Shadow of Saganami

by David Weber

  He remembered it all, so clearly. Was it truly possible he'd perceived it all wrongly?

  No. Van Dort himself admitted Rembrandt had been committed to building its economy at everyone else's expense. But the reason for it . . . Was it possible he was also telling the truth about his reasons for it? And about the reasons he'd abandoned fifty T-years of consistent policy when another opportunity offered?

  And did it really matter why Van Dort had done what he'd done?

  "I expect I'll meet with them again, after all, Luis," he said, finally.

  "Figured you might, Boss," Palacios said, as if fifteen seconds and not fifteen minutes had passed between question and answer.

  He spat backy juice, and then the two of them sat silently once more, gazing out over the valley.

  * * *

  "He says he'll meet with you," Trevor Bannister said.

  "Under the same conditions?" Terekhov asked.

  "Well, it seems to've worked last time," Bannister said with a shrug. Then his expression changed, ever so slightly. "One thing, though. He seems pretty insistent that your midshipwoman—Ms. Zilwicki, was it?—come along again."

  "Ms. Zilwicki?" Almost unconsciously, Terekhov looked up from his com to where Helen sat side-by-side with Ragnhild Pavletic, watching Abigail Hearns demonstrate something at Tactical. Then he looked back at Bannister. "Did he say why?"

  "No, he didn't. Might be I could guess, but I expect you'd do better asking Van Dort." Bannister paused, then continued grudgingly. "One thing I can tell you, though. If he's asking you to bring Ms. Zilwicki along, it damned sure means he's not planning anything . . . untoward."

  Terekhov started to ask what he meant, then changed his mind, remembering Van Dort's cryptic comments about his personal history with Bannister. There was something going on here, and if it meant one of his officers—especially one of his -midshipmen—might be being placed in danger, it was his responsibility to find out what that something was. But if Helen would have been endangered by it, Bernardus would have told him. Of that much, he was certain.

  "Tell Mr. Westman his word is sufficient bond for me. Mr. Van Dort and I will meet him at any time or place of his choosing. And if he wishes Ms. Zilwicki to be present, I'm sure that can be arranged, also."

  Something flickered in Bannister's eyes. Surprise, Terekhov thought. Or possibly approval. Maybe even a combination of the two.

  "I'll tell him," the Chief Marshal said. "I imagine I can get the message to him sometime this evening. Would tomorrow afternoon be too early for you?"

  "The sooner the better, Chief Marshal."

  * * *

  "Flight Ops, this is Hawk-Papa-One. Request departure clearance for Brewster Spaceport."

  "Hawk-Papa-One, Flight Ops. Wait one."

  Helen sat in the pinnace's comfortable seat, listening through the open flight deck hatch, as Ragnhild talked to Flight Ops. She'd decided it would be an ignoble emotion, unworthy of one such as herself, to feel base envy for all the extra time her friend was getting on the flight deck. She suspected from some of Ragnhild's comments and one or two of Lieutenant Hearns' remarks that Ragnhild might be seriously considering putting in for duty with the LAC squadrons after their snotty cruise. It would certainly be an appropriate choice for someone with her knack for tactics and amply demonstrated flying ability.

  The conversation between Ragnhild and Flight Ops was cut off as the hatch slid shut, and Helen looked back out her viewport, watching the brightly lit boat bay begin to move as Ragnhild lifted the pinnace clear of the docking arms and applied thrust.

  She didn't know everything the Captain and Mr. Van Dort wanted to tell Westman, but she had a pretty shrewd suspicion of the main thrust of their message.

  It would be interesting to see how he responded.

  * * *

  Stephen Westman watched the air car settle once again beside the tent he'd . . . appropriated from the Manticoran survey party. They were certainly prompt. And from the sound of Trevor's message, they genuinely believed they had some sort of new information for him. Although he was unable to imagine what they might have discovered in Split that would have any bearing on the situation here in Montana.

  Face it, boy, he thought. A part of you damned well hopes they did find something. This resistance movement thing is no job for a man who's started to have more questions than answers.

