The next kick struck me across the point of the chin. Had he aimed farther in, the man might have broken my jaw. The fireworks in my head were intense; but by this time my Liberator combat reflex had started. Adrenaline and endorphins ran through my bloodstream. My thoughts were clear, the pain was distant, and this fellow would have to kill me before he could knock me out.
He changed his kick. This time he brought back his boot and prepared to strike toe-first. He aimed at my throat or face, I could not tell which. Using my left foot to push off the bed, I lashed forward with my right, scooping the man’s leg off the floor. He fell to the carpet.
I wanted to retaliate. I wanted to lunge for him and snap his neck, but that would come later. I was down on the floor and he had friends. Pushing up to my knees, I sprung to my bed and grabbed my rucksack with one hand while rolling over the far edge for cover.
As I dug through my bag with one hand, I stole a quick glance over the bed. The two men in the entryway pulled pistols. I ducked back behind my bed and lay flat on the floor as bullets tore through my mattress and slammed into the wall behind me. My fingers found the butt of my M27. Feeling the cool steel of the grip, I smiled, visualized the room, and sprung to my feet. I fired one shot, shattering the lamp above their heads.
The ambushers had silenced weapons. The report of my M27 was loud and reverberated through the room like a train wreck.
“What do we do?” one of the attackers called.
Three more bullets cut through the mattress. By this time, I had moved. The room was completely dark. I had no reason to hide.
My shoes were off and I moved along the edge of the wall toward the entryway in complete silence. I watched the muzzles flash and knew where two of the men stood. Taking in a long, deep breath, but not exhaling, I crouched and prepared to shoot.
I heard the flak of a heaving object hitting the quilted blanket that covered my bed, followed by a thud from that same object dropping to the floor. “Get out of here!” one of the men yelled.
I took his advice. Grabbing my bag off the floor, I sprinted for the entryway. The door slid open and I jumped out into the hall dressed in nothing but my underwear with my rucksack in my left hand and my M27 in my right, blood pouring from several spots on my face and purple bruises starting to form on my ribs. If there had been any civilians in the hall, they might have passed out.
One of the assailants peeked out from behind a corner and fired a shot at me. I leaped in his direction, firing shots I knew would miss. The shots did what I needed them to do—they scared the man away. He disappeared around the corner, and I managed to get clear of the door. I was lying flat on the ground with my side pressed against the wall of the next room when the grenade exploded, disintegrating my quarters in a storm of debris and shrapnel.
Smoke alarms shrieked across the hallway. Security alarms bellowed. A sheet of water poured out of sprinklers hidden in the ceiling.
The assailants got away. Rocked by the percussion and covered with the shredded remains of my room, I was in no condition to chase them. I struggled just climbing to my feet. Had the attackers waited around to see if I had survived their grenade, they could have killed me easily enough.
They’ll be back , I thought. Next time I’ll be ready for them .
Other than a bunch of officers with political aspirations giving long-winded speeches, nothing bad happened at the banquet. Of course, nothing happened at the banquet. What was Huang supposed to do, lean across the dinner table and stab Klyber with his butter knife?
My job at the Dry Docks was to protect Klyber; but more and more, it looked as if he had come to protect me. Golan security drove me to the infirmary where an orderly diagnosed me as having three cracked ribs. No collapsed lung, no life-threatening injuries, just a bruised-up face and a lot of hostility. Had my attackers put a boot into my testicles, they would have done a lot more damage. As it was, the medic strapped some bandages around my torso, handed me a bottle of painkillers, and gave me a clean bill of health.
As I buttoned my blouse, Admiral Klyber came into the room. He wore his dress whites and could not help smiling. “I suppose that is an effective way to run a security detail,” he said.
“How is that, sir?” I asked.
“Get all of the assassins to come after you.”
“Very clever, sir,” I said.
“You always were a lightning rod for trouble,” Klyber said. “When I sent you to Gobi on your first assignment to hide you from some Liberators, a Mogat general found you instead.”
“Hazards of the career,” I said. “Marines and mercenaries get shot at. It comes with the pay.”
“And you always survive,” Klyber said. “Extraordinary.” I had lacerations just under my left eye. Bruises covered my chin and cheeks and one side of my face was swollen. Admiral Klyber watched as I buttoned my blouse over my bandaged ribs, and his smile faded.
“Are they after you or after me?” he asked.
“Without you,” I said, “there’s no reason to go after me.”
“I suppose not,” Klyber said, now looking a bit gray.
“But look on the bright side,” I said. “If this is the best they can do with three gunmen and a grenade, by the time they get to you they might run out of ammunition.”
Klyber smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “I feel better.”
Golan security arranged for my new room, complete with guards posted outside the door. I was a bodyguard with bodyguards. In short, I was useless. When I finished stowing my gear, I put on my mediaLink and contacted Ray Freeman.
“So much for traveling as Arlind Marsten,” Freeman said when I finished telling him about my day.
“Yes,” I said. “Corporal Marsten can finally rest in peace. As far as I’m concerned, Huang did me a favor. Now I can come and go freely. I don’t have to worry about guards finding out that I’m a Liberator every time I pass through security stations anymore. They’ll know, and they’ll know that I’m legal.
“Thanks to Huang, I can carry my gun in public. The head of security asked me how many men I need. Hell, he even upgraded my room.”
I was lying on a bed with a queen-sized mattress covered by a blue and white quilt. My room in the Dry Docks dormitory looked like a suite for important executives. My bedroom included a media center with a holographic screen and there was a separate office with a desk and reference shelf. The setup included a wet bar complete with liquor and tumblers, an ice maker, a sink and three stools. Having grown up in an orphanage and spent most of my life living in barracks, this was a lifestyle I had never imagined.
“What does Klyber have to say about Huang?” Freeman asked.
“He’s got other things on his mind,” I said. “He’s going to tell the Joint Chiefs about his ship tomorrow.” Klyber built the Doctrinaire working directly with friends on the Linear Committee, just as he had worked in secret with the committee with the Liberator project. Huang and the other members of the Joint Chiefs supposedly knew nothing about the Doctrinaire . At least they should have known nothing about it. I wondered whether Rear Admiral Halverson was also spying for Huang. Johansson did not know me from Marston. Halverson knew my real name and make.
“Will you be there when he makes the announcement?” Freeman asked.
“I’m not allowed in. Only top brass gets in that room.”
“No guards? No wonder Klyber’s nervous,” Freeman said.
“It’s all top brass,” I said. “He’s with civilized company.”