Vicky Peterwald: Target (15 page)

A
S
soon as the Emperor and his pregnant bride took their leave, Vicky did the same, after first paying her respects to the admiral and his wife again.

“I love your dress,” Vicky told the admiral’s wife. “Could you have your modiste come by my rooms tomorrow? I appreciate the dress my father gave me, but I’d like to make some dresses to my own likes. A gal has a right to make her own fashion statement, doesn’t she?”

“Certainly. I will call her as soon as I get home,” Mrs. Waller said.

“Good, and Admiral, would you mind it very much if I had her help me draft some formal dinner wear for a woman Navy officer? I notice that you have no women here in other than sideboy fashion.”

“No. We try to protect our young women Sailors.”

“Well, I wish to come to dinner in uniform, but I refuse to subject myself to showing up in the dumpy affair that is official policy.”

“I’m glad someone is finally telling this old boy what he needs to hear,” the admiral’s lady said, giving the admiral a not totally gentle nudge in the ribs.

“Provide me with a sketch of what you have in mind, Your Grace,” also had a strangled sound to it. Apparently, Vicky was strangling quite a few males tonight.

“I’ll see that your wife gets a copy of the sketch too, sir.”

“You do that,” came from tight lips.

Vicky figured she’d risked about all the Navy ire she dared for one night and, using the arm she was leaning on to steer her captain, she headed for the door.

There, she picked up her usual escort. The lieutenant led off with sensors, and the Marines trailed closely behind her and the captain, apparently under the impression that any small talk that they did not need to be included in had been passed on the dance floor.

“Are most dinners that energetic?” she asked her captain.

“Do you mean, do I usually end up dancing every dance?”

“Something like that.”

“Rarely. Most of the time us Marines are just ornaments. Occasionally, I get to escort one of the senior officers’ wives when the Empress requires them to be at the banquet and the officer is ‘indisposed.’”

“The Empress requires wives to come?”

“It’s something about the pecking order, I’m told. Since she can require the Navy to dance honors on her, she does. If the officer is away on business, the wife still needs an escort. I don’t know, maybe the Empress is waiting for some wife to screw up. You tell me the games being played here. They sure don’t match any of those I learned in school.”

“Believe me, the game’s been changed since I was here last, and even then, I didn’t really understand it.”

Their path turned down a long corridor. The hairs on the back of Vicky’s neck began to stand up and pay attention.

“Are the halls usually this dark around the palace? Is my old man trying to save money?”

The captain looked around warily. “It wasn’t this dark earlier in the week.”

They came to a cross hallway. It was a black void in both directions.

Vicky craned her head, trying to look in both directions at the same time . . . and felt something go by her neck and plink into the wood paneling beside her.

“Down,” the captain ordered, an automatic suddenly in hand.

Vicky collapsed her hoops as her knees folded most ladylike . . . and her own automatic came out.

There were sounds of soft, hurried footsteps in the dark from which that something had come.

“Sergeant, send a Marine down that corridor.”

A private took off running.

“Sand Trap,” Captain Morgan whispered into his commlink, “foursome. Sand Trap, I need a foursome here now.”

“You have no reception, sir,” Vicky’s computer reported.

“Damn granite and marble,” the captain said. “It makes a mess of comm signals.”

“Likely not a bug, but a feature in this place,” Vicky said. “Let’s move.”

With one Marine now walking backward, covering their rear, and the lieutenant in close with his black box, they made it to the next crossing, which was as dark as the last.

The lieutenant peered around the corner. “I can’t see a thing.”

“Sergeant, private, cover one side each.”

The Marines rolled out onto the floor, their weapons covering the blackness in both directions. “Now,” the captain said, but held Vicky’s arm. The lieutenant stepped out on the order.

And grabbed for his neck as he toppled.

Now the captain urged Vicky forward. The sergeant’s automatic barked as she raced for the safety of the other side.

If she did feel something fly by her, it missed.

“We have reception,” her computer announced.

“Sand Trap, foursome. Now. Home on me.”

“We’re running,” came in quick reply.

Captain Morgan held Vicky tight and close to the wall. “Where’d you get a weapon?” he demanded.

“This squid knows what direction to point one of these damn things,” Vicky snapped.

“You cover down this hall. I’ll cover behind us. Please don’t shoot one of the good guys.”

“I’ll try not to, but remember, this is my third time through this drill today, and it’s getting downright repetitive.”

A shadow moved. Vicky put a round in it, and the shadow suddenly screamed in pain.

