The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack

by David Drake (ed)

  “Trucks?” gasped the security chief. He half-rose from his bench seat before he realized how far out over the road that left him poised. “This truck hasn’t been decontaminated?”

  “Sir,” Sergeant Bradley interrupted with a flat lie, delivered in as certain a tone as that of the Pope announcing Christ is risen. “They’ve undergone full field procedures and are perfectly safe. But we may have to spend twelve hours a day for the next month aboard them, so we’d like to be twice safe.”

  “Yes, well,” Sitterson said, easing back down on the bench with a doubtful expression. “I understand that. Of course I’ll take care of it.”

  Sitterson wanted the prisoners at his headquarters, not the internment facility; The trucks and their heavily armed cargo wallowed through traffic to the parade square, drawing looks of interest or disgust—depending on personality—from the rear echelon types they passed.

  The Headhunters were in dual-use vehicles with enough power to keep a full load airborne without using ground effect. They could have flown above the traffic—except that above ground flight was prohibited by base regulation, and Base Thomas Forberry came under Naval control instead of that of the district government. The Shore Police would have been more than happy to cite Commander Sitterson, along with Kowacs and all four of his drivers.

  When the trucks grounded in front of the Security Headquarters, dimpling the plastic matting, Kowacs’s men began unfastening the prisoners and Sitterson called into his helmet microphone, “Gliere, open the holding cells. We’ll keep all the prisoners here for now.”

  Kowacs couldn’t hear the response, but as the building opened, Sitterson added, “Oh—there’s a body also. Have someone from forensics work it up for identification and then take care of it, will you?”

  “This isn’t right!” shouted the boy, Andy, as the marines to either side of him manhandled him along faster than his burn-stiffened legs wanted to move. “You should be helping us! You should be helping us!”

  “Come on ahead,” Sitterson ordered Kowacs. “I want you with me during the interrogation. They know you mean business.”

  “Right,” Kowacs said on his command channel. “Daniello, you’re in charge till I get back. Keep everybody in the barracks, but we’re not on alert status till I tell you different.”

  He strode along beside Sitterson and Hesik. The Bethesdan colonel seemed to be recovering somewhat, but he hadn’t spoken since the prisoner made her ill-advised leap for a weapon.

  Or for the baby. Well, a bad idea either way. Sienkiewicz was a half-step behind him. Kowacs looked over his shoulder—looked up—and said, “Did I tell you to come along, Corporal?”

  “Yessir,” Sienkiewicz said. With her extra bandoliers of ammunition and grenades, and the heavy, meter-long plasma weapon slung behind her hips against need, she looked like a supply train on legs.

  Hell, he did want her around.

  The cells were open and empty. The guard and the trio of petty-officer interrogators saluted the security chief as he stepped past them, then roughly took the prisoners from the marines and pushed them into the cells—the men alone, the women in pairs. One of the women held the infant. The doors clanged shut when the cells were filled.

  In the outer office, Sitterson said, “You can wait here.”

  Not as brusque as “Wait here,” but the same meaning. His entourage—Kowacs a big man, Sienkiewicz huge, and Hesik looking thin and trapped—glanced at one another and at the petty officer behind the desk. There wasn’t enough room for any of them to sit on the couch.

  “Gliere,” the security chief said as an afterthought on his way to his private quarters. “Get the number from Kowacs’s helmet and see to it that the recordings go to File Thirteen. The whole company. You know the drill.”

  “Yes sir,” Gliere replied. “Just a minute while I take care of the cells.”

  The non-com was watching miniature holos of the holding area. He touched a switch on his desk. Another of the cells closed with a ringing impact.

  Sitterson was back within five minutes. He was wearing a fresh uniform; the skin-of his face and hands was pink with the enthusiasm with which he had scrubbed himself.

  Kowacs hoped the security chief never learned how hot the trucks really were. He’d order a court-martial, beyond any question. It was easy to forget just how nervous rear echelon types got about their health and safety.

  “All right,” the security chief said brightly. “Let’s get down to it, shall we? Gliere, we’ll take the man in the end cell.”

