“Based on analysis of captured Khalian structures,” Kowacs said, “Intelligence believes the building is an integral polyborate casting, probably of two above-ground levels—”
“That high and the weasels only got two floors?” demanded a sergeant from the Heavy Weapons platoon. She was concerned, not gibing like Dodd earlier. “Them little bastards, they like low ceilings.”
“Good point, Sergeant Rozelle,” Kowacs said, as if he liked to be interrupted . . . but soldiers who were too dumb to think for themselves were too dumb to trust with your life in a reaction company. “Intelligence believes the building is scaled to the needs of human—slave—intake. But there aren’t any windows, and there may well be a third level inside.”
Kowacs cleared his throat. Before any of the half dozen Marines poised with further questions could interrupt again, he continued, “The walls and roof are rigid enough to withstand considerable stress, but they’re apt to shatter once their integrity is breached. Intelligence believes that strip charges will hole them and that plasma bolts should crumble sections large enough for easy entry.”
Almost the entire complement of the 121st was veteran. Even the scattering of newbies were aware that Fleet Intelligence believed a lot of things—but all Fleet Intelligence knew for sure was that no analyst’s butt was going to be on the line if his belief were false.
“The admin building is separated from the camp proper by double fences with a fifteen meters between them,” Kowacs continued as the hologram of the building froze and that of the fenced area brightened in turn. “The intermediate separation is believed to be mined and is swept by automatic weapons sited on the building’s roof coping. The fence may be electrified.”
Marines nodded, easy in the knowledge that barriers impassible to a bunch of unarmed civilians were going to be a piece of cake to them.
The forty-eight buildings splayed like a double row of spokes around the hub of the admin building, twelve and thirty-six, brightened as the hologram fence dimmed.
“Beyond that are the slave pens and workshops themselves,” Kowacs said.
Just for a moment he paused, his mouth half open—prepared speech interrupted by memories of Khalians and slaves. . . . Memories of his father and mother, dead on Gravely, and his sister’s body left behind two weeks later on LaFarge when the same raider landed to replenish its stock.
Its larder.
“Intelligence doesn’t even guess at the structure within the compound,” Kowacs forced his tongue to continue, though it was several moments more before his eyes were focusing again on the Marines. They were draped over folded bunks and the equipment crated to deploy with them. Some of them looked back at their captain with vacant expressions that Kowacs knew must mirror his of a moment before.
“There may be guards in the barracks, there may not,” he continued thickly, damning the emotion that clogged his throat and made him less able to do his job—
Of erasing every living weasel from the universe.
“If there are guards, they probably don’t have weapons; but most of you know an unarmed Khalian can still be a dangerous opponent.”
“It’s still a fucking pelt, too,” growled someone from a corner of the bay.
“Yeah, it’s that too,” Kowacs said in a voice with an edge. “And any Marine taking trophies while there’s still a job to do, I’ll take his ears myself. Do you understand?”
The newbies thought that was a threat. The veterans knew it was a promise.
Kowacs took a deep breath and, fully in control of himself and the situation again, continued as the hologram changed, “The outer perimeter is a double fence again, but with guard towers on the exterior.”
The tower images glowed like strung jewels.
“Most of them are automatic weapons,” Kowacs said without expression, “but there are rapid-firing plasma guns—”
Six of the jewels stood out from the rest.
“—for anti-vehicle defense; and there are a pair of missile batteries. Ship-killers.”
“Fuckin’ A,” said Dodd. He wasn’t interrupting, just vocalizing what all the Marines in the bay were thinking right now.
Kowacs included.
“Sir?” asked Sergeant Atwater of Third Platoon, a black Terran who was in line for a slot in the Officer Training Unit. “What forces are being committed to this assault?”