by Rick Shelley
"Of course, Colonel," Esterling said. "I understand fully."
"And when you do have word for us, Major, I would rather that it not be sent by means that might be intercepted. We don't have totally secure radio channels between us."
Esterling nodded. ' 'If it is acceptable to you, I will deliver the response to your camp in person."
"Thank you, Major. That would be the safest possible way," Flowers said.
"So now we just bite our fingernails and wait?" Lon asked once the staff car was well on its way back.
"It would be more seemly without the nail-biting," Flowers said, smiling, "but that's about all we can do
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now. The ball, as they say, is now in East's court."
"It probably won't be a very long wait," Black said. "We only made an offer to go east to talk to them. If there is truly any desire for peace in Landfall, they shouldn't need much jawing to make the preliminary decision to talk or not."
' 'The more concerned they are about word of the meeting leaking west, the faster they're likely to act," Flowers said. "I wouldn't be at all surprised to have Major Black come out very early this afternoon."
"I'll make certain that the sentries know to pass him through and warn us of his arrival," Black said.
"Yes, we don't want any embarrassing difficulties over that," Flowers agreed. "You might as well pass the word now."
Black put on his helmet to use its radio. When he had finished, he took the helmet off. "We'll
know the second a vehicle puts out from Hope. As soon as a sentry confirms that Major Esterling is coming, we'll have that relayed to the CP."
"We should have someone go to the perimeter to escort the major in," Colonel Flowers said. "Nolan? How about you?"
"Yes, sir, of course," Lon said quickly.
"Take this car," Flowers said. "And a driver. Offer to ride in with Major Esterling in his vehicle—assuming he comes by car. Give him the choice, his car or this one."
"Yes, sir."
Flowers turned toward Black. "Hiram, I'm going to proceed on the assumption that we're going to be going to Landfall, perhaps as soon as this evening. So let's get our team assembled. Captain Orlis is still your acting adjutant?"
Black nodded. "I expect to make the assignment permanent when we get back to Dirigent.
He's due for promotion, and once the cadet earns his pips, he can take over Alpha's first two platoons and free Lieutenant Hoper for command of the company."
Lon kept his eyes forward. The rumor mills had already
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postulated those changes, but this was the first official confirmation he had heard. From the day that Esau O'Fallon had reported, it had seemed likely. Seniority was far from being the only—or even the most important— qualification for promotion, but Carl Hoper was the senior lieutenant in the battalion. He was due for promotion to captain, and Matt Orlis was due for promotion to major, and a staff assignment. Those actions did not have to wait until there was a lieutenant to take over first and second platoons, but it would be ... tidier if O'Fallon was ready to get his commission. Carl's due, Lon thought. Past due. He's had his commission for ten years and he's earned his way on a lot of combat contracts.
He felt only a trace of envy. Almost unnoticed, one thought did slide through his mind. / hope it doesn 't take me ten years to make captain.
LOB hardly had a minute to himself. Black called to have Captain Orlis meet them at battalion headquarters. The four officers ate lunch while Colonel Flowers explained what had happened that morning and what he hoped would follow. Orlis showed no surprise at seeing the regimental commander. After the meal, Orlis and the colonels retreated into Black's CP, but Lon was told to stay close. A call might come at any minute that Major Esterling was on his way, and Lon would have to hurry then to meet the major at the perimeter.
"It's the most unusual situation I've run into in nearly twenty-five years in the Corps, Lieutenant," Lead Sergeant Osier said after sending his clerk to get coffee. "But maybe it's cockeyed enough to work."
"I hope so. But things could get sticky."
"Yes, sir, they could," Zal Osier agreed. "We could end up in the middle fighting either colony, or both. And from what we've seen so far, it wouldn't be a walkover for us."
