The Blackcollar Series

by Timothy Zahn

  Garret pursed his lips, then half turned toward the van door. “Harris—call Spotter Three down here. Tell them…” He hesitated.

  “Tell them we’re adding on an extra observer,” Lathe supplied.

  “Good enough,” Garret said. “Do it, Harris.” He turned back to Lathe. “Now. Just what the hell is this Special Services, anyway?”

  Lathe let a faintly disgusted look cross his face. “We’re a brand-new unit working directly out of the Security prefect’s office—started four months ago. Don’t you read your daily reports?”

  “Sure do, but I never saw any mention of any special units,” the other returned. “I’m going to have to verify this with Athena, Captain, before I can take any orders from you.”

  And by now Spotter Three would be on its way down with a catbird view of any trouble that might erupt. At all costs they had to make sure it saw nothing suspicious. “Do whatever you have to, but do it fast,” Lathe told the major, waving a hand impatiently. The motion concealed his hand signal to Mordecai; out of the corner of his eye he saw the small man take a casual step toward the open van door. “Caine’ll be making his move to break out as soon as he thinks he’s got the net figured out, and we have to have the gaps plugged by then.”

  “Right.” Garret turned back to the van, stepped past Mordecai to climb inside.

  “Where the hell is that spotter?” Lathe growled, lifting his gaze to the sky. Peripherally, he saw the outside men shift their own attention upward in automatic response…saw Mordecai slip silently into the van behind Garret. “There it is. Come on, you jelly-heads—move it,” he snarled toward the descending craft.

  Because he was listening for it, he heard the muffled umph from inside the van.

  The spotter settled down to the pavement beside the van, the pilot popping his side door and leaning out. “What’s going on?” he asked. “I don’t need another observer—”

  “Change in plans,” Lathe snapped, giving the aircraft’s interior a quick once-over. A single observer, seated next to the pilot; rear compartment empty of backup soldiers but big enough—barely—for the crowd they’d need to stuff in there. Perfect. “We’ve got some communication-leakage problems,” he continued, gesturing Jensen over from the blackcollars’ van, “and we’re replacing your man with a specialist. Get out,” he added, shifting his eyes to the observer.

  “Now wait a second,” the pilot protested as his companion obediently popped his own door. Jensen was already on that side, offering a hand with the harness release. “My orders came directly from General Quinn’s office—”

  “What the hell?”

  Lathe caught just a glimpse of one of the Security men gaping into the open van door, his hand scrabbling for his pistol—and then the comsquare jabbed stiffened fingers into the pilot’s throat.

  The man gagged, folding over his controls as Lathe hit the harness release and hauled him bodily out of the aircraft. On the other side Jensen similarly took the observer out of the fight; turning, Lathe found Mordecai had exploded from the Security van and was cutting a deadly swath through the remaining men with his hands and feet. All around them, the remaining defenders scrambled to bring their weapons to bear, confusion as to the most immediate target slowing their response. Snatching a pair of shuriken from behind his belt, Lathe sent them spinning into the farthest of the defenders. A nearer man, suddenly seeming to notice him, swung around and fired; Lathe dropped under the cluster of paral-darts even as Jensen’s shuriken blurred over the spotter to end that particular threat. Lathe rolled into a crouch, sent two more shuriken into the melee, and watched yet another man drop as Skyler opened up from the van with his slingshot.

  In seconds, it was all over.

  “Dump them in the ambulance,” Lathe ordered the others, hoisting the nearest man up into a shoulder carry. “Jensen, get that thing into the air right away—I’ll keep in touch with you from the Security van.”

  “Right.” Jensen slid into the spotter and closed the doors. A moment later the gravs flared with blue-violet light and the craft headed smoothly into the sky.

  “I hope he doesn’t do anything stupid,” Skyler said. “Maybe I should’ve gone with him.”

  “I need you here,” Lathe said shortly.

  They soon had the casualties out of sight in the ambulance. “And now a quick look at the maps to find out where Caine is?” Skyler suggested.

