Prisoners of Tomorrow (105 page)

Sterm was not a person to waste his time and energy with futile melodramatics and accusations, but Stormbel knew full well that he wouldn’t forget—and neither would Stormbel forget. The Chironians were behind it, he was certain, just as they had been behind the subversion of the Army and even of some of Stormbel’s own troopers. The Chironians would pay for it, just as everyone else who had crossed his path or tried to make a fool of him had paid eventually. They would pay the moment someone offered resistance when his troops moved into Franklin. His orders were quite explicit.

“The build-up at Canaveral is proceeding on schedule and will be completed before midnight,” he informed Sterm at a midday staff meeting in the Columbia District’s Government Center. “The greater part of Phoenix is being abandoned as we assumed would be unavoidable, but the key points are secure and the wastage among the regular units has been checked. Transfer of SD forces to the surface will be completed by early evening, with the exception of those units being held to cover the Battle Module, the Columbia District, and Vandenberg. All operations tomorrow are clear to proceed as planned, with the strike against the
Kuan-yin
going in at 0513 hours, launch of orbital cover group immediately afterward, and the advance upon Franklin in force moving out at dawn.”

Sterm nodded slowly as he ticked off the points one by one in his mind, looking at Stormbel coolly, then turned to Gaulitz, one of the senior scientists, who was sitting with some advisers to one side of the room. “Let us be certain about the
Kuan-yin,”
he said. “The success of the entire operation is at stake. You are quite sure?”

Gaulitz nodded emphatically. “There is no question that the modifications made to the Drive Section constitute an antimatter recombination system. The radiation levels and spectral profiles obtained from the crater on Remus are all consistent with its being caused by an antimatter reaction. The evidence of gamma-induced transmutations, the distribution of neutron-activated isotopes, the pattern of residual—”

Sterm held up a hand. “Yes, yes, we have been through all that.”

Gaulitz nodded hastily and touched a control to bring a view of the
Kuan-yin
onto the room’s main display screen. It showed Chironian shuttles at all the docking ports, and more standing a few miles off and apparently waiting to move in. “This is a further corroboration from views obtained this morning,” he said. “All indications are that the Chironians have evacuated the vessel, which supports the contention of its being cleared for action.”

Sterm studied the view in silence. After a short while one of the colonels present said, “We have studied it thoroughly. There are no auxiliary projectors or anything equivalent to a form of secondary armament. The only direction that it can fire in is sternward from the tail-dish. With eight missiles the odds of at least one getting through would be better than ninety-eight percent. With sixteen the chances of failure are about as near zero as you can get.”

The
Kuan-yin’
s
lower orbit put it out of synchronism with the
Mayflower II
and resulted in the two vessels being shielded from each other by Chiron’s mass for a period of thirty-two minutes every three-and-a-quarter hours. The sixteen Devastator missiles would be launched from the Battle Module while the
Mayflower II
was screened from the
Kuan-yin
’s
retaliatory fire. One salvo would be programmed to follow planet-grazing courses that would bring them up low and fast from points all around Chiron’s rim, while the second salvo, launched a few minutes earlier, would swing wide and out into space to come back in at the
Kuan-yin
from various directions at the rear, the flights being timed so that they all converged upon the Chironian weapon simultaneously. A mass the size of the
Kuan-yin
could not maneuver rapidly, and the worst-case simulations run on the computers had shown an overwhelming margin in favor of the attack, whatever defensive tactics might be employed.

“The calculations and simulations have been verified?” Sterm said, looking at Gaulitz.

“Thoroughly and repeatedly. There is no risk that the
Mayflower II
might be exposed at any time,” Gaulitz answered.

There were no more major points to discuss. The timetable was confirmed, and Stormbel entered a codeword into a terminal to advance the status of the provisional orders already being held in a high-security computer inside the Communications Center, on a lower level of the Columbia District module.

