The Price of Peace (33 page)

"She's a Daring. She's got all three of her reactors going.

I'm hearing no combat systems. Visual shows she's got containers around her hull. They are not covering her gun turrets, but that could just be ..."

Right, everything or nothing.
Umboto's
countermeasures officer was running a new package that covered the
Patton’s
emissions. Had this one bought the same gear? Time to choose. Attack, or allow the Diamond Cold Heart to pass.
Umboto
did not like that name, but that was no reason to shoot it out of space.

"Captain, Countermeasures here. Something's interfering with my systems. I'm getting spikes and valleys in my coverage."

"Like there was another system operating nearby?" "Maybe, ma'am, but no guarantee."

Life didn't come with a guarantee. That ship might be innocent. Then again, it might be guilty as sin but crammed with innocent victims. "My ship will escort you into the station."

"No way I show you my stern. I'll pull even with you."

"As you will,"
Umboto
said and killed the main screen. "
Comm
, send to Junior. Advise me soonest you get a report from your boarding parties. Must know if they are what we expected."

"Yes, ma'am" answered her, but she was already lost in her problem. If that was a pirate off her port quarter, how could she entice it to fire? And make sure it didn't blow her out of space with the first broadside? That was the game they played. Death was the payoff. Her and her crew's deaths. If that was a pirate, she still had to take it relatively intact. She would not slaughter hundreds of innocents. Not if she could help it.

"Unknown is pulling aft," the helm reported.

"Match the unknown. Keep it right off our port quarter. Sensors, I'd really like to know more about our unknown."

"Captain, I got nothing new to add. Some emissions, but they could be background." Igor shook his head. "I can't tell shit."

292
 
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MikeMoscoe

Not a regulation report, but appropriate to the moment. "Is the unknown still
zigging
and spinning?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Let's tempt him. All his systems should be up by now. Cease
jink
pattern. Reduce spin to five
RPMs
. Helm, you have discretion to return to evasive maneuvers if you perceive any threat. But for now, let's see how good he is."

She was answered by "Aye
aye"s
and dubious glances. She would have been willing to wait this one out 'til the sun went dark, but the station was only twenty minutes from coming in range. She couldn't afford for the bastard's first broadside to take out half a brigade. Maybe the command post. No, time was on the bastard's side.
Umboto
needed an answer, and it was up to the Navy to get it before the troopers bought it the hard way.

She leaned forward in her chair. "Come on, you son of a bitch. Do something." Nothing happened. Had she screwed up? Had she shot up two poor merchant ships that just happened to show up at the wrong time and place? The clock was in slow motion, stretching each second into hours.

"Unknown has stopped evasive maneuvers. Hull rotation is same as ours, five
RPMs
," Sensors whispered.

"Take all rotation off the ship. Countermeasures, close down all systems."

Sweet Jesus. I killed two hundred innocent people on a pirate, and now I've shot up two ships for pirates that weren't.

"Unknown has closed to ten thousand
klicks
," Sensors reported. "I'm getting something, ma'am. Very low band; nothing should be down there."

One thousand one,
Umboto
counted. "
Jink
! Down!" "Down
jink
," Helm answered.

"Enemy firing!" Sensors shouted. "Guns, fire."

"Firing A," came the gunnery officer's familiar twang.

The
Patton
wobbled as the ship took on spin and absorbed hits in the same second. The helmswoman, good at her job, had rigged her board to put on rotation as soon as she
zigged
again. Pumps screamed, struggling to move reaction mass fast to balance the
Patton
as the spin increased. The ship bucked and danced until the pumps did their job, then settled on course.

"Hull breach at frame forty-eight, radial two-eighty," the acting XO reported. "We've lost number two bow thruster set. Ship is manageable. No loss of combat capability."
Umboto
was glad for the* damage summary; she stayed concentrated on offense. The

Patton’s
one shot had pinned the Diamond Cold Heart. "Take out her engines, Guns," she ordered.

"Full broadside, target aft," Guns answered. Five slashes fixed the target, shattered its stern, left the ship
cartwheeling
through space. New turrets rolled into view on the hostile ship, reached out, but, unable to adjust to their own mad dance, came nowhere near the
Patton
.

"All right, you bastard."
Umboto
mashed her
comm
button. "Diamond, close down all systems, or the next target is your bridge. You've got five seconds."

The
Patton
continued its
jink
pattern. Gunnery, thanks to the refit, adjusted for each dance step beforehand and modified its firing solution accordingly. If
Umboto
ordered that bridge peeled, it would be open to space before the broadside was done.

