Backshot (27 page)

The two young women were silent; what could they say in response? Candace was desperately afraid that sooner or later she’d lose her father and she was ashamed because she knew that fear was based on selfishness. Still, Lavager was her father, how else could she feel? Gina knew nothing about politics or military affairs, but she had been brought up to believe that when work had to be done, it simply had to be done. Lavager was just telling her what her own father had said using similar words when the weather was bad and there was work to be done on the farm. She put her arm around Candace.

“So what do you say, ladies? A night out on the town with me?”

Candace nodded reluctantly. If something were to happen to her father, she wanted to be there. She’d remain alert too. Maybe she couldn’t prevent something from happening but she would be there, at his side.

“I’d be happy to go with you, sir,” Gina said. Lavager smiled and got to his feet. “Tell you what, Candie, I’ll even take security with me. While Franklin’s recovering, my new chief of security is a man you can call Lee. You’ll like him.” He held out his hand and helped both girls to their feet. “Bring Roland too,” he said to Gina, putting an arm around her waist and guiding her to the door. “Ramuncho can put him up in the kitchen.”

Outside, two security guards made to enter Lavager’s landcar. “No,” he told them, “you ride with Lanners, I’m driving this crate myself. Get in, ladies!” They started off at great speed down the twisting one-lane road that was the only way up to Annie Hall. Two-way traffic was not permitted and guards stationed along the way saw to it that no intruders were allowed up the mountain. Lavager, who knew the road by heart, took the curves at eighty kilometers per hour.

“Daddy, slow down!” Candace shouted.

“I’ll slow down when I’m dead!” he shouted back over the wind rushing through the open windows and laughed. Behind them the security men were having a tough time keeping up with him. He laughed again and, steering with one hand, jammed a Davidoff into his mouth. But he did slow down when he realized his driving really was frightening his young companions. “It’s really fun taking this road after you’ve had a few liters of beer,” he said, lighting the cigar.

“Father,” Candace leaned toward Lavager to be heard over the roar of the wind, “the news is full of what happened yesterday. They’re saying there’s going to be another war.”

“Ah, there are always rumors of war. Don’t listen to what you hear about that. See, Gina, what a worrywart my Candace is?”

“But Father—!”

Lavager pulled the vehicle into a turnaround and slammed on the brakes. Dust billowed up around the vehicle, filtering the afternoon sun flooding the interior of the vehicle with warm, golden light. The view of the valley below was breathtaking at this altitude.

“Father, we’re sitting targets from below! What if—?”

“I’m always in someone’s sights,” Lavager grunted. He turned to face both girls and jabbed his cigar at them. “There’s not going to be a war. But I
am
going to punish the people who killed Gina’s family and attacked the Cabbage Patch.” His voice had grown hard and Gina could see clearly the deadly expression that had come over Lavager’s face and into his eyes. “I’m going to punish them so badly they will never think of doing anything like that again. And once I’m through with those people, I’m going to kick every goddamned politician’s ass on Atlas. And I don’t need a war to do that. You’ll see.”

But before they reached Ramuncho’s, Lavager gave in to Leelanu Lanners’s entreaties and made a stop at the formal Presidential Residence in the city to join up with a strong security detail.

The Presidential Residence, New Granum

They saw immediately that President Lavager was in. A limousine with the presidential seal on its door and a small presidential flag on its bumper was parked in front of the main entrance. And a full company of soldiers in battle gear was arrayed in front of the house. Gossner and Dwan couldn’t tell from where they stood in the midst of a gaggle of tourists gawking at the building, but they suspected at least two hundred soldiers were tightly surrounding the building. They were casual about looking around in imitation of the rubbernecking tourists, and spotted almost a dozen firing positions on top of and inside nearby buildings. Some of the firing positions had sniper teams, but at least two had assault guns.

Activity at the entrance of the residence drew their attention. A hard-looking man with a bandaged arm held in a sling came out and softly shut the door behind him. An officer, probably the commander of the troops surrounding the residence, marched up to him. The two conferred briefly, then the hard-looking man went back inside. He moved stiffly, as if he was in some pain.

“That was him,” someone whispered excitedly near Gossner and Dwan, “Franklin al-Rashid!”

“The head of the President’s security?” someone else asked. “Wasn’t he injured in the ambush?”

“Yes,” a frightened whisper.

“But he seems better now!” an excited squeal. The officer called the troops in front of the residence into formation and marched them around the side of the building. After a moment there was the sound of landcar motors starting up. Soon, several small troop carriers drove out from behind the residence and took positions in the streets around it. Gossner took Dwan’s hand and drew her away. When they reached a safe enough distance that he couldn’t be overheard, he said, “I think the target is about to go somewhere.”

