“Yeah, boss?” asked Minnet, slipping through the door. Even smaller than Stewart, the elfin private was rapier quick in his movements. He stopped and looked around. “Jesus!” He picked up a small figurine of a ballerina and checked the bottom. “Damn, this is real Dresden! It’s worth a mint!”
“Put it back,” rumbled Pappas, without even looking to see if it disappeared. “It’s evidence.”
Stewart nodded his head and the figurine made its way back onto the shelf.
“And put back the lighter,” said Pappas, flipping through files in an unlocked cabinet.
Minnet looked surprised but slipped the solid-gold lighter out of his sleeve and set it back on the desk.
Stewart shook his head. “Minnet, take this thing apart,” he said, gesturing at the workstation.
The private nodded his head and got to work.
Stewart spun the wheel of the safe several times foward then back. After a few moments he nodded his head and began spinning the dial back and forth. In a moment the safe was unlocked.
“Don’t open it,” snapped Pappas. “We need the old man here.” He headed for the door then stopped. “And don’t.”
“We won’t,” said Stewart.
“Okay,” he said and headed out the door.
“Don’t what?” asked Minnet, contemplating the readout on the black-box he had produced out of his breast pocket. He frowned at the readings and touched a control. Apparently satisfied he smiled again.
“Don’t take nothin’,” said Stewart, “don’t move nothin’, don’t touch nothin’ you don’t have to.”
“Oh.” The private punched a button and shook his head. “People think they’re so fuckin’ smart,” he murmured. He inserted a floppy disk into the computer and started it up. When the password screen came up he punched the button on the black-box. The computer looked over the entry, decided that it liked it and let him in. “That’s what happens when you change the password for the CMOS.
“What are we looking for?” he asked a moment later.
“Take a look around,” said Pappas, coming in the door followed by Lieutenant Arnold and the MP private who was holstering his sidearm. “Take it from me, this is not normal décor for a first sergeant’s office.”
Stewart, overcome by curiosity, swung open the safe door and whistled. “Whewww,” he exclaimed. “Let me see. Stacks of bills, a case of vials of something called Tolemiratine and some green crystals.” He picked one up and examined it. “They’re not emeralds,” he continued, expertly. “What are they?”
“Well, I got a file that’s called ‘Company Expenditures,’ ” said Minnet, not to be outdone. “And it’s encrypted.”
“Make it decrypted,” said Lieutenant Arnold, coldly.
The private glanced up, got one good look at the acting company commander’s face and began frantically tapping keys.
“Sergeant First Class Tomas Morales?” said the MP lieutenant. His nose wrinkled at the smell of alcohol and pheromones wafting from the Annville apartment. The half-dressed male in his thirties stopped trying to pull on his silks blouse. The lieutenant could see a female form behind him. Unless he was much mistaken the bleached blonde on the bed could not have been of legal age of consent. The ACS sergeant had Coke-bottle-thick glasses and a head that cocked off to one side. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded agreement.
“You are under arrest,” said the lieutenant as the NCO with him stepped forward and secured the former acting first sergeant. “The charge is peculation and black marketeering of restricted Galactic Technology. You have the right to remain silent…”
36
Andata Province, Diess IV
0947 GMT May 19th, 2002 ad
Organized resistance or a counterattack stubbornly refused to appear and Mike and Sergeant Green were left to ponder that in the darkness of the megascraper’s bowels.
The two were in a small alcove off a main corridor. The bitter fighting around the perimeter of the entrapped divisions had caused massive damage to this portion of the megascraper. The lighting in the area was dim, the Eterna lights popping and sputtering from damage. The blue-green light was more countered than reinforced by the flickering light of fires. The area was given over to the light industry that permeated the Indowy megascrapers; this region seemed to be devoted to chemical processes. The ubiquitous Indowy paintings were dim and colorless under suit enhancement, defaced by the scars of railgun needles, the copper nicks of rifle ricochets and fire. The fractional distillers that filled many of the surrounding rooms had burnt like torches under the hammer of the guns.
In the past thirty minutes, Mike had begun to realize that the waiting really was the hardest part of a battle. Unable to properly fidget because of the suit, he kicked a bit of detritus on the floor at his feet then recognized it as the barrel and barrel shroud of an M-16A2. He looked around the alcove but could see no sign of the weapon’s owner. A murmur to Michelle fixed the location for later possible retrieval, assuming they could find it after they dropped the building. Then he went back to waiting.
“We’ve had a hundred and twenty-three encounters among our forty-five personnel,” he said after another ten minutes of studying figures and screens, “and only three encounters have involved disciplined parties of Posleen.”
“Their rear area seems fairly soft, sir,” said Sergeant Green. The NCO appeared to have the patience of a saint.
“Yeah, concur Sergeant. The only problem is getting through the rind. And, I’m sure, if the frontline troops had any idea we were here they’d be descending like locusts.”
“How are the troops in the encirclement doing?”
Mike checked the schematic and studied the notations. “It looks like they’re holding temporarily. The line hasn’t reduced noticeably.”
“Think the shuttles distracted the threat, sir?”
“Not for this long. And I don’t think that the loss of ten or so God Kings could disrupt them that badly. I think the survivors of the armored divisions are just some bad mother fuckers.” Mike snorted at the thought. It was always that way, the first battle often decided who would live or die for the rest of the war. It was one reason that veteran units were so dangerous in battle; they had a core of bitterly capable survivors.
“I guess the Posleen aren’t too happy about how things are going, huh, LT?” asked the sergeant. Perhaps the waiting was getting to him as well.
“No, I suspect not,” he said. There was a brief pause. “And,” he continued, a note of animation in his voice, “they’re about to have a worse surprise. The last team is complete!”
“Time to rock and roll!”
“Fuckin’ A. Platoon,” O’Neal called, the AID automatically switching him to broadcast mode. “All personnel, retreat through the tunnels following the assigned vectors. You have fifteen minutes to reach minimum safe distance! Good luck and see you at the processing plant!
“Let’s move out, Sar’nt.”
They headed to the nearest lock along with a fire team following the same path. Mike checked the locations of all the teams and breathed a sigh of relief. The plan had invited defeat in detaiclass="underline" a gut-wrenching terror that was now off his back. It was a central military axiom that you never divide your forces in the heat of battle, but the intelligence conferred by the suits as well as the disorganization of the Posleen rear area permitted enormous missions to be accomplished in record times. Without a doubt, if a practical method could be found for passing through Posleen lines, the deep strike was the premium method for battling the Posleen. Outside their hordes they were as dangerous to a man in a suit as so many mosquitoes, painful but hardly life threatening. The difficulties would be finding a way to attack the Posleen rear area and viable methods of disruption. The fate of the shuttles was graphic proof that the traditional techniques of deep strike would be impossible.