As they got back on the road and headed toward Saint Petersburg, they saw contrails, high in the sky, spiraling downward.
* * *
Grishin struggled to keep from gritting his teeth in frustration. I should not be surprised, he told himself harshly. It is exactly what I would do, just before springing the ambush. The Saint Petersburg government had waited until the Marine boats were away before they had a sudden “unexpected systems failure” that caused all of their planetary defense arrays to activate. Fearing an attack, Hanson had called the boats back and regrouped her ships in higher orbit in a better defensive position, with every vessel poised to repel the as-yet unseen Saint Petersburg Navy.
Not surprisingly — at least to Grishin — no attack had materialized. The whole farce, he knew, had been both to test the Confederation task force’s reactions and to gather information on their weapons systems. On top of that, their entire operation had effectively been disrupted. Hanson had been forced to make an agonizing decision: take the time to reposition her ships as she had before, which would have provided optimal support to the Marines, or send the assault carriers in with minimal protection while keeping the bulk of her ships further from the planet where they had more maneuvering room for combat.
Knowing that the tactic had been nothing more than a play for time, no doubt to move as many weapons and incriminating equipment as possible out of the huge mountain facility, Hanson had sent the carriers in with Sato’s ship, Yura, and one of her sister heavy cruisers for protection and fire support for the Marines, if they needed it.
After the targeting systems had been shut down, the Russians had been extremely obliging in guiding the boats down and effusive in their apologies. Hanson had accepted their regrets with admirable diplomacy, but Grishin was not fooled: he had planned a small bit of deception of his own.
His original plan, after analyzing the information the Confederation agent had transmitted, had called for a battalion of troops to land at the mountain facility, and two companies each to land at the coal burning facilities (he refused now to call them “power plants”). After the game the Russians had played, however, he knew that the only facility of any true value would be the mountain facility: the locations of the coal burning facilities were known now, and their outward details had been confirmed from orbit. They may be producing uranium, but that was all. The real prize, if there was one, was the massive bunker in the mountains.
Once Hanson finally gave clearance for the landing to recommence, Grishin had his boat pilots follow their original courses, with one small deviation: the boats bound for the coal burning facilities simply did a quick flyover of their targets before turning to join Grishin’s main force at the mountain bunker, concentrating the entire Marine brigade at the main objective. The boats dove low, skimming the treetops, to avoid the planetary defense radars as best they could.
* * *
In a deep underground bunker five kilometers south of Saint Petersburg City that served as the military command center and survival shelter for the planet’s leaders, Marshal Antonov grunted in satisfaction.
“All too predictable,” he murmured as the Confederation boats that had been heading for the coal plants suddenly disappeared from the defense network displays, no doubt as some sort of ruse. He could have ordered his aerospace fighters up to engage and destroy them, but that would have given away the game. They could only be heading toward one place. “Let them concentrate at the Central Facility where we can apply overwhelming force,” he said to Korolev, who stood beside him at the massive map table, whose surface showed the known and projected tracks of the enemy boats as they raced toward the Central Facility, “and we will be done with these fools.” The map showed the forces that now awaited the Confederation Marines: in addition to the division that was normally garrisoned in and around the facility, two more divisions had been deployed in concealed positions in a ring around the massive bunker. The Confederation troops would be outnumbered six to one. He glanced at the wall display, which showed the disposition of the Confederation task force’s ships, hovering in high orbit not far from the moon. He shook his head in disgust at the sight of the vulnerable carriers, now escorted only by a pair of heavy cruisers. “Then we will formally introduce them to the Saint Petersburg Navy.”
Beside him, Korolev could not help but smile as he looked at the icons representing the seventy-three ships of his planet’s secretly built navy, including thirty-eight powerful heavy cruisers, all armed with highly advanced nuclear-tipped torpedoes. Carefully concealed in deep fissures in the small moon’s surface, they were perfectly positioned for a surprise attack on the Confederation task force.
* * *
“Roland, are you all right?”
Mills snapped his eyes open at the sound of Sabourin’s voice. She had opened a private channel to him so no one else could hear. Two of the Yura’s Marine detachment’s platoons had been prepared as a quick reaction force to help support the surface operation, with a platoon in each of the two cutters the cruiser carried. The two other platoons, along with the detachment commander, had been ferried to one of the assault carriers, and — if the mission called for it — would be taken down in one of the carrier’s assault boats that would soon be returning from the surface after deploying the Marines there. The detachment commander had left Mills in charge of the force waiting aboard Yura.
“Yes,” he rasped, “I’m bloody fine.”
After a brief pause, Sabourin said softly, “You should know better than to lie to me.”
Mills looked up at her. “My head has been aching like a bloody bitch,” he confessed. “And...” He stopped, shook his head.
“And you’re still seeing the Kreelan, as in the dream?” she finished for him.
Unwillingly, he nodded. “It’s like it’s getting stronger by the fucking minute. Damned if I know why or what it means.”
“Could they be coming here?” Sabourin wondered.
Mills laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head. “Now wouldn’t that be a capital cockup? As if the Russkies aren’t trouble enough.”
