Freehold (17 page)

The other man shook his head. “Not so far, sir.”

“Any idea how they got in?”

“Nobody knows for sure,” Nashita answered, “but all the evidence suggests that guy Roop. Senator Roop—he apparently smuggled ’em in the night before, and then let ’em in through the emergency exits.”

“Any chance of us getting in the same way?” Stell inquired.

“I don't think so, General,” Nashita replied, “but you should ask Colonel Krowsnowski that. I believe he's got people working on it.”

“I'll bet he does,” Stell said turning to Falco. “How fast can you get me dirtside, Jack?”

Falco grinned. “Faster than a horny asteroid miner checking into a pleasure dome.”

Stell laughed in spite of himself. “That's plenty fast enough.” He rose to go, and then paused for a moment. “They aren't complying with any of that crap, are they?”

“Not a chance,” Captain Nashita answered grimly. “Colonel Krowsnowski made that real clear by sealed beam. But just in case the Il Ronn do have spies all over the place, everybody's going through the motions. The truth is they're stalling, looking for a way in.”

Stell nodded. “Thanks Mike ... keep your eyes peeled—for all we know there's an Il Ronnian fleet on the way,” But as they walked back down the corridor and climbed into the interceptor, Stell decided an all-out invasion was unlikely. Why mess around with hostages? No—they would have brought their fleet in right off the top. So they were running a bluff, trying to get something for nothing. They could kill the hostages, and be killed in turn, but beyond that they were powerless. How simple it sounded. He could almost hear himself, in some other place and time, saying, “Well, it's regrettable, but we can't give them the planet, and if we can't rescue them, then I guess we'll just have to take the losses.” Easily said, unless you knew their names, or had talked with them, or worked with them, or made love to them. As they plunged down through Freehold's atmosphere, he thought about Olivia and what she must be going through. It was, he reflected, much easier to fight other people's wars.

A few hours later he was on Freehold's surface, entering Krowsnowski's temporary command post just outside the capital near the occupied Senate. It wasn't much to look at. A dusty collection of tents, inflatable domes, and haphazardly parked vehicles baking in the hot sun. Without benefit of a sand suit, his uniform was soon soaked with sweat. Activity swirled around him. Brigade troopers tossed him crisp salutes, much to the amusement of the Free Scouts, who nodded cheerfully instead. Stell took a moment to look around. “It's important to know the ground, son,” Bull Strom had often said. “That's one reason why the defender usually has the advantage.”

Like all cities on Freehold, the capital had been built in a depression created by one of the planet's great rivers. First Hole was the very first settlement. Like older cities everywhere, First Hole had been built in random fashion, as need dictated. Where the planet's newer cities boasted planned streets and pleasant plazas, First Hole was a jumble of buildings, domes and crooked, narrow byways. So when it came time to build the Senate chambers, they built them clear on the other side of the depression, well away from the city. Some hoped to level First Hole someday and start over again. Keeping that in mind, they built their newest and most important building as far from the old city as possible.

Because most of the Senate chambers were underground, there wasn't much to see. Only the soft curve of a dome broke the surface of the sand. But what a dome! It was made of iridescent stone that shimmered and refracted the sunlight into all the colors of the rainbow. And somewhere under it Olivia and a lot of other people were waiting for him. He shook himself out of his reverie and headed for Krowsnowski's tent.

The older man was waiting inside for him. Five or six members of his staff were also present, two bent over a pile of printouts, one operating a com-set, and the rest staring at Stell with obvious curiosity. In keeping with the informality of the Free Scouts, no one even thought to come to attention. “Welcome home, General,” Krowsnowski said with obvious relief. “It's sure good to have you back.”

“It's good to be back, Ivan. I'm sorry the poop hit the fan the minute I lifted off ... but from what everyone tells me, you did a hell of a job.”

Colonel Krowsnowski managed to look both pleased and concerned at the same time. “I wish I could take the credit, sir, but I'm afraid we were just damn lucky. But more on that later. Right now we've got these damned devils in the Senate. Did they brief you aboard the
Shona
?”

Stell nodded. “Yeah. Any idea where they came from?”

Krowsnowski looked unhappy. “Yes, and you aren't going to like it. The sonsabitches have an underground base right here on Freehold!”