She put three fast shots in it and it quickly became a heap on the floor.

“I got one,” she said.

“You got lucky,” the captain answered.

“You’re welcome to all of my luck.”

Flashlights appeared in the distance. “Do the good guys use lights?” Vicky asked.

“Likely. Sand Trap, that you?”

“Maybe. Show us a light.”

“I don’t have one,” the captain reported.

Vicky fired a round into the ceiling.

“We see you,” came on net.

“Quick thinking,” Captain Morgan said, respect in his voice.

“Hey, I had an excuse to shoot up this place. I took it.”

“And I thought there was no place like home,” the captain said, standing up and offering Vicky a hand.

“Your home must be better than my home,” Vicky said as she stood and spread her hoopskirt most ladylike, then realized she needed to adjust her scarf.

The captain was modestly looking the other way as Kit and Kat arrived right behind a half dozen Marines. Mr. Smith and Doc Maggie pulled up the rear.

“Are you all right?” Maggie asked.

“Only my good humor damaged. The lieutenant took a hit of some sort.”

“Likely a poisoned dart,” the captain said.

Maggie went to the down officer and soon was pulling stuff from her black bag.

“Get me a fast-reaction team from the clinic, stat,” she ordered.

“Computer,” Vicky said.

“I put in a call for medical assistance as soon as we got reception back. A team is already on its way.”

“Very good, Computer,” Vicky said, and winked at Mr. Smith. “Good service.”

“Who got the one lying up the hallway?” Mr. Smith asked, heading back toward the one Vicky had shot.

“I got that one,” Vicky said. “I’m sick and tired of being shot at. Nice to get to shoot something myself.”

The mercenary rolled the black-clad body over, then removed the hood that covered everything but the eyes. The face revealed was that of a lovely woman.

She was also very dead.

“A hit in the knee, and two to the body,” Mr. Smith observed professionally. “How many did you fire?”

“One. And then three,” Vicky said.

“Three hits out of four. Not bad. We must spend some time on the pistol range. A bit of training and you can make it four out of four.”

“You’re on,” Vicky growled.

“Can I get in on this shooting practice?” Captain Morgan asked.

“Ladies’ choice,” Mr. Smith said.

“Most definitely,” Vicky answered with more than a hint of enthusiasm.

About that time, things got crowded. More Marines arrived, as did the stat cart from the clinic. A pair of the Marines looked like a forensics team, and Captain Morgan sent them to retrieve both the dart Doc Morgan had pulled out of the lieutenant and the one stuck in the woodwork farther back.

“Be careful with those,” Doc Maggie said between medical language. “I think they’re poisoned.”

“No doubt in my mind,” Mr. Smith agreed.

“Shall we get their target out of here?” Captain Morgan suggested.

“Yes, let’s,” Vicky said.

A phalanx of Marines provided close cover as they trotted the last couple of hundred meters to Vicky’s rooms.

“You notice what was missing?” Mr. Smith asked.

“No palace guards,” Vicky shot back.

“Strange that. Shots fired in the palace, but no black-and-reds came running. Very strange that.”

“Yes,” Vicky agreed. “Captain, did you recognize the woman back there?”

“Strange as it may seem to you, I don’t know all the pretty girls in this place. Probably not more than half of them.”

“I’m disappointed,” Vicky said.

“I will attempt to let my eyes wander more in the future,” he said.

“I would hope to hold them more to myself in the future,” Vicky said.

“Promise?” he asked.

“One could hope so.”

“Let’s get you out of that dress,” Kat said, and the two women ushered Vicky back into her apartment.

“When did you last check for bombs or bugs?” Vicky asked.

“I just finished my final check for the night,” the chief said, coming out from Vicky’s bedroom. “How is the lieutenant, Your Grace?”

“In Doc Maggie’s capable hands,” Vicky said. “If you stay on net, I’ll pass along to you whatever I hear.”

“I’ll be right outside your door, Your Grace,” the chief said. “The Marines have doubled your guard and asked me to support them tonight. They also promised to increase our sensor team tomorrow. I don’t need to sleep until then. What does that make for one day, ma’am? Three assassination attempts?”

“More than likely.” Vicky sighed. “The palace is nowhere near as much fun as I remembered.”

The chief left, and the assassins began to disrobe Vicky. Done, Kat offered to sleep in front of the suite’s door. Kit would sleep in front of the bedroom door.

Vicky found herself shivering. “Come, share my bed tonight.”

