Blackcollar: The Blackcollar

by Timothy Zahn

  Caine snorted. "A fine ally you are. Those people are on our side."

  "Most of them are, sure. They're not the ones I'm worried about."

  "What, you think there might be a spy in that group? That's crazy—the government would have crushed them long ago."

  "Not necessarily. It's often more profitable to leave the structure in place and simply neutralize it. Don't forget Tremayne himself admitted their raids weren't very successful."

  Caine pursed his lips. He still felt resentful, but Lathe was making uncomfortable sense. "Going to be hard for them to help, though, when they don't know what we're doing."

  "They'll know what they have to, when they have to—and I'll make those decisions."

  "Yeah." Taking a half step closer to Lathe, Caine lowered his voice to a whisper. "Lathe, what exactly is Dodds up to?"

  Lathe returned the gaze steadily. "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you. Or anyone else, for that matter."

  "Your secrecy rule applies to friends, too? Or do you still think I'm a spy?"

  "No, I think I can trust you. But knowing Dodds's mission won't do you any good, and could do us harm."

  "It would help my peace of mind."

  Lathe gave him a look of strained patience. "What do you want me to do—make something up? I said I can't tell you." Turning on his heel, the comsquare left, walking over to the table where Hawking had some of his electronic gear laid out. A few soft words and Hawking nodded and began clearing off some space.

  Caine didn't watch anymore, but went over to his bunk and lay down, trying not to be too angry. What the hell, he wondered, was Dodds up to that was so all-fired important? Lathe's point about secrecy was reasonable enough, but Caine's interest wasn't exactly idle curiosity. His life and mission were on the line here, and Lathe had no right to keep any knowledge to himself that might affect either of those.

  There was a knock at the door, and Caine turned his head as Kwon let Fuess in. The Argentian carried a stack of papers and, at Kwon's direction, took them to the newly cleared table. Lathe and Skyler were seated there, and the other blackcollars were drifting in that direction. Rolling out of his bunk, Caine went over to join them. At least, he thought firmly, Lathe wouldn't keep him from learning how to get around the city.

  His map of Calarand in hand, Lathe strolled over to Skyler's bunk, glanced around to make sure no one was within easy earshot. "Make some room," he said.

  Still studying his own map, Skyler moved his feet over. Lathe sat down and nodded toward the door. "What did you think of him?" the comsquare asked.

  "Fuess?" Skyler shrugged. "A real fireball. Ryq-hatred oozing from every pore. Novak told me all four of them are like that."

  "Yeah. Strikes me as odd that they've stayed alive this long, given how half-cocked that type usually is."

  "Says a lot for Bakshi's leadership and discipline, obviously."

  "Maybe." Lathe surveyed the room. "We're going to have to split up as soon as possible—we're too centralized here, too vulnerable to attack."

  "Or surveillance," Skyler nodded. "Though most of that should be aimed at you or Caine. Did your excuse for hauling Novak and Haven to that meeting fool anyone, by the way?"

  "I doubt it," Lathe admitted. "Bodyguards look like bodyguards no matter how they're packaged. Odds are somebody's figured out by now that he's more important than we're letting on."

  "Well, it was a nice try, anyway," Skyler said. "I'll take O'Hara and Spadafora out later and find a good hideout or two. I wouldn't count on getting anything more secure than this place, though." He cocked an eyebrow. "From the questions you were asking Fuess I'd say you've already got an attack plan in mind for the prison. Care to let me in on it?"

  "Not yet. I need to work out more of the details. Tell me, who would you say has the toughest constitution of all of us?"

  Skyler glanced around the room. One of his best attributes, Lathe thought: he didn't ask unnecessary questions. "I'd say O'Hara, Mordecai, and Haven, in that order. Vale would know—he's practically got our medical histories memorized."

  Lathe nodded. "I'll talk to him, but your opinion jibes with mine. While you're out later look for a separate, out-of-the-way place where three men could stay, all right?"

  "Okay. When will we be moving against the prison? A day or two?"