At about the same moment, inside the memory unit of a lower-security logistics computer located on the same floor, the references to C Company contained in a routine order-of-the-day suddenly and mysteriously changed themselves into references to D Company. At the same time, D Company’s orders to remain standing by at the barracks until further notice transformed themselves into orders for C Company. Ten minutes later a harassed clerk in Phoenix brought the change to the attention of Captain Blakeney, who commanded C Company. Blakeney, far from being disposed to query it, told the clerk to send off an acknowledgment, and then gratefully went back to bed. Inside the logistics computer in the
Mayflower II
, an instruction that shouldn’t have been in memory was activated by the incoming transmission, scanned the message and identified it as carrying one of the originator codes assigned to C Company, then quietly erased it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Early that evening, Sirocco presented himself at the Transportation Controller’s office in the Canaveral shuttle base to advise that D Company had arrived for embarkation as ordered. Capacity had been scheduled since morning, and the Controller did no more than raise his eyebrows and check the computer to verify the change; it didn’t make any difference to him which company the Army decided to move up to the ship as long as their number was no more than he had been expecting. An hour later the company marched off the shuttle in smart order, and after clearing the docking-bay area in Vandenberg, dispersed inconspicuously to their various destinations around the
Mayflower II.
Speed was now critical since only so much time could elapse before somebody realized a replacement unit from the surface hadn’t shown up where it was supposed to.

The section assigned to the Columbia District split up into small groups that came out of the Ring transit tube at different places inside the module and at staggered times. Colman, Hanlon, and Driscoll got off with Lechat, who was dressed to obscure his appearance since he was presumably still high on Sterm’s wanted list. They rendezvoused with Carson and three others a few minutes later, then they headed via a roundabout route for the Francoise restaurant, which was situated on a public level immediately below the Government Center complex.

All entrances into the Center itself were guarded. Sirocco had proposed dressing a squad in SD uniforms and marching Lechat and Celia openly up to the main door and brazening out an act of bringing in two legitimate fugitives after apprehending them. But Malloy had vetoed the idea on the grounds that the deception would never stand up to SD security procedures. Then Lechat had suggested a less dramatic and less risky method. As a regular customer of the Franchise for many years, he was a close friend of the manager and had spent many late nights discussing politics with the staff until way after closing. They all knew Lechat, and he was sure he could rely on them. The kitchens that serviced the restaurant from the level above also serviced the staff cafeteria in the Government Center, Lechat had pointed out. There had to be service elevators, laundry chutes, garbage ducts—something that connected through from the rear of the Franchise.

The party arrived at the little-used connecting passage running behind the Franchise and its neighboring establishments, and the soldiers waited among the shadows of the surrounding entrances and stairways while Lechat tapped lightly on the rear door of the restaurant. After a few seconds the door opened and Lechat disappeared inside. Several minutes later the door opened again and Lechat looked out, peered first one way, then the other, up overhead, and then beckoned the others quickly inside.

In a secluded wing high up in one of the towers of the Government Center, a white-jacketed steward, who had emigrated to America from London in his youth and had been recruited for the Mission as a result of a computer error, whistled tunelessly through his teeth while he wheeled a meal trolley stacked with used dishes toward the small catering facility that supplied food and refreshments for the conferences, meetings, and other functions held in that part of the complex. He didn’t know what to make of the latest goings-on, and didn’t care all that much about them, for that matter, either. It was all the same to him. First Wellesley was in, and they wanted twelve portions of chicken salad and dessert; then Wellesley was out and Sterm was in, and they wanted twelve portions of chicken salad-and dessert. It didn’t make any difference to him who—

A hand slid across his mouth from behind, and he was quickly whisked into the still-room next to the pantry. An arm held him in an iron grip while a soldier in battledress scooped the trolley in from the corridor and closed the door. There were more of them in there, with a civilian. They looked mean and in no mood for fooling around.

The hand over his mouth loosened a fraction after the door was closed. “Gawd! Wot’s goin’ on? Who—?” Somebody jabbed him in the ribs. He shut up.

“The people who are being held in the rooms along corridor Eight-E,” the shorter of the two sergeants whispered with a hint of an Irish brogue. “You take their food in?” The steward gulped and nodded vigorously. “When is the evening meal due?”

“Abaht ten minutes,” the steward said. “I’m supposed ter collect it next door any time nah.” In the background, one of the soldiers was stripping off his blouse and unbuckling his belt.

