The air lorry landed, and Merrit came to attention on the landing apron. Two of Colonel Sanders’ companions accompanied the colonel to the bunker entrance, and Merrit felt a slight spasm of surprise at the sloppiness with which they returned his salute. All of them wore MLP shoulder flashes, which should indicate they spent most of their time back at Central, and somebody who kept stumbling over senior officers should get lots of practice at saluting.
He shook the thought aside as Sanders held out his hand.
“Welcome to Santa Cruz, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Sanders’ handshake was damp and clammy, and Merrit resisted a temptation to scrub his palm on his trouser leg when the colonel released it. “I assume you know why I’m here,” Sanders went on briskly, and Merrit shook his head.
“No, sir, I’m afraid not. No one told me you were coming.”
“What?” Sanders cocked his eyebrows, but the surprise in his voice struck a false note, somehow. He shook his head. “Central was supposed to have informed you last week, Captain.”
“Informed me of what, sir?” Merrit asked politely.
“Of the policy change concerning Santa Cruz. We’ve been conducting a sector-wide cost analysis since your arrival here, Captain Merrit. Naturally, we were startled to discover the nature and extent of the Santa Cruz installations—we had no idea we’d misplaced a Bolo for eighty years, heh, heh!—but given their age and the sector’s general readiness states, it’s hard to see any point in maintaining them on active status. Frontier sectors always face tighter fiscal constraints than the core sectors, you know, so it’s been decided—purely as a cost-cutting measure, you understand—to deactivate your Bolo and reassign you.”
“A cost-cutting measure, sir?” Merrit asked. He was careful to keep his tone casual and just a bit confused, but alarm bells began to sound in the back of his brain. He’d expected Sanders to come in breathing fire and smoke over his blatant disregard for regulations, yet his initial relief at the lack of fireworks was fading fast. Sanders was babbling. He was also sweating harder than even Santa Cruz’s climate called for, and Paul Merrit had seen too much combat in his forty-one years not to have developed a survivor’s instincts. Now those instincts shouted that something was very, very wrong.
“Yes, a cost-cutting measure,” Sanders replied. “You know how expensive a Bolo is, Captain. Each of them we maintain on active duty takes its own bite out of our total maintenance funding posture, and without a threat to the planet to justify the expense, well—”
He shrugged, and Merrit nodded slowly, expression calm despite a sinking sensation as he noticed that both of Sanders’ companions were armed. Of course, the jungle had all sorts of nasty fauna, and all Santa Cruzans went armed whenever they ventured into the bush on foot, but they tended to pack weapons heavy enough to knock even lizard cats on their posteriors. These men wore standard military-issue three-millimeter needlers, efficient enough man-killers but not much use against a lizard cat or one of the pseudo-rhinos.
He let his eyes wander back over the parked air lorry, and the fact that they’d left a man behind carried its own ominous overtones. Merrit couldn’t see clearly through the lorry cab’s dirty windows, but from the way he sat hunched slightly to one side, the man in it might be aiming a weapon in the bunker’s direction. If he was, then anything precipitous on Merrit’s part was likely to have very unpleasant—and immediate—consequences.
“I’m a little confused, sir,” he said slowly.
“Confused?” the major at Sanders’ elbow sounded much brusquer than the colonel, and he glanced at his wrist chrono as he spoke. “What’s there to be confused about?”
“Well, it’s just that in eighty years, there’s never been any expense, other than the initial placement costs, of course, for this Bolo. Santa Cruz has never requested as much as a track bearing from Bolo Central Maintenance, so it’s a little hard to see how shutting down is going to save any money, Major.”
“Uh, yes. Of course.” Sanders cleared his throat, then shrugged and smiled. “It’s not just, uh, current budget or expenditures we’re thinking about, Captain. That’s why I’m here in person. Despite its age, this is an extensive installation. Reclamation could be something of a bonanza for the sector, so we’re naturally planning to salvage all we can after shutdown.”