  Lathe hesitated. "More like a week."

  Skyler's eyebrows rose fractionally. "I would have thought you'd want to finish up before the collies got their balance back."

  "Some delays are unavoidable. But we'll save all the time I thought it would take to gather the vets together, so we should come out about even. Talk to you later."

  He stood up and looked around. Vale was lying on a bunk across the room, apparently asleep. Lathe hesitated, decided his questions and orders would keep, and went over to his own cot to he down. He was more fatigued than he cared to admit—he'd forgotten how much of a strain leadership could be, especially under conditions like these. Bad enough to be fighting on a foreign world, let alone one where your allies weren't fully on your side. He could work around that... but the growing discontent in Caine's eyes was something else entirely. Caine still held the key to this mission, and if his questions about Dodds sprouted into full-fledged suspicions, it could mean disaster.

  The faces of Lathe's old blackcollar squad rose unbidden behind the comsquare's eyelids. He blinked once, to drive them away. His new squad would not die like his first had, he told himself firmly. He was too old to go through that again.

  Rolling onto his side, he set his mental alarm for two hours and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 14

  Glinting brightly in the noonday sun, the needle-shaped patrol boat hovered in place for a second before settling into the clearing near the winding dirt road and parked vehicles at the edge of the Security base camp. A half-dozen men emerged almost immediately and walked into the rough semicircle of tents, disappearing into a square tent near one end of the ring. The main command post, Jensen decided. A few minutes later another six men left the tent, walking with the bounce of fresh troops. Climbing into the boat, they took off and headed west.

  Lowering his binoculars, Jensen rubbed his eyes. He'd been sitting above the camp for the past hour, observing events below and deciding on the best way to get in and out again. It was a risky proposition, to be sure; even with nearly everyone out chasing around the mountains, he estimated there were between ten and twenty men still in camp. The odds weren't good, but by their very nature they provided him the advantage of surprise. No fugitive in his right mind—in which category Jensen included himself—would normally go anywhere near an enemy stronghold, let alone consider sneaking in. But in enemy territory food and transportation were vital, and both of those were to be had below. Stowing his binoculars in his pack, he got to his feet and edged his way down the slope.

  There were no trip wires or other intruder-detection devices at the edge of camp that Jensen could detect. Moving like a gentle breeze, he worked his way around to a point opposite the road and landing area. Once, he had to freeze among the trees as the patrol boat crew came out of the command tent and crossed over to a long structure that seemed to be a barracks. Cautiously, trying to watch every direction at once, Jensen slipped to the front of the nearest tent and looked inside.

  It was someone's quarters, currently unoccupied. Officers' quarters, most likely—and where there were officers there were spare officers' uniforms. With one final glance around, Jensen went inside.

  Moments later he was back in the tent's entrance, attired in the distinctive gray-green he'd fought against for so long on Plinry. There was a time, he remembered wryly, when he would have felt defiled to be wearing a collie uniform. Now, he merely felt a little safer.

  A little, but not much. The uniform wasn't a bad fit, but it didn't go with his graying hair and wrinkled skin, and the blackcollar field pack dangling from his left hand was emphatically not standard collie equipment. Staying in the shadow of the tent, he considered h
is next move.

  To his left was the barracks and three tents of unknown purpose; to his right were two more unknown tents, the command post, and a third unknown tent. Wishing the sun were lower, Jensen studied the middle of the compound. The plants there seemed particularly resilient and didn't show wheel tracks well, but it seemed to him the heaviest marks went to the tent just left of the command post. Taking a deep breath, Jensen headed off to his right, trying to walk as if he owned the place. Passing the first tent, he stepped into the second.

  Pay dirt. Stacks of white plastic crates filled the interior, and inside the open ones Jensen could see packages of field rations. Dropping to one knee, he began to fill his pack.

  There was still no one in sight in the compound when he again looked outside. Not sure he believed the kind of luck he was having, he stepped out quickly, went behind the command post tent—and came face to face with two Security men emerging from the woods not thirty meters away.

