At least we were now reasonably sure that the Bethesda-based Khalia had not detected those plasma blasts to clear the debris. Now, if only we could also neutralize the threat posed by incoming craft crossing the “light cone!” We needed some Luck!
“Where are you now, Ghra? Keep talking as long as it’s safe and detail everything. Can you analyze what facilities the port has?”
“From what I can see, Bil, nothing more than the colonists brought with them.” Having won her point, Ghra did not sound smug. I hoped that she had as much caution as camouflage.
Dutifully she described her silent prowl around the perimeter of the space facility, which I taped. Finally she reached the far side of the immense plateau, where some of the foothills had been crudely gouged deep enough to extend the landing grid for the huge colony transports. She had paused once to indulge herself in a long drink, murmuring briefly that the water on the Ocelot was much nicer.
“Ah,” she said suddenly and exhaled in a snort of disgust. “Sensor rigs which the colonists certainly did not bring with them.”
“You can’t go through them without detection. Even if you could jump that high.”
“I know that!” She rumbled as she considered.
“Ghra. Come on. Pack it in and get back to me. We can still do a lunar watch. Under the circumstances, I’d even try a solar hide.” Which was one of the trickiest things a scout, even an Ocelot, could attempt. And the situation was just critical enough to make me try. Jockeying to keep just inside a sun’s gravity well is a real challenge.
“You’re a brave brain, Bil, but I think I’ve figured out how to get past the sensors. The natural way.”
“What?”
“They’ve even supplied me with the raw materials.”
“What are you talking about, Ghra? Explain!”
“I’m standing on an undercut ridge of dirt and stone, with some rather respectable boulders. Now if this mass suddenly descended thru the sensor rigs, it’d break the contact.”
“And bring every Khalian from the base, but not before they’d sprayed the area with whatever they have handy, plus launch that scout squadron they’ve got on the pads.”
“But when they see it is only sticks and stones ...”
“Which could break your bones, and how’re you going to start it all rolling?”
“Judiciously, because they really didn’t shore this stuff up properly.”
I could hear her exerting herself now and felt obliged to remind her of her risks even though I could well visualize what she was trying to do. But if the Khalia entertained even the remotest thought of tampering by unnatural agencies, they’d fling out a search net ... and catch us both. Full dark was settling, so the time of their twilight myopia was nearly past. If she counted on only that to prevent them seeing her ...
I heard the roll, her grunt and then the beginning of a mild roar.
“Rrrrrow,” came from Ghra and she was running, running away from the sound. “There! Told you so!”
I could also hear the whine of Khalian alert sirens and my external monitors reflected the sudden burst of light on the skyline.
“Ghra!”
“I’m okay, okay, Bil. I’m a large rock beside two smaller ones and I shan’t move a muscle all night.”
I have spent the occasional fretful night now and again but this would be one of the more memorable ones. Just as I had predicted, the Khalia mounted an intensive air and land search. I willingly admit that the camouflage over me was effective. The Ocelot was overflown eight or nine times—those Khalia are nothing if not tenacious when threatened. It was nearly dawn before the search was called off and the brilliant spaceport lights were switched off.
“Ghra?” I kept my voice low.
A deep yawn preceded her response. “Bil? You’re there, too. Good.”
“Are you still a rock?”
“Yessss,” and the slight sibilance warned me. “But not the same rock. Right?”
“Got me in one.”
“Where are you, Ghra?”
“Part of the foundation of their command post.”
“Their command post?”
“Speak one decibel louder, Bil, and their audios will pick you up. It’s dawn and I’m not saying anything else all day. Catch you at sunset.”
I didn’t have to wait all day for her next words, but it felt like a bloody Jovian year, and at that, I didn’t realize that she was whispering to me for the first nano-seconds.
