First Casualty (39 page)

“Sir.” Mattim spoke softly, trying to sound reasonable. “We are attempting a major project with no planning. With all the complex sub-activities we've got going here, even the best team is bound to have a few social errors. They're a good team, and they're improvising the best they can,” Mattim concluded. They were a
damn
good team and they
were
improvising as best they could—just not in the direction Whitebred wanted.

In the next five minutes, they restarted the trajectory problem, but using only one third of the net in case it was necessary to take down the second main that also supported the launcher. The new breaker box came on line—and immediately popped. That started a slow walk down of all the power cables in the bay.

“I watched carts go up and down those cables. What the hell were they doing?” Whitebred demanded.

“Just what we're doing now. Testing and looking for any trouble,” Gandhi answered. “But from a cart, there is only so much you can see. Our problem is not something the tests show.”

It took fifteen minutes to find a bum tester unit. Its replacement quickly isolated the frayed insulation that popped the breaker. The autoloader powered up and stayed powered.

“Finally,” Whitebred breathed in exasperation.

“Load first round in test mode,” Mattim ordered. For once

Whitebred did not second-guess him. Maybe the guy was trainable. Mattim hoped not. The first round rolled slowly down a conveyor, hit the bumper at the end of the chute— and kept rolling as the bumper bent and broke. Work crews scattered.

“That's impossible.” There was awe in Gandhi's voice. “That unit is grown from a single crystal. It can't break.”

“Hope it's under warranty,” Mary drawled. “Sergeant, have a team look at that for sabotage.”

“I look at it first,” Whitebred shouted.

As a chief and work party set about corralling two and a half tons of stray steel, officers took a look. The shards were wickedly sharp. As Whitebred examined it, Mattim glanced around. Well back in the crowd was his tiny middie. Beside her stood a young fellow in coveralls carrying a tool kit. Mattim remembered him; the guy with the Ph.D. Guns said he had a lot to learn. Material properties probably wasn't among the lot.

Just how much of this contraption is sabotaged?

Having seen enough, Whitebred drew himself up to his full height. “Well, commander, it's broke. Fix it.”

“Sir, we don't have a replacement. It's not supposed to break. And if it does, only a yard can clean it up.”

The admiral and the damage control officer stared at each other. Mattim did not want to see what Whitebred's next move would be. The damn sergeant was edging toward the admiral.

“If I may have Chief Aso out of the brig, sir, I think we can solve this,” Mattim intervened.

“Sergeant, release him,” Whitebred snapped.

Five minutes later, Aso reported.

“Chief, fix that,” the damage control officer said.

For a half a minute, Chief Aso studied the problem; then he started bawling orders. Fifteen minutes later, shoring beams buttressed a new brake, and sand had been added to the chute to slow down the slide of the rounds.

“Ought to take care of it for now,” the chief muttered.

“Captain, launch those bombs,” Whitebred demanded.

“Commander, let's bring one out slow.”

“Sir, my firing solution needs recalculation. I'm way past the initial launch point.”

“Launch it, damn you!” Whitebred yelled.

“Recalculate,” Mattim said at the same time.

“Launch,” Whitebred repeated.

“Admiral,” Mattim spoke slowly, “the solution is blown. We could miss the planet, hit one of our ships. Who knows?”

“Recalculate.” Whitebred capitulated. “And make sure there's nothing else wrong with this damn thing. Commander, I want maintenance people over every inch of it. Sergeant, I want marines looking over every shoulder.”

“Yes sir” echoed all around.

As personnel scattered over the launch bay, Mattim found himself next to Mary. “Where'll it be safe to stand when that thing goes off?” she asked.

“Good question.” Mattim doubted the usual answers had any value. “The autoloader could take your hand off. The acceleration tube'll be loaded with energy.” He glanced around. “I suspect there's a reason for the shiny new handholds.” The bay and launch control were lined with railings at waist height.

“I hadn't noticed them. Strange what people miss.” They exchanged a smile. There were five crises as young marines demanded explanations from sailors for what they were doing. Whitebred was into those rows in a flash. Mattim, Mary, and Sergeant Dumont were right behind. The list of people Whitebred wanted shot if this didn't go right grew longer and longer.

Fifteen minutes later, they had a firing solution. Without orders, most of the work crews arranged themselves along the wall, handholds in reach. Only Whitebred and his pet Sergeant Dumont stood in the middle of the bay. “Fire, commander, and you're a dead woman if you fail me again,” the admiral growled.

Sergeant Dumont pointed his assault rifle around the room menacingly.

“I'm just doing my job the best I can,” Gandhi answered. “Launch one.”

A mechanical rammer shoved a round forward into a cage of cables and metal. For a second, the ugly slug just sat there—then it began to move. The naked eye could follow it for only a second as it shot down the launcher rail.

Then all hell broke loose.

Monitor reviews would later show the round departing the track at midpoint and tearing a wide gash in the port side of the
Maggie D
, exactly as Mattim and Chief Aso had planned it. At the moment it happened, Mattim was busy holding on to keep from being sucked out by the air rapidly evacuating the launch bay. Any space this large in a starship had to be designed with this in mind. Even as Mattim struggled to hold, the ship acted. Doors sliced shut along the launcher, sealing the damage and holding in the fleeing air.

Unfortunately, it also sealed Whitebred and his favorite sergeant in as well. Before Mattim could get a report on the
Maggie
's situation, Whitebred was screaming at the top of his lungs, “Shoot them. All of them. Shoot them all.”

While Dumont looked around, trying to catch his bearings and decide whom to shoot first, Mattim and Mary hustled to put themselves in the line of fire.