  * * *

  Stephen Westman, Helen thought, really was a remarkably handsome man. She'd been concentrating more on what he had to say than what he looked like during their first meeting, but his sheer physical charisma had been evident even then. Today, in what was probably his best Stetson, and wearing one of the peculiar neck ornaments the Montanans called "bolos" with a jeweled slide in the form of a rearing black stallion that glittered in the sunlight, the tall, broad-shouldered man presented a truly imposing appearance.

  Yet even as she acknowledged that, she sensed something different about him. Not any absence of assurance, but . . . something almost like that.

  No, she thought slowly. That's not quite right. He looks like . . . like someone who's self-confident enough to admit to himself that he's no longer positive about something he thought he knew all about.

  The instant the thought crossed her mind, she scolded herself for it. Wishful thinking wasn't what anyone needed just now, even from a lowly midshipwoman/"aide." She hoped the Captain and Mr. Van Dort were more resistant than she was to the temptation to read what she knew all of them wanted to see into the MIM founder's attitude.

  "Captain Terekhov," the Montanan said, extending his hand in greeting. "Mr. Van Dort."

  That really was different, Helen realized. He didn't seem particularly happy to see the Rembrandter, and there was still unconcealed dislike in his eyes, even if he did manage to keep it out of his expression. But the crackling undertone of hostility which had been so noticeable at their first meeting was far less pronounced this time.

  "Mr. Westman," the Captain greeted him, then stood aside as Trevor Bannister climbed out of the air car and extended his hand to Westman.

  "Trevor."

  "Steve."

  The two men nodded to one another, and Westman waved at the familiar tent.

  "If y'all would care to step into my office?" he invited with just a trace of a mischievous smile.

  * * *

  "So," Westman said, laying his Stetson on a corner of the camp table and looking across it at his guests. "Trevor tells me you gentlemen believe you've discovered something I ought to know?" He smiled thinly. "I trust you'll both bear in mind that I'm going to be inclined to be just a mite suspicious about the altruism that brings you here."

  "I'd be disappointed if you weren't," Aivars Terekhov said with an answering smile.

  "Then I'd suggest you just fire away."

  "Very well," Terekhov said without so much as a glance at Van Dort. It was Terekhov's Marines who'd turned up the evidence, after all. And there was no point in adding the additional barrier of Westman's personal antipathy for the Rembrandter to the equation.

  "We know you've said—and, so far, at least, demonstrated by your actions—that you don't see yourself as the sort of outright terrorist Agnes Nordbrandt's decided to become."

  Westman's lips tightened ever so slightly at the words "so far, at least," but he simply sat, waiting courteously, for Terekhov to continue.

  "While we were in Split," the captain continued, watching the Montanan's face carefully, "we located one of Nordbrandt's base camps. One platoon of my Marines raided it. The FAK suffered very close to one hundred percent casualties, over a hundred of them fatal, in an operation which lasted about twenty minutes."

  Westman's eyes narrowed, as if he realized Terekhov had deliberately underscored the speed and totality with which a single platoon of Captain Kaczmarczyk's Marines had demolished the Freedom Alliance base.

  "Afterward, we discovered just over a thousand tons of modern, off-world weapons." Terekhov watched Westman's expression eve
n more closely than before. "All of them were of Solarian manufacture, and in first-rate condition. Information from one of the captured terrorists indicated that they'd been supplied—very recently—to Nordbrandt through the offices of someone called 'Firebrand.'"

  Trevor Bannister had told his off-world allies Westman was famous among his friends for his inability to bluff across a poker table. Now Terekhov saw a quick, brief flare of recognition in the Montanan's blue eyes. It vanished as quickly as it had come, but not quickly enough to hide itself.

  "When we were in Montana previously, Mr. Westman," Terekhov said quietly, "the name 'Firebrand' also came up here." Westman's eyes flickered again, although his expression itself might have been carved out of pleasantly attentive stone. "That suggests to me, Sir, that there's a closer association between you and your organization, on the one hand, and Agnes Nordbrandt and her organization, on the other, than you've previously implied."

