"Bloody hell," Mark Fuller said. He sat at a small table under the canopy of leaves and vines that concealed his helicopter and sipped tea. He'd been there for hours, far too long, the ship ready to go at a second's notice. Now they heard the distant sound of artillery. "Bloody hell."
Crew Chief Hal Jordan nodded in sympathy. "The waitin's always hardest. But I wouldn't be too anxious for orders, was I you. Goin' after Barton'll be a little different from storming them pirates that had your lady."
"I know, Chief. It doesn't make waiting any easier." He glanced at his sleeve console. The time was 0935. "Listen to that. Something sure as hell is going on."
"Yeah," Jordan agreed. "Only from the sound of it they're not likely to have time to tell us about it."
"But maybe they'll want us. Better be sure we're ready."
"Mr. Fuller, If I get the damn thing any more ready, she'll fly off by herself! Relax, sir."
One of the villagers brought more tea. What they called tea here, anyway. Some kind of orange flavored grass. It didn't taste bad, just very different. Mark sipped and tried to look patient. There was a loud roar, loud enough to drown out the gunfire.
"Holy shit!" Jordan said. "Landing ship taking off!" Something large flashed overhead, low above the village clearing. "Look at it go!"
"I never saw one take off before," Mark said.
"Yeah, mostly I was in the damn things when they went up. There she goes—ain't going to make orbit, that's for damn sure! Hope the poor bastards know what they're doing."
The landing ship vanished. Mark sipped tea and waited. "Guns are quiet," he said.
"Yeah," Jordan said. "Too damn quiet."
There was a chirp from the helicopter radio. Mark stood quickly, but restrained himself. Let Jordan answer it.
"It's someone claims to be the colonel," Jordan said. "He's sending authentication codes—It checks out, sir. He want us to answer."
"Crap doodle. The radio silence orders are damned clear."
"Yes, sir, I know, but I'm pretty sure it's the colonel," Jordan said. "Sounds like him, and the authentication codes check. And they knew what frequency to call on, and who to ask for."
"What the hell should I do?"
"They pay you to decide, Mr. Fuller. Not me."
"I keep forgetting that. All right. Acknowledge," Fuller said.
"Yes, sir." Jordan spoke briefly, then handed the phones and mike out.
"Cornet Fuller here, sir," Mark said.
"Falkenberg. Stand by to check authentication." He read a string of numbers, which Fuller punched into his console.
"Yes, sir. Authentication acknowledged. Standing by."
"Orders, Mister Fuller. Hostilities are ended. You may defend yourself if fired upon, but you are to take no aggressive action unless directly ordered by Regiment. Is this understood?"
"Yes, sir. Did we win?"
"We can discuss that later. I am a prisoner of war."
"Sir?"
"I have surrendered this small command, and this will be my last transmission to you. You will make contact with regimental headquarters for further orders."
"Yes, sir—Colonel—"
"That's all Mr. Fuller. Out."
"Oh, boy," Mark said.
"Problems, Mr. Fuller?" Jordan asked.
"You might say that. We've surrendered. Or Falkenberg has."
"Sir?"
Mark explained. "He said we could defend ourselves, so I guess he didn't surrender us. Only now what do I do?"
"Well, sir, we've already broken radio security by answering that transmission. Maybe we ought to try to get headquarters?"
Mark thought that over and nodded. "Right. See if you can raise them."
It took well over an hour. Finally Mark was speaking with Captain Frazer.
"Yes, we heard that the Colonel surrendered his force," Frazer said. "Understand that our transmissions to you are not secure, but yours to us should be all right. What is your situation?"
"Well, I've got fuel for maybe a hundred klicks if I'm careful. The other chopper's bone dry, and the crew went down the river with Colonel Falkenberg so there's nobody to fly it. Sergeant Jordan and I are the only ones here."
"Right. Well, just sit put, Mark. We'll send someone in for you when we get the chance."
"Yes, sir, but—I know the colonel said hostilities were over, but shouldn't we be doing something?"
"It's all right, lad," Frazer said. "We've won. Didn't the colonel tell you?"
"No, sir."