  Andy.

  “He thinks he’s tough,” Sitterson added with a laugh which Hesik echoed.

  Kowacs said nothing. He tossed his automatic rifle to Sienkiewicz and gestured her to stay where she was. The corporal’s grimace could have meant anything.

  Andy tried to walk when they moved him across the aisle into an interrogation room, but he was barely able to stand. He had no clothes to strip off. The sealant/analgesic Sienkiewicz had sprayed on from her first aid kit had dried to mauve blotches like the camouflage of a jungle animal.

  When the door shut behind them, the boy wavered and caught himself on the room’s small table.

  “Attention, damn you!” Sitterson ordered, pulling out his shock rod.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” the boy cried. Delirium, drugs, and the decay toxins loosed by his injuries turned his voice into a wail of frustration.

  “Why didn’t you turn yourselves in?” Sitters on shouted. “Why were you hiding out with your guns?”

  “We did call in!” Andy said. “And your toady Hesik said wait, he’d send vehicles for us.”

  “Liar!” Hesik said as he swung the butt of his pistol at the boy’s mottled forehead.

  You don’t learn a damned thing from dead prisoners, and the blow would have killed had it landed.

  It didn’t land because Kowacs caught the Bethesdan colonel’s wrist in one hand and twisted the weapon away with the other as easily as if Hesik were a child.

  “Sir,” Kowacs said to the security chief. “I think this’ll go better if you and I do it alone for a bit, you know?”

  “He’ll lie!” Hesik said. The marine wasn’t looking at him, but his grip was as tight as it needed to be.

  Kowacs shrugged toward Sitterson. “He’ll talk,” he said simply. “Dead, he won’t talk.”

  Sitterson’s expression was unreadable. At last he said, “Yes, all right. You and I. Hesik, wait outside. Don’t worry.”

  “He’ll lie!” the Bethesdan repeated, but the tension went out of his muscles and Kowacs let him go.

  Kowacs handed back the pistol. His eyes were on Hesik, and they stayed on him until the door closed again behind the Bethesdan.

  “We can have him back anytime,” Kowacs said without emotion to the prisoner. “We can leave the two of you alone, or we can help him with you. If you don’t want that, start talking now.”

  “You think I care?” the boy muttered.

  But he did care. He was naked and hurt, badly hurt. Kowacs was huge in his helmet and equipment belt, still black with the grime of the raid; and the marine was a certain reminder of how thorough and ruthless that raid had been.

  “Tell us about Lieutenant Milius,” Sitterson said. He started to wave his shock rod before he realized that the threat of Kowac’s presence was greater than that of temporary pain.

  “Dead, for God’s sake!” the boy blurted. “She was in the terminal building when everything started to go. Ask the marines we took in there. They’ll tell you!”

  Sitterson slapped him with a bare hand. “You’re lying! You’re covering for a traitor who murdered a fellow officer!”

  It wasn’t a powerful blow, but it knocked Andy back against the wall. He would have slumped to the floor if Kowacs hadn’t caught him and jerked him upright.

  “Hesik told you that?” the
boy said. His lip was bleeding. “All right, sure—she shot that bastard Bundy. They came to us, told us to back off—we were stirring up the weasels too badly.”

  Kowacs released the boy when he felt him gather himself and straighten.

  “Milius told ’em go fuck ’emselves,” Andy continued with real venom. “And your precious Bundy, he says, if she won’t stop for him, maybe the weasels will take care of the problem. That’s why she blew the bastard away. I just wish we’d taken out Hesik and the rest of the mothers in that cell then when we had the chance.”

  “Lying little swine!” Sitterson cried. He grabbed the boy by the hair with one hand, throwing him against the wall, while he poked the shock rod toward the prisoner’s eye. The singed hair crumbled. Sitterson’s hand slipped in a gooey pad of sealant and serum from the burned skin beneath.

  “Sir,” said Kowacs as he slid between the collapsing boy and the security chief who stared at his hand with an expression of horrified disgust. “We made a mistake. If these guys are the ones got the Ninety-Second into the port, then they’re straight. Even if they did shoot your o.t.s. agent.”