  Jensen was caught flatfooted. There was no place to hide, even if the others hadn't already been looking straight at him. But his training was equal to the shock, and he kept walking without the guilty stop that would have caught their attention.

  The Security men didn't have the benefit of his training, and had the further disadvantage of seeing a familiar uniform. They continued toward Jensen for several steps before one of them suddenly focused on the blackcollar's face. A puzzled look flickered across his eyes, and suddenly he jolted to a stop. His left hand slapped his companion's arm as his right clawed at his holster—but he hadn't even closed on the pistol's grip when Jensen's throwing star knocked him backwards into oblivion. The other soldier, startled into belated awareness, had no chance at all. His scream of terror had hardly begun before it was cut off by a second star.

  Cursing under his breath, Jensen dropped to one knee beside the bodies and retrieved his stars. Too slow, too damn slow—and the sloppiness was going to cost him dearly. The whole camp must have heard that yell, and his chance of sneaking out unnoticed was gone forever. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw seven men come boiling out of the barracks, weapons at the ready.

  Jensen didn't hesitate. They would spot him anyway, and the longer he could maintain his camouflage the better. Waving one arm, he shouted, "Over here, quick!" He turned back to the dead men, watching the other group from the corner of his eye.

  He would have been surprised if they hadn't fallen for it; and fall they did, five of them running toward him while the other two headed in another direction, presumably to get a medkit. Jensen's pack was on the ground at his side; keeping his movements to a minimum, he pulled the nunchaku out with his left hand, sliding it along the ground to where he could lift it without it being seen. There was no time to get to his other weapons; he would have to hope the nunchaku and six throwing stars in his belt pouch would be enough. Averting his face, he pressed the nunchaku to his chest and waited.

  The footsteps arrived behind him. "Oh, God," a shocked voice panted. "What happened?"

  "Don't know," Jensen grunted. The others were coming up now; half standing up, Jensen stepped backwards as he rose. "I heard a scream and saw him fall."

  "Are they—?" the first man began as he dropped to one knee.

  He never finished the question. Shock had dulled whatever combat reflexes he and his men had ever had: they were clumped together, their weapons pointing the wrong way as they scanned the woods nervously—and Jensen's back-and-rise maneuver had put him into the center of the group.

  He took out the soldier behind him, first with an elbow in the solar plexus and a backfist to the side of the face. Simultaneously, his other hand swung the two nunchaku sticks like a club into the throat of the man to his right. A short kick caught the kneeling man in the back of the head, and the last two had barely time to turn before the nunchaku, flailing at full length now, broke both their necks.

  Scooping up his pack, Jensen ran for the front of the command tent. The fight had taken place barely fifteen meters from the tent, and it was impossible for those inside not to be aware that something was wrong. He had to stop them before they sent out an emergency call that would bring the scattered patrol boats down on top of him.

  He nearly ran down two men as he rounded the corner. "What—?" one of them managed to say before the nunchaku caught him across the face. With a yelp the other jumped to the side, firing a dart pistol wildly in Jensen's direction. The blackcollar felt a cluster of needles ricochet from his hidden flexarmor as he dived for the ground, his leg sweeping horizontally to knock the legs out from under his opponent. The other fell heavily, his pistol flying from his hand. Two more quick blows with the flail and Jensen was again racing for the tent entrance, jamming the nunchaku into his belt as he scooped a handful of throwing stars from their pouch. The flap which was the entrance was wide open; hoping fervently that there were no obstructions to the side of it, he dived through the opening.

  They were waiting for him, of course: three men standing well back from the entrance with weapons ready. But they'd clearly expected him to come straight in, and his sideways dive took them by surprise. Clusters of darts hit the tent wall and nipped at Jensen's legs as he hit the ground and somersaulted, sending two stars spinning toward his attackers halfway through his roll. The stars missed, but accomplished their intended goal of forcing the Security men to dodge. The second fusillade was completely off target; and then Jensen was back on his feet, his stars flashing on their way. Within seconds it was over.

