Sten did cover himself slightly—after he loaded his people, he found the dustiest road around and made three passes down it within centimeters of the surface. Then he lifted for Cavite City, one more harassed combat car driver trying to get his dusty troops toward the lines.
The only potential problem might be police checkpoints just behind the lines—but they'd be checking the trip tickets and IDs of those headed away from combat, not toward the sound of guns.
Then they got even luckier. Sten was waved down by a Tahn road security man as a priority convoy of heavy lifters hurtled through. The convoy was keeping lousy interval, with hundreds of meters between its gravsleds. It was simple for Sten to tuck himself into line near the convoy's end and equally simple to bank down a side street once they hit the outskirts of the city.
The Imperial perimeter had gotten much smaller. The Tahn, vastly outnumbering the Empire's forces, were closing the ring. Sten managed to evade three Tahn street patrols before he decided he'd pushed their luck far enough.
Two kilometers from the lines, Sten tucked the combat car into the third story of a shattered building and thought tactically. From this point, the danger would be steadily greater—the Tahn units would be looking for penetration patrols in their own lines, and the no-man's-land between the lines would be even more hazardous.
Finally, there could well be the problem of being shot by their own troops—Sten had no idea what passwords or signals were in use.
The answer to their problem was a white-uniformed security patrolman.
White uniforms, Sten mused. In a combat zone?
"W hae rank an' idle ceremony," Kilgour observed, lowering his binocs. "Cannae we be usin't tha?"
"You're just looking for an excuse to gash another screw, Kilgour."
"True. But dinnae it be braw?"
It was.
Again, Sten and Alex reconned the situation, going from rooftop to rooftop until they had that security patrolman in plain sight. A second patrolman stood on the other side of what had been a city street and now was a less-rubbled section of ruins.
Behind the two military cops were two double chaingun positions. Further to the rear were tanks and missile launchers, positioned around a cluster of tracks. These were obviously command vehicles—they sprouted more antennae than a nest of young brine shrimp. It was the command post of the armored brigade supporting the Tahn landing forces. And it lay directly between Sten and the Imperial lines.
"Shall w' ring ae second goin' ae th' guard?"
They could—and did.
Less experienced—or less cynical—soldiers might have skirted the CP. But to Sten and Alex, this was opportunity.
Intelligence, either personally observed by the two men or taught them in Mantis training: headquarters units had massive security. The security elements may have been selected for their efficiency at first but inevitably would turn into spit-and-polish orderlies. They would be commanded, most likely, by ambitious or well-connected young officers. Their formations would slowly, and almost imperceptibly, transition from combat-based to parade-oriented.
The troopers in such a unit would be promoted and commended for the gloss on their boots and the shine on their buttons. After hours of such bianco drill, such a man had a certain reluctance to wade through the muck just because he had heard a possibly strange sound.
And finally there was the factor of arrogance—who would dare attack the powerful?
Sten and Alex proposed to exploit that arrogance.
Tourists goggle when the military changes guards. It's done in front of palaces, with dress uniforms, en masse, at predictable times, and with much clanging of weaponry—preferably chromed and antique. That isn't the way it should work when there may be bad guys around—but tradition is tradition, even if it's only a week or so old.
Sten and his sailors took full advantage of that.
The changing of the Tahn general's guard consisted of several platoons marching in close order up to each guard post, where, amid shouts and clatter, the old guard would be inspected and relieved by the guard commander. On relief, he would clang the butt of his weapons a couple of times and march to the rear of that platoon. The new guard would be positioned, and the platoons would stomp on to the next post.
Naturally, that guard changing was done on the clock, by the clock.
Sten knew that the lowest point in the human soul is four hours after midnight.
And that is when he moved.
Clangs... clatters... shouted orders... and Sten's thirteen people slipped silently past the newly posted and yawning guard, straight toward the heart of Atago's command post.
Marching in plain sight, in formation—Sten desperately hoped that his swabbies were keeping some kind of march step—they went in unchallenged.
Step one—complete. Step two—find a hidey-hole.
Kilgour picked an armoured supply gravsled, grounded about 150 meters from the command tracks. He slipped through the undogged entry hatch, kukri ready. Sten waited outside as backup.
He heard only one dying gurgle before Kilgour's head peered back out. The kukri was unbloodied. Not bad, Sten thought. The lad still has his moves.
He waved the eleven sailors inside. And they waited for dawn.
Sten, Foss, Kilgour, and Tapia kept watch on the track's screens. At this point, the plan deteriorated into opportunity. Sooner or later, sometime around nightfall, Sten thought, there should be some sort of troop movement forward. More chaos. No one would question a group of soldiers moving from a command post toward the front lines. He hoped.
They would move in Tahn uniforms. At first, Sten thought that every man-jill would be so outfitted—one of the barges was full of sealed paks labeled "Uniforms, Issue, Mk. 113." But there was further translation: "Full Dress, Temperate Climate (White)."
Sten thought that if he put his swabbies into those uniforms, they'd probably get out of the CP's lines smoothly—but just might have trouble when they encountered their first Tahn combat troopie.
But there would be another option.
In the early afternoon, Sten thought he'd found it. Combat cars hissed in from the lines, and Tahn officers dismounted.
A command conference, Sten guessed. When this breaks up, we should be able to get up and go.
Then there was a rumble, and a large troop-carrying gravsled hissed toward the command center. A thousand meters above it whined two Tahn battle cruisers.
"Clottin' hell," Alex observed. He had been watching the screen over Sten's shoulder. "Th' brass ae surfacin't."
The gravsled grounded, and a ramp dropped. A line of combat-uniformed Tahn soldiers doubled down it.
"Ah dianne ken th' Tahn be raisin't Goliaths!"
The soldiers were very tall. And very broad.
The giants formed two lines on either side of the ramp.
And Sten knew what was going to happen next.
He turned away from the screen and looked at Alex. The heavy-worlder's face was pale.
"W' dinnae hae ae choice, do we, lad?" he whispered.
No, Sten thought. We do not.
He picked up the willygun leaning next to the screen's control panel and checked its sights and load. Then he moved toward the entry port and cautiously eased it open.
Sten was a survivor.
He was also an officer of the Empire.
Situation posited: Formally dressed bodyguards in plain view. Waiting. As are assembled high-ranking officers.
Deduction: Someone of high rank will make an appearance.
Question: Who is that someone?
Answer: Lady Atago. Or Deska.