“They’re coming in from the 700 quadrant, Bil. Straight from Target. As if they’d planned to intercept. And they’ll be crossing the 800s by noon tomorrow. By all that’s holy, there’ll be no way they’d miss the ripple cone. You’ve got to warn the Admiral to scatter the convoy. Now. Get off now.” She gave a little chuckle. “Keeping ‘em up half the night was a good idea. Most of ‘em are asleep. They won’t see a thing if you keep it low and easy.”
“Are you daft, Ghra? I can’t go now. You can’t move until dusk.”
“Don’t argue, Bil. There’s no time. Even if they detect you, they can’t catch you. Go now. You go FTL as soon as you’re out of the gravity well and warn the Fleet. Just think of the Admiral’s face when he gets a chance to go up Khalian asses for a change. You warn him in time, he can disperse the convoy and call for whatever fighters Persuasion has left. They can refuel from the convoy’s pods. What a battle that will be. The Admiral’s career is made! And ours. Don’t worry about me. After all, I was supposed to subject the camouflage to a real test, wasn’t I?”
Her low voice rippled slightly with droll amusement. “But ...”
“Go!” Her imperative was firm, almost angry. “Or it’s all over for that convoy. Go. Now. While they’re sleeping.”
She was right. I knew it, but no brain ship leaves a brawn in an exposed and dangerous situation. The convoy was also in an exposed and dangerous situation. The greater duty called. The lives of many superceded the life of one, one who had willingly sacrificed herself.
I lifted slowly, using the minimum of power the Ocelot needed. She was good like that, you could almost lift her on a feather, and that was all I intended to use. I kept at ground level, which, considering the terrain, meant some tricky piloting, but I also didn’t want to go so fast that I lost that camouflage net. If I had to set down suddenly, it might save my skin.
I’m not used to dawdling; neither is the Ocelot, and it needed finesse to do it, and every vestige of skill I possessed. I went back through the gap, over the water, heading toward the oncoming dusk. I’d use sunset to cover my upward thrust because I’d have to use power then. But I’ d be far enough away from the big sensors at the spaceport to risk it. Maybe they’d still be snoozing. I willed those weaselly faces to have closed eyes and dulled senses and, as I tilted my nose up to the clear dark night of deep space, the camouflage net rippled down, spread briefly on the water and sank.
On my onward trajectory, I used Bethesda’s two smaller moons as shields, boosting my speed out of the sun’s gravity well before I turned on the FTL drive.
From the moment o.t.s. had mentioned the possibility of an incoming squadron of Khalia I had been computing a variety of courses from Target through the 700 quadrant to Bethesda’s system. There was no way the Khalia would miss the convoy’s emission trail entering from the 700s, and then they’d climb the tailpipes of the helpless, decelerating ships. I ran some calculations on the eta at the first gravity well maneuver the Admiral had planned and they were almost there. I had to buy them just a bit more time. This Ocelot was going to have to pretend it was advance scout for ships from another direction entirely.
So I planned to re-enter normal space on a course perpendicular to the logical one that the Khalia would take for Bethesda when they exited FTL space. Their ships would have sensors sensitive enough to pick up my “light cone” and I’d come in well in advance
of any traces which the convoy had left. If I handled it right, they’d come after me. It’s rare that the Admiral’s gig gets such an opportunity as this, to anticipate the enemy, to trigger a naval action which could have a tremendous effect on this everlasting war. It was too good to work out. It had to work out.
I did have several advantages to this mad scheme. The Fleet was out of FTL; the enemy not yet. I needed only a moment to send my message off to the Admiral. The rest of it was up to him. The disadvantage was that I might not have the joy of seeing the Fleet running up Khalian asses.
Once in FTL, I continued to check my calculations. Even if I came out right in the midst of the approaching Khalia I could manage. I only needed two nano-seconds to launch the message and even Khalia need more than that to react.
