“Possibly. I don’t know. It would certainly throw the Komani into confusion, at least temporarily. Perhaps then they might be willing to talk about peace….”
Merdon changed the subject then, and the conference droned on for another fruitless hour. No decision was reached. The Terrans and Shinarians would continue to fight as they had been fighting for more than six weeks. • The war of attrition would go on.
In the passageway outside the wardroom, Merdon grasped Sergeant Mclntyre’s arm and asked, “Can we talk for a moment?”
The sergeant nodded, and the two of them walked slowly down the passageway. Mclntyre loomed bulkily next to the slim Shinarian youth.
“What do you think about the chances of getting to Okatar?” Merdon asked in a half-whisper.
Mclntyre shrugged. “It’s a big camp—hard t’ get ,into. And even harder t’ get out of.”
“Listen,” Merdon whispered, suddenly intense, “I know every blade of grass in the camp. I can get six men through the guards and into Okatar’s tent. I’ve been planning this for weeks, and I know it can be done!”
The sergeant rubbed his massive jaw. “How d’ you get ’em away afterwards?”
“Jetbelts.”
“Might work.”
“I need six men trained in silent night fighting.”
“Five, countin’ me/’ said Sergeant Mclntyre.
Three nights later, they made their try.
Mclntyre had recruited five Marines, including Giradaux. The lanky young trooper had sensed that the sergeant was up to something, and had forced Mclntyre to take him along, as the price of silence.
A driving rainstorm had blown up from the south, predicted by the Terran meteorologists. Merdon was counting on the storm to provide a cover of darkness against the usual twilight glow of the Shinarian night.