The captain bared his teeth at the disrespect. “How do we get there? We have a warrant . . .”
The orderly started walking again. He spoke quietly. “Turn around, MP. Quickly. And keep walking, until you get to your little truck. And then piss off. You go in there saying you’ve got a warrant for Major Fitz and you’re not going to come back. Not even on a stretcher.”
“If I don’t get to you first,” said a second orderly, darkly.
“We should let ’em go and talk to Ariel,” said the man on the stretcher, waving a tourniquetted stump at the horrified MP.
Even the rest of the wounded laughed like hell.
* * *
General Cartup-Kreutzler was an angry, frustrated, underslept man. No matter how he tried he was not going to manage to hush this up. That stiff-backed major had said that the general could do his damnedest. Far from taking action against his guards, the major was going to reward them. It was their duty to arrest anyone who wasn’t in possession of an ID card, even if they were an unrecognized drunk and disorderly general.
And on top of that the general knew his wife would be incandescent. Besides the Queen Ann chair . . . he and Daisy hadn’t cleared up. He wasn’t looking forward to going home. Her family had the money.
Then General Blutin barged into his office without even a knock. Cartup-Kreutzler’s supposed superior was normally cowed in his presence. At power games in the channels of influence, Cartup-Kreutzler had a substantial edge.
But not now. General Blutin slapped the newspaper down onto the desk. “Just what is the MEANING of this, Kreutzler? You’re supposed to keep me informed! I’ve just made a complete fool of myself denying this to three newspapers. And here it is, complete with photographs!”
The banner headline read first victory! above a high-res satellite pic showing a column of dust and several obvious explosions, against the background of spiral scorpiary walls. Cartup-Kreutzler read on. The subheading was “Big push succeeds thanks to Commandos!”
Then his eyes hit on the first three words of the article and blurred . . .
Major Conrad Fitzhugh . . .
His head hurt.
. . . leading the attack . . . hero . . .
General Blutin leaned over his desk, spraying him with spittle. “I want a full explanation. All the details. On my desk within half an hour. Do you hear me? How dare you do this without even notifying me? How dare you?”
The worm had finally turned. “Can I keep the newspaper?” Cartup-Kreutzler asked timidly.
“No! Get your own.” The general stormed out past Daisy’s empty desk.
General Cartup-Kreutzler sat silent. Captain Hargreaves would get back in a few minutes. He reached for the crystal whiskey decanter. It was rather low. He poured himself a good three fingers with a shaking hand, and knocked it back. Then he paused, the nearly empty glass still at his lips.
He sniffed.
Rat-urine has a characteristic odor.
* * *
Well, you could call it fighting. Some of the Magh’ they encountered were warrior-types. But stupid, stupid, stupid! They’d only fight if you came too close.
The paratroopers had landed unopposed on the central dome. They’d regrouped and blown their way through into the scorpiary. There, on the upper tier of circles around the tower, they’d started hitting Magh’ of all types. The Magh’ were wandering around, aimlessly. Van Klomp soon figured out that all the paratroopers had to do was stay out of their way. The question was—where were the paratroopers going, exactly? There were plenty of signs that someone had been giving the Magh’ hell. But where were they?
Then they heard the singing. A piece had been knocked out of the central tower’s upper wall. And the sound of voices uplifted in joyous song could be heard . . .
“Shaid me Jolly tinker we’ll have another round! Oh indeed she did! Yas indeed she did . . .”
It wasn’t tuneful.
It wasn’t Magh’, either.
“Let’s see if we can get a rope across there, Corporal.”
All that practice with grappling hooks and assault courses finally paid off. They got three ropes to hook up. And they swung across, and then hand over hand, up and over.