“Don't be stupid,” Mattim snapped. “You can't start shooting people when we've got a damaged ship to handle.”

“Shoot them!” was all the answer he got.

“We won fair and square,” Mary said softly to her sergeant. “Marines don't shoot marines.”

“Fair and square,” Mattim and Whitebred both echoed.

“You had full rein to search. You didn't catch them,” Mary continued slowly.

“We caught them. We just couldn't make it stick.”

“It's the same thing, Du.”

“Shoot them!” Whitebred screamed.

“Captain!” blared from the speakers in the launcher bay. “Comm here, I have a message for you from Captain Ramsey of the
Sendai
. He has orders for you.”

“I'll take it in my quarters,” Whitebred shouted.

“It's not for you. It's for the captain. Putting it on the screen down there.” The wall across from the launcher control lit up. There was Buck Ramsey.

“Matt, this message is for you. Whitebred is released from command and rank immediately. All his orders are countermanded. Skobachev will assume command. I repeat, Whitebred is no admiral and he gives no orders. The orders promoting him are being looked at real close. I know nothing about that. What I do know is I have official orders from the military commander at Pitt's Hope to return him immediately. I will wait for your response. We would have been here sooner, but I don't know how Sandy found that point so fast. We've spent the last three days trying to pin it down. By the way, I think the war is over. I will await your answer. Ramsey out.”

“Wait one, comm,” Mattim said, then turned to Whitebred. “I don't know what this is about, but it's over.”

Like so many things lately, Mattim had that one wrong too.

* * * *

“You bastard. You lying bastard.” Sergeant Dumont was so enraged he ignored his rifle and went for Whitebred's throat with his bare hands. As Whitebred fended him off with one hand, his other went for the assault weapon.

Even in defeat, Whitebred still wanted to “shoot them all.”

Mattim hardly saw her coming. Kat the Zap came in fast and low. One moment the two men were struggling; the next second they lay ten feet apart and the middie stood between them not even breathing hard. Whitebred was screaming, clutching his knee. When this was all over, Mattim wanted to know two things: how his crew pole-axed up the launcher, and how one tiny young woman put two men twice her size down so fast.

* * * *

“Mr. Crossinshield, you have a problem.” Trevor gulped; when his client knew he had a problem before Trevor did, something had gone terribly wrong. Today, his client met him at the edge of a pond in a pleasant park. The noise of the city was held at bay, whether by the trees or more exotic means Trevor did not need to know. The big man fed crumbs to white swans. To Trevor, he fed gall. “You have been out of touch with your man, the one who knows the door to the galaxy.”

“Yes, sir. He is in the Navy and does sometimes go aboard ship. Communications through those channels are often strained.”

“Yes, but do you know where he is? I am picking up strange rumors. I do not like rumors, Mr. Crossinshield. I like facts.”

From across the pond, two ebony black swans knifed through the water to scatter the white ones. Trevor's client smiled and tossed them corn as their reward. Trevor glanced around. From the path through the trees, three men emerged and walked toward them. The one in the lead looked straight ahead. The two behind him signaled. People whom Trevor would have sworn were part of his client's security detail nodded and began to close in.

His client continued to feed the swans, both black and white. “Sir.” Trevor was surprised to hear himself squeak.

“Speak up, boy.”

“Sir, I believe you have company.”

His client turned. And maybe for a split second Trevor saw surprise on his face. Then he calmly turned back to the pond. This time, however, he tossed nothing to the swans.

“Good afternoon, Henry.” The man paused to smile down at Trevor's client. “I thought I'd find you here. There are things we must talk about. If you gentlemen will leave us alone.” The guards turned at his command—all of them— and returned to their alert meanderings.

Trevor turned to go. “Not you. You will stay.”

“Edward, is that any way to treat one of mine?”

Trevor had not recognized the man with his clothes on. Now he did. This was the other man, the man who had locked horns with his client in the sauna—and lost. He did not act like a loser now. “Henry, the question is, is anyone yours?”

Trevor's client made no reply. The new arrival settled comfortably on the other end of the bench. Then he reached over, took the small sack of grain from Trevor's client, and began feeding the swans. Behind the bench, Trevor wanted to run, but his legs were water. Unable to stand, he risked leaning his hands on the back of the bench. Surprise filled Trevor; despite the power shooting between the two men, he was not electrocuted.

After upending the sack, the man spoke. “Henry, the dogs of this war you released are chewing up some very unhappy legs. Your President Urm has met with an accident.”

Henry's usual aplomb vanished. His head jerked around to spear Trevor with hard, obsidian eyes.

“I have had nothing but normal reports about President Urm, sir.”

“When the general holding your security contract on Urm failed so miserably, Trevor,” Edward said, “he came looking for a new employer. We reached an agreement very quickly.”

Henry's glare was for Edward, but there was enough heat along its edge to burn Trevor down to cinder.

“I must thank you, Henry. Your man in Pitt's Hope has succeeded most admirably for me. By threatening all life on Wardhaven, he has driven the colonials to send emissaries, real emissaries with authority to negotiate. And by showing the planetary governments just how easy their own bureaucracy is turned against them, you have gotten their attention. Attention we do not want, Henry. None of us.”

“Governments are nothing!” Henry huffed.

Edward cut him off with a smile. “So you have said many times. We give the politicos money to buy the votes they need, but they still think those votes give them power. They are ready to turn that power to a scrutiny of us and this unpleasantness.”

“I can handle them.”

“Yes. Yes, you can. And we have decided to let you. But you will need time.” Edward sounded so solicitous. “With your many duties, you might have problems squeezing in the time you will need. So, Henry, we have decided that you should step down from most of your positions on boards of directors. If you do not, you will be voted out.”