They had to come out somewhere near my re-entry window. They were great ones for using gravity wells to reduce speed, and there were two suns lined up almost perfectly with Bethesda for that sort of maneuver, just far enough away to slow them down for the Bethesda landing. My risk was worth the gamble and my confidence was bolstered by the courage of a camouflaged Hrruban.
I had the message torp set and ready to launch at the Gormenghast as I entered normal space. I toggled it off just as the Khalian pirate ships emerged, a couple thousand klicks off my port bow, an emergence that made my brain reel. What luck!
I was spatially above them and should be quite visible on their sensors. I flipped the Ocelot, ostensibly heading back the way I had come. I sent an open Mayday in the old code, adding some jibber I had once whipped up by recording old Earth Thai backward, and sent a panic shot from the stem plasma cannon, just in case their detectors had not spotted me. I made as much “light” as I could, wallowing my tail to broaden it, trying to pretend there were three of me. Well, trying is it.
The Ocelot is a speedy beast, speedier than I let them believe, hoping they’d mistake us for one of the larger, fully manned scouts to make it worth their while to track and destroy me. The closer they got the faster they would be able to make a proper identification. I sent MAYDAY in several Alliance languages and again my Thai-jibber. Until they sent three of their real fast ones after me. It took them two days before their plasma bursts got close. I let them come in near enough for me to do some damage. I think I got one direct hit and a good cripple before I knew I was in their range. I hit the jettison moments before their cannon blew the Ocelot apart.
“Well, now, Mr. Hansing, how does that feel?” The solicitous voice was preternaturally loud through my audio circuits as consciousness returned.
“Loud and clear,” I replied with considerable relief and adjusted the volume.
I’d made it after all. Sometimes we do. After all, the Fleet would have engaged the pirates, and someone was sure to search the wreckage for the vital titanium capsule that contained Mayday tapes and what was left of Lieutenant Senior Grade Bil Hansing. Brains have been known to drift a considerable time before being retrieved with no harm done.
“What’ve I got this time?” I asked, flicking on visual monitors.
As I half suspected, I was in the capacious maintenance bay of the Fleet’s Mother, surrounded by other vehicles being repaired and re-serviced. And camouflaged with paint. I made a startled sound.
“The very latest thing, Lieutenant.”
I focused my visuals on the angular figure of Commander Davi Orbrinn, an officer well known to me. He still sported a trim black beard. His crews had put me back into commission half a dozen times. “An Ocelot Mark 19, new, improved and …” Commander Orbrinn sighed deeply. “Camouflaged. But really, Mr. Hansing, can you not manage to get a shade more wear out of this one?”
“Did the convoy get in all right? Did the Admiral destroy the Khalia? Did anyone rescue Ghra? How long have I been out of service?”
The Commander might turn up stiff but he’s an affable soul.
“Yes, yes, no and six months. The Admiral insisted that you have the best. You’re due back on the Gormenghast at 0600.”
“That’s cutting it fine, Davi, but thanks for all you’ve done for me.”
He gave a pleased grunt and waggled an admonishing finger at me. “Commander Het says they’ve saved something special for you for your recommission flight. Consider yourself checked out and ready to go. Duty calls!”
“What else?” I replied in a buoyant tone, happy to be able to answer, and rather hopeful that duty would send me to retrieve a certain camouflaged Hrruban.
And that was exactly what Duty called for.
For the first time in three months Gill Kanard looked happy. An hour before, he had watched the omnicasters repeat his only slightly edited version of the glorious Fleet victory off Bethesda. Edited to leave out references to the minor fact that Bethesda had not been the object of the exercise or that the planet was still occupied by the Khalia.
Watching from the sun garden, he was empathizing with the efforts of one of Port’s native sauropods to break through the city’s defenses. The creature was at least ten meters tall and all muscle and teeth, with very little brain. Evidently the scent of human meat beyond the barrier was nearly irresistible. Four times it had charged the wall, only to be stung by lasers and frustrated by the seamless durillium of the wall that separated Port from the planet-wide jungle surrounding it.