“Start taking off the jacket and the vest,” the Irish sergeant ordered. “And while you’re doing it, you can tell us the routine.”

Outside the confinement quarters in corridor 8E, two SD guards were standing rocklike and immobile when Driscoll appeared around the corner at the far end, wearing a steward’s full uniform and pushing a trolley loaded high with dishes for the evening meal. Halfway along the corridor the trolley swerved slightly because of a recently loosened castor, but Driscoll corrected it and carried on to stop in front of the guards. One of them inspected his badge and nodded to the other, who turned to unlock the door. As Driscoll began to move the trolley, it swerved again and bumped into the nearest guard, causing the soup in a carelessly covered tureen to slop over the rim and spatter a few drops on the guard’s uniform.

“Oh, Christ!” Driscoll began fussing with a napkin to clean it off, in the process managing to trail a corner of it through the soup and brush it against the hem of the second guard’s jacket as he turned back from the door.

Driscoll moaned miserably and started dabbing it off, but was shoved away roughly. “Get off, you clumsy asshole,” the guard growled. Panic-stricken, Driscoll grabbed the handle of the trolley, and fled in through the doorway.

Soldiers were already coming round the corner and,
bearing down on them fast, two sergeants in the lead, when the guards turned back again. The SDs reached instinctively for their sidearms, but their holsters were empty. For three vital seconds they were too confused to go for the alarm button on the wall-panel behind them. Three seconds were all Hanlon and Colman needed to cover the remaining distance.

Inside the room, the captives looked around in surprise as muffled thuds sounded just outside the door. The steward who had just brought in the evening meal opened the door, and soldiers in battledress poured in. Wellesley gasped as he saw Lechat with them. “Paul!” he exclaimed. “Where have you been hiding? You’re the only one they didn’t pick up. What—”

Lechat cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Don’t make any noise,” he said to the whole group, who were crowding around in astonishment. “Everything is okay.” He signaled Borftein over with another wave of his hand. Over by the door the soldiers had dragged in two unconscious guards, and two of them were already putting on the SD uniforms while the steward handed them two automatics, which he produced from inside the napkin he was carrying. “There isn’t a lot of time,” Lechat advised Wellesley and Borftein. “We have to get you downstairs and into the Communications Center. Now listen, and I’ll give you a quick rundown on the situation . . .”

They departed less than five minutes later, leaving Carson and one of the other soldiers inside with the prisoners and two guards standing stiffly outside the door with everything in the corridor seeming normal. Hanlon took Wellesley, Borftein, and Lechat to a storeroom near the Communications Center where they could remain out of sight. Colman followed Driscoll to a machinery compartment on the lowermost level where an emergency bulkhead door, unguarded but sealed from the outside and protected by alarm circuits, led through to the motor room of an elevator bank in the civic offices adjoining the Government Center. Colman traced, checked, and neutralized the alarms. Then he double-checked what he had done, and nodded to Driscoll, who was waiting by the door; Driscoll opened the latches and swung the door outward while Colman held his breath. The alarms remained inactive. Sirocco was waiting on the other side with Bernard Fallows, who was wearing engineer’s coveralls and carrying a toolbox.

“Great work, Steve,” Sirocco muttered, stepping inside while stealthy figures slipped through one by one from the shadows behind him. “How did the Amazing Driscoll go over?”

“His best performance ever. Everything okay out there?”

“It seems to be. How about Borftein and Wellesley?” Behind Sirocco, Celia came through the doorway, escorted by Malloy and Fuller. Stanislau was behind, carrying a field compack.

Colman nodded. “Gone to the storeroom with Hanlon and Lechat. Everything was quiet upstairs when we left.”

Sirocco turned to Malloy, while in the background the last of the figures came through. “Okay, you know where to go. Hanlon should be there now with the others.” Malloy nodded. “We’ll make a soldier out of you yet,” Sirocco said to Celia. “You’re doing fine. Almost there now.” Celia returned a thin smile but said nothing. She moved away with the others toward the far side of the compartment. Meanwhile Stanislau had set up the compack and was already calling up codes onto the screen. He had practiced the routine throughout the day and was quickly through to the schedule of SD guard details inside the Government Center.