Backshot (5 page)

“I’ll be back, Rover. Homeboy out.”

Daly unplugged the line to the satellite link and plugged in the other, which was connected to Kindy’s helmet jack.

“Bad news,” he told the assistant squad leader. “We have to wait in place until the army pulls its thumb out of its ass and decides to do something.”

“You mean I got to stay up here?”

“With the birdies for the duration.”

“There aren’t any birdies here.”

“Count your blessings. No birdies means they can’t join the army in shitting on you.”

Kindy snorted. “With my luck, the birdies would be the size of cows.”

“So it’s a good thing there aren’t any birdies.”

It was almost two hours before Homeboy got back to them. He sounded almost surprised that they were still in position and nothing had changed. Homeboy said a squad from the division’s recon battalion was on its way to confirm their report.

“Recall that squad, Homeboy,” Daly snapped. “If that’s all that comes, we’ll have to save their asses, and then follow the target to tell you where your recon scared them off to. And that’ll piss me off, because I really have to go potty. You won’t like it when a pissed off Marine who has to go potty shows up in your face.”

Homeboy didn’t reply for a moment, then said, “Rover, say again target strength.”

“About two thousand, Homeboy. At least half of them are security or combat. I recommend a brigade to encircle the target.”

“Rover, are you positive?”

“Have I ever lied to you, Homeboy?”

Homeboy wisely didn’t reply to that, instead he said, “Rover, wait one.”

“Wait one” in radio parlance normally means a short time, anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes. In this instance, it meant an hour, during which Daly and his two men on the ground had to move away from the tree to let an outbound SLA patrol pass by. When Homeboy finally came back he said three battalions were on their way and for the Force Recon patrol to go to ground.

Kindy gratefully came down from the tree and the squad returned to where it could keep an eye on the SLA headquarters.

Three hours later they saw patrols running back into the camp, and soldiers and others bustling about breaking camp.

The three battalions of the 104th Mobile Infantry Division arrived from as many directions before more than a few elements of the SLA headquarters left. General Leigh was one of the many who were caught in the trap. There was a short, fierce fight before the defenders surrendered—the general didn’t want the children to get killed in the fight.

“Mission accomplished,” Daly said to his squad. “Let’s go take a dump and head for home.”

“Well done, Marines,” General Fitzter said when the Force Recon squad, bathed, purged, and dressed in clean—and visible—dress reds reported to him in his office. “I don’t know how you did it, but if you ever decide to change services, I guarantee you a job with me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Daly said politely. “That’s very generous of the general.”

Lieutenant Colonel Kevelys looked at them with a mix of resentment and awed respect. He looked at the array of ribbons on Daly’s chest, indicating the numerous campaigns and operations he’d participated in, and couldn’t help noticing the first two ribbons represented Marine Corps medals for personal heroism. He unclenched his jaws and said, “I believe the term you Marines use for a job well done is ‘outstanding.’ Now I think I have an idea of why.”

“Thank you, sir,” Daly said with a nod. “It’s all in a day’s work for Force Recon.”

Fitzter’s eyebrow twitched, Kevelys’s jaw reclenched.

“I will write a letter of commendation to your commanding general,” Fitzter said, then added wryly, “But he probably expected you to perform as well as you did.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m sure he did.”

“You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Daly said smartly. “Good hunting on the rest of your campaign, sir.” He and his men about-faced and marched from the general’s office. Kevelys opened his mouth to admonish them for not saluting, but Fitzter held up a hand to stop him. When the door closed behind the Marines he said, “The sea services don’t salute indoors.”

“Right,” Kevelys snarled. “Arrogant bastards—I mean what he said about ‘all in a day’s work.’ ”

Fitzter nodded. “I agree. But when you’re as good as they are, you can get away with a bit of arrogance.”

CHAPTER SIX

Unified World of Atlas

Atlas was a flourishing world.

When the first explorers arrived they were very pleasantly surprised to find a planet that seemed created for colonization, teeming with fauna and flora, none of which proved inimical to mankind. The life-forms native to Atlas sustained the original colonists for years, and a distinctive cuisine developed around native foodstuffs.