  “Right,” Lathe said, glancing back toward the street. Ever since the fight had started, he’d been halfway braced for reinforcements to come swooping down on them; but either none of the Denverites walking and driving a hundred meters away had noticed the fracas or else they’d chosen not to get involved by reporting it. He’d seen the same thing happen in other cities, both during the war and immediately after it, and while it still struck him as an odd reaction he’d long since learned to accept and make use of it. “You go ahead,” he told Skyler. “Mordecai, come take a quick look at the ambulance cockpit with me.”

  It was a somewhat smaller compartment than the equivalent space in the spotter aircraft had been. “You going to try and take this one, too?” Mordecai asked.

  “Not right away,” Lathe answered, trying to move one of the seats away from the back of the cockpit. “You ever had any experience flying something like this? Never mind; it doesn’t look like there’s any way in from the main compartment anyway.”

  Mordecai looked, grunted agreement. “You have something specific in mind, or just gathering gleanings?”

  “A little of both.” Lathe glanced at the controls once more and backed out of the cockpit. “Well, that’s for another day. Let’s see how Skyler’s doing.”

  The big blackcollar had the information ready by the time they joined him in the Security van. “The net’s clearly centered on this block right here,” he told them, jabbing a finger down onto the map. “This number here might be an address, but I wouldn’t count too heavily on that.”

  “Fortunately, we don’t have to,” Lathe said. “All right; here’s the plan.”

  He outlined it for them, and a few minutes later they all left the lot: Lathe in the Security van, Mordecai in the car, and Skyler driving the second van. Skyler headed south as Mordecai and Lathe set out toward the target zone, signaling periodically with their tinglers. They were almost to the block Skyler had pinpointed when a response finally came.

  Identify yourselves.

  Lathe breathed a sigh of relief. This is Lathe, he sent. Danger/emergency—Security net encircling you. Escape must be immediate.

  There was a short pause. Lathe: Prove identity.

  “Damn,” the comsquare snorted under his breath. Code signal four follows: gamma ray, cluster charge, hammer throw. Respond. incense, Carno fandragon, operant. Why are you here?

  Danger emergency. Location?

  The reply was almost grudging; clearly, the blackcollars’ unexpected appearance still had Caine off-balance. 1822 Renforth.

  Half a block down. Come out now; get in northbound blue van. Mordecai: Take forward ram position.

  Acknowledged.

  He was almost to the house now, and for a long moment he thought Caine would miss the pickup. But the younger man was merely playing tight on the timing: as the van drew abreast of the walkway, the front door suddenly opened and the five men sprinted out toward the street. Lathe had the side door sprung before they were halfway there, and in five seconds flat they were all aboard.

  “Get yourselves braced,” Lathe snapped at them, stomping on the accelerator. Ahead, Mordecai’s car had emerged from the next street to lead the way; from the van’s radio a slow flurry of commotion was beginning to flood in as the Security watchers belatedly realized something unscheduled was happening. At the next intersection four plain-dressed men scrambled out of their parked car, bringing laser rifles to bear—and dived out of the way as Mordecai put on a burst of speed and did his best to run them down.

  Beside Lathe, a figure slid into the van’s other front seat. Cai
ne. “What can I do?” he asked tightly.

  “Grab the mike and punch in Combat Freq One,” Lathe told him, fighting the steering wheel as he rescattered the Security men. “Jensen’s up there in a spotter—tell him to put down in the parking lot we just left.”

  “Got it.” Caine busied himself with the radio, and Lathe risked a glance in the mirror at the rest of the team. Still rattled, but adjusting rapidly enough. “Full combat garb,” he ordered them. “The next group may get some shots off at us. Braune, signal Mordecai to make for the lot we just left.”

  “Yes, sir,” Braune said, pausing with battle-hood halfway in place to tap at his tingler.

  The radio pinged, and a familiar voice came on. “Jensen acknowledging. Sit tight—I’m going to take out some of the opposition first.”

  “What does he mean by that?” Caine asked.

  Lathe consciously relaxed his jaw. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “He may be going to buzz some of the positions closest to the rendezvous point before landing.”

