Worlds away from the Kashkin, Anders focuses on his duties

This is in part a sequel to And to You Your Wassail, and features the same characters--moreau dropship pilot Anders and his human copilot Emily Multani. In summary, Anders--stationed on Tycho--flies an ambassador to a summit in a storm. The ambassador, Enadun Rualishad, is the Kashkin's representative to one of the other countries on Tycho; Anders struggles between loyalty to his CODA comrades and feeling like he should belong to the Kashkin. In the end he decides to stay with CODA.

This chapter continues a theme in this novel, which is to shift the focus away from the Kashkin (and in some cases away from moreaus) to see how things are progressing elsewhere in the Alliance. It is contemporary with the events of the rest of the story; it is also one of very few action-heavy chapters. Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

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Crucible, by Rob Baird. Part 9

Aboard the LCS Tassafaronga
CODA Task Force Whiskey 7-2, in orbit over Tycho
26.11.2560

Sergeant Multani, his human copilot, sometimes made fun of Anders for being “overprotective." She teased the husky; asked him if he was actually a guard dog. This time, though, she nodded carefully at everything he said. Tycho's Galton Nationalist Movement wasn't especially well-equipped or well-trained, but when they had the advantage of terrain and local knowledge…

That was why the whole 61st Spaceborne Battalion was dropping for what promised to be an easy operation: informants gave them the location of a GNM supply base, and there probably weren't more than a hundred defenders there… but the rocky desert had been thoroughly tunneled, the walls were confusing to airborne sensors, and the GNM could move with impunity.

So every marine in the battalion would be needed to close the trap. His own 2nd Platoon, A Company was on point for the drop; its commander had—teasingly—blamed Anders for that. She'd paid for the dropship to be upgraded with the two weapons pods on either side of its angular hull. And that, in turn, increased the threat level CODA felt the platoon could handle.

“They probably won't shoot," Multani worked through her thoughts out loud. “And if they do have Longbows on the outbound vector, the Kestrels ought to get 'em."

“Ought to." They'd definitely encountered plenty of man-portable missiles in skirmishes with the rebels. Rumors on the LCS Tassafaronga had been spreading that the Galtonian's sponsors were providing them with heavier weapons—the Longbow, a military-grade hoverdyne with longer range and sharper teeth, included.

Battalion intel stressed the lack of solid evidence for armored vehicles in the Galton Movement's inventory. At the same time, a flight of F/A-206 Kestrels tasked specifically to take out any air defenses was covering the operation, so someone took the rumors seriously. Multani did, too: “Should I be ready to switch programs on the egress?"

Anders stared at the tactical map, which defied easy answers. “No," he decided, finally. “Either we depend on the suppression package, or we don't. But if I were the gnomes, I'd definitely have at least a few MANPADS on that route. Keep the countermeasure pod programmed for them."

The decision got him another careful nod. According to the mission plan, they were allowed to depart the landing zone as soon as their marines were deployed. Privately, though, the platoon lieutenant confessed her worries about being left without fire support. And—he did have some of the 'guard dog' about him—the pilot wasn't going to let that happen.

Neither was Multani, which was why she hadn't protested when he said they'd stay circling the AO until the operation was over and they had permission to return to the ship. If their fighter cover did its job at taking out the rebels' air defense systems, that would be fine. If, though: a lot of things could go wrong.

And despite the weapons pods, they'd be going in less well-armed than the husky wanted. The rockets were inert—needed for weight distribution, but CODA hadn't authorized them to carry live warheads, which were expensive—and they had only a pair of missiles on each of two racks designed for a full dozen.

So it went. “Mr. Anders?" One of the flight crew had appeared outside the cockpit, holding a computer for him to take.

The husky did so, and waved Multani along with him. It was time for their final pre-flight checks, inspecting all the bits of the Peregrine that could go wrong when it was burning off nine kilometers per second of delta-v in the most aggressive way possible.

Heavy footsteps drew his attention: Lieutenant Frazee, nearly in full armor save for the helmet beneath her right arm. He straightened to attention; relaxed at her immediate nod. “We'll have her green-slipped in a few minutes, ma'am."

“Good. It's always nice to see you packing, too. Final confirmation from OOC just came in: it's a go. Olmec is already on station."

