"Thank you, sir." Sanders hid a smile. "I'm sorry-I am running a bit late." He didn't mention that he'd walked rather than take a ground car.
"Quite all right," Dieter said. "Man must walk before he can run, I suppose." He smiled pleasantly. "But you're the man of the hour, after all-or, at least, the man who's met him." He leaned back and waved at a chair. "Let us hear your report, Mister Sanders. Please."
"Yes, sir." Sanders laid his briefcase on the table and snapped its security locks. Reinforced titanium sheathing gleamed dully on its inner surfaces as he extracted a folder of holo chips and laid them on the table.
"This is the official report, sir. But I gather you want an . . . ah, off-the-cuff summation?"
"Precisely, Mister Sanders. Your summations are always so enlivening."
"Thank you, sir. I strive to please."
"I'm sure." Dieter opened an inlaid cigar box and waited while Sanders selected and lit one. Then he cleared his throat gently. "Your summation?"
"Yes, sir. Frankly-" Sanders eyes swept the group, his customary levity absent "-we're damned lucky. I was prepared for a determined man, but not for the one I met. In my considered opinion, the Governor-General will hold the Rim Systems if any living man can do it."
"A strong endorsement, Kevin," Susan Krupskaya said quietly.
"Is it?" Sanders suddenly grinned impishly. "Let's just put it this way, Susan-he puts Lance Manly to shame."
"So you're confident he can hold Zephrain?" Witcinski asked somberly.
"I am. More importantly, he is. Mind you, we couldn't talk openly on board an Orion carrier, but when I asked him if he could, he answered with one word: 'Yes.' "
"That sounds like Ian," Rutgers said.
"Yes. The Governor-General does seem rather, ah, formidable," Sanders agreed. "And he clearly feels he has the firepower he needs . . . plus the locals' full-blooded support. At least," he chuckled dryly, "he defended them most vehemently against a few carefully dropped aspersions."
"That sounds like him, too," Rutgers said.
"And it brings up another point," Witcinski pressed. "Forgive me, Bill-I certainly don't wish to impugn the honor of an officer who's accomplished what he has-but there has to be some temptation towards empire-building in his position."
"I suppose so-for some," Sanders broke in before Rutgers' anger could find expression. "Sky Marshal, you no doubt know that Admiral Trevayne lost his wife and daughters on Galloway's World?"
"Yes," Witcinski agreed guardedly.
"Well, sir," Sanders said quietly, "he's lost his son now, too." He watched the sudden pain in Rutgers' broad face, then eyed Witcinski.
"I'm sorry to hear it, Mister Sanders," the Sky Marshal said gruffly, "but how does that answer my question?"
"His son," Sanders said very softly, "was aboard one of the ships BG 32 destroyed in the Battle of Zephrain." He kept his eyes on Witcinski as Rutgers gasped in dismay. "I submit, sir, that neither you, nor I, nor anyone else has the right to question his loyalty after that."
"No," Witcinski said slowly, "I don't suppose so."
There was no apology in his voice, only understanding, but Sanders was content. Witcinski was very like Trevayne-a little harder, perhaps, a little narrower . . . certainly less imaginative. But in one respect they were identicaclass="underline" neither ever apologized for doing what he felt was necessary.
"And your estimate of the military situation, Kevin?" Rutgers' voice was flat, its impersonality covering his own pain.
"The Governor-General provided a force summary, but it's not exhaustive. We were both aware that Fang Leornak was certain to read his report-one way or another." Sanders shrugged and grinned again, dispelling much of the lingering solemnity. "Leornak and I are old friends, so I made his job a little easier by leaving the report on my desk when we went to supper."
"You did what?" Witcinski stared at him.
"Of course I did, Sky Marshal," Sanders said cheerfully. "It was only courteous."
"Courteous?!" Witcinski glared at him, and Sanders smiled.
"Please, Sky Marshall!" He waved an airy hand. "The Orions certainly know as much about Zephrain RDS as Admiral Krupskaya and I do about Valkha III. Which is to say each side knows the other has a facility where all that nasty weapons research has carefully not been carried out for the last sixty years. Leornak is a civilized old cat, by his lights, but if he thought he had any chance to discover the contents of Zephrain RDS, he'd have no option but to try-a point, by the way, of which the Governor-General seems well aware. As long as Leornak can tell the Khan there's no evidence of such data being transmitted, he can avoid the unpleasant and diplomatically catastrophic necessity of . . . acquiring it." He shrugged. "So I made it easier by giving him access to the recorded data, since I felt confident Admiral Trevayne was too wise to record anything incriminating. Now Leornak can assure the Khan that no sensitive data was transmitted . . . which meant, incidentally, that the Governor-General and I could leave his flagship."
"My God!" Witcinski shook his head. "I think you actually enjoyed it!"
"My dear Sky Marshal! Why else would anyone become a 'spook'?" Sanders permitted himself another chuckle.
"But you do have a strength estimate?" Rutgers pressed.
"Certainly. The full data is in the report. Fortunately, few capital ships were actually lost at Zephrain. His damaged units have been repaired, and apparently he's undertaken a program of new construction, as well. . . ."
Sanders' voice trailed off in deliberately tantalizing fashion.
"New construction?" Rutgers frowned at him. "What sort?"
"A new group of monitors-he says." Sanders' voice was quite neutral.
"Says?" Krupskaya asked sharply. Trust Susan to be the first to pounce, he thought wryly.
"Let's just say I think he finessed some clues past the Orions-which takes some doing with a wily old whisker-twister like Leornak."
"Clues, Mister Sanders? What sort of clues?"
"Just this, Sky Marshal-he's building only monitors, each of which is tying up the full capacity of a Terra-class space dock, and he's named the first of them Horatio Nelson."
"What? What sort of name is that for a monitor?"
"Precisely, Sky Marshal. Monitors are named for TFN heroes, yet this ship isn't. The Orions probably won't give it a thought-after all, our nomenclature is as confusing to them as theirs is to us-but a nonstandard name suggests a nonstandard class, no? Coupled with the building capacity devoted to each of them and the fact that he doesn't seem to feel the need for carriers-" Sanders raised one hand, palm up.
"I see." Witcinski scratched his chin. "I believe you have a point, Mister Sanders."
"So Admiral Trevayne has a sizable conventional force, plus whatever unorthodox vessels and weapons he may be building," Dieter mused. "And on that basis, he feels confident of defeating anything the rebels can throw at him." He nodded slowly. "My friends, I think that may be the best news since this whole sorry disaster began. If he's right-if he can hold-it may be time for us to consider Operation Yellowbrick." He glanced at his two senior military commanders. "Comments, gentlemen?"
"Really, Kevin," Susan Krupskaya chided as she poured scotch into his glass, "you should watch the way you talk to the Sky Marshal."
"Why?" Sanders yawned and stretched, looking briefly more catlike than an Orion. "Has he noticed something?"
"Kevin, you're a clever man, not to mention devious and underhanded, but the Sky Marshal is cleverer than you think. He may not waste time on decadent things like social amenities, but he's quite well aware you enjoy twitting him."
"Nonsense! That man's not 'well aware' of anything that doesn't mount shields, armor, and energy weapons!"
"Oh, no? That's not what his war diary says."