  Without warning, a flash of light erupted from the next corner. Lathe ducked reflexively as part of the van’s front blistered into a cloud of vaporized surfacing; and an instant later the vehicle tilted sideways as the left front tire blew with the heat of a second shot. “Hang on!” Lathe snapped, twisting the wheel hard. The tire would surely be equipped with an inner travel rim, but if the laser fire had damaged that too, they could well wind up taking the last couple of blocks on foot.

  Ahead, Mordecai’s car slowed fractionally at the hidden gunner’s street and the blackcollar’s left arm whipped outward through the open window. Whether the shuriken found its target or not Lathe didn’t know, but the van passed the intersection without drawing any more fire.

  They were barely a block away from the parking lot when the thunder of an explosion nearly shook them off the road.

  Lathe’s first, horrible thought was that Jensen had crashed his spotter. But seconds later they turned the next corner and saw the other’s apparently undamaged aircraft settle onto the parking lot. Mordecai pulled over to let the van pass ahead of it into the lot, then turned sharply to bring his car to a halt sideways across the opening. In the mirror Lathe saw a pair of Security cars in hot pursuit; Mordecai sent a flight of shuriken in their general direction and then turned and sprinted for the spotter. Stomping on the brake, Lathe swung open his door and leaped out as the van screeched to a halt. “Everyone into the spotter!” he snapped over his shoulder.

  They hurried to obey. Beyond the running Mordecai, the Security cars had also stopped and were beginning to discharge armed men. Lathe sent a shuriken toward the crowd and then pulled his slingshot from under his tunic and unfolded the forearm brace.

  “Here,” Caine said from beside him, pressing a tiny cylinder into his hand. The younger man, Lathe saw, also had his slingshot ready, another of the objects in his hand. “It’s a primer cap,” he explained, and fired it over Mordecai’s head.

  As a serious explosive device, the primer cap was a joke; as a creator of chaos, it was absolutely perfect. The Security men scattered as Caine’s and then Lathe’s projectiles blew up in their midst, laser rifles forgotten in the scramble for cover. The two men kept up the barrage until Mordecai had passed them, then turned and sprinted after him. Seconds later, squeezed together like small fish with the rest of Caine’s group, they were airborne.

  “Any place in particular we headed for?” Jensen asked casually over his shoulder.

  “Head south to where the expressway starts—Skyler’s supposed to wait for us there,” Lathe told him, trying without success to get a look out of one of the cockpit windows. “And watch your back—the other spotters will be on top of us any second now.”

  “Unlikely,” Jensen said, shaking his head, “seeing as I knocked both of them out of the sky a few minutes ago.”

  “You did what?” Alamzad gasped.

  “Forced them down. Rammed their rear stabilizer assemblies, to be specific—this design has always had a glass tail. One of them crashed trying to chase me on manual. The other had more sense and settled for an emergency landing.”

  “My God,” Pittman muttered. “You could have been killed.”

  Jensen shrugged. “It’s not dangerous when you know what you’re doing.”

  Across Caine’s shoulder, Lathe caught Mordecai’s eyes. The other grimaced slightly, shook his head in disbelief. Lathe twitched his own head in agreement.

  They reached the expressway a minute or two later, setting down just off the road where Skyler’s van was waiting. “Everyone out,” Lathe ordered, scanning the sky quickly as he trotted toward the van. Nothing—Jensen’s quick air victory had apparently caught Security by surprise.

  “They’ll have backups in the air any minute now,” Jensen reminded him as the comsquare climbed into the seat beside Skyler.

  “Right,” Lathe said. “Let’s get out of here, Skyler.”

  “The safe house?” the other asked, pulling out into a gap in the traffic flow.

  “I think a little extra distance would be appropriate,” Lathe answered. “Let’s make it Reger’s house. He’s got a right to see how his end of the bargain came out, anyway.”

  Skyler nodded, and silence descended on the crowded van. Behind and above, ground and air Security forces converged on the downed spotter to begin a long and futile search.