"Fuck you" was the Diamond Cold Heart's response.

"Fire!" was
Umboto's
. The
Patton’s
guns obeyed, catching the hostile in her wild dance, slicing into the ship's heart.

"I repeat my previous order, Diamond. Close down all systems and prepare to be boarded." "Captain,
Comm
here. There's no carrier wave from the target vessel." Now would be a

good time to shatter their reactors, let their own plasma turn them to atoms. Unfortunately,
Umboto
could not take that easy out again.

"Sensors, what's target's status?"

"Countermeasures are gone. Forward batteries are armed. Amidships are not there anymore. Aft batteries appear to be uncharged."

"Guns, check fire. Target forward battery for full broadside on my command." God willing, she wouldn't have to give that command.

"Dear God, make them stand down." The whispered prayer came from somewhere on the bridge.
Umboto
concentrated on her target.

"Sensors?"

"No change, ma'am." "Recommendations. Guns?"

"She's wiped. But as long as she's got power and loaded batteries ..." Right. She's deadly.
Umboto
would hate herself for the next order she gave.

"Sir," Sensors barked. "Target is powering down her reactors. I repeat, one reactor is off line. Second one is dropping off. Third is at eighty percent. Make that seventy." "Somebody wants to call it quits."
Umboto
sighed. "What about the forward battery?" "Still loaded."

With plasma being dumped, the wild cavorting of the target slowly became tame. The message of surrender was loud; it also simplified the firing solution for the forward guns.
Umboto
held her breath.

"Target is firing." Sensors shouted.

"Guns ... check fire. They're firing away from us. They are discharging their lasers on their disengaged side," Izzy sighed. She had fought the bastard, and he hadn't made her murder innocents. Well, maybe not. They'd have to board and find out how much damage they'd done.

"
Comm
, message from Junior. First boarded hostile had crew from a pirated ship and slaves. Repeat, they are pirates and slavers."

"Now you tell me, Stan." Izzy laughed with relief. She'd done it. She'd gone into battle, beat two bastards, and killed no more than she had to. And she had not risked her crew to do it. Damn fine ship handling! Now let's see what
Urimi
and I can do on the ground.

Fourteen

THE ASSAULT LANDING craft rested in the farm compound in front of the barracks. Trouble sat in its command center, surrounded by his noncoms and civilians. Tom would keep his next date with Senate investigators. Trouble wouldn't let Steve out of his sight; Ruth, he didn't want to.

"That's all we've got on Richman." Major
Urimi
finished updating Trouble on the situation. It hadn't taken long.

"They didn't want info out on the place." Steve stepped forward. "I had my suspicions as to why, but I never guessed at anything like this." Trouble would give Steve the benefit of the doubt because of what he'd been through. Still...

"They started a major new city hall a year ago. That really got me wondering. Most buildings go up. This one went down, twenty-five stories. Only two above ground." Steve's fingers roved the map, then stopped. "This place, the one you've got labeled 'Country Club ??.' That's the place. A lot more underground than above."

"It is on a hill," someone behind
Urimi
observed. "Then it's more a command bunker than a city hall."

"A fallback position to hold until they can get some kind of relief force through," Trouble muttered.

"They've already got a call out,"
Tru
Seyd
added. "Half an hour ago a coded message came up from the surface, shot through the station's
comm
service using hidden protocols, then headed out to all four of the jump point buoys and caused them to make immediate pass-
throughs
. Damnedest thing I ever saw."

"Elevate things to the political realm." The skipper joined them on line. "Then thumb their noses at us when observers arrive and tell us to back off by a seventy-five, seventy-four Senate vote."

"Not if we take that bunker apart before the observers get here," Trouble pointed out.

"Might not be that easy,"
Urimi
noted. "We've looked over the station. It's got a hell of a lot of remote machine guns.
Tru
closed down the security center before they used them. If they've got the same stuff covering that bunker and the 'golf course,' it'll be damn costly to do a frontal assault."

"Then maybe we better take the redoubt tonight," Trouble suggested.

"Too late," came again from off
Urimi's
screen. "It's active, making music like a division in full combat kit. Lots of people headed in. If we dropped tonight, we might keep some out,

but we might also run into other stuff. I'm reading an
antiair
envelope stretching fifty miles out around that town."

"If they've got missiles to back up the radar."

"You want to guess which garage or condo hides the SAM?" That seemed to exhaust that idea.