And the three of them did.

T
HE
modiste arrived before breakfast with a portfolio of sketches. “I left the more common palace styles and brought ones the officers’ ladies lean toward.”

“A wise choice,” Vicky said.

Breakfast did arrive about that time, and Vicky invited the young woman to join them. She declined. “I have already eaten, and it is not often wise for strangers to join in the food at the palace. They say it is too rich for common tastes.”

“No, just likely poisoned,” Vicky said.

A changing of the guard outside Vicky’s door produced a Marine sergeant with a basket of rolls and other delightful confections prepared by his wife. The modiste was only too happy to sample one of them.

The sketches offered Vicky showed several ball gowns that fit more into the classic style that never really went out of fashion. She selected several, then presented the woman with her major challenge.

“Here is what the male officers look like for formal dinner dress,” Vicky said, having her computer project a picture of Captain Morgan from last night.

“Aren’t they lovely,” the artist agreed.

“And this is what a woman officer is expected to wear.”

Her computer projected a picture straight from the regulations. The skirt was frumpy, the dinner jacket lumpy, the tiara looked more like a chopped-off half of a beret.

“Do they actually make women wear such things?” the modiste said, not even trying to hide her disgust.

“Sadly, yes,” Vicky said. “I wish to present myself as a Navy officer, but I will not let the court scorn me for such a fashion blunder.”

“Yes, we can do better than that. Much better.”

Quickly, the modiste sketched a simple white gown, strapless; it bared the shoulders but was modest in a demure way before falling full length to the floor. “We can raise the neckline, add short sleeves. Even a collar if you want.”

“Let’s see where you are going, first,” Vicky said, not at all unhappy with the results.

Quickly, the designer added a long-sleeved demijacket. “No tails, unless you want them.”

“Tails would make it look too boyish,” Vicky said softly.

“The necessary gold buttons and braid would fill it out.”

Vicky eyed it for a long moment. She tried to see it with Admiral Waller’s eyes. It was military but also quite feminine. But Vicky had seen a lot of women wearing military-
like
dresses. Was this seriously enough Navy?

“Computer, take a photo of this sketch and send it to both Admiral Waller and his wife. We shall see what they have to say about it.”

The conversation diverged into what types of cloth would become the dress. In the middle of a discussion of the various advantages of silk, taffeta, and synthetics, they were interrupted by the sound of a distant explosion.

“Computer, what was that?”

“There is nothing on the net about it, Your Grace.”

“Keep listening, and see if you can get on to any other nets.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They returned to the topic of cloth, but neither one seemed to have her heart in it, not even the modiste. About ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Kat admitted Captain Morgan. He’d quickly dressed, as evidenced by his field scarf, which was a bit askew.

He bowed from the waist. “Sorry to bother you, Your Grace, but the admiral thought you might want to know the source of that loud bang a bit ago.”

“We did notice it.”

“It seems that someone slipped a small bomb into our communication gear as we were transferring it from where it was to the room directly beneath you. Your Chief Materhand’s gear spotted it. It appears to have evaded our own. Thank heavens for the upgrade Kris Longknife’s team gave him. We have been joined at the palace by our own Marine bomb squad. They took it under their control and disposed of it, as you heard.”

“I take it that the Navy will be more careful about the contents of what comes into this wing.”

“Most definitely. The Navy has five men working with the chief. We also are using Lieutenant Heinbock’s gear as well. We are on full alert.”

“How is the lieutenant? No one has given us an update on his condition since we left him last night.”

“He is recovering. The fast action by Dr. Rodriguez likely is the only reason he isn’t already dead.”

“Doc Maggie is good,” Vicky said. “We will definitely keep her close.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I must return to the admiral. Just before the bomb was found, some kind of fashion bomb landed in his e-mail. He wants my idea on how to handle that one.”

“This other bomb isn’t by any chance a sketch of a new uniform, is it?”

“I believe so, Your Grace.”

“Well, go, Captain, and return
with
my dress, not
in
it,” Vicky said, misquoting the Spartan mother.

“By all means, Your Grace,” the captain said, allowing one of his delightful grins as he barely suppressed a laugh. He waved an informal salute Vicky’s way and left.

“A bomb?” the modiste said.

“Yes, the first of the day. There were three attempts on my life yesterday. I wonder how many there will be today,” Vicky said, trying to sound only slightly intrigued by the question.

The conversation seemed rushed after that and felt more than a bit truncated when the modiste dismissed herself a half hour later.