A few minutes later, Lon left the tent to pace outside. I'm just waiting, not showing nerves, he reasoned. He had been told to stay close. Even if a few enlisted men saw him pacing, there would be no reason for them to think that his nerves were bad because of impending combat. It was hot, even in the shade, and there was scarcely a breath of air to temper the hundred-plus-degree heat. In a perverse way, the heat was welcome. It gave Lon something to think about besides the situation on Aldrin and waiting for a response from the "enemy"
capital.
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He tried to reason through the possibilities. If both sides were logical, there was no problem.
Accepting mediation and finding a peaceful political resolution was the only answer. But Lon was not naive enough to expect logic to rule—at least not quickly. Had logic ruled, there would have been no fighting, no need for West to hire mercenaries. Lon's first guess was
that East would accept Colonel Flowers' offer and that a trip to Landfall was in the offing.
After that, East might accept the offer of mediation and the Corps' guarantee of safety until a binding peace could be negotiated. They had agreed to that before. But would West accept? They had been the ones to refuse mediation in the first place, preferring to fight.
West didn 't want to face East alone in a war, Lon reminded himself. They would have to stop to think if the alternative to accepting mediation was to face East and the DMC.
But, again, that was only logic talking.
It was after two o'clock when Osier came out of the tent. "It's time, Lieutenant," he called.
"There's a car coming from Hope. The colonel says we should leave right now."
Lon nodded. "You're driving?"
"Yes, sir. And the colonel said no weapons in the car."
"We won't need them," Lon said. His rifle and pistol were in Osier's half of the headquarters tent. Osier was not armed either. "Let's not keep Major Esterling waiting."
Lon rode in the rear seat. Standard military protocol. If Major Esterling rode back in this vehicle, he would be given the right side of the rear seat. In his own vehicle, the arrangements would no doubt be the same. The senior officer always had the right seat in the rear. That was a tradition that went back to Earth.
They reached the checkpoint on the perimeter less than a minute before the car from Hope.
Lon got out and waited for the other vehicle to pull to a stop. Major Esterling was in the rear.
His lead sergeant was driving.
"Good afternoon. Major," Lon said, saluting when Es-CAPTAIN
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terling opened the rear door of his car. "Colonel Flowers asked me to meet you and accompany you in. We can both go in your car, if you prefer, or my driver can take us."
"Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll be glad to have you ride with me," Esterling said. Lon nodded and went around to the other side of the major's floater and got in. He gave the driver directions to the battalion command post. Osier waited until they had gone a hundred yards before he followed.
"I don't think I'll ever truly get used to the heat here," Esterling said. ' 'The area where I was raised almost never had temperatures reach a hundred, and plenty of snow in the winter."
"Yes, sir. Snow is fine, as long as you don't have to sleep in it. Where I was raised on Earth we got some snow each winter. Not as much as some places, but enough to let us know there were different seasons in the year."
"In Hope, there are two seasons," Esterling said. "Wet and dry. The dry season is a little hotter, but the humidity in the wet more than makes up for it. But the land is unbelievably fertil
e. We get two crops a year from most of the cultivated ground, different crops, adjusted to suit the season."
"You sound as though you know about farming, Major."
"In an amateur sort of way," Esterling said. "My family never farmed, but we lived in a farming area, and I used to visit and ask a lot of questions when I was a boy. There was a time when I wanted to be a farmer more than anything else, long before I decided on the army." He paused. "Most times I don't question that I made the right decision."
Sounds like this isn 't one of them, Lon thought. And that sounds like maybe you've got news Colonel Flowers isn't going to like. It made the rest of the short ride more nervous for Lon.
His stomach started to knot up.
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Colonel Rowers asked Lon to sit in on the meeting. Captain Orlis was introduced as acting adjutant of 2nd Battalion. Lon waited for Esterling to spring his— presumably bad—news, nearly biting his tongue at the delay for amenities.
"I have heard from the office of our commander in chief," Esterling started when all of them were seated. "He has had instructions from the prime minister. Our government is not
sanguine about the chances that West will accept any peaceful resolution to our difficulties, but the prime minister is anxious to explore any possibility."