"Might be some advantage to letting the bunker fill up,"
Urimi
muttered. "Not everyone here is into the illegal side. We got the station when the computer geeks took a better job offer. If they don't know enough to run and hide, they probably aren't guilty of anything worse than failing to ask around about the company they hired on with. In this mission, we got to separate the sheep from the goats."

"And if all the bad guys dig into the bunker, all our sour apples are in one barrel," the skipper said, mixing her metaphors.

"That might be a good idea," Steve said slowly.

"Because?" Trouble egged him on.

"There's a lot of water around here. You may have noticed the frequent and excessive rainfall." Steve grinned at Trouble.

"Not lately." Trouble countered.

"Even Riddle has to have a dry season. Anyway, when they started digging city hall, they ran into all kinds of springs in the hill. Had to work out a whole series of drains, or the ten bottom floors would have been flooded half the year. Anyway, there's a major drain pipe running from under that bunker directly into the main city sewer. Since it hasn't rained for a couple of days, it might not be underwater at the moment."

"Worth a try." Trouble glanced at Gunny. He was grinning as he nodded his head.

"They'll have sensors covering that access,"
Tru
opined, "Can I go
dirtside
with you boys?" "If we put a load of explosives in there, then give them thirty minutes to surrender and evacuate." The skipper spoke slowly, weighing each thought as she said it. "I like it. At oh-four-hundred, I'll drop the brigades to surround the city and begin moving in toward the center. By noon, we ought to have the bunker isolated. I could drop a demolition team and full countermeasures squad to support you. Think your engineers could map that sewer system between now and then?"

"We got sixth squad with us," Gunny said.

"I think we can," Trouble assured his skipper. "Any questions?"
Umboto
asked.

There were none.

"Hell of a slim brief. You know the objectives. Keep in touch with the units on your flanks. Let's not kill each other, or any civilians we can avoid. Good luck to us and Godspeed." Trouble turned to Gunny. "Sergeant, mount '
em
up. We're moving out." Gunny did that with his usual ease. The civilians were Trouble's problem. "Steve, you're coming with us. Tom, I got to keep you safe. You and Ruth stay here."

"I don't think all the guards bugged out with Zylon." Tom shook his head. "I'm not hanging around here."

What was safer, the frying pan or the fire? "I'll send you topside with this
lander
once we're in town," Trouble decided.

Ruth took a seat like a mountain settling onto a tectonic plate. "You too," Trouble said. Ruth gave him a wide-eyed look that neither agreed or disagreed.

"Thought we might need some extra gear, sir," Moss said, handing out weapons and battle suits to the civilians. "Just like on Hurtford Corner." Trouble had no choice about having civilians in that fight. Here, it seemed he had none either.

Zylon Plovdic did not like being turned away at the front door of company headquarters. "You'll have to park that rig in the garage down the hill," she was ordered. "We can't have a lot of cars in our parking lot here." Zylon dismounted her entire staff and led them into the rambling two-story building while
Mordy
disposed of the vehicle. Above-ground, all you saw was a health club. As with so much of her life, it was what you couldn't see that mattered. Immediately, Zylon realized her staff was underdressed. Everyone here sported coats, ties, even three-piece suits; her guards still had mud on their boots. "Where's Big Al?" she asked one of the security people seated at the information desk.

He glanced up, took in Zylon and her associates with a single sweep, and went back to the board he was watching intensely. "Tied up in meetings. Not seeing anyone today. Ned, is there anything we can do about that bogey?"

Nobody ignored Zylon Plovdic. "Listen up, boy. I'm the one who got Big Al out of bed this morning. I'm the one who let all of you know we had a little problem here. If it wasn't for me, you'd be waking up tomorrow morning to find this place under new management, you without a job and no idea how it happened. Now, if you don't want to be handed a hoe and put to work for some of my boys, you'll tell me where Big Al is."

That got the fellow's attention. He cast a very worried look to the man on his right, apparently his supervisor. That one didn't even look up from his board. "Mr. Alexander Popov is presently tied up in meetings in the seventeenth-floor conference room," he said evenly. "Those in attendance have asked not to be disturbed. Rod, I've called in the unknown. No reaction team available. They don't want to call out the junior militia."

"Thank you," Zylon huffed. "Maybe Big Al will send me and my boys out to settle your little problem." That got a rise out of them. She signaled her crew to a bank of elevators;
Mordy
rejoined them. For not yet three in the morning, the place was alive. She shared the elevator with suits who got off at the fifth floor, Acquisitions and Contracts; seventh floor, Legal; and ninth floor, Promotions and Sales. Aware of the stares her crew got, she deposited them at the tenth-floor cafeteria before going on to seventeen.

