar away towards the secure parking area next to the entrance.
“Oh, really? Enterprising of someone to think of ferrying a field kitchen all the way up there. It surely didn’t fit into the elevator or up the stairs, though.”
“They flew it up slung beneath an assault shuttle by tractor beams, Sir.”
“Ah. Yes. Logical, really, when you think about it. They couldn’t have done it any other way.” He glanced at the others. “I find myself suddenly hungry. Care to join me?” Their smiles were sufficient answer. “Come along, then. We’ll have something sent down to my pilot and bodyguard.”
~ ~ ~
LAREDO ORBITALS
Tamsin glanced at her console. “We’re at orbital altitude – thirty thousand kilometers.”
“Thank you,” Dave acknowledged. “Isn’t that a bit high for geostationary orbit?”
“It is for a ballistic orbit, but we’re in a powered orbit. So are the spaceships out there, and the space station too, for that matter. If you’re using a gravitic drive to maintain your orbital trajectory, it can be at almost any altitude and any velocity.”
“Makes sense. Are we in line-of-sight with Benbecula yet?”
“Yes. We can set up a tight-beam anytime.”
“All right.” He twisted around in his seat. “Marvin, would you come up here and take the spare seat at the WSO’s console, please?”
“Will do.” Marvin unbuckled his harness, rose from his place among the troops in the cargo area, and walked forward, holding his spacesuit’s helmet under one arm. “I was expecting to have to float there, but I see you’ve still got your artificial gravity field operating.”
“Oh, yes,” Tamsin assured him, grinning. “There’s no point in free-fall unless you have to for some reason.”
He slid into the seat next to the WSO. “What now?”
“I’m about to lock a tight-beam onto Benbecula. I want you to tell her captain we’re coming.”
“Can do. I’d better tell him it’s me, then transfer him to Dave for further instructions.”
Tamsin raised a tight-beam turret from the roof of the shuttle and trained it on the distant icon that was Benbecula in their small plot display. She took extreme care over its alignment to ensure that no spillover from the transmission would be heard by the Bactrian warships nearby. At last she glanced at Dave. “We’re ready.”
“Go for it.”
She pressed a key on her console. A red light flashed, indicating that the tight-beam transmitter was sending a signal to Benbecula. Dave knew that broadband receivers on the ship would note its presence and identify it as a tight-beam transmission. The ship’s communications computer would automatically slew a tight-beam dish onto the bearing to receive further input and transmit replies.
In less than a minute the red flashing light changed to a steady green, indicating that the circuit had been established. “Go ahead, Marvin,” Tamsin advised.
“Thank you.” He keyed the handset he’d picked up from the console. As he did so Tamsin pressed a button to relay the conversation through the console speaker.
“This is Fur Trader calling Benbecula on tight-beam transmission, over.”
A moment’s pause, then, “This is Benbecula, Officer of the Watch speaking. Say again your name, please. Over.”
“Benbecula, this is Fur Trader. Please advise Captain Grassby that I’m calling. He’s expecting to hear from me. Over.”
“Benbecula to Fur Trader, stand by.”
They waited almost five minutes before they heard, “Benbecula to Fur Trader, Grassby here. Go ahead. Over.”
“Hi, Tom, this is Manuel. How are things with you? Over.”
“Not so hot. We’ve been stuck here in orbit for three days, and they tell us it’ll be three days more before we can leave. They won’t even let you board us until then, so we’re stuck twiddling our thumbs. What are you up to? Over.”
“I’ll be coming aboard a lot sooner than that. In fact, you might want to bring all your systems to readiness for departure real soon now. I’m going to put someone on the circuit to explain more. Stand by.” He looked across at Dave. “Take it.”
“Got it, thanks.” Dave toggled his own microphone. “Captain Grassby, this is Captain David Carson of the Laredo Army. We’re on our way to rendezvous with you, but there’s going to be a lot of shouting and tumult before we reach you. We’ve got to take care of those Bactrian warships, to ensure you can make your getaway without any problems. Remain in your present position relative to the space station. Do not, I say again, do not depart from it until we’ve boarded you. That applies even if you’re ordered to do so. Don’t move without my clearance. Any deviation might get you a missile right up your butt, and we wouldn’t want that. Over.”
“B – but this is preposterous! Where are you? You’re not on our plot! Over.”
“No, we’re not, and we won’t be until this thing goes down. Don’t bring up your radar to look for us and don’t ask any more questions – I don’t want to risk the Bactrians picking up any leakage from this tight-beam circuit. Just come to readiness for departure, then wait. Nothing’s going to happen for a few hours. You’ll know when we arrive – you won’t be able to miss it. We’ll board you shortly after that, and take it from there. Acknowledge. Over.”
