The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

The next boat held lumpy gear, including what Lysander thought was a sea sled. It was sent into the night. Boat after boat was loaded and sent off. Mortars and mortar bombs. Communications gear. Radar antennae. Everything went swiftly and soon the equipment was gone. Then came the soldiers. Then it was Lysander’s turn. He and Harv lay flat in the boat, and waited.

The boatman’s pole had a sort of paddle blade so that it could be used as a scull as well as to pole the boat. There was so little light that Lysander couldn’t see the boatman’s face.

He knew it would be a long way, and tried to sleep, but despite his training he couldn’t. Thoughts came and went. Pictures of himself killed, or wounded. Harv falling. Falkenberg lying bleeding on the ground. What if I’m left in charge? Lysander wondered. No chance of that, or was there?

Ursula. What would happen to her? He thought of Melissa back on Sparta. Everyone assumed they’d marry. So had he. Now he wasn’t so sure. Melissa was his friend, he could talk to her. They’d been a lot of places together, and twice they’d made love. The first time for both of them. He liked her a lot. She was easy to be with, and of course she was a full citizen. She’d be a good mother, and a good partner in government. That’s not love, he thought. And so what? What is love? Am I in love with Ursula? I want her. I want to be with her.

What would Melissa think if he brought Ursula to Sparta? Would she understand? No. Neither would his father. No, it was ridiculous. There was no place for Ursula in the palace.

And why not? Kings in history books had mistresses. But the kings of Sparta weren’t real kings, not like the old kings of France. There wasn’t any Divine Right in the Spartan constitution. The kings of Sparta didn’t have to grub for office by kissing babies, but they were supposed to be better trained, and better qualified than anyone else. Or at least as well qualified. They were also supposed to have children, legitimate children, children who would inherit positions of leadership. That way Sparta’s leaders would have a long view of things, look to the next generation and not just the next election.

And we’re supposed to be moral, whatever that means. Set an example for the people. Keeping a mistress isn’t much of an example. The Council would find out, and there’d be hell to pay. And even if the Council would accept Ursula, Melissa never would.

So? Give up Melissa. Marry Ursula. He chuckled aloud, and felt a quick pressure from Harv’s foot to remind him to be quiet.

It really was impossible. The Council would want genetic tables and family history, information Ursula probably didn’t have, and they wouldn’t be likely to approve if she did have it. Suppose they liked her ancestry? She’d still have to qualify for citizenship. Even as bright as she is, starting at her age it could take years. If she’d do it at all. No. Ursula won’t be going back to Sparta with me.

He didn’t like that thought.

Change the subject.

He could hear the water streaming past beneath the hull of the pirogue. It was pitch dark in the jungle. Dark in here, but we’re not invisible. Not to radar. Is someone looking at us right now? Falkenberg must have detection equipment. What if he does? What can we do? If they find us, they can take us. We don’t have enough people or ammunition to hold out very long.

This isn’t getting me anywhere. What is? Why am I here? Life consists of doing one’s job. Is this my job? What is? The thoughts whirled through his head until he forced them away.

* * *

“Prince.” Harv’s voice was low and urgent. “We’re here.”

It was still dark, but there was faint grey light in the clouds above. Lysander climbed out of the boat. His left leg was asleep, and he rubbed it gently.

As soon as he was off the boat, the boatman backed it away from the shore, turned, and poled upstream. In moments the boat had vanished.

“This way,” someone whispered. A shadowy figure led the way. Their footsteps squished in soft mud. Once Lysander’s boot went in above the ankle, and there was a loud sucking noise when he pulled it out. There still wasn’t enough light to see anything, only flint grey directly above the jungle canopy. Harv followed silently.

Lysander thought they’d walked half a kilometer when his guide stopped.

“Over here, sir. Under the tarp,” the trooper whispered.

Lysander knelt to feel the edge of a tarp directly in front of him. He crawled under. It was stifling hot under there. When he was all the way under he felt the ground sloping down slightly. The tiny glow of a map projector was blinding.

Falkenberg, Lieutenant Mace, and a sergeant lay under the tarp, all facing a central area where the sergeant had projected a chart.

“Sergeant Miscowsky, my aide, Cornet Prince,” Falkenberg said. His voice was low but unstrained. “Mr. Prince, you will study this chart. Sergeant—”

“Sir.” Miscowsky reached out into the holographic image. “This is the coast. We’re back inland, here. The stream we came in on is behind us. It runs south some more before it turns west into the bay.” He touched his helmet and the view changed. “OK, this is us again, coast there. The jungle ends about a klick to the west here. Then there’s just over three klicks of cleared hills, farmlands mostly, and Rochemont Manor. That sits on what passes for a big hill here, sort of a low mound. We were able to pick up lots of details on that area. Antenna farms here, and here. Some sheds here, I think they have heavy mortars under them but I can’t be sure. They went to a lot of effort to hide everything from the satellites.”

“How about the antennas?” Mace asked.

“Got a break on those, sir,” Miscowsky said. “Leastwise this set of ’em. About two hours ago, after the satellite was past maybe twenty minutes, they peeled back the roof of this shed here. This thing that looks like a grape arbor is a frame the roof slides onto. Inside are search and surveillance antennas, no question about it, they showed up good in passive IR, and they put out a strong K-band search pattern too. Good thing we was dug in good.” Miscowsky touched his helmet and the projected scene changed to a dark outline. “I got a good camera set up at the edge of the jungle, but there’s not enough light to see anything yet.”

“We have about an hour before Captain Fast starts Operation Hijack,” Falkenberg said. “Call it another ten minutes after that for Barton to find out we’re on the move. You’ll want to get your observations fast, because after that we’ll want to be dug in good. We don’t want them to suspect we’re here. Without surprise we might as well not be.”

“Yes, sir,” Mace said. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Miscowsky, tell us what you’ve done for emergency shelters.”

“Sir. We can’t dig in without them seeing us, but I figure it’s going to get thick when they do find out we’re here. Seemed to me we’ll need some shelter, so I rigged primacord around trees, here, and here. Soon as it’s sure they know we’re here, we’ll drop those trees in a box pattern. Got a couple of shells dug in just in the center of the box, they’ll help make it deeper. Not what I like, but it ought to make a storm cellar. I’ve got another crew doing the same thing over here.” He pointed again, and a second area turned red in the hologram.

“Good work,” Mace said. “Be sure all troops are warned.”

Lysander studied the red areas in the projection. “I’ll tell Middleton,” he said.

“Right,” Falkenberg said. “Pity we don’t know what they’re using to protect their guns. Sergeant, when they opened that antenna shed, did you get any estimate on what it’s made of?”

“IR signature says wood, Colonel. Maybe there’s something under it, but I don’t think it’s armor.”

“Right. Probably nothing but wood. Mr. Mace, what’s your opinion? Can we take those antennas out in the first salvo?”

“Yes, sir, I think we can.”

“Of course we don’t know where they keep their spares,” Falkenberg said. “Even so, they’ll be blind for a while. Mr. Mace, it’s your tactical command, but my recommendation is to give target priority to the antennas. Hit them, then the CP if we can find it. Then go for the guns when they start shooting at us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s assuming you don’t have a higher priority target,” Falkenberg said. He leaned closer to the holographic projection. “Show me the docking area. Thank you. What is this structure?”