"Yes, I do," he confirmed, equally casually. "As you requested, we've made the load up in twenty-ton lots, loaded on standard helo freight pallets. And just as a bonus, we used counter-grav pallets."
"That's good." It was hard to keep a combination of thankfulness and irritation out of her matter-of-fact voice. Thankfulness, because the counter-grav units would let them move the cargo so much more rapidly and easily. Irritation, because she and Drazen should have thought to ask for them at the outset.
"Yeah," the pilot agreed. "You told us you wanted twelve -pallets-that's two hundred and forty tons, total-but I only see five choppers."
His tone made the statement a question, and Nordbrandt nodded. It wasn't really any of his business, but there was no point in rudeness. The Central Liberation Committee had just demonstrated how valuable it could be, so she supposed she'd better cut its representatives some slack rather than risk irritating them.
"Our sixth copter's on its way in now. It ought to be here in the next fifteen minutes. It'll take them about an hour, on average, to reach their destinations. Say another hour and a half on the ground to unload-and we can probably cut that even further, with the counter-grav, because we won't need the forklifts after all-and another hour to get back here. That's four hours, which leaves us another hour to load the second group of pallets and clear out before any of the graybacks'-the police's, I mean-surveillance satellites get a good look at this field."
The pilot looked at her just a bit dubiously, then shrugged.
"Once I kick it out the hatch, it's your responsibility. The schedule sounds a little tight to me, but I'm out of here in forty minutes, whatever happens."
With that, he walked back to the shuttle and opened the exterior cargo controls' access door. The dim light of the instrument panel gilded his face in a wash of red and green, and he began entering commands.
The shuttle's computers obediently opened the huge after hatch. The two hundred-plus tons of military equipment occupied only a fraction of the cargo hold, and more commands fired up the pallets' built-in counter-grav units. An overhead tractor grab picked up the first pallet, moved it smoothly down the cargo ramp, and held it motionless, hovering a meter above the ground, until half a dozen eager hands grabbed the handholds and towed it out of the way.
The trio of FAK members guided the floating munitions across to one of the waiting helicopters while the tractor grab went back for a second load. Three more Kornatians were waiting, and quickly turned it towards a second copter. The third pallet was on its way out of the hold almost before they had number two clear, and Nordbrandt nodded in profound satisfaction.
She stood to one side, staying out of the way, while her people guided the pallets into the helicopters' cargo compartments. They loaded the copter which had farthest to go first, and it lifted away into the night, its movements slower and more ponderous than when it arrived, even before the second was fully loaded.
She stood quietly, watching as five of the freight copters headed out. By then, the cargo shuttle was completely empty. The additional pallets were moved into the concealment of a convenient barn, and the shuttle closed its hatches, fired up its turbines, and disappeared the way it had come. Nordbrandt gave the landing site one more look, noting the trampled tracks in the wheat field, then climbed up into the sixth and final helicopter. It would drop her off where other secure transportation was waiting to return her to her tenement safe-house before it returned for its second load.
"Make sure you set the timers before you lift out with your final load," she told the pilot, raising her voice over the clatter of the rotors.
He nodded hard, his expression serious, and she sat back in satisfaction. She'd anticipated that using the wheat field as the transfer point would leave the dry, ripe wheat trampled and beaten down. Most probably, no one would have noticed anything this far out in the boonies, but she intended to take no chances. Sometime early the next morning, well before sunrise, a fire would break out in one of the derelict farm's abandoned buildings. It would spread to the wheat field, and probably to the orchards beyond. By the time the local rural fire department responded, all signs that anyone had visited the farm would be erased.
All very sad, she thought. The abandoned farm, its owner dead at terrorist hands, totally destroyed by fire. Tragic. But at least there wouldn't be anyone still living there to be threatened by the flames, and it wasn't as if the farm still represented a livelihood for anyone. That was about all anyone would think about it. It certainly wouldn't occur to them that the FAK would waste its time burning down a single, isolated, abandoned farm in the middle of nowhere.