The seas on Atlas abounded with marine life, much of which was highly delectable to the human palate, and crops of all kinds flourished in the hospitable soils. Those early settlers established a self-sustaining colony and eventually their descendants transformed Atlas into a member of the Confederation of Worlds known for its agricultural products. Grains that had become almost extinct on Earth thrived on Atlas, as did the industry that distilled alcohol from corn, mash, and rye—old-fashioned bourbon was one of Atlas’s leading exports.

The Atleans sustained themselves by growing and raising things. Hunger was unknown, and despite several wars over the recent decades, the granaries of Atlas had never run out. Atlas was the breadbasket in its quadrant of Human Space, and its exports were highly prized. The Atleans were, of necessity, very careful to guard against the import of plant and animal species that could upset the balance of nature they’d achieved on their world. Thus all off-world arrivals and their baggage were subjected to thorough inspection and decontamination. Imports were likewise subjected to rigorous irradiation before being released to their markets. Ships and their crews transiting Atlas for whatever reason were simply quarantined at their ports of entry and the Atleans who worked there submitted to decontamination before going home at the end of their shifts. As is true anywhere, customs could be bypassed as officials looked the other way, but irradiation could not, and the penalty for trying to avoid it was death. These harsh rules were strictly enforced, but again and again they had successfully prevented alien infestations that might have ruined the crops and livestock so necessary to Atlas’s economic viability.

Because Atlas was primarily an agricultural world with not much heavy industry, and what industry it had was stringently regulated, the natural environment remained largely undisturbed. The planet’s beaches, mountains, lakes, oceans, and national parks were renowned throughout Human Space for their pristine beauty. The cities on the planet were small, clean, and comfortable places to live, and people came to Atlas just to get away from the hubbub of their native worlds, to enjoy the good food the Atleans were so proud of, and the natural wonders of the planet. Tourism flourished on Atlas.

Ramuncho’s Restaurant, New Granum, Union of Margelan, Atlas

Ramuncho served the dalmans right out of their shells, piping hot just the way Jorge Lavager liked them, but they were also excellent cold and in salads, served as a main course with side dishes, or as appetizers.

Dalmans (
Dalmanantes postii
) were arthropoid creatures resembling the trilobites that once swam in Earth’s Paleozoic seas. Dalmans lived in the littorals in the Great Northern Sea a few hundred kilometers from New Granum. The Atleans raised them in huge seawater lakes and exported them to other worlds where they were highly prized delicacies. But Ramuncho bought his dalmans right off the docks from the fishing fleets and Lavager ate only those, freshly caught in the ocean. Ramuncho had a special arrangement with Lavager to inform him first when a new shipment of dalmans arrived in his kitchens. A mature dalman could provide up to two kilos of indescribably delicious meat while their larvae, harvested in vast quantities, added an ineffable flavor to salads and soups. The Union of Margelan had for many years enforced a policy of restocking the dalmans in their natural habitat, which insured a virtually inexhaustible supply of the creatures, much to the delight of gastronomes throughout Human Space. A half kilo of dalman meat on Earth could fetch up to a thousand credits, a bargain, and connoisseurs were delighted to pay it.
Craaack!
Lavager broke the carapace with a small hammer and then pried it open with a special set of tongs, essential tools for a dalman meal. The most delightful aroma filled the small back room as the steaming meat inside the shell was exposed. “Ahhhh,” Lavager said as he inhaled the sweet essence, “this is living, eh, Locker?” He sprinkled the meat with pepper and a special hot sauce created from Ramuncho’s own secret recipe.

“You use too much of that stuff, Jorge, and you won’t be able to sit down for a week,” General Ollwelen laughed.

“If you finish off that dalman, you won’t be able to stand up for a week,” Lavager countered. Locksley picked up his own hammer and deftly cracked his dalman open. The pair applied their forks in contented silence for a long while, occasionally drinking from iced schooners of ale.