“I… Grassby to Carson, acknowledged. I hope you know what the hell you’re doing! Over.”
“Carson to Grassby, so do I. I’m going to take dow
n this tight-beam circuit now. Carson out.”
He released the microphone switch. “Did that sound like your friend, Marvin – or should I say Manuel?”
Marvin/Manuel smiled. “Yes, that was him. I told you Marvin Ellis wasn’t my real name. I suppose you may as well know who I am now. I’m Manuel Espada.”
“And I’m just the same old lovable Dave I’ve always been.” Tamsin snorted disdainfully, grinning, but made no comment as he looked around at the others. “All right, let’s relax and get some food. Everyone take another stim-tab while you’re at it. It’s been a long night, and the main attraction’s still a few hours away.”
March 31st 2850 GSC, 08:00
DEL MAR PASS
The pilot turned her head and called over her shoulder, “The Pass is right ahead, Sir, and it looks like some of the others are here already.”
Brigadier-General Allred gently shook his wife. “I’ve got to get up, Gloria.” She stirred drowsily from where she leaned against him and lifted her head from his shoulder, blinking for a moment before she nodded and straightened in her seat.
He unfastened his four-point harness, stood and walked to behind the pilot’s console, bending to peer through the viewscreen. The bright morning light showed the towering peaks of the Sierra Madre mountain range looming up ahead, gashed by the sheer walls of the Del Mar Pass as it twisted and turned its way between them. A big white radome gleamed atop the highest summit in the range, and he indicated it with his hand. “Has that thing picked us up?”
“It must have, Sir, but no alarm’s been sounded that we can detect. Our transponder codes are being acknowledged without any fuss.”
Allred exhaled, feeling some of the tension leave his body. “Looks like Lieutenant-Colonel Carson and his people have done their job – the first part of it, anyway. Where are the others?”
“Look at the base of the pass, Sir. There are four shuttles down already, with two more circling to join them.”
The General peered ahead. “They’re just tiny specks to me – I’m not wearing a helmet, so I don’t have distance vision capability.”
“We’ll be there soon enough, Sir.”
Within ten minutes the shuttle seemed to jump slightly in mid-air as the pilot hovered low over a cleared area at the foot of the pass and released the underslung ordnance pod. She left it lying on the ground as she moved the vehicle slightly to one side and lowered its undercarriage. The gel-filled wheels bounced lightly as they settled onto the ground. A crowd of uniformed onlookers turned their backs to protect themselves from flying dust, twigs and gravel, then turned back and advanced towards the new arrivals, grinning. Allred walked down the rear ramp of his shuttle to greet them, followed by the fifteen troops aboard.
“Welcome to sunny Del Mar Pass, Sir,” Lieutenant-Colonel Yardley said cheerfully, saluting. “We’ve got the fire going to boil water for coffee.”
“But our shuttles can provide hot water internally,” the General pointed out as he returned the salute.
“Well, Sir, if this is to be our swan song, I’d like to smell burning sangar wood for the last time.”
“I can’t argue with you. It’s a lovely smell, and it seems to make coffee taste better too. How are you feeling?”
“I’m glad I’m flying to my last battle rather than having to walk. The Bactrians took all the starch out of my legs – I wouldn’t make it more than a couple of kilometers on foot.”
“Make sure you get back to the shuttle to make your escape, or borrow another vehicle from the enemy.” He looked around at the eight hulking shuttles now settled on the ground. “Just two more to come.”
“Yes. The four shuttles from Caristo – two newly captured plus our two old ones that they refueled and rearmed – got here first. We arrived from Benito a little while later, a few minutes ahead of you. There’s just the two from Ligarda still to come; and if that rumble in the distance is anything to go by, they aren’t far out.”
“Reaction thrusters are noisy things, aren’t they?”
Yardley shrugged. “Atmosphere’s too thick low down to use gravitic drives, so we don’t have much choice. I pity those poor bastards on parade in the arena this morning. Having eighty shuttles flying low and slow overhead – ninety including us – will be enough to deafen them.”
“We’ll just have to make sure they don’t suffer for long.” They grinned at each other.
They were drinking fire-percolated coffee and eating breakfast by the time the last two shuttles touched down. Bantered greetings flew between the shuttle crews as the new arrivals hastened to fill their cups. The tension in the air was something palpable, but different to what he’d felt before other operations, the General realized. It was still the same pre-combat nerves, but now overlaid with a sense of resignation, an awareness of mortality, a determination to make this one count. As he walked to where an NCO was taping a chart to the side of his shuttle, soldiers on all sides called greetings, offered gentle jibes, raised their mugs of coffee in informal salutes. His heart swelled, aching with pride in these men and women who had served so long and so faithfully.