That was confirmed a moment later when President Lavager came out of the front door. Two teenage girls were with him. So was Franklin al-Rashid. The security chief looked distinctly unhappy about something.

Lavager was clean and looked far more refreshed and in control than he had on the trid. He stopped in the portico to smile and wave at the crowd across the street.

“I don’t know about you folks,” he said in a loud enough voice to carry to the crowd, “but my stomach is telling me it’s time to eat; I’m taking my daughter and her friend out to dinner.”

Al-Rashid’s grimace was visible all the way to where Gossner and Dwan stood. Dwan nudged Gossner. “Let’s go,” she said. They hurried to a parallel street and caught a taxi back to their hotel to get what they needed.

Ramuncho’s Restaurant, New Granum

Ramuncho greeted them effusively. “Your dining room is ready, sir.” He bowed politely.

“You know my daughter, Candace, I’d like you to meet her friend, Gina Medina. No, Ramuncho, tonight I want the window table in the main dining room. I want everyone to see these fine young ladies who have agreed to dine with me this afternoon.” Diners in the main hall paused at their meals and stared at Lavager and his party. Several stood and applauded. Lavager bowed toward them. Candace almost shrieked when she saw the size of the window, but controlled herself and hissed,

“Daddy, it’s safer in the back.” She tugged his arm as hard as she could. Ramuncho, who was also nervous about his head of state sitting in front of the windows onto Center Boulevard, reluctantly gestured at a table in a far corner of the room.

“No, my usual table, in front of the windows! I want the citizens of the Union of Margelan to see me, to see me alive and enjoying a meal like anyone else. I want them to see there is no cause for fear! Dalmans for everyone, Ramuncho! Beer for me, whatever the boys here want for them,” he gestured at his security detail, “and wine for the ladies, your finest, say a Katzenwasser white, a bottle of that excellent Feinherb would do for their discriminating palates! Eat, drink, and be merry!” And with that he guided the two young women toward the table by the window. “Whatever Fate has in store for us, we’ll face it with full stomachs.” His joyous laughter filled the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A Cut, Twenty-Five Kilometers Northeast of the Cabbage Patch, Union of Margelan, Atlas

A silence, disturbed only by a faint whimper, descended over the gap after the soldiers who tried to get out of the second and third armored cars were shot. Sergeant Daly watched and listened for a moment, then asked over the all-hands circuit, “Where’d that first car go?”

“It crashed into the trees,” Sergeant Kare answered. “I haven’t seen any movement near where it disappeared.”

“Take second squad and check it out,” Daly ordered. “Everybody else, keep alert; we don’t know who else might be around.”
Or if they got a signal out
, he mentally added. After a few seconds’

consideration, he continued, “First squad, get a position with air cover and watch the road to the northeast. Eighth squad, do the same southeast. Sergeant Bajing, get the rest of the platoon ready to return to the lorry and mount up.”

He got out his map and examined it. They still had thirty kilometers to go before heading cross-country to the AstroGhost. But if the convoy had gotten off a message, they didn’t have time to go thirty klicks before the search came down hard on this part of the road, they had to get away from it fast. He plotted a route that kept to covered waterways and the fringes of deep woods, where they might find concealment from searching aircraft.

“Nomonon, turn on your lights so I can find you.” Nomonon did, and Daly started toward him. He’d only taken a few steps before the sound of gunfire erupted from the direction of the lorry.

“Report!” he snapped into the all-hands circuit.

“We caught a squad of locals trying to board the lorry,” Sergeant Kare panted as he reported—he sounded like he was running. “We took out half of them, and are in pursuit of the others.”

“Let them go,” Daly ordered. “We don’t have time to run them down. Get your people back to the lorry.” He switched to the all-hands circuit and ordered, “Sergeant Bajing, get the platoon to the lorry, double-time, let’s get out of here now.”

He reached Nomonon in a few more steps and handed him the map. “Study this along the way. I’ll guide you.” He took Nomonon’s arm to lead him to the lorry. They’d just started when a long burst from a fléchette assault gun, followed by the
crack-sizzle
of blaster fire made them stop.

“Report!” Daly called on the all-hands circuit.

“They circled back and tore up the lorry!” Kare reported.

“Kill them!”

“Already did, boss.”

“Let’s go,” Daly snapped at Nomonon. “You can read the map later.”

They ran.

Daly found second and third squads forty meters east of the lorry. Sergeant Kare stood over eight dead soldiers. His men were arrayed in a defensive position facing deeper into the trees.

“I believe that’s the last of the soldiers from the armored cars,” Kare said when Daly joined him. “Want us to search them?”

