The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“Nah, just playing safe,” the militiaman said; he looked worried, but not very. “You’d better get to your shelter station, but thanks for checking, Eddie. Give my regards to Mary.”

“No problem, sir,” the mechanic said, zipping the equipment bag and walking toward the office with a friendly wave to the nearest troops. Sweat trickled down his ribs from his armpits despite the cold, as the left-over bombs clinked in the duffle.

* * *

Legion Corporal (Headquarters Adjutant Staff) Perry Blackbird was in his last enlistment before retirement. He’d been too old to go with the Legion to New Washington. In fact he was plenty old enough to rate a desk job at headquarters, but Andy Bielskis had asked him to come along on this job. “Got a feeling on this one, Perry. Can use your nose,” Bielskis had said.

And Andy had the best nose in the Legion. Perry had watched Andy grow up in the Legion. He and Andy’s father had been sergeants together. Of course that was back in Blackbird’s drinking days, when he went up to sergeant and back down to PFC with seasonal regularity. Now with his seniority he was paid as much as a sergeant, and he didn’t have any command responsibilities, which was the way he liked it. What with Jeanine married to a farmer and Clara dead these five years, he lived alone and he’d been getting crustier and more set in his ways. “Do me good to get out,” he’d told Andy. “Hell, somebody’s got to watch out for you.”

And there was something wrong here. Perry Blackbird wasn’t sure what, but things didn’t feel right. Maybe it’s I know Major Barton is worried sick, and Andy ain’t too happy. His instructions were to nose around, see how these militia carried out procedure, watch for anything suspicious, see what he could improve.

Now he watched as the mechanic went into the office. Then he turned to the militia sergeant. “Is that standard, a civilian mechanic workin’ your motor pool?”

“Well, sure, this is a mine, not everyone is militia. Eddie’s a sorehead sometimes, but he’s all right.” The Citizen sergeant’s voice had an edge to it. Plainly he didn’t think they needed any outsiders to tell them how to operate.

“Standard procedure during an alert is nobody’s alone with a truck he ain’t going to ride in,” Blackbird said. “Don’t you do that here?”

“Well, sure, but who the hell follows procedure all the time? Never get anything done that way.”

“You like this Eddie?”

“He’s all right.”

“Trust him, do you? With the lives of your troops?”

“Sure—what are you getting at?”

“Why isn’t he militia?”

“I don’t know, never asked. What the hell do you think you’re getting at?”

“Nothing, Sarge, nothing at all. But I sure am glad it ain’t me getting into one of them trucks. Have fun, Sarge.” He touched his comm card. “Andy, I’m going into the maintenance office, I may need help. Send me a couple MPs, and maybe you better come a-running.”

He left the militiaman staring at his back.

* * *

“Captain Mace,” Barton said.

The Scout commander looked up from the plotting board. The Legion techs had set up their own battle tech system in the computer center that doubled as militia HQ. “Sir.”

Barton typed at his own console. “HAVE THEY FOUND THE BUGS IN HERE?”

“TWO.”

“THINK THATS ALL?”

“NEGATIVE.”

Aloud he said, “How long would it take to string landlines of our own between the perimeter bunkers, HQ, and the main interior points?”

“About a day, using all the men, sir,” Mace said.

“I think we should get on that as soon as this fracas is over,” Barton said.

“Sir.”

Christ I’m no goddam actor. “FIND THOSE DAMN BUGS!!!” he typed. “Meantime, collect our spare communicators, and send one to the commander’s bunkers. And the power and communications buildings.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Barton turned to the screens. The local militia had mobilized with smooth efficiency, fanning out to their duty posts. Second-line Brotherhood personnel were seeing the families and children to the Armory; an immensely strong position, dug into solid rock and surrounded by pillboxes. And I don’t like this one damned bit.

“Get me the relief column.”

Karl Olafson’s face showed, looking up from the tail of a truck set up as a command post. From somewhere outside the field of vision came an unmistakable booooom, heavy artillery in action.

“Report, Major.”