“I think we should tell the captain, Roland,” she said. “Maybe it’s nothing, but if—”
“No,” he said, cutting her off. “He probably thinks I’m off my fucking nut with this dreaming business. I’m not going to give him cause to pull me off the line now, Emmanuelle.”
“But what if it does mean something, Roland?” she pressed.
“It doesn’t,” he snapped. Then, after a moment, he added softly, “Please, just drop it?”
Fearing that he was making a potentially grave mistake, Sabourin nodded and settled back into the combat seat, her worried eyes fixed on her lover.
* * *
“Okay,” Valentina breathed, “let’s go.”
A secret police vehicle parked on the street during daylight was highly unusual; like cockroaches, the secret police normally came out at night to swarm through the city. Unfortunately, there was no convenient place to park it out of sight and still be close to Sikorsky’s apartment building. On the other hand, anyone who saw the vehicle or its two occupants would just as quickly pretend they hadn’t.
A few minutes earlier, Sikorsky and Valentina had stopped the vehicle in an alley, where Valentina stripped off her secret police uniform to expose her civilian clothes, and swapped places in the vehicle with Sikorsky, who then drove them to his apartment building.
“Do you think this will work?” he asked quietly as they got out of the vehicle and climbed the worn concrete stairs to the main entrance.
“I don’t know,” she said, “but we don’t have time for anything else.” She knew that the Marines must be close to their objectives by now, and was surprised that an orbital bombardment hadn’t already begun. Some Marines would be detailed to pick her up: they just had to find her. One of the items in her retrieved cylinder was a special emergency retrieval beacon. She should have activated it as soon as she knew the boats were inbound. She hadn’t, beca
use she wasn’t going to leave this planet without making sure that Dmitri and his wife were safe.
Valentina led the way, following Sikorsky’s quiet instructions to reach his apartment. Her hands were bound by cuffs, although they were loose enough that she could quickly get free if she had to. Sikorsky held his submachine gun trained on her back to round out the image of her being his prisoner.
When they arrived at his door, Sikorsky knocked. “Ludmilla!” he called. He would have let himself in, of course, but his key — along with his clothes and other items he had when they were captured — was still sitting somewhere in secret police headquarters.
After an agonizing moment, the door swung open.
“Ludmilla,” Sikorsky gasped, horrified.
There stood his wife, her face battered and bruised, with deep cuts in her forehead and on both cheeks, with her lips still bleeding and swollen. Her left arm was in a sling, her wrist and fingers in a poorly made cast. She stumbled back from the door, trembling in fear of her husband, who now wore a secret police uniform.
Valentina instantly realized that they had made a terrible miscalculation. Neither she nor Sikorsky had thought of the possibility that Ludmilla might have been brought in for questioning. In retrospect, she knew that had been an amateurish mistake. Of course they would have interrogated her, she berated herself. And now here the two of them were, Dmitri ready with a story that he had been working undercover for the secret police to bring this Confederation spy to justice, hoping that would fool his devoted Party wife long enough to get her away from the city, and Valentina playing the role of captured villainess.
Worse, now that she was thinking more clearly, she realized that the secret police no doubt had Ludmilla under surveillance on the chance that Sikorsky would return home. They had walked straight into a trap.
Dropping his weapon to hang limply at his side, Sikorsky reached for his wife, but she stumbled backward before collapsing to the floor, a cry of terror on her lips. “No,” she begged him, holding up her good arm, trying to ward him off. “Please, no more...”
“Ludmilla,” he said, kneeling down and reaching for her, “it is me, Dmitri...”
“No,” his wife whispered, turning away.
Valentina put a hand on Dmitri’s shoulder, drawing him back. “Listen to me,” she told him. “Go change into civilian clothes — quickly. I’ll look after her.”
With a questioning look, but without argument, Dmitri turned and shambled down the short hallway to the bedroom, his own battered face a mask of shocked pain that went far deeper than his physical wounds.
Valentina knelt next to Ludmilla and said softly, “Ludmilla, he’s not one of them. He would never, ever hurt you. We didn’t know they had taken you in for interrogation.”
After a moment, Ludmilla, tears running down her face, whispered, “I have been such a fool. After they took away my daughter, my only child, I was convinced it was something I had done, some terrible wrong for which I was responsible. I tried to be good after that, to do everything the Party wanted. I know...I know that it hurt Dmitri, but I could not help myself. Then...then they came for me, just as they did my daughter. They said terrible things, that Dmitri was a spy, helping you — a Confederation spy — and that I must also be guilty, that I was a traitor to my planet, to my people. They beat me...” She moaned, curling into a fetal position, shivering.
“Your husband is a good man, Ludmilla,” Valentina told her fiercely, gently pulling the older woman into her arms. “It is the Party that is twisted and evil. They have used you, just as they have used everyone, torturing and murdering anyone who dares to defy them. People like your daughter and her husband. People like Dmitri. He has been risking his life, trying to change that.”
“I don’t know what to believe now,” Ludmilla said, choking on the words.