“Damn!” Lavager exclaimed at last, shoving the remnants of his meal toward the center of the table and producing his portable cigar humidor. “Now don’t tell me, old buddy, that we aren’t living high!”

Chuckling, he offered General Ollwelen, who had also just finished his meal, one of his cigars.

“My God, Jorge, when did you get these?” Locksley admired the cigar. “Davidoff Series Millennium DCLVIS! I can’t believe it!” Lovingly, he clipped the end and accepted a light. He sucked the smoke in, then let it out slowly, very slowly, to savor to the utmost the exquisite flavor of the tobacco. “A dalman and a Davidoff, tonight I can die a happy man!”

They smoked in silence for a while, savoring the cigar’s easy draw, the rich, full-bodied earthiness of the tobacco in its oil-saturated dark-brown wrapper—a truly classic smoke, the crowning achievement of a company that had been making crowning achievements for five hundred years. At last Locksley said, “Jorge, a matter of business?”

Lavager nodded his assent. He reached for and took a long draft from his beer schooner.

“We’ve got to increase security about what’s going on out at the Spondu facility.”

Lavager looked inquiringly at Locksley. “We already have a full platoon of infantry assigned to security out there. Why do we need more?”

“Top secret research facilities always require tight security, you know that, Jorge. But yes, we need to tighten things up out there and everywhere else, especially everywhere else—and that means right inside your own government.” He paused for a moment and then came to what was really on his mind, “Gustafferson’s been snooping around out there. He knows it used to be a weapons research facility.”

Lavager groaned at the mention of the correspondent’s name. “Can’t I enjoy a meal without someone bringing up that fool’s name? And we all know what the Cabbage Patch is today, what it used to be doesn’t matter.”

“To Gustafferson, it does,” Ollwelen said. When Lavager didn’t respond to that he continued, “Gutsy may be a lot of things, but he’s no fool. Besides, New Granum is swarming with agents from the Solanums, Oleania, Satevina, and the Confederation’s CIO. Everyone knows we’re up to something out there and they’re all snooping around. But of all of the snoopers, Gustafferson’s the most dangerous. You know how he’ll manufacture news if he can’t get anything legitimate. Look at the scandal he caused on Willis’s Venue over that case of alleged child abuse in the school system, and I don’t think you’ve forgotten how he was the willing press agent for the mob on Havanagas with all the puff pieces he wrote about the place before the Confederation cleaned it up. If Gustafferson smells even a whiff of what we’re doing out at the Cabbage Patch, the whole operation will be exposed and everything we’re planning to do will be compromised. We can’t afford that, Jorge. You ought to have him shot. You’d do everyone a favor if you did.”

Lavager snorted and waved a hand. “Well, I’m not going to have the bastard executed, if that’s what you’re driving at, Locker. How does such a phony stay in business?”

Locksley drank some beer. “I guess he stays in business because muck sells, and he’s the biggest muckracker in Human Space. You know, he’s like a lot of these media people, he rushes in, scrapes together a sensational story with no depth, and rushes out to go screw up someone else. The public only has a ten-second attention span anyway, so before the slipshod reporting is exposed, they’re absorbed in the next scandal and they lose track of the ones that came before.”

“Do you think someone in my cabinet, or one of the scientists out at the Cabbage Patch, is leaking information?”

“Yes. I’ve got army security on the job. We’ve been tailing Gustafferson. We don’t think any of our people are talking to the other members of the League of Nations; they’re not traitors in that sense. But we think with all the money Gustafferson has to toss around he’s been able to get some disaffected souls to talk. Nobody quite on the inside of the operation, but we think he’s gotten enough information to know there’s a story out at Spondu. And something else, Jorge.”

Lavager raised an eyebrow. “Somehow, old friend, I don’t think I’m going to like this ‘something else’ very much.”

“We’re convinced Gustafferson is really a deep cover intelligence agent for the Central Intelligence Organization, using his reporting career, sensational as it is, as his cover. It’s a perfect arrangement.”

