If Commodore Oroton has lined this canyon with artillery, he is keeping it well hidden. If I were the commodore, I would hide every single heavy weapon in my possession and bide my time, staying hidden long enough to move them elsewhere at a safer time. I cannot remain in this canyon in perpetuity and I cannot destroy weapons I cannot find. Time is on his side, if he manages to lie low enough to avoid destruction. Even if he perishes, there are other rebel commanders more than skilled enough to make use of such weapons.
The only guaranteed solution would be to turn the entire canyon and the mountain slopes overlooking it to molten slag. It would take so many Hellbore blasts to accomplish that, I would deplete myself to extinction and turn this canyon to radioactive cinders for the next ten thousand years. The fallout of radioactive dust dispersed by the prevailing winds wouldn’t do the communities downwind much good, either. Nor would anyone dare to drink the water pouring through this watershed for several millennia.
This is not an acceptable alternative. Neither is leaving the enemy with functional weaponry capable of destroying anything the government throws at it, including myself. If I can secure the dam, depriving Commodore Oroton of his heaviest artillery and the bulk of his supplies, the federal troops in retreat from the dispersal pattern of the virus would be able to return and scour the mountain slopes on foot or in aircraft, spotting what I cannot see, from my current position. It is not an ideal solution, but better than the alternatives I have considered. If, of course, I survive long enough to put it into effect. In one-hundred twenty years of combat, I have never been so unsure of my ability to complete a mission as now.
It is not a good feeling.
Neither is the persistent whisper that this mission is a disaster that should never have been undertaken in the first place. This is a dangerous thought. I dismiss it. I continue to move blindly forward, as ordered. I do not know what else to do.
IV
Simon punched a code into his wrist-comm. “This is Black Dog. Come in.”
Stefano Soteris responded at once. “Yes, sir?”
“You’re watching the datacast?”
Stefano’s voice came back hard with anger. “Yes, sir. Orders?”
“How much can you throw at them and how soon can you roll?”
“Not enough for a crater, but enough to shake shit out of his roof. We can leave in the next two minutes.”
“I want blood, my friend. Blood and the biggest damned lesson we can deliver on the consequences of committing war crimes.”
“Yes, sir! You got one fine lesson, on its way.”
Simon switched frequencies and raised Estevao, who responded crisply. “Sir?”
“We’re about to set off a fireworks display. When it blows, we’ll have a window of opportunity from the reaction shock. I want teams in place to smash P-Squad stations while they’re still staring at their datascreens. Scramble on Plan Alpha Three, immediately. I want key assemblymen — Senate and House of Law — alive and kicking. Find the Speaker of the House and the President of the Senate, at a bare minimum. I’ve got a few words I want them to say. You’ve got the link for Star Pup?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then make contact and move out. The more teams we have in place, the more of those bastards we can string up. I want surgical strikes and a public display to show we mean business. I want our new friends from Port Town to put patrols out on the streets. Have them throw barricades across major intersections. I want them to hold those barricades with any weapon they can lay hands on in the next fifteen minutes.”
“Sir?” Estavao asked.
“We’re going to stop rioting before it gets started. We can take POPPA down without burning Madison around our ears and that’s by God what I intend to do. And scramble teams to the big news broadcast studios and secure them. Send some of our combat vets and the students. It’s our turn to make a public announcement, my friend.”
“Yes, sir!”
Vittori was still on screen, gloating. He had no idea what was about to hit the fan. With luck, they’d suck Vittori Santorini right into the fan blades. Simon met Maria’s gaze. “Activate your whole network. Right now. Get your people out onto the streets and keep this city from blowing itself apart. And if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like for you and your son to escort me to the P-News broadcast studio. If she’s willing to risk it, I want your daughter to join us. I’m going to pay a little visit to Pol Jankovitch. And I’d very much like the rest of Jefferson to meet you. All of you.”
Wicked pleasure lit Maria’s eyes. “I’ve been itching to meet that braying jackass.”
“Good. Let’s go introduce ourselves.”
The urban team dispersed to activate their widely scattered network. Simon followed Maria and her family down to the street, escorted by one of the urban guerillas who’d brought the prodigal son home. “Car’s this way,” the roughly dressed man said, jerking his thumb toward a dismal, filthy alleyway. Simon didn’t know his name, since the urban fighters were every bit as cautious as the Grangers, these days. The car was guarded by two other men whose guns — carried openly — served as warning to anyone who might be interested in that car.
Nobody was anywhere near it, mostly because nobody was on the street, any longer. Even the drifts of ragged children had gone. Maria, mouth thinned into a grim line, darted a look both ways down the street, a look that might have been scared, if anger hadn’t burned so fiercely in her eyes.
They climbed into the battered groundcar and headed out. The car might be a decrepit, rusted hulk, but its deceiving appearance hid an engine that purred like a black-maned lion after a kill. The slums had gone ominously still and quiet, but as they reached a more prosperous part of town, they encountered normal traffic — the busy flow of early evening, with white-collar workers heading home or out to dinner. Wealthy socialites headed into town for the dance clubs and theaters, the gaiety of evening shopping with friends — a pursuit only the wealthy were now able to afford — and the high-fashion whirl of a typical evening in the capital city. Government offices still glowed with lights, where bureaucrats monitored the progress of the war of extermination they had just unleashed on the helpless refugees in Klameth Canyon.
Nobody in the car spoke.
The silence was so profound, the asthmatic wheeze of the groundcar’s air-conditioning was deafening. They were twenty minutes away from P-Net’s corporate headquarters, which housed the largest news network on Jefferson, when Simon’s wrist-comm beeped at him, in code. He touched it, softly. “This is Black Dog. Go ahead.”
“We’re in place,” Stefano said. “Gonna give us a little help? Something along the lines of Alpha Three, page twelve?”
“Making contact now. Stand by for a voice signal if it’s a no-go, or a go-ahead sign if Red Dog can implement it.”
“Roger, standing by.”
He changed frequencies. “Red Dog.”
Kafari’s altered voice came back, crisp and in control of herself, if nothing else.
“Go ahead, Black Dog.”
“I need to implement Alpha Three, page twelve. Somebody on your end will have to pull the plug.”
“Page twelve?” Surprise gave way to a steel-sharp edge. “You want just Madison or the whole plug?”