The sergeant of the headquarters section handed her a Koegelmann machine-carbine. Half the commando was armed with them or pump-action shotguns rather than rifles, for close-in firepower. She slapped a flat disk drum on top of the weapon and ran the sling through the epaulet strap on her right shoulder so that it would hang with the pistol grip ready to hand.
“Right,” she said in a voice just loud enough to carry. “This is what we’ve all been training for. We’re the first in, because we’re the best. It looks like the Imperials are sitting with their thumbs up their butts . . . but once we land, even they’ll realize what’s going on. Remember the training: hit hard, hold hard, and by this time tomorrow Corona will belong to the Chosen. Corona, and then the Empire. Then the world. And for a thousand years, they’ll remember that we struck the first blow.”
A short growl rippled over the watching faces, not quite a cheer; the sort of sound a pack of dires would make, closing in on a eland herd. The company and platoon leaders grouped around her as she knelt.
“No clouds, not much wind, unlimited visibility,” she told them. “And no last-minute screwups from Intelligence, either.”
“Meaning either everything’s as per, or the reports were totally fucked in the first place and nobody’s found out better,” Fedrika Blummer said.
“Exactly. Fedrika, remember, don’t get tied up in the scrimmage. Get those Haagens set up on the perimeter, or the Imperials will swamp us before the main force arrives. Kurt, Mikel, Wilhelm, all of you remember this—we’re going to be heavily outnumbered. The only way we can pull this off is if we hit so hard and so fast they never suspect what’s coming down. Go through them like grass through a goose and don’t leave anyone standing.”
“Ya,” Wilhelm Termot said. The others nodded.
“Let’s do it, then.”
* * *
Jeffrey Farr dumped the papers in the cast-iron bathtub and sprinkled them with lamp oil. He flicked a match on his thumb and dropped it onto the surface. The mass of documents flared up in a gout of orange flame and black smoke and a coarse acrid smell. He retreated from the bathroom into the bedroom.
Jeffrey began throwing things into a satchel—his camera, spare ammunition for his revolver—and checked the bathroom. It was full of smoke, but the papers were burning nicely. They held the details of the network he’d been setting up here in Corona—but Center was the perfect recording device, and one that couldn’t be tapped. For that matter, he’d carefully refrained from memorizing them himself. What he didn’t know he couldn’t tell, and Center could always furnish him with the details. It put need-to-know in a whole different category. He waited until the tub held nothing but flaky ash, then quenched it with a jug of water from the basin before he jogged up to the flat roof of the apartment building. It was four stories tall, and the roof was set with chairs and planters; nothing but the best in this neighborhood.
He got out the heavier pair of binoculars and focused on the dirigible. It was close now, slowing. Heading for Fort Calucci at the outer arm of the military harbor, from the looks of it.
What in the hell are they going to try there? he thought. That was HQ for the whole Corona Military District.
an assault with air-transported troops, Center said. probability 78%, ±3. observe:
—and troops in gray Land uniforms slid down ropes on to the roof of the HQ complex—
Looks like it, Raj said. The bastardos have nerve, I’ll grant them that.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered a moment later.
What’s the matter? John’s voice.
“Lucretzia,” he said.
Well—
“I know, I know, she’s not the girl you bring home to mother—but she’s down by the portside.”
the legation would be the lowest-risk area for temporary relocation, Center hinted.
“Yeah, but I’ve got to do something about her,” Jeffrey said. “It’s personal, and besides, she’s a good contact.”
Good luck, John said.
And watch your back, lad, Raj added.
* * *
The fabric of the Sieg groaned and shivered with a low-toned roar.