It was limping forward for a fifth attempt when Gill’s personal com-unit buzzed. He answered without taking his eyes off the struggle.
“Kanard here.”
“Gill, it’s Allen. You’d better get down here.” It was his admin assistant. He sounded more excited than concerned.
“Something wrong?”
“It’s Target, the counterattack. They’ve landed. We’re getting in the first reports.” Allen sounded understandably happy. Strange having an enemy that you don’t have to make up any atrocity reports about. If anything, the Sentient Relations and Communications Division had covered up the worst, in fear of starting a panic in the threatened sectors. There were few more authentic supporters of this war than Gill’s own department. He liked to think it added a good feel to their press releases.
This would be a great follow-up to the Bethesda story. They could contrast the humanity of the Fleet marines on Target with the Khalia’s behavior.
“IS IT TRUE,” demanded one of the First Platoon corporals in a voice that filled the echoing bay of the landing craft, “that this whole operation is so we can rescue Admiral Mayne’s nephew from the Khalia?”
Captain Kowacs looked at the man. The corporal stared back at the company commander with a jaunty arrogance that said, Whatcha gonna do? Put me on point?
Which of course was the corporal’s normal patrol position. Kowacs took a deep breath, but you learned real fast in a Marine Reaction Company that you couldn’t scare your troops with rear-echelon discipline. Trying to do that would guarantee you were the first casualty of the next firefight.
“No, Corporal Dodd,” said Kowacs. “Admiral Mayne is planning coordinator for this mission, but neither he nor any nephews of his have anything behind-the-scenes to do with it.”
He glared at his assembled company.
The behind-the-scenes order had come from Star Admiral Forberry; and it was Forberry’s son, not a nephew, who’d been snatched—no body recovered, at any rate—when the Khalia raided the Pleasure Dome on Iknaton five years before.
Nobody else spoke up; even Dodd looked abashed. Kowacs gazed at the hundred and three pairs of waiting eyes—wondered how many of them would have any life behind them in twenty-four hours ... sighed and thumbed the handet controlling the holo projector.
The image that formed above Kowacs’ head was fuzzy. The unit was intended for use in a shielded environment, while the bay of the landing ship Bonnie Parker was alive with circuits and charged metal.
No matter: this was the 121st Marine Reaction Company, the Headhunters, not an architectu
ral congress. The projector would do for the job.
“Fleet Intelligence believes this site to be the Khalia’s major holding facility for human prisoners on Target,” Kowacs said, referencing the hologram with a nod. “Their slave pen. Reconnaissance indicates that slave ships land at a pad three kilometers distant—”
A second hologram bloomed briefly, the scale of distance merging it with one wall of the big room.
“—and their cargoes are carried to the holding facility by air trucks which touch down on the roof of the Administration Building,” Kowacs continued as the image of the outlying spaceport disappeared. The building in the center of the main hologram brightened and began to rotate in three dimensions while the Marines squinted.
“Based on analysis of captured Khalian structures,” Kowacs said, “Intelligence believes the building is an integral polyborate casting, probably of two above-ground levels—”
“That high and the Weasels only got two floors?” demanded a sergeant from the Heavy Weapons platoon. She was concerned, not gibing like Dodd earlier. “Them little bastards, they like low ceilings.”
“Good point, Sergeant Rozelle,” Kowacs said, as if he liked to be interrupted ... but soldiers who were too dumb to think for themselves were too dumb to trust with your life in a reaction company. “Intelligence believes the building is scaled to the needs of human-slave-intake. But there aren’t any windows, and there may well be a third level inside.”
Kowacs cleared his throat. Before any of the half dozen Marines poised with further questions could interrupt again, he continued, “The walls and roof are rigid enough to withstand considerable stress, but they’re apt to shatter once their integrity is breached. Intelligence believes that strip charges will hole them and that plasma bolts should crumble sections large enough for easy entry.”
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