As soon as she exited the elevator, the receptionist looked up from his desk. "May I help you?"

"Big Al told me to see him as soon as I got in. I'm the one who raised the alarm."

"Ms. Plovdic, yes. He asks you to wait for him. As you understand, things are a bit unusual this morning. At the moment, the board is facing some very challenging opportunities." The loud voices overflowing the two thick wooden doors and flooding the heavily carpeted foyer told Zylon everyone didn't see the same opportunities in this morning's challenges. She sat.

The assault craft flew low, heading up the river that flowed through Richman. A hundred miles out, they picked up a search radar. "Military issue," the spacer at the

counter-measures station announced.

"I think they bought it cheap at an army surplus sale," Steve contributed. Trouble wasn't sure he'd trust that data.

Fifty miles out, a computer demanded their access code and insisted they surrender control of their vehicle. The
bos'n
ducked lower and yanked the craft around to an easterly heading. They made a couple more nudges into radar coverage, got queried each time, but saw no sign of a lock-on or a missile.

"Would be nice to know if they could land the troops in closer," Steve suggested.

"Be nicer still to get where we're going," Trouble reminded the
bos'n
at the controls. They stayed low and outside radar.

South of town, a series of ridges ran east-west. They used those to close in, staying in their shadows to avoid the radar. Ducking over the ridges got them noticed, queried, but still not shot at. No human voice objected to their presence. Trouble called their experience in to the command post.

"We've been following you," the skipper told him. "I think I'll skip a few fast movers over town at the start of the drop. If they don't draw fire. I'll move our landing zones up to the outskirts of town. No use wasting an hour driving in if we can land there."

The assault craft rose above the final ridge, hanging in air, ready to duck. When nothing came their way, it slipped over to land in a park's meadow. The platoon took nearly five minutes to exit the craft, unusually long, but this load out included sixth squad and its full set of engineering gear. It also included a few choice words with Tom and Ruth: they refused to stay aboard. Giving up on commanding civilians, Trouble waved the craft off to return to the station for the demolition team and countermeasures he wanted before he would even think of assaulting the bunker.

It was 0300 hours as fire teams moved from the woods into the outlying streets. Here, among condos and convenience stores, nothing moved. Still, Trouble wanted his crew off the streets as soon as possible. An engineer released several "tunnel gnats" at the first sewer drain they came to.

The tiny flyers, less than three centimeters across and supported by a single spinning blade, hovered for a moment, then dove down the drain. Trouble watched the corporal's board as the gnats spread out. Reporting back by laser
coram
beam to a base gnat that hovered in the first drain, they split up. Half went right, the others left. The right-hand team quickly hit the end of the pipe. The left team reported a six-foot-high sewer pipe two blocks over. The platoon headed in that direction.

There was traffic on that road. The first car caught half a squad down a manhole, the other half waiting. Everybody scrambled. The manhole cover was back in place when a duded-up gal, late getting home, passed by. Trouble never sent more than a four-trooper fire team out at one time after that. There were more drive-bys, fancy dressed, finally heading home, or work clothed, heading for an early shift. In between them, Trouble slipped his marines down the manhole.

By 0320 Trouble had his team out of sight. Now the tunnel gnats went to work in full force. As the marines slowly made their way toward the center of town, the gnats mapped the sewer. Trouble let them go in all directions until he was confident they had a good route toward the bunker, then had the gnat boss recall those headed in the wrong direction. Every five minutes, they raised an antenna up a drain to listen for traffic aimed at them.

Everything was quiet, frighteningly quiet.

"Zylon, my dear, so glad to see you." Big Al was his usual positive self. Two dozen Very Important Managers had left the meeting quickly, their faces showing various levels of confidence and anger. Behind Big Al, five more trailed from the room looking a lot less sure of themselves. "Thank you for the call. Seems High Riddle has had a change of management that went unnoticed by the security watch office down here. Disgusting oversight." Al eyed a man in a gray-and-black uniform. Zylon smiled at him. The thought of adding him to her field hands was a pleasant image to contemplate.

"However"—Al turned back to her—"at the moment, we have everything well in hand. We've sent out an emergency call and expect to have a full Senate investigation launched on this atrocious matter by tomorrow. We should have no trouble holding out until they arrive, should we, Carl?"

The uniformed man nodded. He would have looked more assuring if his face were not so ashen. "All the weapon pits are active and under positive control. Every inch of our 'golf course' is under automatic weapon, mortar, and
antiarmor
rocket coverage. If they'd only bought the surface-to-air missiles I asked for ..."