“No,” Daly said; they were leaving so they didn’t have intelligence need for any documents the soldiers might be carrying. He shook his head. Why had they come back? The dumb fucks would still be alive if they’d kept going. But they hadn’t known who they were going up against, had they? That kind of ignorance, not knowing who one’s opponents were, had killed countless soldiers since the beginning of warfare. He turned to go back to the lorry, where he saw Nomonon opening the hood and removing his helmet and gloves to examine the vehicle’s engine.

“Here, at least take this,” Kare said. He bent down and took a sidearm from one of the soldiers. Between that and the shiny tabs on his collars, he must have been an officer, even though he died with a fléchette rifle in his hands.

Daly looked at the handgun. “No, you keep it. This was your kill, it’s your souvenir.”

“Jak,” Kare said solomnly, “it’s an officer’s weapon. You’re our acting lieutenant, you should have an officer’s weapon.”

Reluctantly, Daly accepted the handgun. “Thanks, Brigo.”

“Can’t do it.” Daly could see the helmetless Nomonon shake his head as he looked under the hood at the ruined motor. “We can’t fix it even if we had replacement boards; the block is cracked and the motor mount is fractured.” He looked at Daly, who had his chameleon screen up so his face could be seen.

“We’re on foot, boss.”

Daly turned away so none of his Marines could see the dismayed expression on his face. They couldn’t get very far without transportation, and there was simply no way they could leave their wounded and dead. So what could he do? The
Admiral Nelson
had to send the AstroGhost to pick them up. Daly climbed a tree and locked his point-transmitter onto the
Admiral Nelson
. He got a reply to the message he’d sent before the armored cars reached the ambush. As he expected, the reply to his request for the AstroGhost to pick them up was a terse, “No.” He prepared a fresh message, telling the starship that the platoon no longer had transportation, then sent it. He settled down to wait for a reply, hoping no reinforcements or enemy aircraft were on their way. It took twenty minutes for the
Admiral Nelson
to get back to him with a response to his request.

“Mudman,” the burst transmission said when he decoded it, “bad news. There’s too much traffic coming your way, and too many aircraft south and west of your position. We can’t risk exposing the Ghost to discovery. You’re on your own to rendezvous.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “Don’t you understand we
can’t
travel fifty kilometers cross-country with our casualties?” But he said it to himself and didn’t record it for a burst transmission. The captain of the
Admiral Nelson
was right that he couldn’t expose the AstroGhost to discovery—Confederation involvement in the raid on the Cabbage Patch had to be kept secret. But that did nothing for the Marines stranded planetside. It wasn’t the first time, he knew, that the navy had abandoned Marines in a precarious position. But he couldn’t think of an instance where the Marines hadn’t been able to salvage an untenable situation.
Wait a minute! What did that message say?
Daly read it again.

“There’s too much traffic coming your way . . .”

Did that mean on the road? What direction was it coming from? Daly turned up his helmet’s ears and heard the distant rumble of a lorry—to the east, not the west. He looked at the road, which was effectively blocked by the two armored cars that had crashed into each other. Thinking as he spoke, he issued orders to set an ambush and take the approaching lorry.

* * *

Ronson Gampan had been driving for thirty-three of his fifty-five years, most of that for Margelan Universal Trucking. He liked driving, and he liked his employer. He was twice married and twice divorced. All three of his children approved of Bountie Quadril, whom he intended to make the third Mrs. Gampan. One of the things Ronson liked about Bountie, and there were a great many things he liked about her, was she was young enough to make one or two more little Gampans with him. When he reached New Granum at the end of this run, he was scheduled for a week’s holiday. He planned to ask for Bountie’s hand during that week. Yes, life was good.

But wait, what’s this? A wreck! Someone had an accident and the road was blocked. All thoughts of Bountie vanished from Gampan’s mind as he braked his lorry and jumped out of the cab to give aid to anybody injured. As soon as he determined the casualties, he’d radio in a call for assistance. His eyes widened as he ran toward the two vehicles and saw they were mili—

Something hit him in the side—hard—and knocked him to the ground. Unseen hands grabbed his arms and jerked him back to his feet; they didn’t let go, but held him tightly and yanked his hands behind his back. Something went around his wrists and held his hands securely together. Then a voice in front of him said, “Sorry about that, pal, but we need your lorry.” But there was nobody standing where the voice came from! Gampan gaped, his breath came in shallow pants, he felt faint. The hands holding him hustled him to the side of the road and sat him against a tree trunk. Something went around his chest and under his arms, binding him to the tree.

“Don’t worry,” another voice said, “somebody’ll be along shortly and set you free.”