"Oh. Of course he wouldn't. It's a bit complex. Prince Lysander hijacked their landing boat. They'd loaded the drugs into it. Mr. Prince brought over ninety percent of the holdout crops into Lederle harbor twenty minutes ago. Some of the ranchers are still trying to continue the revolt, but they don't have much to bargain with. They can't pay Barton, either. Stay alert and stay sober, there may be someone out there who didn't get the word, but this campaign's over."
"I see. Thank you sir. Could someone tell Mrs. Fuller I'm all right?"
"Of course. Right away. Fuller, it may be a couple of days before we get you out. When I've got transport we'll get some fuel and crew in there. Tell Mr. Ledoux the governor won't forget him. Otherwise, relax."
"But what happens to the colonel?"
"I wouldn't worry about it," Frazer said. "It's likely to cost us a bit, that's all. Relax, lad."
Everyone stood when Lysander came into the staff room. Major Savage nodded approval. "Well done, Mr. Prince."
"Thank you, sir."
"Sorry to hear about your corps brother."
"Surgeon says he'll be all right," Lysander said. "He won't like the inactivity, but a good rest won't hurt him. The colonel's all right, then?"
"So they tell me," Savage said. "We're expecting Barton's people to call with their terms. Shouldn't be too severe, they've little enough to bargain with, thanks to you." He shrugged. "Of course none of us will be sorry to see all our people back where they belong. For one thing, we've much better hospital facilities than Barton has."
The atmosphere was jovial, more like a luncheon in the Officers' Mess than duty in the staff room. Everyone was friendly.
Lysander studied the map table. The familiar lines were all changed. Instead of neat areas held by ranchers and other places held by Falkenberg's Legion or Governor Blaine's militia, there were mixed splotches, mutually penetrating lines, scattered bases and staging areas. One long pseudopod stretched out toward Rochemont. Another slashed into the former rebel territory in the southeast. As he watched one large block went from hostile orange to secure blue.
"Bit of a mess, actually," Major Savage said. "But that won't last. Ah. Is that our call, Amos?"
"Yes." Amos Fast frowned. "It's not Barton, it's a rancher. Anton Girerd. Wants to talk to you and no one else."
Savage shrugged. "No reason not to. Put him on the speaker phone. Mynheer Girerd? Jeremy Savage here. What can we do for you?"
"You can give our property back," Girerd said. His voice was very tense. Everyone in the staff room fell silent.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Our crop," Girerd said. "The harvest. Give it back."
"I'm afraid I don't quite follow. We don't have your crop. That was turned over to the governor."
"I don't care what you did with it. You took it from us, and you can take it back from Governor Blaine. I'm telling you, if you want to see Colonel Falkenberg and those others again, get our crops back to us!"
"Come now, we can't do that," Savage said. "We're prepared to pay a reasonable ransom for the colonel, of course. And if you haven't heard, the governor's offering amnesty on very reasonable terms."
"No terms," Girerd said. "No negotiations. The crop. All of it."
"I think you'd better put Major Barton on."
"Barton's got nothing to do with this," Girerd said. "Damn you people! It's all a game to you. Nothing but a lousy stinking game! Well, it's no game to us. It's our lives, and our fortunes, and our honor."
"Honor from a dope peddler," Captain Rottermill said sotto voce.
Savage held up a hand for silence. "Do I understand that you've taken Colonel Falkenberg from Major Barton's custody?"
"Damn right we have."
"And where is Major Barton now?"
"In hell for all I know!"
Jeremy Savage touched the button to cut off the mike on the phone. His voice was low and clear, almost pleasant. "Amos, perhaps we'd better resume operations against Dragontooth. And please see what else you can muster to the southern area. We may need to assault Rochemont after all."
"Yes, sir." Amos Fast began typing furiously on his keyboard.
Savage activated the phone again. "Be reasonable, Mr. Girerd—"
"No. No, I will not be reasonable," Girerd said. "I have been ruined by being reasonable."
"You are hardly ruined. The governor's terms are quite generous."
"It's ruin."
"I assure you that's not the case," Savage said. "A number of your friends have already accepted. I do think you should reconsider while you have a choice."
"No. You've finished me, and I won't go alone."
"What possible good could it do you to harm your prisoners?" Savage asked.