Lavager looked steadily at his old friend for a very long moment. “Then get rid of him,” he said at last.

Traveler’s Roost, Kraken Interstellar Starport, New Granum Terminus

Every metropolis has its seamy side and that was as true of New Granum as anywhere else in Human Space. That seamy side was the New Granum planetside terminus for Kraken Interstellar Starport, which serviced the capital and the other cities and regions that composed the Union of Margelan. The tourist or businessman visiting Atlas via New Granum saw only the sparkling facilities of the port and remained in them only long enough to make connection with transit to their hotels. But the crews of transient vessels and the human flotsam of the spacelanes that always drift into planetside terminals needed someplace to call home, even if only for a few hours, and that place was a district of flophouses, bars, cutthroat casinos, and other low-rent establishments that weren’t particular about their clientele. The district was known unofficially as “Downside.” Besides, men on long voyages don’t turn into plaster saints. The law enforcement community of New Granum understood that and for the most part didn’t interfere with the goings-on in Downside.

“I don’t know why you insisted we should meet in this, this, place.” The pudgy little man sniffed and looked around the bar disdainfully. “We could’ve met uptown, in a nice restaurant.”

It hadn’t required much effort to discover that this little man had some bad habits that required a steady infusion of cash. That was all that Gus Gustafferson needed to get him into the Traveler’s Roost at Downside.

“It’s important nobody see us together, Ronald,” Gustafferson said calmly, as if he were talking to a petulant child, because that was just what Dr. Ronald Paragussa looked like, an overgrown six-year-old.

“I can’t take a chance on getting scooped, and you, of course, might get in serious trouble if you were seen talking to me. So we meet here.” Gustafferson smiled. “Besides, this place has atmosphere, don’t you agree?” For Downside, the Traveler’s Roost was almost respectable, a place where spacefarers came to eat and drink and be on their way—to the rooms upstairs where whores and stimulants were discreetly available, or back to their ships.

“Y-You mentioned—?” Paragussa rubbed two fingers together.

“Ah, yes, doctor, I did mention—” Gustafferson also rubbed his fingers together, and with the other hand passed Paragussa a small chip. “Pop this into your reader. And remember, I absolutely guarantee your anonymity, as I do all my sources, the real ones and the ones I make up.”

Paragussa’s eyes widened when he saw the figure GNN was offering him through its reporter for the information they wanted. He smiled and relaxed. “What is it you wish to know, sir?”

“You are a scientist. You work at the secret facility at Spondu. But you’re a well-known agronomist, and the Spondu facility is thought to be a weapons research center. What does a man in your specialty do at a freaking weapons lab? I smell a story here, doctor.”

“Well. I specialize in synthetic fertilizers, particularly the process known as hydroscopy—the absorption of water. It’s my job to develop fertilizers that do not absorb water.”

Gustafferson wondered if this fool was putting him on. Fertilizer? “What the hell is a fertilizer man doing in a weapons lab?”

Paragussa shrugged. “There are a number of experiments being conducted at the Cabbage Patch—”

“The
Cabbage Patch
you say?” Gustafferson laughed. “That’s the name of the facility?” He shook his head, amused. “Someone must have a sense of humor.” When Paragussa looked confused, he added, “It’s an old children’s tale. Once upon a time young children were told that babies were found in cabbage patches. The name, Ronald, is a sardonic admission that the ‘Cabbage Patch’ is a cover for something else.”

The agronomist looked at the reporter as though he was being put on, then continued, ignoring the business about “cabbage patch” being an obvious cover. “The nature of the activities at the Cabbage Patch is a closely guarded secret. Everyone’s work is compartmentalized. Only the director and a few government officials, presumably, know the whole picture, where all this research is directed. My part of the project is very small, and frankly I do not know how it fits in with what the other scientists are doing out there. That’s a normal security precaution at any top secret facility. Have to guard against espionage and curious reporters and all that, you know.” He snickered. Gustafferson nodded his understanding. “Fertilizers?” he mused. “You can make a bomb out of that stuff, can’t you?”