'Olmec' was the callsign for Colonel Wade, the 61st's commanding officer. If her command ship was deployed, and the Orbital Operations Center was keeping tabs, the mission was a certainty—but why hadn't they been told? “Then—"

General quarters, general quarters. All hands to battle stations. There it was. Set condition one for flight operations. This is not a drill. Anders and Frazee listened to the rest impassively: they were already at their stations. Twenty-two minutes to the next launch window.

“Don't let me keep you, Mr. Anders."

Sergeant McNelly, the crew chief, arrived just after he'd finished his walkaround with Multani. “No surprises, right? Everything checks out."

“You do good work," Anders said. “I trust you. Thanks for getting the rockets fitted, too. Where's Walden?"

Corporal Walden, McNelly's assistant, was the newest member of Frazee's platoon and still getting acquainted with the Peregrine. “Fetching us sandwiches. You know they're going to have us wait to drop, Mr. Anders."

“Maybe. Probably." Probably, yes.

He let Emily explain the mission update to McNelly, and Walden when he arrived, and went to hand in his report to the chief of the flight deck. She took it with only a nod. There were two companies aboard the Tassafaronga, each with four dropships and a fifth Peregrine specially configured for command and control. Readying all ten for launch was a precision operation, demanding all her focus. And she trusted him, the way he trusted McNelly.

Who proved to be right: the marines took their seats, and he started the Peregrine with Multani, and then they waited as the launch window drew nearer and nearer. Ten minutes before launch, and one of the ships was still waiting to be given permission for its own startup.

Two minutes out, and the radio was still dead—nothing but the perfunctory report from the deck crew that they were still clear of all obstacles. “T-minus thirty," his copilot reported. “Maybe the gnomes packed it in."

“Maybe." He waited; watched. “Go time."

Nothing. “Plus sixty," Multani said, in the tense silence.

Anders rubbed his fingers together nervously. Too much was being done haphazardly for the dog's comfort. “When do we call it? I want to call it by five minutes."

“So do I." The radio stayed quiet. “Plus ninety."

But, finally, the platoon's commanders handed down their sentence. “Launch release confirmed. Stand by." Two and a half minutes later than the mission plan called for, the Tassafaronga's launch system swung their dropship out and into space. “514, are you go for launch?"

Would it matter if I said 'no'? “514. Go for launch," the husky said. It would have mattered—sort of. It would've mattered in that A Company would land a platoon short until the next orbit, and who knew what that time would cost them?

Sergeant Multani had the updated profile ready for him the instant their autopilot relinquished control to the husky. He growled, and heard her snorted laugh in reply. He was the only moreau in the platoon, and Emily had been encouraging him to feel more comfortable with his—as CODA put it— other-than-human tendencies. Growling was more than appropriate, given the situation.

“We launched a bit late," she explained over the intercom. “So the descent will be rougher than normal. We're gonna have to suspend in-flight meal service. Flight attendants, please remain seated for landing."

“Refund," one of the marines demanded. “I want to speak to your manager."

“Yeah? Well, I want to speak to your manager."

“Speaking." Lieutenant Frazee obliged. “We have an important connection to make, you know."

“And we'll do everything in our power to get you to your destination in safety and comfort," Multani promised. Another marine: you said that last time. A third: mom, this vacation sucks.

With the Peregrine aligned on its proper trajectory, and Anders able to reassure himself that the numbers were still safe for their deorbiting maneuver, the husky began to relax. “Don't make me turn the dropship around."

Frazee again: “You can do that?"

The dropship was already 'around,' with Tycho above them and the Tassafaronga beneath their belly. Their main engines could be fired at full power downwards, giving the impression of steady if somewhat magnified gravity for the crew and passengers. With their delayed launch, they needed every bit of thrust to make the planned drop area.

If they were going to make their planned drop area. He didn't envy the other pilots, each of them considering the game theory of their own descent—scrubbing it on one's own initiative was different if any of your comrades had been willing to commit. Multani finally called it: “Final picture."

“Bastards," Anders grumbled quietly, on the cockpit-only channel. They were supposed to have been given a final tactical update with enough time to safely abort their descent. That was still technically possible, but definitely not without inconvenience and possibly not without damaging the Peregrine. “And?"

“No changes. The suppression group was fifteen minutes ahead of us. No assessment yet."

“514, control. Confirm your descent state."

Fucking hell. No, what would they say in Rukhat? Yassuja—that was a good general-purpose Rukhat oath. Fucking hell worked better, he thought. “514, ready," Anders checked in. Thirty seconds later, the Peregrine's temperature sensors began climbing; another thirty, and the radio went dead.

