That was the fucking catch, all right.
The 92nd MRC had tested A-Pot equipment on Bull’s-eye. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it got them dead. Dead wasn’t the scary part of the stories Toby English and his Marines had brought back from that operation, though. . . .
“I . . . ,” Kowacs said. ” . . . don’t know how the guys are going to react to this. Seems to me that maybe a unit that’s already got experience with—”
“Wrong, Major Kowacs,” Grant said. He didn’t shout because he didn’t have to shout. “You know exactly how you and your company are going to react. Because it’s orders, and everybody knows what happens to cowards who disobey orders in wartime.”
For a moment, Kowacs couldn’t see anything for the red film in front of his eyes. When his vision cleared, he noticed that one of the civilian’s hands had dropped out of sight behind the desk.
There was no need for that. The room’s automatic defensive system which would trip faster than a human could if somebody tried to attack the man in Admiral Teitelbaum’s chair; and anyway, Nick Kowacs wasn’t out of control, was never out of control. . . .
“As a matter of fact,” Grant said in what was almost a conciliatory tone, “the Ninety-Second was the original choice for the mission, but they’re still in transit. They’ve been switched with the back-up company. Yours.”
Kowacs swallowed. “You got the coordinates from a captured Syndicate ship?” he said, sure that he’d be told that sources and methods were none of his business. He had to change the subject, or—or else.
Grant smiled again. “From the mind of a prisoner. Before he died. The prisoner you captured on Bull’s-eye, as a matter of fact.”
“From his mind?” the Marine repeated. “How did you do that?”
“Pray you never learn, mister,” Grant said.
“Right,” said Kowacs as he got to his feet. He wondered whether his escort was still waiting outside the door. Probably. “I’ll alert the company. I assume formal briefing materials are—”
Grant nodded. “Already downloaded to the One-Twenty-First data bank,” he said. “I’ll take the lock off them immediately.”
“Right,” Kowacs repeated. He reached for the latchplate of the door, then changed his mind and turned.
“Just one thing, Mister Grant,” he said. “My Headhunters aren’t cowards. If you think they are, then come on a drop with us some day.”
“Oh, I will,” the civilian said with the same mocking, terrible smile as before. “As a matter of fact, Major Kowacs—I’m coming with you on this one.”
* * *
“Our job,” said Nick Kowacs in the personnel hold of the intrusion module, “is to—”
The high-pitched keening of a powerful laser cutter rose, drowning out his voice and thought itself.
Sergeant Bradley glanced around flat-eyed, looking for the source of the noise. It came from somewhere between the module’s double hulls. He started for a hatch, wiping his palms on his fatigues to dry the sudden rush of sweat.
Kowacs grabbed the sergeant with one hand as he put his helmet on with the other.
“Right,” Kowacs said over the general frequency. “Lids on.” He looked to see which of the new replacements needed to be nudged by their neighbors before they figured out that the rest of the briefing would be conducted by radio even though the Headhunters were all in one room together.
“Our job,” Kowacs went on, “is to capture personnel, data banks, and anything that looks like it might be navigational equipment. We aren’t going in to blow the—”
The laser shut off. A woman with commander’s collar pips on the uniform she wore under her lab coat walked into the bay with two male technical representatives, speaking among themselves in low voices. Heads turned to watch them.
Sergeant Bradley grimaced.
“—place up, we’re going in to gather information before the enemy blows it up. We’ve only got seventeen minutes. That’s one-seven minutes, period. Anybody who—”
The trio in lab coats gestured Marines away from a portion of deck and knelt down. One of the tech reps took an instrument from his pocket and placed it cup-end down on the decking. He frowned at the result; the commander growled at him.