  Panting, Jensen gave the tent a quick once-over. A huge map, covered with colored markers, dominated the center of the floor. On one side of the tent sat a mass of communications equipment; on the other was a rack holding six snub-nosed laser rifles. He eyed the latter, wondering why the Security men hadn't used those instead of dart pistols. It looked like Security had decided to try and take him alive, a policy he certainly couldn't argue with. Leaning over the map, he tried to figure out where he was.

  A sudden crackle from the communications gear made him turn his head—and probably saved his life. Framed in the doorway, at the edge of his peripheral vision, were two figures.

  Jensen dropped and rolled even as the first laser blast sizzled the space he'd just vacated. The second man's shot was closer, and Jensen felt the heat on his face as he came up on one knee and scrabbled for his throwing stars.

  There was only one left.

  He deserved to die, Jensen thought bitterly, his mind working with a clarity and speed which seemed to freeze the scene before him. He'd completely forgotten the two men who'd left the main pack earlier, and that act of stupidity was now demanding its price. The two men were standing together, one to the left and slightly behind the other, their laser rifles tracking him—close enough together to be taken out by a thrown nunchaku if the weapon had been in its usual holster. But it was still stuck in the Security uniform belt, and he knew he couldn't free it in time. Another half second and the lasers would be lined up on him... and with all his strength Jensen hurled his last star at the rear man's right leg.

  It hit just above the ankle, with the result Jensen had hoped for. Knocked off balance, the soldier fell heavily into his companion's side, tumbling them both to the floor as their shots went wild. Long before they could untangle themselves Jensen was on them, nunchaku swinging with the savage intensity of someone who has squeezed one last chance from a hostile universe.

  He was trembling with reaction when he finally straightened up, so drained emotionally that the voice bursting abruptly from the speaker didn't even make him jump. "Base Five, this is Spotter Sixteen. Are you all right there?"

  For a moment Jensen hesitated. Then, picking up one of the laser rifles, he stepped over to the communications equipment, a vague plan forming in his mind. The controls didn't seem complicated; tentatively, he touched a button. "Spotter Sixteen, this is Base Five," he gasped. "We're under attack!"

  "By the blackcollar?" the voice asked, suddenly crisp.

  "Oh, God, I d
on't know," Jensen said, putting a frightened whine into his voice. "They're shooting at us from upslope. We're mostly pinned down, and the captain's been hit—"

  "Get ahold of yourself!" the other snapped. "We'll be there in fifteen minutes. How many snipers are there? There's only supposed to be one man out there."

  "Maybe he just moves around a lot—I don't know." Jensen fired twice near the antenna, knowing the other's radio would pick up a slight but distinctive crackle. "God, they're firing in here again," he groaned. "Look, sir, I'm going to try and get the captain out—he's hit bad."

  "Nega—" The voice cut off as Jensen sent two shots into the equipment. With luck, he thought as he ran for the tent entrance, they would assume the camp radio had been shot out before he heard their order.

  Nothing was visible overhead when he emerged, but that would soon change, and Jensen needed to give the approaching patrol boats at least a little of what they would expect to see. Flipping his rifle to full power, he began sending shots into the slopes above the camp as he retrieved his pack and ran to one of the open-roofed vehicles parked by the dirt road. They were standard military-looking models, little changed from those he'd used in the war. Climbing in, he checked the power gauge and drove back into camp, where he picked one of the dead men at random and loaded him aboard. The patrol boat would expect to see him bravely rescuing his wounded captain and he couldn't disappoint them. Turning onto the dirt road, he headed downhill.

  He wasn't any too soon. He was only two minutes out of the camp when, sweeping in from the west like Pha?thon's chariot, a patrol boat thundered by overhead. Hunching over the steering wheel, Jensen concentrated on his driving. It would be at least a while, he hoped, before the forces that were gathering grew tired of trying to draw fire from the hills and finally landed. When they discovered how the men at the base had died... well, Jensen planned to be far from his stolen vehicle before it was found.