Steel Gauntlet (39 page)

“Well...” The admiral hesitated.

Brigadier Sturgeon spoke up quietly. “Sir, this man, Stauffer, I think we can trust him. He has nothing to gain by misleading us. But we must act quickly. My men are ready. Let’s put an end to all this right now.”

Admiral Wimbush regarded the two Marines carefully. “Very well, gentlemen, you are authorized to proceed with your rescue plan, and you may execute on General Aguinaldo’s order. Keep me informed.

Good luck. I shall prepare an answer agreeing to his terms. You have this Stauffer character deliver it to St. Cyr.” In Fleet Admiral Wilber Wimbush’s long and very carefully planned, virtually risk-free naval career, it was the most independent and risky decision he had ever made. It was also his best.

Commander Fil Rhys-Topak, the FIST surgeon, stood next to Commander Sparks, the FIST signals officer, in the small lab adjacent to Commander Rhys-Topak’s infirmary. He was showing Brigadier Sturgeon a small piece of tissue the doctor had removed from Clouse Stauffer’s arm earlier in the day, when he debrided the wound made there.

“Amazing device, this thing, sir, even though it is older technology,” Sparks said, holding up the piece of tissue with a pair of tweezers. Inside, Sturgeon could just make out a black dot with his naked eye.

“It’s a body-heat-powered transmitter. I did a full-body scan on him when he was brought in,” Sparks continued. “He’s an enemy alien, after all, and I wanted to see if he was carrying any eavesdropping devices. Fil here dug it out of him. It’s inert now. It only transmits when heated to body temperature.

That means it would’ve been transmitting from the time it was put in there until Doc here took it out. Old as it is, the thing still has virtually unlimited range and life span.”

“When I saw what it was,” Rhys-Topak said, “I popped it into a cryotube tube and called Sparky, sir.

It was embedded just under the skin, under what looks like an old vaccination scar. I suspect that’s how it was introduced, and small as it is, he probably never knew it was there. I don’t know how long it was in that arm, probably a long time, according to Sparky. I’m afraid—”

“That St. Cyr knows what Stauffer told me in my headquarters,” the brigadier finished the sentence.

“Yessir,” Sparks answered. “Sir, Fil sedated him, and while he was out I took the liberty of scanning him for other devices. I’m sure this was the only one.”

“Well, the bastard knows Stauffer is gonna spill the beans.” The Brigadier sighed. “Okay, I’ll take it from here. If St. Cyr was listening in or recording what went on in my HQ, maybe he’ll think the transmitter just got dislodged or broken in the fight.”

“Sir,” Sparks said, “maybe it was broken. I haven’t tested this thing to see if it’ll work.”

“Don’t,” Sturgeon answered. “Let’s hope he doesn’t know that we know. Is Stauffer awake now?”

“Yessir.”

“Okay, take me to him. Bring that damned transmitter along.” Stauffer was lying comfortably in bed. Brigadier Sturgeon came straight to the point. “Colonel, I believe St. Cyr knows you have betrayed him.” He held up the tiny transmitter, still encased in clotted flesh but safely preserved in a tiny refrigerated specimen baguette. “This is a radio transmitter, Colonel.

My surgeon took it out of your arm. It’s been there a long time. St. Cyr was using it to eavesdrop on you.”

Bad as Stauffer was, as much havoc as St. Cyr’s chief of staff had caused all those years, Sturgeon still believed he deserved to know what he was getting into. “There is still a slight chance the thing was damaged when Bass attacked you. We don’t know. We must assume it wasn’t. As soon as we have a plan, we will attack. There’s no reason why you should return there. The tribunal will no doubt take into consideration the help you are going to give us.”

Stauffer looked at the foot of his bed. “No, Brigadier, I must go back,” he said slowly. “None of this surprises me,” he went on conversationally. “That St. Cyr would spy on me? I guess he had that thing put into me when I was in the hospital, oh, twenty-five years ago now.” He shrugged philosophically. “He knew about everything I did and said for the past twenty-five years.” He shook his head. “Long ago I realized Marston St. Cyr has no human emotions, Brigadier. He favored me, advanced me, made me a rich man because I was useful to him, not because he liked me. And I was satisfied with that. Now I have to pay the price for having been so accommodating. But let me tell you this, Brigadier, you may not have to deal with Marston St. Cyr once I get back.”

“You are going to kill him?”

“I am going to try.”

Brigadier Sturgeon regarded Stauffer for a moment, then stuck out his hand. “Good luck, then, Colonel.” They shook on it.

