“The government of the Point,” Pritchard continued, “that’s the state on the north of the continent—”
A map of the sole continent of Plattner’s World bloomed in front of Huber. Everyone in the compartment would see an identical image, no matter where they stood. Though an air-projected hologram, it was as sharp as if it had been carved from agate.
A pale beige overlay identified UC territory on the contour display; as Pritchard spoke, an elongated diamond of the map went greenish: a promontory in the north balanced by a southward-tapering wedge which ended at the central mass of Solace. The Point and the United Cities were directly across the continent from one another.
“—is fully supportive of the UC position. Melinda Riker Grayle, a politician who’s not in the government but who has a considerable following among the Moss rangers who collect the raw material for the anti-aging drug—”
The image of a stern-looking woman, well into middle age, replaced the map. She wouldn’t have been beautiful even thirty years before, but she was handsome in her way and she glared out at the world with a strength that was evident even in hologram.
“—opposes the government in this. She argues that supporting the Regiment lays the Point open to Solace attack, and that the Regiment couldn’t do anything to help the Point in such an event.”
Huber nodded. It seemed to him that the only thing protecting the “neutral” Outer States from Solace attack was the fact that Solace needed both the Moss they shipped to Solace for processing and the market they provided for Solace produce. For that matter, everybody knew that part of the Moss shipped from the neutral states came from the UC, and that food and manufactures from Solace found their way back to the UC by the same route.
Pritchard grinned. He had a pleasant face, but his expression now made Huber realize that Colonel Hammer’s operations officer had to be just as ruthless as Joachim Steuben in his different way.
“Task Force Sangrela’s going to prove Grayle’s wrong,” he said. “You’re going to run from here straight to the Point and be in the capital, Midway, before any civilians even know you’re coming.”
His grin tightened fractionally. “I wish I could say the same about the Solace military,” he added, “but their surveillance equipment’s better than that. We’re all leaving the satellites up because our employers need them. We can hope they won’t have time to mount a real counter to the move, though.”
“Blood and Martyrs!” Lieutenant Myers muttered.
“How’s my infantry supposed to keep up?” asked Captain Sangrela in a more reasoned version of what was probably the same concern. “That’s fourteen hundred kilometers by the shortest practical route—”
Either he’d cued his helmet AI with the question, or he was a better off-the-cuff estimator than Huber ever thought of being.
“—and we’re not going to do that in skimmers without taking breaks the cars ’n panzers won’t need.”
Slammers infantry could travel long distances on their skimmers, recharging their batteries on the move by hooking up to the fusion bottles of the armored fighting vehicles. What they couldn’t do was change off drivers the way their heavy brethren would.
Pritchard nodded. “The recovery vehicles that just arrived will go along with you on the run,” he said. “Off-duty troops’ll ride in the boxes the A Company infantry arrived in. There’ll be a convoy of wheeled trucks here tomorrow for the prisoners; the White Mice will ride back in them as guards and escort.”
Huber frowned. “What happens if a car’s too badly damaged to move under its own power, though?” he asked. Battle damage wasn’t the only thing that could cripple a vehicle on a long run over rough country, but a montage of explosions and dazzling flashes danced through Huber’s memory as he spoke the words. “The wrenchmobiles can’t carry twenty troops and a car besides.”
“If a car’s damaged that bad,” Pritchard said, “you blow her in place, report a combat loss, and move on.”
He turned to Mitzi Trogon and continued, “You do the same thing if it’s a tank. No hauling cripples along, no leaving other units behind to guard the ones that have to drop out. This mission is more important than the hardware. Understood?”
Everybody nodded grimly.
What Arne Huber understood was that on a mission of this priority, the troops involved were items of hardware also. Colonel Hammer wouldn’t throw them away, but their personal wellbeing and survival weren’t his first concern either.
“My people plotted a route for you,” the S-3 resumed. The electronics projected a yellow line—more jagged than snaky—across the holographic continent. More than a third of the route was within the russet central block of Solace territory, though that probably didn’t matter: the task force was going to be a target anywhere the enemy could catch it, whether or not that was in theoretically neutral territory.
Captain Sangrela’s face went even bleaker than it’d been a moment before. Pritchard saw the expression and grinned reassuringly. “No, you’re not required to follow it,” he said. “I know as well as the next guy that what looks like a good idea from satellite imagery isn’t necessarily something I want to drive a tank over. Make any modifications you see fit to—but this is a starting point, in more ways than one.”
Sangrela nodded, relaxing noticeably. Huber did too, though he was only fully conscious of the momentary knot in his guts when it released. It was good to know that despite the political importance of this mission, the troops on the ground wouldn’t have Regimental Command trying to run things from Base Alpha. That’d have been a sure way to get killed.
Mind, if Solace reacted as quickly as the Slammers themselves would respond to a similar opportunity, the mission was still a recipe for disaster.
“What’re we going to find when we get to the Point?” Lieutenant Myers asked. “You say there’s opposition in the backwoods. Are we going to have to look out for local snipers when we get to—”
He grinned harshly.
“—friendly territory?”
“I’ll let our guest field that one,” Pritchard said with a tip of his hand toward the woman in the jumpsuit beside him. “Troops, this is Captain Mauricia Orichos of the Point Gendarmery, their army. Captain Orichos?”
“We’re not an army,” Orichos said. Her pleasant, throaty voice complemented her cheerfully cynical smile. “The job of the Gendarmery is primarily to prevent outsiders from harvesting our Moss. Without paying taxes on it, that is.”
She let that sink in for a moment, then continued, “My own job is a little different, however. You might say that I’m head of the state security section. I contacted my opposite number in your regiment—”
Which means Joachim Steuben. Huber hoped he kept his reaction from reaching his facial muscles.
“—and asked for help. The situation is beyond what the Gendarmery, what the Point, can handle by itself.”
The map had vanished when Orichos began to speak. Now in its place the car projected first the close-up of Melinda Grayle speaking, then drew back to an image of her audience—a long plaza holding several thousand people: mostly male, mostly armed. Mostly drunk as well, or Huber missed his bet.
“Generally,” Orichos continued, “Grayle’s supporters—they call themselves the Freedom Party—have stayed in the backlands. They’ve got a base and supposedly stores of heavy weapons on Bulstrode Bay—”
The map returned briefly, this time with a caret noting an indentation on the west coast of the peninsula, near the tip.
“—which is completely illegal, of course, but we—the government— weren’t in any position to investigate it thoroughly.” Her smile quirked again. “It seemed to me that most members of the government were concerned that we’d find the rumors were true and they wouldn’t be able to stick their heads in the sand anymore.”