"None. But I'll get the satisfaction. You get my property back, or your colonel's dead."
"It might take some time."
"It better not take long. After 1700 today I will start executing prisoners. One per hour. Beginning with the youngest. Your colonel can watch them die. Goodbye."
There was a moment of silence.
"Well, that's torn it," Major Savage said. "You are all familiar with the colonel's standing orders on negotiating with terrorists."
"How serious are they?" Captain Fast asked. "Anyone know this Girerd?"
"Governor's office will know him," Rottermill said.
"Ursula has met him," Lysander said. "Major—Major, we have to do something!"
"Yes, of course we must. Ian, if you'd be kind enough to get those choppers in Ledoux's village ready? They'll need fuel, a pilot, guns and gun crews. Perhaps you could pick up any of your SAS troops who might be along the way there?"
"Right away, sir. I'll be going myself, of course." Captain Frazer lifted his phone and spoke urgently.
"Captain Rottermill, I would very much like to know what has become of Major Barton."
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. Prince, we'll speak to the governor's office, but if you would be kind enough to bring your friend here, it might be helpful to speak with someone who knows Mynheer Girerd."
"I don't know that she actually knows him—"
"I really would appreciate it, Mr. Prince."
Savage hadn't changed his tone, and his smile was pleasant, but Lysander felt a moment of fear. "Yes, sir. I'll get her."
"Thank you. Now, if you please. Captain Fast, perhaps it would be well to tell sergeant major about this latest development."
"Yes, sir."
Lysander felt relieved to get out of the staff room.
"You could have come to see me first."
"Ursula, be reasonable. They brought me here by helicopter. I had to go to the hospital with Harv, and then I had to report! This is the first chance I've had."
"I suppose. You don't act very glad to see me." She grinned. "Here you come back a genuine hero, and I'd already planned to give you a hero's welcome just for getting back alive."
"I'm looking forward to it. A lot. But just now—Ursa, the colonel's in trouble."
"What do you mean?"
"Girerd's threatening to kill him if we don't recapture their crop from the governor and turn it over to them."
"That's crazy. Falkenberg's soldiers won't do that. If they did, and the colonel got out of it alive, he'd have them shot! Even I know that!"
"Yes. And I'm scared." He took her arm and led her to the staff room.
"Miss Gordon," Major Savage said. "Kind of you to come. I was wondering if you could help with a problem that seems to have developed."
"If I can—"
"I'm told you know Anton Girerd."
"Not really," Ursula said. "I did get to know his son Oskar—briefly but quite well—but I don't really know Mynheer Girerd."
"Still, you've met him. I'd be grateful for an opinion. Is he likely to carry out his threat?"
"Yes."
"You sound quite positive. Why?"
"Things Oskar told me. Sometimes he was afraid of his father."
"Sometimes?"
"When his father had been drinking. I imagine he has been now. He drinks under stress."
"I see. So we dare not assume he is bluffing. Well, it won't be the first time alcoholism proved fatal. Thank you. Captain Rottermill, I'd appreciate that report. You may go, Miss Gordon."
"May I see Ursula to her rooms?"
"Certainly, Mr. Prince, but I would appreciate it if you'd come right back."
"Yes, sir."
Ursula shuddered when they were outside. "I won't try to keep you," she said.
"Thanks. You felt it too?"
"He's so calm and careful and polite, and I don't think I've ever been quite so frightened of anyone in my life," she said. "And he isn't even mad at me." They walked in silence for a moment. "I suppose you have to go with them?" Ursula asked.
"If they'll let me."
"Why?"
"Why? Because—damn it, it's obvious."
"No. No, Lysander, it's not obvious that you should risk getting yourself killed in order to rescue a man who has already manipulated you into doing his work for him."
"What? But he didn't do that—"
She laughed. "Didn't he? Think about it. Not much happens around him that he hasn't planned."
"Ursula, he was ready to do it himself. Without me."
"Sure."
"Well, he was."
She smiled and shook her head. "Lynn, Lynn my darling, you really don't understand him, do you? I wasn't even there, and I know what happened. He was ready to go himself. Of course he was. Him and one of his Headquarters Company guards. Be only too glad to, and of course he understood. No discredit for not volunteering, none at all. Only he didn't have to go himself because you were right there to talk him out of it. Isn't that what happened?"
