The airvan pulled up in front of a hastily rented warehouse several blocks from the Greenbrier facility, then floated inside as the doors slid open. It eased to a stop in the middle of the empty warehouse, and Roger watched as Catrone's "friends" unloaded.
The driver looked remarkably like Roger had before his bod-mod. Shorter—he was probably 170 centimeters—but with long blond hair that was slightly curly and fell to the middle of his back, and a chiseled, handsome face. He moved with the robotic stride of a well-trained fighter, light on his feet, and had hugely muscled forearms.
"Trey Jacobi," he said, crossing to where Roger waited beside Catrone.
"Trey's a very good general operator," Catrone said, "and a former local magistrate. He's also our defense lawyer, so watch him."
"Who's my newest client?" Trey asked, holding out his hand to Roger.
"This is Mr. Chung," Catrone replied. "He's... a good friend. A very important person to me. He'd probably handle this on his own, but he has a pressing business engagement tomorrow."
The individual who climbed out of the driver's side rear door was a huge moose of a man, with close-cropped hair. He strode over like a soldier and stopped, coming to parade rest.
"Dave Watson," Catrone said. "He's a reserve officer with the San-Angeles PD."
"Pleased to meet you." Dave stuck out his hand, shook Roger's, and then resumed his position of parade rest, his face stern and sober.
"This is Bill Copectra," Catrone continued, as a short, stocky man came around the front of the van. "He does electronics."
"Hey, Tomcat," Bill said. "You're going to owe us one very goddammed big one for this. If you had a daughter, that would be the down payment."
"I know," Catrone replied, shaking his head.
"I had a hot date for this weekend, too," Bill continued.
"You've always got a date," the last man said. He was a bit taller than Bill, and wider, with oaklike shoulders, short-cut black hair, and a wide, flat face. He walked with a rolling stride which suggested to Roger either a sailor or someone who spent a lot of time on civanback. Make that horseback, this being Old Earth.
"This is Clovis Oyler," Catrone said. "Deputy officer with the Ogala department. Entry."
"That's usually my spot," Roger said, nodding as he shook Oyler's hand. "Charge?"
"Usually a modified bead gun," Oyler replied. "You can't stay on the door with a charge. And there's not many doors that won't go down with a blast from a twelve-millimeter bead."
"With a twelve-millimeter, you're not going to have many shots left," Roger pointed out.
"If you need more then three or four, you're in the wrong room," Oyler answered, as if explaining to a child.
"Tac-teams." Roger looked at Catrone and nodded. "Not combat soldiers. For your general information, Mr. Oyler, I usually do the entry in a tac-suit or powered armor and ride the entry charge through. Sometime we'll see who's faster," he added with a grin.
"Told you there was a difference," Catrone said. "And Clovis' technique does tend to leave more people alive and unmangled on the other side of the door."
He shrugged, then turned back to Copectra.
"Bill, we've got an address. We need a surveillance setup. Dave will emplace—taps and external wire. We need a schematic on the building and a count on the hostiles. Clovis, while Bill and Dave take care of that, you do weapons prep. Trey, you do initial layout."
"What are you going to be doing?" Trey asked with a frown. Catrone normally took layout himself.
"I've got another operation to work on," Catrone replied. "I'll be here for the brief, and on the op."
"What's the other op?" Trey asked. "I'm asking as your counsel, here, you understand."
"One of the kind where, if we need an attorney, he won't do us much good," Roger replied.
"Prince Jackson," General Gianetto said over the secure com link, "we have a problem."
"What?" Adoula responded. "Or, rather, what now?"
"Something's going on in Home Fleet. There've been a lot of rumors about what's happening in the Palace, some of them closer to reality than I like. I think your security isn't the best, Prince Jackson."
"It's as good as it can get," Adoula said. "But rumors aren't a problem."
"They are when the Navy gets this stirred up," Gianetto noted. "But this is more than just rumors. CID picked up a rumor about a mutiny brewing among the Marines. They're planning something—something around the time of the Imperial Festival. And I don't like the codename one bit. It's 'Fatted Calf.'"
Adoula paused and shook his head.
"Something from the Bible?" he asked incredulously. "You want me to worry about a Marine mutiny based on the Bible?"
"It's from the parable of the prodigal son, Your Highness," Gianetto said angrily. "Prodigal son. You roast the fatted calf when the prodigal son returns."
"Roger's dead," Adoula said flatly. "You arranged that death, General."
"I know. And if he'd survived, he should have turned up somewhere within the first few weeks after his 'accident.' But it looks like somebody believes he's alive."
"Prince Roger is dead," Adoula repeated. "And even if he weren't, so what? Do you think that that airhead could have staged a countercoup? That anyone would have followed him? For God's sake, General, he was New Madrid's son! No wonder he was an idiot. What was the phrase you used about one of the officers I suggested? He couldn't have led a platoon of Marines into a brothel."
"The same can't be said for Armand Pahner," Gianetto replied. "And Pahner would fight for the Empress, not Roger. Roger would just be the figurehead. And I'm telling you, something is going down. The Associations are stirring, the Marines are contemplating mutiny, and Helmut is moving somewhere. We have a serious situation here."
"So what are you doing about it?" Adoula demanded.
"What's the most critical point we have to secure?"
"The Empress," Adoula said. "And myself."
"Okay," Gianetto replied. "I'll beef up security around Imperial City. Where I'll get it from is going to be an interesting question, since we don't have that many ground forces we know are loyal. But I'll figure it out. Beef up security around the Palace, as well. As for you, you need to be moving the day of the Festival."
"I'm supposed to be a participant," Adoula said with a frown. "But I'll send my regrets."
"Do that," Gianetto said dryly. "At the last minute, if you want a professional suggestion."
"What about the Marines?" Adoula asked.
"I'll replace Brailowsky," Gianetto said. "And have a little chat with him."
"Okay," Eleanora said, breaking into one of the final planning sessions. "We have a real problem."
"What?" Roger asked.
"Sergeant Major Brailowsky was just arrested, and the Marine web sites are all talking about Fatted Calf. I think Kjerulf was a little free with information."
"Shit." Roger looked at the clock. "Twelve more hours."
"Ask me for anything but time," Catrone replied.
"They're going to sweat him," Marinau said. "He's resistant to interrogation, but you can get anything out of anybody eventually."
"He's going to be in the Moonbase brig," Rosenberg said. "That's lousy with Navy SPs. We can't just spring him quietly."
"Greenberg is still in place," Roger pointed out. "If he knows Kjerulf is on our side, and Brailowsky would have to, since they're talking about 'Fatted Calf,' then we'll lose Kjerulf, as well. And they'll know it's going down sometime around the Festival."