“Light resistance on the way here, sir. Mines, and snipers, a lot of them with Peltast rifles”—which had considerable antivehicle capacity—”we lost the armored car, and the mine-clearing vehicle is damaged. We had to stop and deploy several times, but we’ve pushed through to within firing range of the trapped reaction force, and with them to observe we’re shooting the rebels out of their positions.”

“Are you in ground contact?”

“I think so, at least, my forward patrols are running into them. Infantry screens.”

“Resistance?”

“They’re giving a stiff fight and then pulling back. Laying mines as they go.” The militia officer grimaced, and the mercenary nodded. That was something of a Helot trademark. “But they don’t have time to set complete nets, or equipment for air-delivered stuff.”

Odd, Barton thought. The enemy had repeatedly shown they did have some capacity in that field. Not an unlimited one, but this was a fairly important action. Certainly the largest battle in the Upper Valley so far. One of the few where the Helots had operated in battalion strength.

“And they’re keeping their mortars on the reaction force position, mostly.”

More understandable. Causing maximum Citizen casualties seemed to be a strategic aim of the enemy high command, and the pinned-down force was a concentrated, sitting target. And I still don’t like it. “All right, Major, carry on, but keep me in the loop.”

“Yes, sir. I expect to break up the enemy concentration within the next few hours, and pursue their elements as they split up and withdraw.”

Barton leaned back in the chair. That ought to be that, he thought. The screens showed orderly activity, the last of the children going down the elevators at the armory . . .

His Legion console screen lit. “SERGEANT BIELSKIS REPORTS REACTION FORCE VEHICLES MAY BE SABOTAGED. POSSIBLY BOMBS ABOARD. IT IS CONFIRMED THAT BOMBS WERE PLACED IN MOBILE RESERVE VEHICLES.”

“Jesus Christ,” Barton said.

“Sir?” Olafson said.

“Major, this computer’s showing something odd. I’ve got a terrain plot. You see that secondary road off to your left there?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Dismount your men and go investigate it.”

“Sir?”

“Now, Major. Go take a look yourself.”

“General, that will delay us—”

“Major, indulge me. It won’t take five minutes. I don’t quite know what this thing is trying to tell me, and I’d rather have you go in strength. Now get moving, please. And stay on line with me.”

Olafson reacted to the tone of command. “Yes, sir. Captain, dismount the unit, please—”

Dear God, let them get out of those trucks and I’ll buy the biggest damned Easter candle— Bloody Hell. That perimeter monitor’s repeating, I saw those rabbits move exactly the same way last time I looked. His hand reached for a button. It was 1045, exactly.

* * *

“OK, shut it down, just leave the pumps working,” the foreman said. “We’ll pop that rockface when the alert’s off.”

He had half-turned when the prybar struck him behind the ear. Then he was staring at the wet stone of the tunnel floor; there was time for a moment of surprise before something hit the back of his head. The last sound he heard was crumpling bone.

“Come on, we gotta get everything in place before 1050!” the man who had struck him hissed. The six men in hard hats and overalls began taking bricks of plastique from their carryalls. Two of them began shoving extra loads of dynamite down the holes bored into the glistening black stone of the stope-face.

“Pumps, transformers and the conveyor,” the man continued, looking nervously back over his shoulder at the long tunnel that led towards the cage of the mine’s shaft-elevator.

“Won’t nobody notice the body?” one of the workers asked.

“No way, when we pop her they’ll be boiling mud all through here.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on, we’ve only got five minutes!”

* * *

“Here, you, what’re you doing there?” the power-plant supervisor asked. “This isn’t your workstation.”

The turbine room was quiet, except for the ever-present humming of the rotors, but that was more felt than heard. He was the only one of the supervisory staff here, most of the rest were in the militia . . .

The overalled figure at the steam inlet rose and turned. Consciously the supervisor felt only surprise; drilled reflex made him draw his sidearm as he saw the man pull a machine-pistol from his carryall. Brotherhood training brought it up two-handed, crack-crack-crack and the worker was spinning away with red blotches on his clothing. Hands came around the turbine housing behind the muzzle of another submachine gun, and the supervisor dropped flat as 10mm bullets slapped through the air where his chest had been, whined off metal.