''It's my duty to try to escape,'' he said.
''Gale, love, I need for you to escort someone down the tower,'' Ernie called out to below.
''But I think my duty to Greenfeld is better served if I observe you and report what I see to intelligence. I will not attempt an escape until shots are fired.''
''That's good enough for me, ‘cause if this comes out right, there ain't going to be any,'' Kris said. ''Jack, there are observers on the berm.''
''We see them. We're falling back from the first line of businesses. How much longer are you going to hang yourself out there for anyone to shoot at? Do I have to come back there and personally drag you down?''
''Not much longer, Jack. Good thing you're out of that first row. Hank just ordered Marines to trot over and look them over. He's covering his flank with Marines.''
''Smart, but slow. He's already coming up on the second row if the phone calls we're getting are right. We'll hold the flankers three rows out. I just wish I knew if his own radios were being jammed by this.''
''No way to tell. Take care, Jack.''
''Now ain't that a joke coming from you. Get down from that tower. Your hair's not nearly long enough to climb.''
''Rapunzel is leaving the tower,'' Kris said and hung up.
''Your boyfriend?'' the chief asked as they headed down.
''Why is it that everyone thinks that except him? No, he's the scourge of my life, the head of my security. The one man that can tell me what to do and I have to do it.''
Ernie snickered. ''Gee, I hadn't noticed him being any more successful than I am with Gale.''
''Or Gale is with you,'' came from below.
''A woman does what a man tells her to do,'' the chief said.
Kris doubted words could change the chief's mind; with him in the lead, she went down fast and walked quickly to the Fire Training Center. There were lots of trigger pullers looking out the windows; glass was going to fly if bullets did.
''Where's Ron?'' Kris asked as they passed a sandbagged machine gun behind the wide glass doors.
''Upstairs.''
She found him in the second-floor conference room, dividing his time between the map on the table, a phone, and the window that barely offered him a view down the road.
''He's coming,'' Ron said as Kris entered.
''He wants to present Chance to his dad on a silver platter.''
''Yeah. At college, his dad seemed to come up a lot,'' Ron said. ''I shrugged it off then. I'm rethinking it now. Oh, you still have the chief?'' He left the rest of the question hanging.
''Yep, we've been looking at what we've got set up for Hank.''
Ron shook his head. ''Whatever you want. I guess.''
Kris, Ron, and the chief watched the coming parade, the band getting closer and louder. ''Chief, is there anyone you could talk to in the jail to cancel the planned riot?''
The chief shook his head. ''No one would listen to me.''
Kris called the jail. ''You have the sleepy grenades?''
''Yes.''
''Please use them on your Greenfeld prisoners. They've been ordered to riot when the music gets loud enough.''
''Ah, can I talk to the mayor?''
Kris handed Ron the phone. ''Yes,'' he said. ''Yes, do it.''
''Yes, I know it's against our articles, but this whole mess is against it. Do it. I'll be running for reelection next month. You want to run against me?'' Ron said, and hung up.
From across the yard came the popping of sleepy grenades. There were shouts, a scream, and quiet very soon. Ron rubbed his forehead. ''I'll be doing good to stay out of that jail, Kris.''
''It's either prison or a medal,'' the chief said.
They watched as Hank continued his march. ''Good Lord, but that boy cannot get in step,'' the chief muttered as they watched the flags whip in the slight breeze, the band play, and everyone but Hank march in step.
The phone rang, Ron answered, but quickly passed it to Kris.
''We're falling back slowly. The Marines have a problem,'' Jack chortled. ''We're locking all the doors behind us. Most are old-fashioned key locks. Apparently, the Marine's orders don't allow for just kicking in the doors yet. They had to find a lock pick. I'm going to fall back now to your location.''
Kris hung up and went back to the window. Her view really wasn't good enough to command the situation, but she had no communications to command anything anyway. This was almost prehistoric. A bit of poetry came to mind. ''The shot heard round the world,'' she muttered.
''Huh,'' Ron said. The chief eyed her with a slight smile.
''A shot fired in a situation very much like this at Concord or Lexington. I don't remember which. British Red Coats marched up, formed ranks in the open. Militia formed up across from them, near a bar, I think. No one knows who fired the first shot. By the time the last shot was fired, years later, a new country was born. But that day, the militia got massacred.''
''That's what I was taught,'' Chief Meindl said.
Ron went over to the phone; dialed. ''Greta, do a last call around. Remind folks we do not want to fire first. Yes, I know you already did that. Do it again. For me. Thank you.''
Ron came back to the window. ''Now what do we do?''
''You wait and sweat,'' the chief said.
''I don't like this,'' muttered the mayor.
''That is why we win,'' the chief said.
Five long minutes later, they watched from behind the glass doors at the entrance of the Fire Training Center as Hank marched in; flags flying and band playing. Sailors moved in precise drill as their chiefs wheeled them right and left, to fill up the square. It was a drill designed long ago to show off the skill of the army you faced, to inspire fear and terror.
Kris glanced down at a young man and woman manning a machine gun. They didn't look terrified. No, if Kris read them right, they were determined fighters defending their homes.
Hank, you miscalled this, Kris thought. The only question left is how many people have to die for your blunder.
Hank kept eyeing the upper levels of the jail, as if expecting something that wasn't there. He turned to Captain Slovo at his rear often, to talk about something. Kris had a pretty good idea what that was. Beside both of them the squadron's Command Master Chief stood motionless.
Kris did a quick count. There were twelve blocks of sailors not quite a hundred each. Machine gun and mortar teams trailed each. As columns halted, mortar teams unlimbered to the rear, MGs to the flanks. She faced close to a thousand sailors. The ships must be on a minimum watch. It was tempting to call Steve. Kris revised her greeting to Hank.
The music stopped on a signal Kris missed. The Command Master Chief, at a nod from Hank, ordered, ''Squadron.'' That was answered by ''Ship,'' and followed by ''Division'' in perfect order. ''Fix. Bayonets.''
The troops answered with a mighty shout as metal scraped on metal. It was a horrible sound. The type of sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. And your sphincter go weak. The young woman who knelt ready to feed the ammunition belt into the MG whispered, ''They do look fearsome.''
''They won't look nearly as good a second after I pull this trigger,'' the gunner beside her said.
Jack joined Kris. He smelled moldy; she was surprised how relieved she was to have her nanny back. ''I miss anything?''
''Not yet, but I think Hank's about to raise the curtain.''
Hank drew the sword at his side and took a stepped forward. ''Ron Torn, you have taken sailors of Greenfeld hostage. I declare you a terrorist, acting outside the law, and demand you release them to me or face intergalactic justice.''
''I better go talk to him,'' Ron said, taking a step.
Kris grabbed his elbow. ''You go out there and you are dead. You stay here. I'll go.''
Ron glanced back at her. ''You think you can settle this, Longknife to Peterwald?''