“Leading three is high."

Leading-edge temperature sensors two and four were also about to raise an alarm; they were sixty degrees hotter than normal, and 'normal' for the Peregrine was already 1800 degrees. “Is it going to screw with your cooling cycle?"

“Let me worry about that, boss," his copilot reassured him.

At their speed, and the stress on the Peregrine's airframe, any failure would end them immediately. If the rebels had missiles capable of reaching high enough, and if the suppression package hadn't done its job, nobody'd really have the chance to do anything about it.

But he didn't like being blind, and he was happy when they reached the stage in their descent where the temperature readings started to drop again. Forty kilometers over their drop zone, intermittent telemetry began reappearing on the head-up display. “Ready," Multani said.

“Don't hold back on my account."

She flipped the cooling system on, and the rest of their systems came back to life. “Cycle complete. All systems go. UDL and comms are online."

“514, cleared entry." Their controller on the Tassafaronga acknowledged him briskly; ordered them to switch over to the operational commander's net. “Olmec, this is Lancer 2. We are two minutes from the drop zone. Over."

“Lancer 2, proceed as ordered. Your area looks clear. Out."

“Nothing from the Kestrels, I'm guessing?"

“Not yet. No targets," Multani suggested hopefully.

“Right. Well. Let's hope our luck holds." He called over the intercom: “One minute to commit. Say state." Frazee confirmed a few seconds later that her platoon was ready. Looks clear or no, Anders felt the usual sense of tension, flying the last bit of the profile. The other dropships in the company, he saw, had all decided to commit. That's something. “Thirty seconds. Ten."

He flipped the ship right-side up, and firewalled the throttles to brake their descent. Five. Four. Three. Two. One—the doors opened automatically when their downward velocity fell to zero, and explosive bolts activated to kick the marines out and away from the Peregrine, which was now beginning to gain altitude again.

“Report?"

“Good launch. Hatches are closed, pressure's stable, and… scope still has no hostiles. Amos 2 is on the ground." Frazee herself confirmed Multani's summary on the company net shortly afterwards.

“Let's do this, then," Anders decided, and called the company commander. “Lancer 2 to Amos. We'd like to stay in the AO, if it's all the same to you." He'd noted that in the mission profile, but in the rush to launch permission had never been explicitly given for the fuel consumption and the added risk to the ship.

“Lancer 2, roger that. What's your threat picture, over?"

“Amos, Lancer 2. We have no signals right now from direct and nothing on the last orbital round. Over." Multani, who'd kept her eyes fixed on the sensor displays, gave him a silent thumbs-up when she heard his report to confirm that nothing had changed in the last ten seconds.

“Understood. Maintain position at your discretion, then. Stay alert. Out."

At their altitude and speed, Anders figured he had only two or three seconds, at most, to react to a missile launch. If there were any missiles to be on the lookout for, that was to say; they'd yet to receive a damage assessment from the task force on the suppression mission.

He had no choice but to stay alert, glancing over at Multani every time the sergeant so much as twitched. It didn't help that she was the one monitoring Frazee's channel, and therefore the one who'd know first if anything went wrong. Emily noticed quickly, holding up her hand to reassure him. Calm down. Easier said than done, but for the first part of the mission everything proceeded according to plan.

“Amos 2-9, go ahead." Emily tensed at whatever she heard, and focused her attention on her displays. “Understood, 2-9. Wait out." She took a little bit longer to gather her intelligence, and looked to Anders. “Probable contacts from C&S. It's about five kilometers ahead of them. I'm not sure what, though. Could be ranging pings, maybe?"

Anders checked the terrain map, plotting their possible approach in his head. “Do they want help?"

“They haven't asked. Should we offer?" The husky nodded, and adjusted course before the request officially came in—Frazee wouldn't turn down the suggestion, he knew. She was cautious. “Right. 2-6 says we should take a look, if we don't mind."

“I'll give you two orbits to see what you can. If you don't tell me otherwise, we'll dive on it, check it out, and come off to the northwest. Make sense?"

“Makes sense," Multani agreed. The orbits confirmed that there was something—but not what, and not whether it might be hostile.

So it was time to live dangerously. Anders pushed the Peregrine over, with its nose pointed right at the signals. Waiting. Watching. They swept over a rough-hewn, rocky valley; he hadn't seen anything, but he throttled up on the climbout, just in case.

“Hey, boss." Sergent McNelly called in from the Peregrine's port weapons station. “Somebody just popped off a couple dozen rounds in our direction. Don't know what. Light, though."