Stell frowned as he sat down in a folding chair and leaned back on two legs. “You're right, I don't like it. How is that possible?” His voice was calm, but his expression hinted at suppressed anger. As always, he was conscious that others were present, and how much they could, and would, read into his slightest expression. After all, trying to guess what the brass thinks is a game as old as soldiering itself.

The other officer sat down beside him. “We're not completely sure yet. We found it by checking all our infrared satellite photos the night before they took over the Senate. As luck would have it, we got a sequence of exposures that showed a convoy of vehicles just popping into existence right in the middle of the desert. The satellite computer system isn't programmed to set off any alarms over dirtside vehicular activity, since presumably it's all ours.” Krowsnowski shrugged. “Anyway, all of a sudden there it is, right out of nowhere and headed this way. Sections of the trip are missing ... because there are so many holes in our satellite network, but there's enough to be sure it was them. So I put a team on the spot where the convoy first appeared, and sure enough, there's a well-camouflaged underground base there. How they managed it we don't yet know, but when we get inside, maybe we'll find some answers.”

Stell stared thoughtfully at the roof of the tent. Every cell of his being screamed for action, to get up, move around, do something. But he refused to give in to it. The time for action would come, but first they must have a plan. Again, he was very much aware of the staff surreptitiously watching him. His voice was perfectly level when he said, “Good work, Colonel. Even though the base is a mystery, at least we know they don't have a ship lurking just over the horizon. Within a few hours we'll have some air cover of our own in place.” The staff perked up at that, smiles replacing frowns all around.

“So,” Stell added, “that frees us up to deal with the Senate. Has there been any contact with our alien friends?”

“Not really, General,” Krowsnowski answered, reaching over to flick some buttons on a portable holo tank. It shimmered into life.

Stell found himself looking at the Senate chambers. Senators were slumped in a variety of positions. Many had removed various pieces of clothing in response to the hot, dry atmosphere upon which Feeg insisted. Some wore vacant stares, others had looks of determined resistance, and a few had expressions of terrified dread. It was easy to see why. Standing at regular intervals around the walls were Il Ronnian Sand Sept troopers. “They do look like they're straight from hell,” Stell mused. A nice psychological edge for them, he thought. His professional eye automatically inventoried and classified their weapons, body armor, and other equipment. It wasn't going to be easy. “This is live?” he asked.

“It is,” the other man agreed. “They allow video, although they won't talk to us. To use their words, ‘You have your orders, obey them.'”

Stell got up and walked over to the holo tank. He activated the zoom control and went in on the rear of the room where Olivia usually sat. She was asleep, her head on her father's shoulder. Her face looked quite peaceful, especially in contrast to her father's. He actively glowered at the nearest Il Ronnian guard. The makeshift bandage around his head suggested he'd done more than just glower. Krowsnowski looked from the holo to Stell, but if he was curious, he kept it to himself. A moment later, Stell flicked it off and returned to his seat.

“Okay, Ivan, how about running down the tactical situation for me?”

The Colonel took a moment to light a cigar, talking around it as he puffed it into life. “We evacuated the entire complex shortly after it happened ... with the exception of three very good Scouts. They're in there ... and very close to the chambers. They have orders to maintain strict radio silence, unless they detect either an attempt to kill the hostages, or a break-out. We haven't tried a frontal assault because the chambers were built to withstand anything up to a direct hit from a hell bomb. Every passageway is sealed with durasteel doors, and the corridors were laid out to provide defenders with one strong point after another. I might add that we estimate there's more than two hundred Sand Sept troopers in there, and as you know they're mean as hell. So at each defensive point we'd be up against tough, experienced troops, armed with everything from handguns to crew-operated automatic weapons. Simply put, it would be suicide. On top of which, the hostages would be dead a hundred times over by the time we got to ’em.” There were murmurs of agreement from Krowsnowski's staff. “On the other hand, the clock's ticking down to when they say they'll kill ’em all anyway, so we're damned if we do, and damned if we don't.”

Stell nodded. “How much time have we got left?”

“Three days, minus a few hours,” Krowsnowski answered. “But we're assuming that the Il Ronn, and or that bastard Roop, have spies all over the planet. So we're pretending to mobilize for evacuation, but unless we start loading people on ships in the next few hours, the whole charade's gonna fall apart. So we're just about out of time.”