Gampan looked around manically for the source of the voice, but nobody was there!

He heard his lorry’s engine grind and saw it buck as some unseen person tried to turn the wheels. Then he heard a raised voice curse, and another voice—was it the first voice he’d heard?—talking, followed by a soft curse.

The footsteps of someone he couldn’t see approached him from the lorry, then a voice asked,

“Anti-hijacking device?”

“Y-Yes.” There wasn’t much hijacking in the Union of Margelan, but Margelan Universal Trucking thought any hijacking was too much, and Ronson Gampan agreed; all of MUT’s trucks could only be driven by their assigned drivers.

“Can you unlock it?”

“Nossir. The dispatcher is the only person who has the locking codes.”

“Damn. All right, you’re going with us.” The voice turned to speak to someone else. “Untie him, he’s going to have to drive.”

Unseen hands quickly stripped off the binding that held Gampan to the tree trunk and hauled him to his feet. They left his hands bound behind his back until they got him to the lorry and he was boosted into the cab.

Someone was already in the cab. He didn’t see anyone but he did see the handgun that was pointed at him from midair.

“You’re going to drive where I tell you to. Do you understand?”

Gampan might not have understood invisible men, but he understood the handgun pointed at him.

“Yessir,” he said.

“Fine. When I tell you to, back up until you see a break in the trees on the left, then turn into it.”

Gampan nodded rapidly.

The voice told him to stop near a damaged lorry. Now he knew why they wanted his. He heard noises and felt the lorry shift on its springs as invisible men unloaded his cargo and loaded something into it he couldn’t see. He thought he heard the groans of men in pain.

Metsa Forest, Three Hundred Kilometers East of New Granum

Fifty kilometers with a driver he wasn’t sure he could rely on. Farther than that, actually—Daly hadn’t factored in the additional distance caused by their early departure from the road. He didn’t even want to think about how much farther they’d have to go sticking to whatever air cover they could find. But Ronson Gampan wanted to live, and he followed Daly’s instructions to the letter, even suggesting better lines to follow once he realized what the invisible man wanted. The trip was ninety kilometers all told, but Second Force Recon Platoon finally reached the AstroGhost’s hiding place without further incident. Gampan’s jaw dropped when the strange-looking shuttle levitated and slipped out from under its cover.

Sergeant Bajing was the senior unwounded squad leader in second section, which made him the acting section commander, just as Sergeant Bingh filled that role in first section since Sergeant Daly had assumed command of the platoon. He approached Daly while Bingh and Kare saw to loading the wounded and dead on the AstroGhost.

“You know what we have to do, don’t you?” he asked the acting platoon commander. Daly didn’t answer, he’d been grappling with that question for the past half hour. He was still holding the handgun Kare had given him, the one he had held on the civilian teamster during the cross-country drive. He couldn’t see Bajing’s face, but he knew where his senior sergeant had to be looking. Bajing sighed. “I’ll do it if you don’t want to.”

Daly also sighed. “No,” he said. “I’m in command here. I won’t order anybody to do something I won’t do myself.”

“You’re not ordering me, I’m volunteering.”

“I can’t let you do it for me. If everybody else is mounted up, you get aboard the AstroGhost, too. I’ll join you in a couple of minutes.”

“Okay, boss.” Bajing reached out to one of the UV lights in front of him and patted Daly on the shoulder, then turned to the shuttle. Daly stood where he was for a moment, then turned and walked to Ronson Gampan, who was again secured to a tree. He removed his helmet and went to one knee in front of the lorry driver.

“Listen, man,” he said after searching the other’s eyes. “I’m really sorry about this, but if we just leave you, you’ll be able to tell who we are, and that will cause more trouble than anybody wants.”

“But, but—I don’t
know
who you are! I can’t tell anybody anything!”

Daly turned his head to look at the AstroGhost, then back at Gampan—the one thing anybody knew about that would identify them as off-worlders. “You can tell them more than you realize. I’m sorry, I really am.” Hardly anybody in Human Space other than Confederation troops, mostly Confederation Marines, wore chameleons. And the AstroGhost was so secret, almost nobody who wasn’t involved in its design, manufacture, or use, even knew it existed. The little bit Gampan could tell anybody would tell his interrogators that the raid was conducted by the Confederation, and there would be hell to pay. Invisible men: Some armies used chameleon field uniforms, but mostly chameleons were worn by Confederation Marines, and nobody was supposed to know the raid on the Cabbage Patch was conducted by Marines.

A stealthed and highly maneuverable shuttle that didn’t look all that dissimilar to an Essay: Once word of that got out, potential opponents would begin trying to find ways of defeating it, which would unnecessarily cost Marine lives.