“Lancer 2. We're taking ground fire, just north of waypoint 'Tanager,'" Anders reported, and looked at his copilot. “Well?"

“Light," she agreed. “Not even 20-millimeter—14, I think. And maybe unguided, too. Or we broke the lock, but I can't see an angle where that makes sense. It just looks like they were tracking, for a bit. Maybe they realized who we were?"

“It's nice to be recognized. We're not exactly celebrities."

“No."

The husky spared a few seconds to review the trajectory analysis, trying to think of what the soldiers on the ground would've seen. When they would've decided to open fire. Why they would've decided, for that matter. “Fourteen?" he asked.

“That's what the computer says, based on analyzing the arc."

On reflection it occurred to Anders that, while a common antipersonnel weapon, 14mm rounds were a poor choice when facing down a Peregrine. “Like an M1220, then—locked us up and started shooting before anyone could stop them. They're protecting that approach."

“Hmm." Multani's lips pursed while she stared at her screen. “Amos 2, this is Lancer 2. I think what just fired at us was a sentry turret."

Lieutenant Frazee signaled her understanding, and then passed her concerns along to the operational commander. The implication, to Anders, was that the rebel base was nothing but a distraction—or, at least, it was no longer the primary objective. Unmonitored sentry guns meant most of their enemy was elsewhere.

His copilot announced a new transmission: an update to the mission plan, straight from Olmec, speaking for their battalion commander. She, too, had concluded that the GNM no longer held their depot with anything but a skeleton crew; most of them were escaping, and there were just two possible routes they could take.

Between the options, the colonel—and Anders, privately—concluded only one of those was plausible. Lieutenant Frazee's platoon, in a position to cut off the GNM's escape, now had the task of doing so, holding out if attacked until B Company could link up with them. If: Anders saw Multani shake her head gently at the word.

“Amos 2-6 actual to Lancer 2." Frazee called in on the platoon net barely a minute after the colonel signed off. “Did you copy our new orders?"

“Affirmative, 2-6. We're still anchored and in good shape. What's the plan?"

“Well, we drew the short ATAQ straw. Considering why, I want to use that to our advantage. Can you reposition to orbit, ah, maybe twenty klicks off to our south? You should be able to see what's going on, but if you stay quiet, we might bait them into thinking we're an easy mark and let you handle the rest."

Technically speaking, it was no particular difficulty. He tried to think of a diplomatic way of phrasing the complication. “Roger, 2-6. We'll make that work. But, ah, advise you check the support package. Over."

“Wait out, Lancer 2." He did, patiently; it didn't take very long for Frazee to have seen what he meant: their rocket pods were useless. “Right. Maybe stay a bit closer, then."

CODA's espatier, in particular, depended on ATAQ—the Aggregate Threat Appropriateness Quotient—to decide how heavily they could commit. An upgraded Peregrine, with high-precision sensors and the ability to provide fire support, dramatically increased the ATAQ of Frazee's platoon.

Disproportionately so, in this case, because the Peregrine was far more lightly armed than it could have been. He followed Frazee's request to orbit closer, and kept them in a tight circle with his eyes peeled on the ground.

He would not see anything; it wasn't even his job to see anything. Multani would be the one making sure he knew if a threat emerged. But just in case, he watched, ears twitching with every crackle over his radio. Amos 2-6 to Olmec. Possible contacts just to our north, please advise, over.

A moment later, Multani stiffened; listened carefully. “Lancer 2, understood. They, ah… they've got a sensor anomaly they want double-checked. The trees east of that dirt road. Their visibility's not good."

“Who saw it?"

“Just hints from their C&S. Can you give me another two hundred meters?"

Collection and Synthesis specialists were all geniuses, as far as the husky was concerned—their job entailed real-time signals analysis, under fire, in a threat environment that changed by the second. If the platoon's C&S guru thought something was amiss, it probably was. He brought them up to a new altitude, where his copilot could get a better look.

Multani swore under her breath. “We're being jammed, but they've got hostiles in the area. Be ready when I get it cleared up to—yeah. Problem, Anders. Two hundred-plus thermal contacts—most of 'em decoys, but—"

Frazee called in to the operational commander, and for the next minute Anders split his attention between that conversation and Multani's attempt to get a better idea of what the platoon would be up against. His computer flashed: they were copied on a situation report from Colonel Wade to the orbiting task force.