“I see.” Merrit nodded, and his mind raced.
Whatever was happening stank to high heaven, and he didn’t like the way this Major Atwell’s hand hovered near his needler. If his suspicions had any basis in fact, the colonel’s companions had to be professionals—certainly the way they’d left a man behind in the air lorry argued that they were. The precaution might seem paranoid, but they’d had no way to be certain Merrit wouldn’t be armed himself when they arrived. He had no idea exactly what the man they’d left behind had, but it was probably something fairly drastic, because his function had to be distant fire support.
Despite the frozen lead ball in Merrit’s belly, he had to acknowledge the foresight which provided against even the unlikeliest threat from him. But if they wanted to leave that fellow back there, then the thing to do was get the other three into the bunker. The chances of one unarmed man against two—three, if Sanders had a concealed weapon of his own—barely existed, but they were even lower against four of them.
“I’m not convinced Central isn’t making a mistake, sir,” he heard himself say easily, “but I’m only a captain. I assume you’d like to at least look the depot over—make a preliminary inspection and check the logs?”
“Certainly.” Sanders sounded far more relieved than he should have, and Merrit nodded.
“If you’ll follow me, then?” he invited, and led the way into the bunker.
I have reached Hill 0709-A. I approach from the southeast, keeping its crest between myself and the possible positions I have computed for Colonel Gonzalez’ fourth detachment. Soil conditions are poor after the last week’s heavy rains, but I have allowed for the soft going in my earlier calculations of transit time to this position, and I direct additional power to my drive systems as I ascend the rear face of the hill.
I slow as I reach the top, extending only my forward sensor array above the summit. I search patiently for 2.006 seconds before I detect the power plant emissions I seek. A burst of power to my tracks sends me up onto the hilltop, broadside to the emissions signatures. My fire control radar goes active, confirming their locations, and the laser-tag simulator units built into my Hellbores pulse. The receptors aboard the Wolverines detect the pulses, and all four vehicles slow to a halt in recognition of their simulated destruction. Three point zero-zero-six-two seconds after reaching the hill’s crest, I am in motion to the southwest at 50.3 kph to intercept the next Aggressor unit.
“So much for Suarez’ company,” Gonzalez sighed as her com receipted the raucous tone that simulated the blast of radiation from ruptured power plants.
“Yeah. It’ll be coming after us next,” her gunner grunted.
“Join the Army and see the stars!” someone else sang out, and the entire crew laughed.
“. . . and this is the command center,” Merrit said, ushering Sanders, Atwell, and Deng through the hatch. “As you can see, it’s very well equipped for an installation of its age.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Sanders mopped his forehead with a handkerchief despite the air conditioning and glanced over his shoulder at Atwell. The major was looking at his chrono again, and the colonel cleared his throat. “Well, I’m sure this has been very interesting, Captain Merrit, and I look forward to a more complete tour of the facility—including the Bolo—but I really think we should go ahead and shut it down now.”
“Shut it down, sir?” Merrit widened his eyes in feigned surprise.
“That is why we came, Captain,” Atwell put in in a grating voice.
“Well, certainly,” Merrit said easily, “but I can’t shut it down immediately. It’s not here.”
“What?” Sanders gaped at him, and Merrit shrugged.
“I’m sorry, sir. I thought I mentioned it. The Bolo’s carrying out an autonomous field exercise just now. It’s not scheduled to return for another—” he glanced at the wall chronometer “—six and a half hours. Of course, I’ll be glad to shut it down then, but—”
“Shut it down now, Captain!” Atwell’s voice was no longer harsh; it held the clang of duralloy, and his hand settled on the butt of his needler. Merrit made himself appear oblivious of the gesture and turned towards the console with a shrug.
“Are you sure you really want to shut it down in place, Colonel Sanders?” he asked as he sank into the command chair. Turning his back on Atwell was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but somehow he kept his voice from betraying his tension, and his hand fell to the chair’s armrest keypad.