The Republic’s legation in Corona was not far from the liner docks; most of its business was linked to the maritime trade. The highway up from the corniche was mostly empty now, except for a couple of craters and gasfires. Unfortunately, one of the craters occupied the site of the legation. From the looks of it, at least two or three six-hundred-kilo bombs had landed around it in a tight group. Nothing was left but shattered pieces of the limestone blocks which had made up the walls.
Christ.
His mind felt numb. Everyone he’d worked with for the past year was probably in there—most of them at least. The consul lived there, with his family. Captain Suthers. Andy Milson . . .
The instructors were right. Masonry doesn’t have much resistance to blast damage.
“Christ,” he said aloud.
He looked over at Lucretzia. She was looking at him.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Telegraph center under control, Captain,” the runner said.
Gerta nodded. The troops assigned to that task included several who could duplicate the “fist” of the Imperial Navy signalmen.
She dabbed at the wound on her cheek with the back of her hand. Not serious, just a slice from a grenade fragment—you had to follow on quickly, to catch the opposition while they were still stunned from the blast. She’d been a little too quick, that was all. It just stung a little, no real damage, not worth taking time to bandage.
A deep breath. The Imperial commandant’s office—he was an admiral, technically—was a segment of a wedge, one level down from the top of the tower. A window was dogged shut; the shutter was a half-meter of armorplate, but it was still a silly thing to do, weakening the structural integrity of the building that way. There was a fine Union rug, an ornate desk with several telephones—Imperial technology didn’t run to efficient exchanges yet—and a smaller desk for the admiral’s aide. He sprawled backward over it, most of his face missing and his brains leaking over the edge in a gelatinous puddle. The thin harsh smell of the new nitro powder was heavy in the room, under the stink of death.
Two signalers were working at the locking wheel of the window. They got it open, sliding it back like a pie-wedge of steel, and set up a heliograph.
“Send phases one and two completed on schedule,” Gerta said.
A telephone rang, three sharp clatters. She picked it up.
“Yes, Vice-Admiral del’Gaspari,” she said, holding a neckerchief over the pickup and pitching her voice low. With luck, her soprano would come across as a bad connection. “Admiral del’Fanfani will be here shortly. Speak louder, please, I cannot—” She pushed the receiver down. It began to ring again immediately.
Her Imperial was good enough, at least, complete with Ciano upper-class accent. But she hoped—ah.
The admiral came through the door, hands bound behind him; he was a tall thin man, balding, with white walrus mustaches. His eyes were fixed and blank, the stare of a man who is rejecting all the input his senses deliver. Behind him was a short fat woman, and a dark slim girl in her mid-teens. His wife and daughter; she recognized them from the files. Half a dozen troopers followed them.
“Sir. Commandant’s quarters are secure.”
Gerta nodded. The whole complex was in Chosen hands now. She looked at her watch. Twenty-seven minutes from start to finish. Amazing; it had actually gone better than planned. She’d expected it to take an hour at least.
“Good work, Sergeant.” Then, more sharply: “Admiral del’Fanfani.”
The old man straightened and blinked. “What is the meaning of this?” he said. “I demand—”
Gerta gestured. A trooper slammed the butt of his rifle home over the Imperial officer’s kidneys; not too hard, but the man collapsed forward, his mouth working. The Chosen commandos hauled him upward. She stepped closer.
“It is necessary that you cooperate with us,” she said. Or at least be useful. Nothing vital depended on it, but it would be handy. “You will speak as I direct.”
The admiral drew himself up. “Never!” he said hoarsely.
Gerta shrugged. One of the ones holding the Imperial drew her knife and raise her eyebrows.