“Giradauxt” Mclntyre roared. “Get outta there.”
The trooper’s lean face twisted into a frown. “Sarge, if you’re in this, I want to be in on it, too. By glory, I’m a soldier, same as you.”
Mclntyre stood before the youngster, his tall, thickset form looming over Giradaux’s lanky frame. “You’re a soldier, all right, and when the wind’s behind you, you’re a bloody expedition. But this ain’t soldiering, sonny, it’s politics, and I’m gonna have enough to do without woriyin* about you. Now fall out! Move!”
Giradaux stepped out of line, his face miserable. Vorgens walked over to him.
“I don’t have time to explain,” the Watchman said, “but the sergeant is trying to do you a favor. Don’t feel disappointed.”
Without further ado, Vorgens marched his tiny contingent straight to Brigadier Aikens’ dreadnaught. The sky was beginning to turn noticeably pink. There was precious little time left.
At the main hatch, Vorgens split up his men: “You two take the communications center. You two, the engine compartment. Three of you take charge of the control center; three more, take the main turret. The remaining two will stay here at the hatch. Let no one in or out. Sergeant, you come with me.”
“You three headin’ for the control center,” Mclnfyre instructed, “make sure that all the other outside hatches are shut off.”
They clambered in through the hatch and hurried off to their assigned positions. Most of the dreadnaught’s crew were in their bunks, and only a skeleton force was on hand to oppose Vorgens’ armed men.