Robertson could see from the faces that the contemporary personnel and their civilian counterparts, many of whom had thought themselves well adapted to the disturbingly predatory culture of their grandchildren, were given pause to think again.
Major Horan interrupted their thoughts. "Prime Minister, as you know, all Multinational Force elements still operate under their original rules of engagement. The guilty parties in this instance have been identified. They could be sanctioned immediately, if you wish. But it would inevitably lead to reprisals against the surviving population."
"Inevitably," breathed Curtin in a very soft voice. He sighed heavily, coming to a decision. "I'm sorry, Mac, but I can't have this. We need to act now. Colonel Jones, Brigadier Barnes, pull whatever forces you need out of the line and shut these bastards down."
"We're on our way," said Barnes.
The glory of a subtropical spring day was a jarring contrast with the darkness of the footage they had witnessed in the briefing room. Jones and his Australian colleagues lingered under a stand of jacaranda trees, their foliage a riot of bright pink blossoms. Jones stood with his foot propped up in the doorway of his Humvee while the Australians leaned against their smaller Land Rover.
"That was quite an ambush, Major Horan," the big marine growled, but not disapprovingly.
Horan shrugged. "Strategy, policy, it's all a fucking wank. Bottom line, it's always some poor prick trying to outrun a bullet."
"Uh-huh. Speaking of which, how're your war stocks?"
Barnes waggled his hands in a so-so gesture. "Fuel's not a problem. We've got enough JP-Eight off the Clinton to last another two months, by which time the locals will have the blend right. At least that's what they assure me."
Both men rolled their eyes.
"Be nice if we had some more bladders to move it around in," he continued. "And some heavy lift choppers to do the moving. Ammo is getting to be a worry. We're going to have to gear down after this op. I spoke to that Robertson bloke this morning. They've got an arms plant at Lithgow retooling to produce a simple AK-Forty-seven clone, but using thirty-aught-six cartridges. Should have a pretty good underslung launcher, too. He's promising a full production run by Christmas. The prototypes are ready now, if you'd like a look."
Jones sucked air in through his teeth. "I just wish things were that simple at home. Kolhammer's banging his head against a brick wall, trying to get an assault rifle into general production."
Horan used the toe of his combat boot to dig a well in the thick carpet of jacaranda blossoms that lay at their feet. The air was almost sickeningly sweet with the scent of their decomposition. "He's equipping the guys you've got to train with one, isn't he?"
Jones nodded. "With a Forty-seven knock-off, just like you. Weapon of choice for the third world, and that's the comparative level of industrial sophistication we're dealing with, even in the U.S. I think it's going to be a long time before we see caseless ceramic again."
"Or GPS," added Barnes.
"Or VR porn." Horan grinned.
Jones grunted. "Colonial riffraff."
The dull thud of rotor blades reached them through the warm, moist air, but the sound trailed off before they were able to spot the helicopter.
"Well, gentlemen, I suggest we get our staff together ASAP and sign off the plan for this party."
Brigadier Barnes fetched a data stick out of his shirt pocket and handed it over.
"Holomaps of the route I'd suggest we take. We've got rail transport for about a hundred and twenty klicks. Robertson has already requisitioned the rolling stock. It'll save on the fuel bill."
Jones slotted the stick into his flexipad and thanked the tank officer for the maps. "Just one thing, Mick," he said. "How in hell do they fit you into a tank, anyway?You're what, six-three?"
"Six-four." Barnes smiled. "I crouch."
12
It was a cruel trick of the gods, allowing a magnificent warship like this to fall into the hands of a barbarian such as Le Roux.
Commander Hidaka was an educated, well-traveled man, and he knew at an intellectual level that the gaijin were not all hairy brutes, as such. Their technical accomplishments, for one thing, had to be acknowledged. But Le Roux actually did look like a barbarian. He did not shave regularly. He stank of some ditch weed called garlic. And the uniform he wore was stained!
Hidaka wondered how he retained the confidence of his men. But of course, these weren't "his men" in any formal sense. They were mutineers, effectively. Little better than pirates. But for now, they held the key to Admiral Yamamoto's grand design.
"I think the Clinton, she is leaving now," said Le Roux in his heavy accented English.
"Why do you think that?" asked Hidaka, barely able to conceal his scorn.
The Frenchman tilted his head to one side and pushed out a fat lower lip as he crossed his arms over an ample belly and examined the giant screen in front of them. "Well, this is not my specialty, you understand. The men who ran this station, they would not cooperate. But the ship's Combat Intelligence, she tells us that a great deal of radar and energy waves they are passing over us right now."
Hidaka's heart gave a sudden lurch. "We are being scanned!"
"Yes, well, no. She is scanning for a general threat, not to locate a specific target. So she does not know we are here. The ship you tell me they lost at Midway-the Leyte Gulf-she was their Nemesis cruiser, a protector. Her sensors were more capable, much more capable. But even so, the Dessaix, she is a stealth ship, too. The Americans do not have-how do you say?-a monopoly.
"So no, the Clinton will not see us."
Hidaka regarded the hairy lout with an expression of open disbelief. "And the Siranui?" he asked.
"Oui. She is there, too." He pointed at a window in which a colorful set of lines pulsed and undulated. "These are her sensors. They are not operating at full power. They have not, for as long as we have been observing them, and we must assume they were damaged at the Emergence."
The Japanese commander considered that for a moment. His orders were specific. The Clinton was not his target. But he could not help asking. "So we could strike at her?"
Le Roux snorted in amusement, colored by a contempt that he didn't bother to conceal. "Oh, well, yes, we could. But there would be no promise of success. The missiles would be detected, and targeted for countermeasures. The launch would be detected. We would be detected. And so on… you understand."
Hidaka didn't bother replying. He would no more disobey Yamamoto's precise instructions than he would piss in the goldfish pond at the Imperial Palace. His warrior spirit was simply piqued by the idea that such an enemy was being allowed to slip away. That, too, however, was an integral part of the grand admiral's plan.
Even so, he found it difficult to contain his frustration. Not with Yamamoto's strategy, but with the unrealized potential of this ship, the Robert Dessaix. From the first moment he had seen her, deep in the wastes of the Great Southern Ocean, he recognized her as a vastly more powerful weapon than the Sutanto or the Nuku. She was larger, for a start, at least three times their size. But more important, she was obviously a generation or more advanced. He had come to understand that the most capable ships from the future did not necessarily proclaim their strength in massed tiers of gun mounts. Indeed, the sleeker the lines, the less there was for the eye to linger over, the deadlier she was likely to be.