  “If!” the security chief repeated. “He’s a dirty little liar, and he’s covering for a traitor who didn’t come near the port during the assault.”

  “No sir,” Kowacs said. He was standing so close to Sitterson that he had to tilt his head down to meet the eyes of the senior officer. “Milius did lead them in. And she did buy it during the attack.”

  Sitterson flung himself backward, breathing hard. “Who the hell says?” he demanded. His left hand was clenching and uncurling, but his right held the shock rod motionless so that it did not appear to threaten the marine.

  “Toby English,” Kowacs said. “Lieutenant English, CO of the Ninety-Second.”

  Sitterson looked at the Marine. “You’re . . .” he began, but his voice trailed off instead of breaking. He swallowed. “Oh, Christ,” he said very quietly. “Oh Christ help me if that’s true.”

  “Sure, you can ask Toby,” Kowacs said. “The Haig lifted off this morning, but you can send a message torp after her for something this important.”

  “He’s off-planet?” the security chief asked. His face regained the color it had lost a moment before.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “That’s all right,” Sitterson interrupted, fully himself again. He opened the door. “We’ll adjourn for now, Captain.”

  Gesturing toward the petty officers waiting for direction, he added, “Two of you, get this one,” —Andy was on the floor, unconscious from shock or the medication— “into his cell and hold him. Just hold them all until I get back to you.”

  “Sir, I—” Kowacs began.

  “Return to your unit and await orders, Captain,” Sitterson said crisply. “This operation has been a success thus far, and I don’t intend to spoil it.”

  Kowacs didn’t like to think about the implications of that while he and Sienkiewicz hitched a ride back to the barracks on a fuel truck going in the right direction. He didn’t like to think about Colonel Hesik’s smile, either.

  But he couldn’t forget either thing.

  * * *

  Kowacs was typing his report, hating the job and hating worse what he was having to say, when Bradley and Sienkiewicz pushed aside the sound-absorbent curtains of his “office.”

  “Bugger off,” Kowacs said, glaring at the green letters which shone demurely against the white background of the screen. “I’ve got today’s report to do.”

  “Figured you’d get Hoofer to do that,” Bradley said. “Like usual.”

  Kowacs leaned back in the chair that was integral with the portable console and rubbed his eyes. Hoofer, a junior sergeant in First Platoon, was good with words. Usually he’d have gotten this duty, but . . .

  “Naw,” Kowacs said wearily. “It’s knowing how to say it so that nobody back on Tau Ceti or wherever gets the wrong idea. And, you know, burns somebody a new one for shooting a woman in the back.”

  “She shouldn’t have run,” Sienkiewicz said.

  “Right,” said Kowacs. “A lot of things shouldn’t happen. Trouble is, they do.”

  He looked expectantly at the two non-corns. He was waiting to hear why they’d interrupted when they, of all people, knew he didn’t like company at times like this.

  Bradley eased forward so that the curtain surrounding the small enclosure hung shut. “We went for a drink tonight at a petty officers’ club with Gliere, the Tech 8 in Sitterson’s office. The MilGov bars have plenty of booze, even though you can’t find enough to get a buzz anywhere else. He got us in.”

  “Great,” said Kowacs without expression. “If you’d brought me a bottle, I’d be glad to see you. Since you didn’t—”

  “Thing is,” the field first continued as if he hadn’t heard his commander speak, “Gliere’s boss called him back after the office was supposed to be closed.”

  Kowacs raised an eyebrow.

  “Pissed Gliere no end,” Bradley said. “Seems Sitterson wants him to clear the data bank of all records relating to the bunch we brought in today. Wants it just like that lot never existed—and the file overwritten so there aren’t any gaps.”

  Nick Kowacs got up from the console. The chair back stuck; he pushed a little harder and the frame bent thirty degrees, out of his way and nothing else mattered.

  He began swearing, his voice low and nothing special about the words, nothing colorful—just the litany of hate and anger that boils from the mouth of a man whose mind is a lake of white fury.