Better than I thought! ran through Lon's head.
"In that spirit, he is delighted—that is the word I was instructed to use—to accept your offer to lead a mission to Landfall for talks. I am to invite you to make the journey, with the personnel you indicated, as soon as possible. The prime minister suggests that, since you desire secrecy, you depart after dark. Accommodations will be provided, and you will be given whatever time you need to rest after you arrive."
"We accept," Flowers said quickly. "I am most heartened by the decision of your government, Major, and I promise to do everything I can to bring about a peaceful and equitable solution to the difficulties between your two governments."
"Subject to your agreement, my government requests that I accompany you, as liaison and guide," Esterling said.
"I'll be happy to have you with us, Major. I would have asked you to come along in any case."
Esterling remained at Black's headquarters. Esterling's car returned to Hope with a corporal from the headquarters staff to accompany the driver. Two people had to be in the car, in case the Wester delegation observed. The other members of the team that would go east were brought in and briefed. Esterling was provided with a tent so he could rest. Dinner was served in battalion headquarters for him and the officers who were going to Landfall.
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Three crates were taken to the shuttle. The men carrying them were told to give a show of effort, as if the boxes were heavy. In fact, they were empty, and were disassembled as soon as they were in the shuttle. It was all meant to help avoid any suspicions among the people from Al-drin West. The flight had to look routine, no different from the dozen other arrivals and departures that had taken place since the surrender of Hope.
Just before sunset, the shuttle's crew started their pre-flight checks. As soon as it was fully dark, their passengers were taken to the shuttle and boarded.
"We're going to make a burn for orbit on a trajectory to rendezvous with our fleet," Colonel Black informed Esterling. "But we won't rendezvous with any of the ships. As soon as we're lost in the clutter of radar returns, we'll go to full masking and make another burn, coming down near the south pole and flying north on East's side of the main continent. That should all combine to ensure that West doesn't know what's going on."
Major Esterling grinned. ' 'Most devious, Colonel. I applaud you. I am out of my element here, but I accept your assurance that West will not spot the flight."
"Oh, they'll spot it—until we reach the fleet, that is. They'll see us approach our ships and have to assume that we dock. After that, we should be effectively invisible."
Lon settled back for the flight, having a good idea of the steps that would be taken to minimize the risk of detection. It would require a precise reentry burn, allowing the shuttle to coast until they were on the far side of the world and in the atmosphere. In space, the only thing about a shuttle that might be detected by ground or satellite instruments would be a rocket burn. There was no sure way to cloak that.
The DMC attack shuttle seemed deserted with so few people aboard. Major Esterling was flanked by the colonels. Captain Orlis was not too far from them. Lon and the enlisted personnel were farther away. On balance, Lon decided that he preferred it that way, even though he kept wondering if he was missing anything of importance. At 178
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least I don't have to be overly careful of what I do or say, he thought. And he could pay attention to the nearest video monitor, which gave him a succession of views of Aldrin.
Playing sightseer occupied Lon's mind nicely during the flight. He did not have the responsibilities of two platoons of men or the tension of approaching combat to keep him from enjoying the scenery, such as it was. He had made enough shuttle flights that there was
no novelty left in the mechanics. Coming back in toward the world from the pseudorendezvous with the fleet, Lon found himself impressed by the vast expanse of Aldrin's ocean. He had seen Earth's Pacific Ocean from space, but compared to this world-spanning sea, the Pacific was a pond. Over thousands of miles there was not so much as one island large enough to be seen from the shuttle without magnification. And even though temperatures in the southern polar region were comparable to those of Earth's Antarctica, there was no extensive ice cap. Strong ocean and air currents prevented any large-scale accumulation of ice and snow. There were sheets of floating ice, sometimes many miles in extent, but they seemed to be temporary things, rafts that would quickly be torn apart by the forces of unchecked nature.