  * * *

  Oh, he didn't like that one! Helen thought.

  The expression which had given away so little turned -obsidian-hard, but even that was less flinty than his eyes. His nostrils flared as he inhaled a sharp, angry breath, but then he made himself stop, clearly reaching for self-control before he opened his mouth.

  "There is no association between the Independence Movement and the FAK," he said then, icily, his casual Montanan manner of speaking far less noticeable than usual. "I've never personally met, corresponded with, or communicated in any way with Agnes Nordbrandt, and I despise her methods."

  That's an interesting statement, Helen thought as her father's training kicked in. Mad as he is, he picked his words pretty carefully, I think. Especially that word "personally."

  "One need not approve of someone's methods or tactics to work with them," the Captain pointed out. "In the end, though, the methods of those one is prepared to associate with, even if only indirectly, are likely to color one's own achievements." He held the Montanan's eyes levelly across the table. "And it might be well for you to consider who else might see an advantage in supporting the . . . aspirations of two people as different from one another as you and Agnes Nordbrandt."

  "I could say the same of you, Captain," Westman replied, letting his eyes shift to Mr. Van Dort's face. "The fact that your Star Kingdom's seen fit to associate its policies with someone like the Trade Union strikes me as sufficient reason to question its ultimate objectives."

  "I understand that." The Captain actually chuckled with what seemed genuine humor. "You made that clear enough the first time we met, Mr. Westman. I've done my best, as has Mr. Van Dort, for that matter, to answer your concerns on that head. But I strongly suggest you consider the scale of our find. We captured or destroyed a thousand tons of weapons, Mr. Westman—in one base. Whether we got all of them or not, I honestly can't say at this point, although I suspect it was probably the majority of those landed for her so far. But we know you invested in at least some weapons yourself before you went underground, so obviously, you've had to make your own contacts and come up with the cash to pay for them. Based on that experience, how likely do you think it is that the FAK managed to pay for that much modern hardware out of its own resources? And if it didn't, if someone's prepared to subsidize someone like Nordbrandt on the scale those weapons represent, what might his objectives be?"

  * * *

  Westman felt his shoulders tighten as the Manticoran's level-voiced questions recalled his own doubts about "Firebrand's" honesty.

  You were never stupid enough to believe all he was spouting about how much of what he and his "Central Liberation Committee" were doing was based on "altruism," Stevie, he reminded himself. And it's not like you were signing up to follow him wherever he led. But still . . .

  He made himself sit back in his chair, looking across the table at Terekhov, and inhaled deeply.

  "And just who do you think might be prepared to -subsidize . . . someone like Nordbrandt?" he asked.

  * * *

  Not a muscle in Terekhov's face so much as twitched, but a fierce bolt of exultation ripped through him as Westman asked the question he'd prayed for.

  "I'd start," he said calmly, "by considering who—aside from patriots such as yourself, of course—might think the Star Kingdom's presence in the Cluster was a bad thing. And I'd also ask myself who they might prefer to see here instead of the Star Kingdom. If whoever supplied Nordbrandt is also prepared to supply weapons to . . . someone else, on a similar scale, then the supplier must have both extensive resources and extensive contacts with those weapons' source."

  He gazed into Westman's eyes, pausing, waiting with the same precision he would have used to time a missile salvo. Then—

  "And I'd reflect on the fact that every one of those weapons, every round of ammunition, every bit of equipment, came from somewhere in the Solarian League."

  * * *

  I really, really never want to play cards against the Captain, Helen reflected as Hawk-Papa-One sliced across the boundary between Montana's indigo atmosphere and the still blackness of space.

  She didn't know where or how it was all going to end, but the Captain had obviously gotten to Westman. Whether the Montanan would be able to step far enough back from his own commitment to Montanan independence to really consider what the Captain had suggested remained to be seen, but she suspected the odds were good.

  Whether or not Westman would be prepared to give up his vendetta against the annexation—and the Rembrandt Trade Union—no matter who he might unknowingly have allied with was, of course, another question entirely.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  "I don't believe this shit."