"Well—"
"See? But no, you don't see. Forget that. But whatever happened doesn't obligate you to go get killed for him now."
"I won't get killed."
"Oh probably you won't, they won't even let you get close to the action now, but that isn't the point."
"What is the point?"
"One you'll never understand. When are you going back to Sparta?"
"What? I don't know. It will be a while. Have to wait for Harv to get out of the regeneration stimulators—"
"But not long after that."
"I don't know. I suppose not, father will be anxious for my report, Ursa, we have to discuss this . . ."
"I wish I could go with you."
"Ursula—"
"I know. You wish it too, but it won't happen." She smiled thinly. "It's all right. It would never work. It's all wishes. Serves us both right for forgetting the rules. Goodbye, Lysander."
"We'll talk about this—I won't be long—"
"No. No, my dear it's hard enough this way." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, very lightly and very quickly. "I won't be here when you get back."
"Where will you go?"
"I'll find something. I own my contract, you know. Colonel Falkenberg saw to that. Maybe I'll look up Oskar Girerd. He really was sweet, and even with his father acting like an idiot, he's likely to keep some of his wealth—"
"Ursula, stop, please stop—"
"I'm sorry. Maybe it wasn't funny. Maybe I wasn't trying to be funny."
"How can you be so—so damned calm about it?"
"Probably caught it from Major Savage." They had reached the door to her room. Not his. She went inside, making it clear she didn't want him to follow. She was already closing the door when she looked up at him and said, "I do love you, you know. Goodbye, my dear."
"I've got Barton," Rottermill said.
Major Savage gestured to indicate the speaker phone. "Good afternoon, Major. Jeremy Savage here."
"Good afternoon."
"Sorry to trouble you, but I doubt I must explain why I have called," Savage said.
"No, of course not."
"Will you need our help?"
"No. We're going in now. Sorry to have been so long. They surprised us, and it took this long to get the forces together."
"Yes, of course," Major Savage said. "Still, I hope you won't be long about it."
"No, Major Savage, I won't be long about it. You'll hear from me in an hour. Barton out."
"Will someone please explain what's happening?" Lysander asked.
"What's to explain?" Captain Fast asked. "Ace Barton's meeting his obligations."
"He's going to rescue the colonel?"
"Certainly. Who else should?"
"Well—us."
"Oh, sure, we'd give it a try," Amos Fast said. "We're moving in backup units. But our motives wouldn't be quite the same as Barton's, would they?"
"So we're not going to rescue the colonel?"
"If we must, we will," Major Savage said. "As Amos says, we continue to make preparations. But I can't think it will be necessary. Barton's lot are thoroughly competent."
"But—they may kill Colonel Falkenberg."
Jeremy Savage's smile didn't change. "That really would be a mistake, you know. Hard to believe they'd be that stupid."
"But they might try! Major, our people are more competent than Barton's! We have to go in there!"
"I do think that's needlessly hard on Ace Barton," Savage said. "Let's give him a chance, shall we?"
"I don't think I'll ever understand you people," Lysander said.
"Politicians seldom do," Major Savage said.
The helicopter turned a tight spiral around Rochemont before landing on the helipad outside.
The roof of the eastern wing had collapsed, and all the glass was broken out. Smoke blackened the walls outside two rooms. The rest of the house seemed repairable.
Ace Barton got out of the helicopter and strode toward the front door. Now's the time he shoots me, Barton thought. I'm getting too damned old for this.
He was nearly to the door when it opened. Anton Girerd came out. He had a small automatic pistol in his hand, but he held it barrel down. "What the devil do you want?"
"You know what I want," Barton said.
"No. I meant what I told that Savage—"
"I'm sure you did," Barton said. "But do the rest of your people understand what you've got them into?"
Barton waved to indicate the fleet of helicopters coming in around the house. "First there's my troops. You know what they can do. Let me show you." Barton waved in a complex gesture.
One of the helicopters circled the horse barn. A stream of fire poured from the gunship's door. Horses screamed in agony as tracers riddled the barn, then set it on fire. One of the horse herders staggered out of the barn door. He was covered in blood.
