Sikander looked down, and found the lean, bearded visage of Fregattenkapitan Georg Harper gazing at him. He wore an armored suit with a closed visor; his helmet showed sooty black streaks on one side, although Harper appeared uninjured. “Hector, this is Panther actual,” Harper said wearily. “Under my orders, the forces of His Imperial Majesty operating in this system will withdraw to the distance you specify. Be advised that retrieving our landing force cannot be done in less than two hours, and SMS General von Grolmann will need to return to low orbit to recover her troops, over.”
Sikander thought over the request. He was inclined to tell Harper no, since he didn’t trust them to bring their ground operations to a timely halt … but the Dremish would have to be completely mad to risk the troop transport if she was under Hector’s guns. “Granted,” he told Harper. “We expect troops on the ground to hold their positions until retrieval. Any other movements will be construed as hostile.”
The Dremish captain’s face was stone. “This is a complete outrage. You understand that your reckless attack upon our forces is an act of war. Captain Markham will be called to account for her actions, I promise you.”
“Not by any human power, Captain Harper. I regret to inform you that Captain Markham is dead. Commander Peter Chatburn is now in command of CSS Hector.” Sikander met the Dremish captain’s eyes with an expression as hard as steel. “As for the question of war, that will be for our governments to decide. But I remind you, sir: You were warned. Hector, out.” He cut the channel.
Three minutes later, Commander Chatburn reached the bridge.
24
Tanjeer, Gadira II
Otto Bleindel crouched behind an overturned writing desk in the shattered lobby of the First Bank of High Albion building, studying the dispositions of half a dozen insurgent fighting units in the Sidi Marouf. Tanjeer’s revolutionaries more or less controlled the city’s offworlder district, and Bleindel was satisfied that he’d arranged Khouri’s followers in a defense that should present the Royal Guard with a long and bloody challenge if they wanted to restore order. The Royal Guard, however, was not cooperating. Instead of pushing in to clear the district, they seemed happy to let the misguided revolutionaries keep the Sidi Marouf for the moment.
What can I do to provoke a more satisfying reaction? Bleindel wondered. It would have to be something the Royal Guard could not tolerate, but he didn’t want his coffeehouse revolutionaries to guess that he had lured the surviving sultanate forces into pouncing on them. He looked around, seeking inspiration, and spied disorganized gangs of young men—and a few boys who really shouldn’t have been allowed to roam the streets at such a dangerous time—gathered in the street outside the lobby. They threw bricks through windows and set ground cars on fire, to no particular purpose that he could see. Perhaps he could trick the Royal Guard into bombing the crowd outside, or even call in the airstrike himself. Arranging for a crowd massacre might be just the right way to get a last little bit of use out of Khouri’s followers.
A clatter at the bank’s back entrance drew his attention. Alonzo Khouri and half a dozen of his revolutionaries trotted into the lobby, taking up positions alongside Bleindel and the handful of insurgents who made up his little command team. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Mr. Hardesty,” Khouri remarked. “You’re a difficult man to catch up to.”
“Events are moving quickly today, but not here. I’m afraid the Royal Guard doesn’t seem interested in storming our defenses.” Bleindel nodded at the crowd outside. “If those are your people, perhaps you could convince them to locate a nearby detachment for us? Since the sultan’s men won’t come visit, we should restate our invitation.”
Khouri glanced at the crowd outside and watched them for a long time. “They are all my people, Mr. Hardesty,” he said. “And I don’t like the idea of encouraging boys to go throw stones at grav tanks.”
Bleindel lowered his voice. “Revolutions sometimes demand sacrifice. They would be proud to take the risk, if you asked it of them.”
“You seem to have a talent for convincing others to take your risks, Mr. Hardesty—or Mr. Bleindel, if you prefer,” Khouri said. He looked back, and his eyes grew cold. He deliberately swung the muzzle of his mag rifle to cover Bleindel. “I think we don’t need much more of your help. Surrender your weapons, please. Slowly!”
“What is the meaning of this?” Bleindel demanded.
Khouri regarded him with contempt. “The meaning of this is simple—I’ve learned who you are really working for, Bleindel. You’re a Dremish operative, and you mean to put Bey Salem on the throne as a puppet. I have no interest in trading a Montréalais master for a Dremish one.”
“I see,” Bleindel replied. He studied Khouri for a long moment, considering his answer and calculating his chances. He’d hoped to be long gone from Sidi Marouf before his role in things came to light, but it seemed that was not to be. Carefully he relinquished his pistol, and made a show of reaching into his jacket to hand over another one tucked into a shoulder holster. Instead, he armed and dropped a grenade on the floor between them.
The Gadirans goggled at the small black sphere for a moment, stunned. Bleindel took advantage of the momentary surprise to hurl himself up and over the heavy table he crouched beside, hoping its thick marble slab would be sufficient protection. The revolutionaries around him shrieked or cursed in sudden panic. The quicker among them leaped for cover, while others fumbled for their weapons or tried to scramble to their feet. Alonzo Khouri snapped off three quick shots at Bleindel, and hit the Dremish agent in his arm and buttock as he dove for cover. Then the grenade went off with a shattering blast.
Dust, debris, and pieces of human bodies flew past Bleindel in his improvised shelter, as every surviving window in the bank lobby blew out into the street. Ears ringing from the blast, he dragged himself to his feet and limped away into the smoke and dust as quickly as he could. Screams and mag-pistol shots sounded behind him, although he could hardly hear them. He didn’t think Khouri was dead—he’d seen the revolutionary throw himself flat just before the grenade exploded—but the odds were good that he was injured or unconscious, and that would be enough.
He made it to the street, and ducked around the corner to the alleyway before anyone managed to pursue him from the lobby. He reached for his comm device with blood-dripping fingers, and punched in a special code he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to use.
“Major Kalb,” the voice on the other end answered.
“This is Bleindel,” he said. He could barely hear his own voice. “Execute Parachute protocol. I am in the Sidi Marouf, just behind the First Bank of High Albion. There are armed insurgents in the area, so approach with care.”
Kalb hesitated for a moment, perhaps verifying the code phrase. “Acknowledged,” he finally replied. “Can you get to the Sultan Hassan Mosque? We can have transport there in fifteen minutes.”
Bleindel leaned against the wall, and noticed that his right cheek ached abominably. When he gingerly set his hand on the wound, it came away dripping with blood. “Doubtful,” he replied. “I’m wounded and I’m not sure how fast I can go. Give me half an hour.”
“That’s not an option, Mr. Bleindel,” Kalb replied. “Every flyer we have on the surface needs to be off the planet in twenty-three minutes.”
“What?” Bleindel glanced over his shoulder; there was a commotion in the crowd just outside the alley mouth. Grimacing in pain, he limped farther down the alley, and ducked into a doorway to make sure he was out of sight. “What are you talking about?”