“I’m certain you could,” said Griffin. “But what you’re telling me right now is that the new construction isn’t going to be coming on-line any time in the immediate future.”
“I don’t like being the bearer of bad news… but yeah, that’s about it. We can slap the design engineers around a bit, remind them they’re not supposed to be inventing the next generation in BattleMech technology here, but it’s still not going to change any of the basic problems.”
For a moment, Griffin considered ordering the shutdown of the redesign project. His mandate from Tara Campbell extended as far as that, he thought, even if his nominal authority didn’t; and if he stated for the record that he thought the ’Mech redesign program was a failure and ought to be closed down, the Countess would probably back his decision.
Griffin remained in silent thought long enough to notice the manager sweating. Finally he said, “Keep that part of the project going anyway. It may not be of much help to us in the short term, but in the long term… in the long term, Mr. Evans, I’m very much afraid that things are going to be different. And your design engineers may yet get their wish.”
“I’ll tell them what you said,” the manager told him, and Griffin could see the man’s relief, somewhat tempered by his understanding of what Griffin had implied for the future. “Right now, I believe that if we reallocate resources and manpower and go to round-the-clock shifts, we can have the first retrofitted units ready to roll in three weeks or a bit less.”
“That would be good,” Griffin said. “I’ll make certain that the Prefect has your estimate.”
The manager gave him a gloomy look. “Which had better be binding, I suppose.”
Griffin smiled. “You said it, Mr. Evans. I didn’t.”
23
The New Barracks
Tara, Northwind
June, 3133; local summer
Tara Campbell was asleep in the Prefect’s quarters in the New Barracks when the wall speaker buzzed. She came fully awake in an instant when a voice began speaking immediately without waiting for an acknowledgment—an override at this hour never meant good news.
“Prefect Campbell, please come to the Combat Information Center.”
Another buzz from the speaker, and the voice repeated, “Prefect Campbell, please come to the Combat Information Center.”
Tara was already out of bed and scrambling for her clothes. “On my way.”
She dressed in haste: plain working uniform, first item in the closet and the easiest to grab; enough underwear to be decent; hair finger combed and cleared back from her face with a stretch knit band. She was halfway to the Fort and the CIC before she realized that she was wearing not regulation shoes and socks, but her favorite pair of ancient bedroom slippers.
The hell with it, she thought. Northwind could survive the knowledge that its Countess wore fleece-lined tartan moccasins.
She wouldn’t be the only person who’d gotten an unexpected wake-up call, either. The courtyards and corridors of the Fort were full of people in uniform heading places with purposeful speed. Alarms clamored in the halls and stairwells as she made her way down to the bombproof chamber in the depths of the Fort that housed the Combat Information Center for Northwind’s local defense forces.
When she reached her destination, Colonel Michael Griffin, whose quarters were closer to CIC than hers, was already there, pacing back and forth amid the uniformed specialists who monitored the display screens on CIC’s array of communications and data consoles. Ezekiel Crow had VIP housing in a distant wing of the Fort complex; he arrived at a run forty-five seconds after Tara. The Paladin’s normally flawless uniform tunic and trousers looked tired and wrinkled. Tara could only guess that the nearest complete set to hand when the summons came had been the ones he’d taken off the evening before.
“What’s the word?” Tara asked Griffin as soon as she’d caught her breath.
“Steel Wolf DropShips have entered the system,” the Colonel said. “They’ve been taking out our surveillance and weapons platforms as they go. The Far Point observation post reported their presence and then went dead.”
“Good on Far Point for getting the message through,” said Tara.
That brief accolade was all that she could afford to give the station and its people at the moment. If they weren’t dead already, they had a decent chance of being alive to collect their combat pay when the fighting was over. It all depended on whether the Wolves had simply fried the station’s comms and sensors in passing, or taken the time to blow the whole post to hell and gone.
“The Wolves don’t want us tracking them,” Ezekiel Crow said. His features were set and grim; Tara wondered if he was remembering what had happened after the Capellan Confederation descended on Liao. “They want to make us guess where they’re coming down.”
“Then we’ll just have to be ready to jump in any direction,” Tara said. “And make certain our ground-based comms stay good.”
Colonel Griffin frowned. “I don’t like this. All our current intel on the Steel Wolves says Kal Radick is more straightforward than that.”
“Maybe there’s been a change of command,” Ezekiel Crow suggested. “It’s not inconceivable that the Wolves could have produced somebody with enough nerve to challenge Radick for his position, as well as enough of whatever else it takes to beat him.”
Tara filled a mug with strong black tea from CIC’s galley urn and added milk and sugar, using the time to think about what had been said. The Paladin and Colonel Griffin, though less mutually antagonistic than they had been initially, were never going to be the best of friends, and any issue upon which they were in agreement demanded serious consideration. “As of the last DropShip to come in with news from Tigress, Radick was still the man in charge.”
Griffin said, “The ship hit three other worlds in between leaving Tigress and coming here. That’s plenty of time for news to go stale.”
“Assume that the leader is still Radick, then,” Tara said. “But draw up contingency plans in case it’s somebody else.”
Colonel Griffin nodded. “We have intelligence files on most of his prominent or rising subordinate officers. But if Radick’s been supplanted, I think our analysts need to put in a requisition chit for a better grade of crystal ball, because nobody on the list was tagged as a serious threat to the Galaxy Commander’s position.”
“People change,” Tara said. “Maybe somebody on Radick’s staff woke up feeling ambitious one morning and never bothered to let us know.”
Ezekiel Crow looked grave. “Perhaps. Or perhaps this hypothetical person is a wild card in the game, one for whom we have no helpful profiles or contingency plans. We must ready ourselves to deal with the unexpected.”
“Meanwhile,” said Tara, “we can start mobilizing the defense forces. And wait to see where to send them.”
24
Regimental Base near Tara
Northwind
June, 3133; local summer
“Up, up, up!”
The lights snapped on. Will Elliot, thrown out of a sound sleep by the shouted orders and by the strident clamor of the alarm, put up an arm to shield his eyes from the sudden glare. In the same movement he rolled out of his bunk—he knew better by now than to question a Sergeant’s voice.