L. J. scanned the street. No sniper. An old woman selling flowers shook her head at him. He walked for the square, but Topkick met him halfway. “From your face, I’d say the talk didn’t go all that well,” the Sergeant Major said as L. J. settled in the jeep.
“Now it starts, Sergeant Major. Send the word out to the NCOs through your private channels that the gloves will be coming off the locals in the next couple of days. Forget the candy ass and the white gloves. From here forward, it gets real.”
“Kind of figured it that way, sir. Don’t worry, Major, the battalion’s solid. The Colonel will be proud of us.”
“Didn’t doubt the battalion was solid, Sergeant Major. Just wish we stood with a more solid cause at our side.”
The Sergeant Major had no answer for that. They drove back to the post in silence.
12
Allabad, Alkalurops
Prefecture IX, The Republic of the Sphere
16 August 3134; local summer
L. J. did not like being out of the local news loop—not the way things were going down the tubes. His time in Allabad had been short and sterile, leaving him no contacts he could trust. There had been a chambermaid with raven hair and olive skin who worked at the LCI Manor House. She could drop a ton of interesting local tidbits in the time she took to change linens.
L. J. found her Net address and sent off a chatty note about how his present hotel had a definite lack of staff and he might be looking for a maid. He ended with a “How are things going for you?” which he hoped might get her talking.
The next morning, things began to get interesting.
L. J. was enjoying his second cup of coffee when his ’puter beeped in four-part harmony with Mallary’s, Art’s and Eddie’s. L. J. slapped his first and found himself looking at Lieutenant Brajinski, presently occupying Kerry, a small town between Allabad and Little London. “Sir, four of our MechWarriors woke up this morning to find daggers in their pillows and notes saying ‘MechWarriors, go home while you still can.’”
The dagger the lieutenant waved looked more like a restaurant steak knife, but “dagger” certainly sounded more dramatic. L. J. raised an eyebrow to his staff. “You’re billeted in a former hotel?” Eddie said, checking his ’puter for the answer.
“Yes, sir.”
“Still using the hotel’s support staff?” L. J. asked.
“Yes, sir. They’ve been very grateful for the work, sir. No problem at all. Frees our troops from—” The young lieutenant trailed off. “I see your point, sir. I will let them go.”
“And see if those knives are similar to those in any local eateries,” Mallary said.
“If I locate the people who did this?” the lieutenant asked.
“Let me know what you’ve found out,” L. J. said firmly. “Take no action until I order it. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Clearly, sir.” The screen went blank.
“So it starts,” L. J. said to his team. “Raise the alert level, XO. Mallary, have your intelligence staff try to get me some solid analysis on what’s going on here. Since the news went all nice and fluffy I don’t know shit about what’s happening.”
“I’ll try, sir, but we aren’t getting much hard data.”
“Those knives looked pretty hard to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Mallary said, standing. “I’ll get on it.”
“Eddie, start looking into concentrating the battalion.”
“Sir,” St. George said, “if I may point out, that would make us an even easier target and make it even harder to track what’s going on outside our line of sight.”
“Good points all, Art, but there’s more firepower at Falkirk than I have here. If they start moving, how much of the battalion will they overrun before we know it?”
“We’ve got the satellite feed, sir.”
“They know about it. They only show it what they want it to see. If they move their ’Mech MODs from one barn to the next south, will we know they’re here before they start shooting up Dublin Town? Damn the shoestring budget,” L. J. snapped. They’d deployed without a single air spy vehicle. It was as if the guy funding this mess had no idea what a good team needed. Well, it wasn’t as if Santorini knew a lot about what he was getting into.
Or did he?
If Santorini got in trouble, would a lot of Stormhammer or House Steiner stuff come running? It wouldn’t be the first time in history that a small troop of soldiers were set up to fail so the bigger guns could gallop to the rescue.
“XO, Adjutant, you have your orders. It looks to be a busy morning. Let’s turn to.”
At his desk was a chatty note from Betty, the maid. She rambled on about how the place had changed since he left. “Some of the new guys seem to think a maid is there to help them get the sheets dirty as well as change them,” answered one of his questions. “Cook says she can’t buy good fresh fruit, vegetables and meat. The farmers’ market just doesn’t have anything like it used to.” This told L. J. to look out for trouble around the food supply. Betty was also hunting for a new place to eat. Her old standby had changed hands and was now owned by an off-worlder. The cook had mouthed off to the new owner and been fired. “The new cook can’t boil water.” So Grace was right that junior scum were taking their own chunks and making a bad situation worse.
L. J. had not liked the looks of the Black and Reds the moment he’d seen them. The ’Mechs marched like trainees. The guys in the gun trucks looked like the thugs a real police force would put away for a very long time. What prison bottom had Santorini dragged to get a collection of gutter scrapings like these?
Betty finished her note saying she’d gotten a raise that doubled her pay, putting her ahead of the rising prices, and she probably wasn’t looking to change jobs. L. J. printed the note for Mallary and her intelligence crew just as she appeared at his door.
“We’ve had our first attack, sir, outside Banya.”
“Any casualties?”
“None, sir. Some bunch of locals planted a mine for a hovertank patrol. They guessed low on the amount of pressure one of those things puts out, and the mine blew before the tank got there. Real goobers, sir.”
“Even goobers can learn, Captain.”
“Think it was by that group up north? The Falkirk group?”
“Not likely. They have a hovertank, and the ’Mechs working with them would never make a beginner’s mistake like that.”
“How’d they get a hovertank, if I may ask?”
L. J. started to say, “Ask Sergeant Godfrey,” but that moron was among the missing. “I’ve got this letter from someone I trust in Allabad,” he said, handing Betty’s note to Mallary. “Synopsize this so no one can recognize where it came from and get it out to our occupation platoons. Tell the lieutenants this supports the rise in alert status.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” Mallary said.
“Then let’s—” he started, but his com was buzzing and blinking a red light. His client. L. J. positioned himself behind his desk and tapped the com. “Yes, Mr. Santorini.”
“I understand someone tried to bomb one of my tanks today,” he said with what some might mistake for a smile of glee.
“An amateurish effort,” L. J. said dismissively.
“You are launching a punitive action.”
“I am taking appropriate action.”
“And what do you consider appropriate for the attempted murder of my troops in their sleep last night?”
“We are investigating to determine what action to take.”
His client frowned. “I would already have people hanging from lampposts. I see your Colonel sent me someone who has trouble making a decision.”
L. J. nodded noncommittally and said nothing.
“I am having trouble and require a military operation,” he said, as if uttering the magic words that would instantaneously turn a valley red with fire, blood and smoke.
“What trouble, sir?” L. J. said, trying to sound concerned.