Mutineer's Moon

“We’ll be going in through the western access point, here.” Another portion of the holo map glowed as he spoke. “We have the codes from Ninhursag, and there’s no indication they’ve been changed. We’ll advance along these axes—” more lines glowed “—with parties detailed to each transport. Each attack party will be individually briefed on its mission and as much knowledge of the terrain as Ninhursag was able to give us. You’ll also have Ninhursag’s personal implant codes. Make damned sure you don’t kill her by mistake. She’s one lady we want around for the victory party.

“If you can get inside on the first rush, well and good. If you can’t, the assault parties will try to prevent anyone from leaving any of the transports while the reserve deals with each holdout in turn. Hopefully, if any of them try to lift out to escape, they won’t all lift at once. That means Dahak may only have to destroy one or two of them before the others realize what’s happening. With us inside and an active Dahak outside, they’ll surrender if they have a grain of sanity left.

“All right. That’s the bare—very bare—bones of the plan. My staff will break it down for each group individually, and we’ll hold a final briefing for everyone just before we push off. But there’s one other thing you all ought to know, and Sergeant Asnani is the one to tell you about it. Sergeant?”

Andrew Asnani stood, wishing for a moment that he was still Abu al-Nasir, the tough, confident terrorist leader accustomed to briefing his men, as he felt their avid eyes and tried to match the colonel’s calm tone.

“What Colonel MacMahan means,” he said, “is that there were some unexpected developments inside the enclave. Specifically, your agent Ramman tried to betray you.”

He almost flinched at his audience’s sudden ripple of shock, but he continued in the same calm voice.

“No one’s entirely certain what happened, but there were rumors all over the enclave, especially among their Terra-born. The official line is that he was caught out by Ganhar, their chief of operations, admitted he’d been passing you information for decades to earn the right to defect, and tried to shoot his way out, but that Ganhar out—drew and killed him. That’s the official story, but I don’t think it’s the truth. Unfortunately, I can’t know the truth. I can only surmise.”

He inhaled deeply. He’d seen the southerners, been one of their own, in a sense, and he was even more aware than his listeners of the importance of his evaluation.

“It’s possible,” he said carefully, “that Ramman succeeded in giving his information to Ganhar before he was killed. He hadn’t been told any more than Ninhursag, but if she could figure out what was coming, so could he. If that happened, then they may be waiting for us when we come in.” His audience noted his use of the pronoun “we,” and one or two people smiled tightly at him.

“But I don’t believe they will be. If they pla

“I think,” he went on, speaking more precisely than ever, “Ganhar told Anu and the others exactly what they told the rest of their people. I think he knows we’re coming and deliberately helped clear the way for us.”

He paused again, seeing disbelief in more than one face, and shrugged.

“I realize how preposterous that sounds, but there are reasons for my opinion. First, Ganhar was in serious trouble before they began their counter-attacks. Jantu, their security head, had his knife out, and from all I could gather, everyone expected him to stick it in. Second, Ganhar only inherited their operational branch after Kirinal was killed; he’s new to the top slot, and I think actually being in charge did something to him. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but Abu al-Nasir was important enough to attend several conferences with him, and he let his guard down a bit more with their ‘degenerates’ than with their own Imperials. That’s an unhappy man. A very unhappy man. Something’s eating him up from the inside. Even before the news about Ramman broke, I had the impression his heart just wasn’t in it anymore.

“You have to understand that their enclave is like feeding time in a snake house. The difference between them and what I’ve seen here—well, it’s like the difference between night and day. If I were in the position of any of their leaders, I’d be looking over my shoulder every second, waiting for the axe to fall. Mix a little guilt with that kind of long-term, gnawing anxiety, and you could just have a man who wants out, any way he can get out.

“I certainly can’t guarantee any of that. It’s possible we’ll walk right into a trap, and if we do, it’s my evaluation that is taking us into it. But if they let us through the access point at all, we’ll be inside their shield, and Captain MacIntyre has accepted my offer to personally carry one of your one-megaton nuclear demolition charges.”

He met their eyes, his own stubborn and determined in the silence.

“I can’t guarantee it isn’t a trap,” he said very, very quietly, “but I can and will guarantee that that enclave will be taken out.”

General Gerald Hatcher opened his office door in the underground command post and stopped dead. He shot a quick glance back at the outer office, but none of the officers and noncoms bent over their desks had looked up as if they expected to see his surprise.

He inhaled through his nostrils and stepped through the door, closing it carefully behind him before he walked to his own desk. He’d never seen the twenty-five-centimeter-long rectangular case that lay on his blotter, and he examined it closely before he touched it. It was unlikely anyone could have smuggled a bomb or some similar nastiness into his office. On the other hand, it should have been equally difficult to smuggle anything into it.

He’d never seen anything quite like it, and he began to question his first impression that it was made of plastic. Its glossy, bronze-colored material had a metallic sheen, reflecting the light from the improbable, three-headed creature that crowned it like a crest, and he sank tensely into his chair as the implications of the starburst between the dragon’s forepaws registered. He reached out and touched the case cautiously, smiling in wry self-mockery at his own tentativeness.

Metal, he decided, ru

He lifted the lid cautiously, laying it back to lie flat on the desk, and studied the interior. There was a small, lift-up panel in what had been the bottom and three buttons to one side of it. He wondered what he was supposed to do next, then gri

Somehow, Hatcher wasn’t a bit surprised to see Hector MacMahan. The colonel wore Marine battledress and body armor, and a peculiar—looking, stubby weapon with a drum magazine hung from his right shoulder. He was no more than twenty centimeters tall, but his grin was perfectly recognizable.

“Good evening, General,” Hector’s voice said in time to the moving lips of the image. “I realize this is a bit unusual, but we had to let someone know what was happening, and you’re one of the few people I trust implicitly.