  Chapter 18

  QUINN FINISHED HIS BRIEF conversation and replaced the phone onto his desk, hand trembling—with anger or frustration; Galway couldn’t tell which—as he did so. “Well?” Galway asked, fighting to keep his own anger under control. “Any traces at all of them?”

  “No, but we’re not giving up yet,” the general growled. “We’ve got the car they abandoned—belongs to a building company in northwest Denver—and we’re checking to see how they got hold of it.”

  Galway snorted. “In other words, you haven’t got a clue as to where they’ve vanished. And aren’t likely to get one anytime soon, either.”

  “Look, Galway—”

  “No, you look, General,” Galway cut him off. “I told you not to move against Caine—I told you time and again that the best chance we were likely to get was already planted in the group. But you wouldn’t listen—and now you may have blasted the whole thing to hell.”

  “Have I, now,” Quinn shot back. “Then tell me, if you would, why your precious Postern didn’t tell us Lathe was here. Huh? Answer me that.”

  “I don’t know. My guess is that Lathe didn’t bother to tell them he was going to come along.”

  “Oh, really?” Quinn’s voice dripped sarcasm. “He just forgot to mention it or something?”

  “Or something, yes. You might recall I did ask you to confirm that the first set of drop pods really were just decoys—playing off other people’s assumptions is one of Lathe’s specialties. Well, he also likes playing his games tight to his chest, and he may have decided to keep his presence here secret in case one of Caine’s team got captured.”

  “Except that you also said once that interrogating them wouldn’t gain us anything,” Quinn growled. “I wish you’d keep your damn stories straight.”

  Galway took a deep breath. “Of course Caine’s teammates aren’t likely to break. That doesn’t mean Lathe wouldn’t hedge his bets anyway.” He waved a hand in disgust. “And believe it or not, that might have worked to our advantage once. If Lathe didn’t want Caine to know he was here—and we could have confirmed that was the case as soon as Postern made his next contact—then he would have been reluctant to expose himself to Caine by coming to his aid unless there were some immediate danger. We could have kept a full-scale surveillance on Caine without any risk of having the watchers taken out.”

  “Until the timing suited them, anyway.” Quinn grimaced. “Well, it’s all academic now. They’re together, they know we’re on to them, and it’s going to be a race now as to whether they can finish whatever they’re up to before we find them again. I don’t suppos
e you’ve come up with any more ideas on that score?”

  “You’ve already heard them: some kind of assault on the Ryqril’s Aegis Mountain base, or an attack on former Prefect Trendor.”

  “Neither of which makes any sense.” Quinn shook his head. “Especially with Lathe and a full blackcollar team now taking an interest in it. Blackcollars aren’t likely to waste their time on something that isn’t difficult, important, and feasible.”

  He fell silent, and Galway fought down the urge to once again explain the logic behind an assassination attempt on Trendor. Clearly, Quinn wasn’t stupid—he couldn’t have risen to such a high position if he was—but he’d just as clearly created a mental block to anything Galway might have to say, whether it had any value or not. I shouldn’t have come, the prefect thought bitterly. Maybe he’d have done a better job of this if he hadn’t somehow gotten it into his head that he had to show me up.

  Then again, maybe he wouldn’t have. Quinn was, after all, successor and possibly protégé to Prefect Trendor, and Trendor hadn’t struck Galway either as a man of great intellect or finesse.

  But then, neither had many of the Security officials he’d met on Argent during Lathe’s mission there, something he’d been too busy at the time to notice. Was Galway’s ability to follow these tangled threads of logic that far out of the ordinary? Or could it be that Quinn simply had so much firepower and manpower at his disposal that he’d never needed to outthink his opponents?

  “The hell with it,” Quinn muttered, breaking the silence. “There’s no way we’re going to figure out Lathe’s plan in time, so we’re just going to have to take him out of the game.”

  “You just tried that,” Galway reminded him.

  “Yeah, well, this time we’re going to do it right.” The general jabbed a finger in Galway’s direction. “He’s still got to get to Kanai for that list of veterans, right? Well, to do that he’s got to contact the Shandygaff Bar—and when he does, we’ll have him.”