Clouse Stauffer seemed a different man as he stood in the FIST operations center, briefing the rescue team on St. Cyr’s hideout. “He has only about a hundred men with him down there,” he said. “He doesn’t need any more than that, and those men will die defending him. Do not expect to take any prisoners.

“Although there are several approaches to his lair, getting into them and then making it through the maze of old shafts and tunnels to where he is would take forever, unless you knew the precise route.

They are all monitored by electronic means, and mined. Even if you got by the checkpoints—” He pointed them out on a schematic he had drawn, which was now projected into the flatvid screen. “—you would need to know the precise twistings and turnings of the hundreds of tunnels that branch off the main ones to get to him. And all along the routes are video monitors and command-detonated explosive charges capable of blocking them completely once an intruder is spotted. You’d need heavy machinery to get through after that, and by the time you did, he’d be gone.” Stauffer pressed a button on his console and a close-up of a rugged mountain peak came into view.

“This is Mount Amethyst, one of the highest peaks in the Chrystoberyls. Look here.” He pointed to an outcropping just below the snowline. “This is St. Cyr’s escape route. There is a shaft under the outcropping—actually, it’s a cleverly concealed plug that blocks the opening—under which is a launch site for a Bomac 36 V starship.”

That information caused eyebrows to rise. The Bomac 36 V was capable of both atmospheric and hyperspace flight, which eliminated the need for a shuttle. It had never been adapted to military use because its payload was so small, but commercial and nonmilitary governmental agencies had found the craft very suitable for their requirements. The Bomac Corporation called the 36 V its “interstellar VIP

ship.”

“That shaft is the only one in the complex that, for obvious reasons, is not mined,” Stauffer continued, pausing significantly as a murmur ran through the assembled staff. “This is your way in, gentlemen.” He paused again. “The entrance is three thousand meters above sea level, and the shaft itself goes 4,500

meters deep. At the bottom is a completely computerized launch facility. It is inspected twice daily, at dawn and just after sunset. Between those hours it is unoccupied.

“As soon as you breach the launch shaft, St. Cyr will know you’re coming through that way. You must get to the bottom as quickly as possible. If you do, you’ll have a chance to fight off any reaction force.

The tunnels inside the complex itself are not booby-trapped. Once outside the launch facility, you will find a bewildering array of tunnels leading in every direction under the mountain. Let me tell you now, not even the men who live down there with St. Cyr, not even I, could navigate around that place without help. That is provided by markings painted on the walls at intervals. These markings give off faint signatures that should be visible through your infra screens. They are coded.” A hand-drawn chart of the directional symbols appeared on the vidscreens. Each one marked the direction to a different area or level, and beside each symbol Stauffer had printed the facility to be found at that destination. The headquarters complex, where the hostages were being kept, was indicated by Q>.

“You all realize that while St. Cyr only knows I offered to lead you to his hideout, he does not know you have accepted. I will try to convince him that it was just a ploy to get you to lay off me. That’s to your advantage. He does not know your actual plan of attack either. Also to your advantage. He cannot risk damage to the launch facility because it is his only way out. Big advantage to you. But he may have assumed you did accept, and shifted the hostages or even killed them. Or he may just load up the 36 V

and take off ten minutes from now, counting that you won’t open fire because you think the Ambassador might be on board. I have known Marston St. Cyr for forty years. All I can tell you is that he won’t panic and he will do what you least expect him to do.” He paused. “And you must act at once.” With a small bow he walked out of the room, leaving the staff to start planning the raid.

“My only question,” Captain Conorado asked after Stauffer was gone, “is how the hell do we get down that shaft?”

“Well, we could free-fall using back-pack puddle jumpers,” the FIST operations officer suggested. “I haven’t done the math, but it would probably take more than half a minute or so to get all the way down, providing nobody bounced off the shaft wall on the way.”

“We could get an Essay in there, sir,” another staff officer suggested.

“Anyone here ever free-fall in a puddle jumper?” Brigadier Sturgeon asked. Nobody responded.

“How about maneuver an Essay straight down a shaft 4,500 meters, land it at the bottom, and fight off anybody waiting there? And what happens if the coxswain makes a tiny mistake and she slams into the wall on the way down?” Again nobody responded. “The problem with going in through that shaft is it’s a shooting gallery if you don’t get to the bottom in seconds after we blow the lid. Puddle jumpers seem the only way, but damn, it’s chancy.” Brigadier Sturgeon frowned and ran a hand through his hair.