Barton waved again. A dozen cattle burst from another barn. A helicopter circled and came in behind them, sending them in wild flight out into grain fields. The chopper's gatling opened fire. Tracers chewed the ground just behind the cattle, and the beasts ran faster in blind panic. The tracers moved slowly into the herd. Blood and meat and smoke mingled on the trampled grain.
Girerd screamed and aimed his pistol at Barton. "Stop! Stop it!"
Barton gestured again and the choppers ceased firing. "Okay. But my troops aren't your real problem. I'm a sweetheart compared to what you get if you shoot me. First off, my troops will be pissed. Maybe you can take them all out before they level this place. I doubt it, but suppose you can? After us, you damned fool, there's the whole Forty-second! Man, you've got yourself on the shit list of the toughest bastards in the galaxy! Don't you know what they're doing? They're not getting ready to negotiate. They don't negotiate with people like you. They're getting ready to come here and sterilize this place."
"They can't do that, I've got their colonel—"
Barton laughed. "Girerd, don't you think Falkenberg thought this might happen someday? His troops have standing orders. They won't negotiate." He spoke louder, so that everyone nearby could hear. "They'll never negotiate. They'll just see that nothing survives here. Nothing. Not you, not your animals, not your troops. Not even women and kids. Nobody and nothing. Then they'll burn everything. It's their colonel! They'll sow the ground with salt, Girerd. Hell, that's exactly what they'll do. Girerd, you're in trouble, and so is everyone here. You're all fucking dead." Ace kept his face turned toward Girerd, but he let his eyes look to the side. Several Girerd ranch hands were slinking away.
"You're just trying to frighten me—"
"Trying? I sure as hell hope I've done better than try! I hope I've scared the shit out of you." He waved again. One of the helicopters darted down.
"Wait, wait, don't!" someone screamed.
"But—they wouldn't—my children? My wife?" Girerd demanded.
"Every man, woman, and child," Barton said. "What the hell did you expect?" He waved again. The chopper opened up on the chicken house. In moments the ground outside it was strewn with flaming, squawking chickens. The building spewed out black smoke.
Girerd raised the pistol again.
"For God's sake, man, the next time you raise that damned piece, you're going to eat it, use it or not. I'm getting damned tired of this." Barton raised his hand again. The choppers circled closer.
"Mynheer," one of the ranch hands shouted. "Mynheer, please, Mynheer—"
Girerd looked at the pistol and shook his head. "I don't know what I expected. A miracle, perhaps," Girerd said.
"Not my department," Barton said.
"But what can I do?"
"You were talking pretty rough when you threw me out of here," Barton said. "Have you actually killed anyone?"
"No."
"Any of them die?"
"Two, but they were not expected to live."
"Yeah, those. No one else?"
"No."
"You're a lucky man," Barton said. He turned and waved to his helicopters. They rose slightly but continued to circle. He touched his sleeve console. "Wally, bring in the rest of the troops."
Girerd examined the pistol as if he'd never seen it before.
"Use it or give up," Barton said.
Girerd looked at the pistol, then tossed it underhanded down the stairs.
Barton winced as it hit the dirt. Be a hell of a thing to be shot by accident just now. "All right." He went up the stairs and took Girerd by the arm to lead him into the house. "Now you're getting smart."
"No. I am a fool." He led the way into the big study. Falkenberg and three of his men sat there. There were also four ranchers in militia uniform standing stiffly against the far wall. One of the doors lay twisted off its hinges, and seven Barton Bulldogs in full armor menaced the ranchers.
"Mynheer," one of the ranchers said. "While the guns fired outside they came—" The man simpered in terror. "Mynheer, we heard these men say—Mynheer, we have families."
Girerd shuddered. "I see. Major Barton rules here, as elsewhere. Odd. I thought he worked for me."
"I did," Barton said.
"And do again," Falkenberg said. "Mynheer, he's done you better service than you know."
"Colonel—"
"All correct, Major."
"Thank you, sir." Barton saluted.
"Rules, Codes. What good are they?" Girerd demanded.
Barton and Falkenberg exchanged glances. Then they both looked at Anton Girerd. Their eyes were filled with pity.