The troops gathered around as he turned to face them. “The late garrison at Calinda was kind enough to leave this chart on the wall of their briefing room. It confirms all we learned from the Security Service Colonel that Captain Carson shot in the Matopo Hills, and provides some useful last-minute updates. For example, the altitude of the fly-past has been increased from two to three hundred meters, presumably because of the immense noise made by so many shuttles traveling so close together and so slowly. That couldn’t be better as far as we’re concerned. It makes the enemy’s shuttles better targets for the missiles we’re going to launch at them.
“We’ve been monitoring Bactrian frequencies ever since we took off. No-one’s raised the alarm and there’s no sign that the enemy knows anything’s wrong. Niven’s Regiment has clearly succeeded in penetrating the old Traffic Control building and inserting our transponder codes into the computer system. It won’t show us on any TrafCon displays – we’re effectively imitating holes in the air as far as they’re concerned. Even better, the special transponder codes Trafcon is issuing to Bactrian forces for the Satrap’s visit all begin with zero-eight or zero-nine. Pilots and Weapons Systems Operators, update your targeting systems accordingly. When the balloon goes up, if you identify any airborne vehicle using those transponder codes, kill it!” His audience grinned, making rude remarks about the fate of any enemy personnel aboard.
“I remind you that the Bactrians have placed all missiles and plasma cannon in the security zone under the control of TrafCon for this parade. Therefore, we’re going to hang back and let Lieutenant-Colonel Carson’s people do their thing. After they’ve thoroughly disrupted proceedings, we’ll overfly the arena and the grounds in our prearranged formation. It’s spaced so as to cover everything with a mix of fragmentation bombs, to kill as many as possible of the five thousand troops on parade, plus sensor fused munitions to destroy as many vehicles as possible, including any surviving shuttles, weapons systems and ground transport.” There were more approving noises from the assembled troops.
Allred waited for silence. “Once we’ve overflown the arena, we’ll split up. Assault Force Arena will follow me down, using our plasma cannon to clear our path, then we’ll dismount and go after the Satrap if he’s managed to escape the initial strike. We want to make absolutely sure he and his son are dead. Assault Force Banka’s shuttles will drop their troops at the prearranged rendezvous points, then assist them with their missiles and plasma cannon. Watch for Bactrian forces to begin leaving your targets for the arena, trying to rescue the Satrap. Delay them as long as you can.”
He looked around. “Getting away afterwards will be very tricky. Those of us who can board shuttles will make our escape in them, but we don’t know how many will be available. Some will be able to commandeer vehicles and make a run for it. Others will have to hide from enemy reinforcements as they rush to the
sites we attack, then try to get away once they’ve passed. We know many of us won’t make it. I can only say to you that the greatest privilege of my life has been to command men and women like you over the past three and a half years. You’ve done your planet and your people proud. If this is the last day of my life, I couldn’t ask for better company with whom to cross the river.”
A ramrod-straight, iron-haired Sergeant-Major called, “General, Sir, there’s one unexpected advantage to this possibly being our last mission.”
“Oh? What’s that, Sergeant-Major O’Connor?”
“I won’t have to eat any more of these bloody Bactrian ration packs!” There was a roar of laughter and a spatter of applause.
Shoulders shaking, Allred looked at his watch. “All right, people. Mount up, strap in and get ready. We lift at nine for the last leg.”
~ ~ ~
TAPURIA: OLD TRAFFIC CONTROL CENTER
Jake eased his way into the crowded branch tunnel leading to the main service tunnel. Two technicians and four of his troops were completing their tasks. He watched from behind them as two soldiers ran a ring-main between the multiple loops of detonating cord wrapped around the bundle of cables running from the computer center out towards the service tunnel. As soon as they’d finished they moved back towards Jake, running out a wire from the detonators behind them. He backed into the basement to make room for them. They eased past him, then waited for two more soldiers to join them. They’d passed multiple loops of det-cord around every conduit, pipe and cable run in the main service tunnel, whether or not they knew their purpose. When the loops blew they’d take two-meter bites out of everything. Anything dependent on those wires and cables for data or power would shut down at once.
The other two made their way along the branch tunnel to the basement, unreeling their own wire behind them. They bent over the wires from both sets of detonators, splicing the ends together before connecting them to the terminals of a firing handle. Straightening, they double-checked that the safety lock was engaged, then set the handle on a table. The senior among them turned to Jake. “The cord’s got enough slack to carry it out into the corridor behind, us, Sir,” he said. “Just close the door behind you, get clear of the dividing wall, disengage the lock and press the plunger. You’ll cut every circuit in the tunnel.”