She sat back in her seat, thinking of all the expanded potential the helicopter's cargo represented, and smiled thinly.
Chapter Forty-One
HMS Hexapuma slid into orbit around Kornati with the polished professionalism to be expected from one of the galaxy's premier navies. Aivars Terekhov observed the maneuver from the center of his smoothly humming bridge with profound satisfaction. Hexapuma was seventeen days out of Montana-a rapid passage by anyone's standards-and between them, he and Ansten FitzGerald had turned the ship into a precision instrument.
But however satisfied he felt about that, Terekhov cherished no illusions that his responsibilities in Split would be easily discharged. Amal Nagchaudhuri's department had been monitoring the Kornatian news channels ever since Hexapuma translated back into normal-space. There'd been no more major incidents in the last several weeks, but there had been a handful of minor attacks-little more than pinpricks, really. It seemed apparent they were intended more to keep the public reminded the rumors of Nordbrandt's demise had been wildly exaggerated than to do any significant damage. And they clearly were succeeding. Even if the newsies' commentary hadn't made that point, the fervency with which Kornati Traffic Control welcomed Hexapuma would have made it abundantly clear the locals had pinned an enormous amount of hope on the capabilities of his ship and crew.
The problem with heightened expectations, he reminded himself, is that they lead to heightened dejection if they're disappointed. And as good as my people are, the chances of our finding Van Dort's silver bullet aren't exactly overwhelming.
The ship settled precisely into her assigned position, and Senior Chief Clary rang off main thrusters and reconfigured for automatic station keeping. Terekhov nodded in satisfaction, then turned towards Communications as a chime sounded.
Lieutenant Commander Nagchaudhuri listened for a few moments, then looked up.
"Skipper, I have a Ms. Darinka Djerdja on the line. She's Vice President Rajkovic's personal assistant, and she asks if it would be convenient for you to speak to the Vice President."
Despite himself, Terekhov felt an eyebrow rise. Evidently, the locals were even more eager to talk to him than he'd anticipated.
"Do we have visual?"
"Yes, Sir," Nagchaudhuri replied.
"Then please inform Ms. Djerdja that I would be honored to speak to the Vice President. When he comes on the line, put it on my display here, please."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
It took less than four minutes. Then a stocky, dark-haired man of medium height appeared on Terekhov's display. Vice President Vuk Rajkovic had steady gray eyes, a strong chin, and ears that could have been used for airfoils. They stuck out sharply on either side of his head, and they would have made him look ridiculous if not for the concentrated purpose in those piercing eyes.
"Captain Terekhov, I'm Vuk Rajkovic," the big-eared man said in a deep, whiskey-smooth baritone.
"Mr. Vice President, this is an honor," Terekhov replied, and Rajkovic snorted.
"This, Captain, is a case of the cavalry riding to the rescue. Or, I certainly hope it is-and that we haven't waited too long to call for help."
"Mr. Vice President, I assure you we'll do anything and everything we can," Terekhov said, conscious of both Van Dort's briefing on the local political situation and his own instructions from Baroness Medusa. "However, I hope no one in Split has unrealistic expectations about just what we can do."
"I don't expect miracles, Captain," Rajkovic reassured him. "I'm afraid some members of my Cabinet and Parliament probably do. And I know those idiots who report the news do. But I recognize that you have a single ship, with limited manpower, and no more idea where to find these lunatics than we have. I suppose what I'm really hoping for is two things. First, I'd be absolutely delighted if you were able to break the FAK wide open in a single brilliantly conceived and executed operation, after all. Second, failing that-which, frankly, seems likely to me-I'd be extremely gratified by even one or two relatively minor successes. If it's possible for us to score a few victories, even small ones, with your assistance, then the notion that the entire resources of the Star Kingdom stand ready to assist us further should be a major morale enhancer for all of our people."