/ wonder if they have whales, or anything comparable, Lon thought after the shuttle had dropped well down into the atmosphere. They were traveling almost due north, at less than forty thousand feet. With all this water, there could be unbelievably large creatures. Whales.
Monsters. Lon smiled, alone with his thoughts. Fire-breathing dragons and mile-long sea serpents and who knows what all. A child's nightmares, a romantic's yearnings. Why is reality always so ho-hum?
Too many adventure vids, Lon decided after the shuttle passed into the massive cloud bank of an organized low-pressure system in the tropics. Maybe f should be writing them instead of trying to be a soldier. It was a rare bit of whimsy, and he almost chuckled aloud at the image of Lon Nolan, fantasy auteur.
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For a time the images on the video monitors were all infrared. Even though it was night over the ocean, there had been some illumination from the stars. But visibility was nil in the storm system. There was a certain amount of turbulence, but the pilots did not take the easy path of climbing above the storm—a category three hurricane, the pilot informed his passengers.
It gave them an additional measure of concealment.
Lon let his thoughts drift to more comfortable territory. Sara, will I have things to tell you when I get home. He closed his eyes and leaned back. Sara. Lon Nolan, young married man. That was almost as fantastic a notion as the other, but more satisfying despite the brief sensation of nerves in his stomach. The idea still needed getting used to. Maybe it's a good thing this contract came up, Lon told himself. It gives us both more time to think. We were rushing hell-bent for leather before, letting emotion dictate everything. His stomach gave him another nervous jab, sharper. God, I hope she doesn 't change her mind. That possibility was scary, worse than going into combat. At least now, when there was no immediate prospect of battle.
/ don't think of her all the time now, the way 1 did before we left Dirigent, or on the first part of the trip. Maybe some of the glow is wearing off. Lon could still picture Sara in his mind, but her image was not quite as crisp and clearly defined as it had b
een before. I still love her. I still want to marry her, he assured himself, and he felt relieved when no dissenting opinion arose within his head.
"We're about twenty minutes from Landfall," the pilot announced shortly after the shuttle emerged from the storm. They were now at twenty thousand feet. "I'll start braking maneuvers in two minutes."
We 7/ need to be subsonic before we get near the coast and the settled areas of East, Lon thought. The braking maneuvers were noticeable. Lon felt himself being pressed forward against his restraining harness. He had to hold his head back, stiffen neck muscles. The engine
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noises increased dramatically as thrust was reversed, momentarily, several times, bringing the shuttle's speed down in steps without losing a lot of altitude.
When there were only five minutes left, the braking maneuvers became even stronger as the
pilot forced the craft's airspeed below five hundred miles per hour. The shuttle went into a long glide, losing altitude steadily, and going through a series of turns to line it up with the runway at Landfall's spaceport. Finally the pilot cut all thrust from the engines. They would be switched back on only when the shuttle was on the ground, braking to a stop.
Lon did not notice that he had gripped the armrests of his seat so tightly that his knuckles were white. This was the part of flying he enjoyed the least, the landings, even when it was not a "hot" combat landing. The shuttle's skids touched the plascrete runway, sending almost steady vibrations through the body of the shuttle, and a high-pitched whine. The jets came back on, reverse thrust, straining to stop the lander as quickly as possible. The landing was not as ... violent as it would have been going into combat, but it was enough to make Lon nervous. He looked toward Major Esterling and noted that he also looked anxious about the maneuver, even though Colonel Flowers was talking to him, apparently attempting to reassure him.
The shuttle came to a halt. They were on the ground in the enemy capital.
The shuttle was towed into a hangar before its passengers disembarked. The government of Aldrin East was doing everything it could to assure the secrecy that Colonel Flowers had requested. Inside the hangar there was an honor guard waiting, four soldiers in dress uniforms, carrying flags or chromed antique rifles—ornamental rather than practical.