Admitting that he had worked for the Commonwealth garrison was a big risk, but it was the only way Grayson could explain his knowledge of these machines. He was counting on the fact that technnical personnel throughout human space operated in a subculture all their own, independent of the politics of the men who gave them their orders.
The Tech considered Grayson a moment with narrow, suspicious eyes, then waved carelessly toward the consoles. "Just stay out of our way. We'll be changing the access codes in the system after a while, and we'll throw you out on your head then, got me?"
"Y-yessir!" The codes had not yet been changed! He might be able to pull it off!
Doing his best to ignore the workers behind him, Grayson switched on the power and tapped out the key sequences that put him into the system. He was probing the control network that kept track of ships incoming and outgoing, and kept the spaceport control tower informed of the Castle's military decisions and activities. When the Commandos had been garrisoned here, the Trells had controlled the spaceport, and the network had been used for communication and for gaining special clearance for military flights He suspected that the Combine controlled all port activities now. Yes, there was a new program controlling the network. The logo on the screen indicated that the system was under the direction of Combine Military Command.
Any computer system that will be used by many people with varying levels of training must be designed so that even inexperienced personnel can operate it Grayson tried various words and phrases that asked the system itself for help, and found himself logged into the flight scheduling sequence as "Tower Control 1." He caught his breath, but no alarms went off. The screen waited patiently for him, filled with command options. Taking a deep breath, he began working.
It took Grayson ten minutes of careful searching and experimentation to find what he was after. A launch was scheduled for local dawn, 2.3 standard hours from now. The launch was identified simply as "FRTR DRPSHP ALPHA" rather than by the name of one of the Duke's warships. That must be Tor's DropShip. It was scheduled to rendezvous with "J-FRTR: NADIR" in 52 hours. The freighter's destination was listed as Luthien, capital world of the Draconis Combine.
Cargo schedule... fuel schedule... orbital windows unrestricted... transit vectors and delta V... ah! Payload manifest! The DropShip was listed as carrying 1215 tons of cargo — grain, spices, hardwood, art objects, loot from the raids on Sarghad, all of it. There were 34 passengers listed as "Supercargo - Security Detention." Those must be more prisoners, people taken when the Duke moved into Sarghad. Hendrik's people, maybe? That didn't feel right. General Varney and other loyalists? That sounded more reasonable, but there was no way to find out. Tor would have to use his own judgment there. The security detail was five men under the command of a Gharlit, Levin; Corporal; Regimental Security Forces. Their weapons were listed as pistols and tranq guns only. Good. Firefights on board ship could be hairy.
And, what was this? A special passenger? A Captain Yorunabi, with VIP clearances and status. Who might THAT be? Grayson wondered. Whoever he was, the special passenger would be Tor's responsibility.
Working swifdy now, he began typing. A new unit had been assigned to board FRTR DRPSHP ALPHA, fourteen men under the command of Claydon; Sergeant; Trellwan RylGds."
He had settled on the name while discussing the plan with Renfred Tor. None of them knew how plausible it would be to have a squad of local soldiers boarding an outbound freighter, especially as they had no idea of its destination. Might it be headed for Luthien? If so, what would Trell Green Coats be doing on a ship bound for Luthien? In this, as in so much else, Grayson was relying on the studied lack of curiosity and the obedient, It's-none-of-my-affair military mind.
He entered the information, then let his breath out in a long, unsteady sigh as he saw his data appear on the screen. Grayson stole a glance across his shoulder. The astech party was hard at work dismantling the com console. Keeping his back to them, he slipped a small transceiver out from under his tunic, and thumbed it to a pre-set frequency.
All he said was, "Go." They had kept it simple and noncommittal because of the danger that some listener would pick up the broadcast and triangulate its position. A red light flashed twice on the handset: message received. He tucked the transceiver away and turned back to the computer. With his primary mission accomplished, he set to work searching for one more set of data he wanted to examine, and this would be his one and only opportunity to find it.
* * * *
Renfred Tor pulled out his earpiece and gave the command to his men. They'd been standing at attention in the shelter of a hydrogen tank for the past eight minutes, waiting for the word to come from Grayson. Now he had given the signal, and it was time to move.
The fifteen men swung out into the chill wind and marched toward the DropShip. The beam turret still tracked them as Tor led them into the spotlit glare from the powerful lamps casting their harsh light across the main entry hatch. Elsewhere, the lights ringing the port paled under a slowly lightening sky. The port buildings, gantries, and storage tanks were all visible now, gray shadows in the twilight.
A pair of sentries stepped from the shadows. "Hold it right there. Where do you think you're going, Green Coat?"
"Orders," Tor said. Steam boiling from the DropShip's vents fumed and churned in the spotlit pools. "We were told to report aboard before launch."
"Let's see 'em."
Tor let a trace of anger creep into his voice. These were Draco sentries, not Trells, and there was no way he could threaten or bluster his way past them. But he might be able to take advantage of the fact that the oldest of the two sentries was half Tor's age, and looked green.
"I have no written orders, soldier. I was ordered..." he stressed the word, "ordered to report aboard this DropShip by the tower officer. You want to take it up with him?"
There was uncertainty in the sentry's face, the universal fear of the military's lower echelons of having screwed up somewhere. But his voice was tough. These WERE just Trell indigs, after all. "We'll just see about that,"
He used a hand transceiver to call the DropShip's bridge. His muttered conversation was inaudible to Tor and his men shifting from foot to foot in the predawn chill. The sentry looked up suddenly. "Sergeant... Claydon?"
"That's right,"
"Nobody ever tells me nothin'." The sentry waved them on as the outer hatch swung open. "Move it. Get on board. You Greenies're expected, it seems."
Too easy, Tor told himself as they filed on board. They had to be even more on guard now, for things could change at any moment. He reached down and unobtrusively unhooked the safety strap across the top of the Gunther MP-20 riding on his hip.
27
Grayson stared down into the computer display, his hands clenched in white-knuckled fury at the data he'd retrieved. He had tapped into the biog extract files, the same files left behind by Carlyle's Commandos when they'd withdrawn from Trellwan during that night of blood and fury. Learning the information in these files had been an important part of Grayson's training during the past years, but there were far too many names and faces for him to remember them all.
BattleMech combat was intensely personal warfare. The theory was that a warrior would have a better chance in combat if he knew something about the man he faced. In you knew, for example, that a certain MechWarrior favored close-in combat, it might give you the edge if you opened fire at long range and worked to keep him at a distance. The files included the histories of thousands of MechWarriors from across known space, living and dead, friend and foe. Even friends were recorded, for it was not unusual for friends to become enemies in the era of the Successor States.