“Believe that I love you, and that if I ever catch the fucking bastards who did this to you, I’ll kill them with my bare hands,” came Dmitri’s savage voice from beside her.
Ludmilla turned to see him, now dressed in his customary plain, ordinary clothes. His eyes, staring from his bandaged face, were wet with his own tears. “Dmitri,” she cried softly as she finally reached for him, “what are we to do?”
Suddenly there were shouts from down the corridor outside, and the sound of pounding feet, growing louder, nearer.
“What is that?” Ludmilla cried, her face a mask of terror.
Valentina snatched up Dmitri’s weapon and handed it back to him. “Don’t worry,” she said grimly. “Dmitri, take this.” She handed him a tiny device with a numeric code lit in red, blinking. “It’s an emergency beacon. I’ve already activated it: help will be coming soon. But in case something happens to me, they’ll take you and Ludmilla to safety.” He took it and shoved it into his pocket. “Now, take her back to the bedroom and stay there, behind whatever cover you can. If any secret police troops make it past me...” She shrugged. “Just stay alive until help arrives.”
“What about you?” he asked as he pulled Ludmilla to her feet and began to move her to the back of the apartment. “Don’t you need a weapon?”
“I’ve got plenty,” she said cryptically. “Now get going!”
As he and Ludmilla hurried down the hall to the bedroom, Valentina turned and bolted for the kitchen. Fortunately, Ludmilla was a very good cook and kept her kitchen and its contents, as humble as they might be, in good order and condition.
Especially the knives. The secret police were almost to the door, so she had no time to be choosy. She grabbed a meat cleaver and shoved it into her waistband, then took the two butcher knives protruding from the simple wooden knife block, noting with satisfaction that they had a fresh, sharp edge. She would have preferred to have some knives that she could throw, but there wasn’t time. She would have to work close-in.
She darted back into the main room just as the door burst open and the first of seven secret police troops stepped in, weapons raised. In a blur, Valentina moved toward him from the opposite side of the door, knocking his weapon down toward the floor with one hand as her other slashed one of the knives across his throat. She slammed into him with one shoulder, sending him cartwheeling backward into the others. Blood spurted from his neck, splattering his surprised comrades as his finger spasmed on the trigger of his weapon, sending a hail of bullets into the ceiling.
Then she was among them, spinning, kicking, and slashing, her face frozen into a cold mask of merciless hatred.
* * *
“Commodore!”
Hanson turned to see Robert Torvald, the Confederation agent’s controller, burst onto the flag bridge, the pair of Marines who stood guard on the hatch during battle stations both pointing their weapons at him.
“Bloody hell, man!” she snapped. “We’re at general quarters! What the devil are you doing—”
“I’ve picked up the emergency recall beacon,” he said urgently as he came to stand close by her command chair.
“Ma’am?” one of the Marines asked tensely. Few people on the ship had even seen Torvald on this patrol, and the Marines were very uneasy about letting this man stand so close to their senior-most officer.
“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Thank you, gentlemen. Return to your posts.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” they said in unison before leaving the flag bridge, but not without a surreptitious glance back at the stranger in civilian clothes.
“The recall beacon,” Torvald said again. “You must send a team to retrieve our asset. Now.”
Hanson hated it when the spooks talked like that, like there weren’t actual people involved. “I’ll send a team as soon as Colonel Grishin secures—”
“I’m sorry, commodore, but that won’t do,” Torvald interrupted her. “If you’ll recall the special section of your orders, retrieving our asset becomes your first priority once the beacon is activated. You have no discretion in the matter.”
She stared at him a moment, debating in the ba
ck of her mind how much trouble she would be in if she recalled the Marines standing guard and had them frog-march this mouth-with-legs to the brig.
“That section of the orders was undersigned by the president herself, commodore,” he added.
“I realize that,” she told him acidly, grudgingly conceding that she wouldn’t be able to throw him in the brig after all. She punched a button on her control console. “Captain Zellars,” she called to her flag captain. “We need to get a Marine assault team down to the surface on a...special mission. Right now. Who do we have that’s ready to go and in the best position?”
“Yura would fit the bill, commodore,” Zellars said immediately. “She has two Marine platoons prepped as quick reaction teams, already in the ship’s cutters. They just need a frag order to go.”
Hanson looked at Torvald. “Give them the coordinates and tell them what they need to know to bring your asset back,” she said, “then get the hell off my flag bridge.”
“I’m sorry, commodore,” he shot back, “but that’s impossible. I have to go with the Marines on the cutter—”
“That, Mr. Torvald,” she interrupted him this time, “is distinctly not in my orders. If you want your asset picked up, give my people the information they need to get the mission done. Otherwise, get your ass out of my sight.”
Up until then, Torvald had been disquietingly cool. But she could see that she had cracked his armor. She wasn’t quite sure what mix of emotions were showing through, but she could tell they didn’t include love or joy.
“Here,” he said tersely, handing her a data chip. “This has everything they’ll need to find...” He paused before finishing, almost reluctantly, “...her.”
* * *
In Her Name: The Last War Page 65