  "What?" Duan Binyan looked up, startled by the sheer venom in Zeno Egervary's voice. The Marianne was thirty days out of Split, decelerating towards the last planet on her delivery schedule, and Egervary sat glaring at his tactical display.

  "That bastard Manticoran," Egervary snarled, and Duan frowned, wondering why Egervary sounded so upset.

  "What about them?" he asked. "We knew they had a couple of support ships stationed here."

  "Not them," Egervary grated. "That frigging cruiser from Split!"

  "What about her?" Duan demanded. He was getting past surprise at the security officer's obviously frightened fury to alarm, and his tone was considerably sharper.

  "She's here, too," Egervary spat. "Right here in Montana orbit!"

  "What?"

  Duan bounced out of his command chair and across to Egervary's station almost before he realized he was moving. Not for the first time, he made a mental note to insist that if Marianne was going to be sent out on this sort of mission he really wanted a proper tactical repeater where he could get at it without leaving his own chair. It was only an absentminded flicker at the bottom of his brain, however. His attention was too firmly fixed on Egervary's plot to spare it any more than that.

  "Are you sure?" he demanded as he gazed down at the icons of the ships in orbit around the planet. There weren't many. The icon representing the warship floated in a parking orbit all its own, and there were only two merchantmen—one a Rembrandter, and the other a Solarian, from their transponder codes, the two service ships they'd known about, and half a dozen Montanan LACs to keep it company.

  "Unless you know some reason for two Manty cruisers to both be squawking the same transponder code, then, yeah, I'm pretty goddamned positive."

  Egervary's tone was scarcely what anyone would have called respectfully disciplined, but Duan paid that little attention. If Egervary's identification was accurate, he had every reason to be worried as hell.

  "I don't like this, Binyan." Annette De Chabrol's voice was sharper than usual, if not quite as taut as Egervary's.

  "I'm not particularly crazy about it myself, Annette," he replied acidly, still staring down at the plot while his mind whirred.

  "They must've spotted the goddamned drop after all," Egervary said. "The bastards nailed the fucking terrorists, then ran on ahead to grab our asses when we showe
d up here! We're fucked, people!"

  Duan glanced sideways at him. Zeno Egervary's language wasn't exactly what you'd care for your sweet old grandmother to hear at the best of times, but he was obviously under more stress than usual. Which could be bad. Egervary was good at his job—both his jobs—but he was also the least stable of Marianne's officers.

  "Calm down, Zeno," the captain said as soothingly as he could. Egervary gave him an incredulous look, and Duan shrugged.

  "They did not spot the drop, Zeno. If they'd spotted that, they would have nailed us at the same time. We didn't break orbit for over four hours after we made the delivery and recovered the shuttle. You think they would've let us just sit there that long, then actually leave the system, if they'd known what we'd been doing?"

  He held Egervary's eyes with his own, and the security head seemed to settle down a bit.

  A very tiny bit.

  "Then they must've picked up one of the locals with some of the new guns right after we left," he said. "They busted him, and he sang like a bird. That's how they knew to come on ahead and wait for us."

  "And just how do you figure that? I didn't tell anybody where we were going next—did you?"

  Egervary was still glaring at him, but he gave his head a choppy shake, and Duan shrugged.

  "Well, if you didn't, and if I didn't, I'm damned sure Annette didn't. So how do you think they could have figured it out."

  "What about the port agent?" Egervary demanded. "He knew what we were doing. If they picked someone up and whoever it was turned him in, he could've told them."

  "He couldn't tell them what he didn't know," Duan riposted. "This operation was tightly compartmentalized, Zeno. Our Kornati agent knew we were coming and made the arrangements for us, including assembling our cover cargo, and he could have spilled that part of it. But he didn't know where we were going next. The flight plan we filed with him had us heading for Tillerman as our next port of call, and that's also the destination for the cargo we took on there. We didn't say a word about stopping off at Montana. So the only place he could have sent them is straight ahead to Tillerman."