“The place sounds impregnable,” Stell mused out loud. “Who the hell designed it, anyway? Maybe the miserable bastard can figure out how to break in.”

“I believe I'm the miserable bastard you're looking for, sir,” a woman said, stepping over from the table covered with printouts. She was middle aged, had a plain, honest face, shiny black skin, and a tight cap of kinky black hair. Her shoulder flashes identified her as a Captain in the Free Scouts. She grinned openly at Stell's embarrassment.

“I'm sorry, Captain,” Stell apologized, “but you sure design a mean fortress. In fact, this one is a monumental pain in the ass.”

“Thank you ... I think,” she said good-naturedly. “Captain Wells, at your service. And in answer to your question, I've racked my brain, but I can't think of a way in.” She paused for a moment, and then snapped to attention. “However,” she said. “I formally request permission to lead a frontal assault, sir.”

Stell regarded her gravely. “Thank you, Captain. But talent like yours is too valuable to waste on a suicide mission. When this is all over, we're going to need you.” Turning back to Krowsnowski and the others, he said, “A frontal assault is out. Carry on with the fake mobilization. I need time to think. We'll reconvene here in one hour. Dismissed.”

With that, he got up and left the confines of the tent. All the maps, computer projections and printouts were doing more to confuse than enlighten him. He walked aimlessly for the better part of an hour. During that time he invented and rejected countless plans. Each seemed to lead to certain disaster. Finally, he found himself at the place where First Hole's giant river plunged back underground, having completed its brief journey on the surface. Thoughts churning, he sat down beside it, determined to make his mind a receptive blank, recalling once more Strom's advice: “When the answers won't come, let go.” His eyes wandered, and his mind followed, down into the rush and gurgle of the water at his feet, which gathered briefly before its long slide down into stygian darkness. He imagined he was moving with it, cool water flowing across his hot dry skin, tugging at first, then pulling him smoothly downward, carrying him away from the surface and all its troubles. Maybe she would see him through the armored plastic, gliding past, on a mysterious journey that would take him deep and far. Then, with a jerk of realization, he had it! Or, at least, what
might
be it.

A few minutes later, he entered Krowsnowski's tent still panting from his long run across the sand. The hour had been up some time ago, so everyone was assembled and waiting. Como had arrived, and was standing slightly apart from the rest, waiting for Stell. “Hello Sergeant Major—glad you could join us,” Stell said cheerfully. “Well people, I think I've got an idea ... though it may be just as suicidal as a frontal assault. Where's Captain Wells?”

“Right here, sir,” she said, stepping out of the crowd.

“Excellent,” Stell replied. “Captain, be so good as to tell us everything there is to know about that spectacular view of the river that's available from the Senate chambers. Perhaps we can give them something to look at besides water!”

For a moment there was complete silence as everyone thought about what he'd said, and then they burst into excited conversation. Stell held up a hand for silence. “Please, everyone ... Captain Wells, what do you think? Providing we could survive the trip through the river, could we break through that armored plastic?”

Wells looked thoughtful for a moment, and then embarrassed. “I hate to admit it, sir, but, yes—you could. The possibility of an attack from the river never even occurred to me. I used materials strong enough to contain the river, but not the effects of demolitions. Some carefully placed explosives should blow it easily.”

“But what about all that water?” Krowsnowski wanted to know. “Wouldn't everyone in there drown?” He visualized an explosion, armored plastic flying in every direction, followed by a tidal wave of water flooding into the Senate.

Wells was busily tapping out a rhythm on the computer keyboard. Schematics and three-dimensional projections flashed across the screen one after another. “Not necessarily, Colonel. When we designed the chambers, we allowed for the possibility of an earth tremor cracking the plastic and allowing the river to flood in. But when the water reaches four feet in depth, durasteel doors will be activated and will slam shut, seating the chambers off from the river. Just a second ... here—watch this.” They all looked at the screen where the words “FLOOD CONTROL GATE: TEST THREE,” appeared, along with a date and some other numbers. The words were replaced by a shot of the Senate chambers, which were obviously still under construction. Seats had been installed, but the room was naked of other furnishings. And, at the front, the river flowed by—safely contained behind armored plastic. Suddenly, two huge metal doors slid together between the first row and the stage. The river disappeared.