  “What does he think we are?” Sienkiewicz asked plaintively. “They were on our side.”

  “Right,” said Kowacs, calm again.

  He looked at his console for a moment and cut its power, dumping the laboriously created file into electron heaven.

  “That’s why it’s Sitterson’s ass if word gets out about what he did.” Kowacs continued. He shrugged. “What we all did, if it comes to that.”

  “They’re still in the holding cells,” Bradley said. “The prisoners. I sorta figure Sitterson’s going to ask us to get rid of that part of the evidence. Cause we’re conscienceless killers, you know.”

  “Except the bastard won’t ask,” Sienkiewicz said bitterly. “He gives orders.”

  “Right,” said Kowacs. “Right. Well, we’re going to solve Sitterson’s problem for him.”

  He sat down at the console again, ignoring the way the damaged seat prodded him in the back.

  “Sergeant,” he said, “book us to use the drydock late tonight to wash the trucks—between midnight and four, something like that.”

  “Ah, sir?” Bradley said. “The main aqueduct broke this afternoon. I’m not sure if the naval base has water either.”

  Kowacs shrugged. “Sitterson said he’d get us a priority,” he said. “We’ll operate on the assumption that he did.”

  “Yessir,” said Bradley.

  “Who do you have on guard duty at Sitterson’s office tonight?” Kowacs went on.

  “I haven’t finalized the list,” Bradley said unemotionally. “It might depend on what his duties would be.”

  “The doors to the holding cells are controlled by the desk in Gliere’s office,” Kowacs said.

  “Yessir,” Bradley repeated. Sienkiewicz was starting to smile. “I got a lot of paperwork to catch up with. I’m going to take the midnight to four duty myself.”

  “So get your butt in gear,” Kowacs ordered. He powered up his console again.

  “Sitterson ain’t going to like this,” Sienkiewicz said with a smile that looked as broad as her shoulders.

  Kowacs paused, glancing up at two of the marines he trusted with his life—now and a hundred times before. “Yeah,” he agreed. “But you know—one of these days Toby English and me are going to be having a drink together . . . and when we do, I don’t want to l
ook him in the eye and tell him a story I wouldn’t want to hear myself.”

  As his men slipped out to alert the rest of the company, Nick Kowacs started to type the operational order that would be downloaded into the helmets of all his troops. Green letters hung in the hologram field, but instead of them he saw images of what would be happening later in the night.

  He was smiling, too.

  * * *

  A jeep, its skirts painted with the red and white stripes of the Shore Police, drove past the District Government Building. Neither of the patrolmen spared more than a glance at the trucks hovering at idle along the four sides of the otherwise empty square.

  Kowacs let out the breath he had been holding.

  “Hawker Six,” Bradley’s voice whispered through the helmet phones. “They don’t want to come.”

  “Get them out!” Kowacs snarled without bothering about proper radio discipline.

  There were more vehicles moving along the main north-south boulevard of Base Thomas Forberry. Every moment the Headhunters waited was another chance for somebody to wonder why a truck was parked in front of Security Headquarters at this hour.

  Eventually, somebody was going to come up with the obvious right answer.

  “On the way, Hawker Six,” Bradley replied.

  They’d raised the sidings on each vehicle, so that you couldn’t tell at a glance that the trucks held the entire 121st Marine Reaction Company, combat-equipped.

  You also couldn’t tell if Kowacs’s own truck carried thirteen internees—who would revert to being Bethesdan civilians as soon as the trucks drove through the Base Forberry perimeter on their way to the naval dockyard three kilometers away.

  If everything worked out.

  “Alpha Six to Hawker Six,” reported Daniello, whose platoon waited tensely in its vehicle on the south side of the square. “A staff car approaching with a utility van.”

  “Roger, Alpha Six,” Kowacs replied.

  Officers headed back to quarters after partying at their club. Maybe cheerful—and maybe mean—drunks looking for an excuse to ream somebody out. Like whoever was responsible for trucks parking in the parade square.