“We could do a few practice jumps from hoppers right outside town, sir,” the ops officer suggested.

“That might give the whole thing away,” Captain Conorado interjected. It had been decided that he would lead the rescue attempt with men from his own company. Gunnery Sergeant Bass would go along.

“Sir, may I make a suggestion?”

Brigadier Sturgeon nodded.

“Well, remember how the Persians defeated the Greeks at Thermopylae?”

“They found a way to get behind them,” the intelligence officer said. “Found a local man who knew a path through the hills.”

“Right. Maybe there’s somebody here in New Kimberly who might know another way in, some old miner. Maybe not all the maps have been lost. Not that I don’t trust Stauffer, but he’s not a miner, he’s probably never been in those works up there that much.”

Brigadier Sturgeon snapped his fingers. “Maps! Charts, plans, goddamn! I know just where to start!”

“Marines? Here? I didn’t know you boys could read,” Joachim Banarjee Poste croaked as Brigadier Sturgeon and his staff walked into the Free Library of New Kimberly. “Just a friendly jest!” he said as he saw the expression on the men’s faces. “Welcome to FLONK. We don’t have much here in the way of girlie books, gentlemen—just a friendly jest, just jesting!” Brigadier Sturgeon quickly explained what they wanted while Gunnery Sergeant Bass glowered silently at the librarian. “Maps of the old diggings? Hmmm.” Poste rubbed his chin, punched some keys on his console. Now here was legitimate research. He warmed instantly to the visitors. “Yes, we do have ‘em.

Most of the companies who worked in there did make plans of their sites, and many of them are in our collection. I’ll check our digitized database first and then the catalog of our paper holdings.”

“You actually have paper copies of these maps?” Captain Conorado asked.

Poste nodded happily. “Yes, yes we do. Very precious, those are. Not much call for these things, and I’ve been a librarian here for the last eighty years. The companies aren’t interested in ‘em, just a few old independent diggers trying to make a living gleaning what the big boys missed years ago. Worked a few years in the mines myself, when I was young.” When he was young? Sturgeon raised an eyebrow at Bass. He shook his head. Nobody felt like asking how old he was. “Why are you gents interested in

‘em? Going to do a little prospecting while you’re here?”

“Yeah,” Bass answered, “we’re tired of getting killed protecting shits like you for nothing. Thought we’d look for some gems, supplement our pay. We usually do that by looting.”

“Touché,” Poste said, punching some more keys.

The maps Poste produced for them proved very complicated and hard to read. The problem was, there were so many of them it was difficult to relate one to the other. Often the excavations of one company started where another left off, so there was little continuity between one chart and another.

Trying to read them was like looking at a blowup of a single map quadrant without any reference to its neighbors. “Is there anyone who can make sense out of these things?” Captain Conorado asked at last.

“Certainly. Hard Rocks Viola.”

“Hard...? Where can we find this guy?” Bass asked.

“I’ll call him. If he’s not out prospecting, he’ll come right over.” Fifteen minutes later a short, stocky, bandy-legged man with flaming red hair entered the library and introduced himself. “I’m Hard Rocks. What can I do for you fellas?” For the next three hours they pored over the old maps, Poste happily punching graphics up on his screen or scurrying into the stacks to bring out huge atlases stuffed with moldering map sheets. “Got a hernia when I was younger, lifting all these atlases,” he remarked to no one in particular. During the whole time, not a single patron came into the library.

“This is it,” Hard Rocks said at last, putting a broken fingernail on a ragged blue line that snaked along a section of one of the old maps.

“How the hell do you know?” Bass asked, completely bewildered.

“I just know, Charlie,” Hard Rocks answered. Almost from the start Bass and Viola had decided to be on a first-name basis. And, of course, the Marines had quickly discarded the fiction as to why they needed the maps and advice. “That 4,500-meter shaft is new, but the tunnels under it aren’t. I’ve been in there, maybe thirty years ago, and man, you go down into those places and you don’t come out unless you’ve got every nook and cranny memorized. But look: none of this construction is new. St. Cyr just moved into the old diggings and renovated the place. Another thing. The miners used to live down there in those days. The spot marked ‘headquarters’ is actually their old living area. You can get into this parallel corridor right here”—he put his finger onto the blue line again—“and blast through into the main tunnel. There’s maybe two meters of rock between them. That’ll bring you out seventy-five meters from where this, ah, launch pad is located. Then you’re only a hundred meters down this other tunnel to the headquarters complex.”