1640R 26.11.2560 61Bn (“OLMEC") mission progress good. ACo engaged, holding position to 100+ EN2620. BCo to reinforce ASAP (1700R). CCo/DCo out of contact at secondary objective. ACo likely interdicted primary objective. Expect new intel next orbit.

'Mission progress good' and 'engaged, holding position' were doing a lot of work in the brief report. Their platoon had been given only a short period of time to dig in, and Sergeant Multani described the incoming fire as 'intense.' Lieutenant Frazee called for assistance, although Anders felt his options were limited.

“What do they have? Vehicles, or just infantry?"

“Hoverdynes. They're moving cargo, right? Maybe some armored cars, too."

“We have two pairs of missiles," he reminded Multani. “Pick your four favorites?"

“I don't have enough information for favorites."

Anders was getting edgy, with the dropship so distant from the engagement. “Like their Zodiac sign, or what?"

“Like I can't be sure which ones are even real and which are ghosts yet."

“Would it help if we tried to flush them out?" Multani met his gaze, and shrugged. “Is the fire controller dialed in? I'm switching to the rockets."

“It's dialed in," she confirmed. “But it's worth noting that the rockets are, uh—"

“Inert. You know that. I know that. They don't."

She pursed her lips and blew a short sigh. “Okay. I'm ready for active ranging whenever."

He backed the dropship off until they had a clear path along the rebel line of approach. The rockets themselves were unguided, but the pods had a small degree of articulation. It would have to be enough. “Two paths. One up either side of the road. Can you do that?"

It only took her a few seconds, and the firing solution appeared as a pair of red, hatched lines projected in his visor and framing the road. “You're salvoing everything?"

“Only going to fool them once."

“Programmed," she told him. “You're good to go."

The husky nodded, banked towards the road, and nudged the nose over for the steep descent that angled them in the direction of his prey. A timer began counting down between the two lines. He watched it, tightened his paw on the control stick…

He brought them out of the dive, pushed the throttles to their limit, and waited two more seconds until the firing solutions turned green. His finger on the trigger was instinctive. No matter that the weapons were all but useless, and the warheads nothing but ballast.

Because it did the trick. Faced with the Peregrine bearing down on them at full speed, rocket pods ablaze, the GNM militiamen took instinctive cover. Weapons spent, Anders guided them out of retaliatory range, clearing the treetops on the far ride with a hundred meters to spare.

Multani had her left hand raised, thumb up. “Seven. Seven contacts. This is what panicking gets you."

“Do you have favorites now?"

“I do, I think."

“Lancer 2, this is Amos 2-6. We're taking fire from, ah… our direct north, UDL spotlight Alpha-2-Echo. You think you could shut that down? Over."

Anders looked in that direction reflexively, zoomed in with his visor until he could see what Multani was looking at even as she reported back. “It's a pair of armored cars. Heavy weapons on the top, both active. We could take 'em out. No problem."

Not, in any case, by the laws of physics. The rules of engagement were a different matter entirely. “Olmec, this is Lancer 2. Amos 2 is requesting support against two vehicles. Are we authorized for missiles? Over."

“Lancer, do you have visual on those targets?"

Anders double-checked, just to be sure, but Multani was right—their cannon barrels were hot in his thermal vision. “Affirmative. I have a clear shot on both of them, and they're currently directing fire towards my platoon. Over."

Whoever spoke for Colonel Wade didn't hesitate. “Cleared to engage, Lancer. Out."

“Set it up," he ordered.

“Take us east, then a hard left turn and you'll have a clear shot on both of them." He started the turn at once as Multani checked in with Frazee. “Amos 2-6, we're inbound. From the south, 6-0 seconds." He wondered if the rebels, perhaps, had decided they were wise to the Peregrine's lack of fangs.

Their mistake: Anders brought the Peregrine over, with Multani's target markers straight ahead of him. “In hot."

His copilot waited until they'd cleared the last of some frustrating trees. “Good profile on both vehicles. Locked on. Fire."

He squeezed the trigger. “Rifle." The targeting cue jumped automatically; flashed green again. “Rifle." Nobody shot back, but he twisted them into an evasive maneuver anyway, sinking back below the horizon as Multani followed the two missiles' progress.

“Good hits on both targets. At least mobility kills."

But.

Before he could set them up for another pass the rebels had drawn close enough that it was no longer safe to assume he could keep from hitting Lieutenant Frazee's platoon. And they were outnumbered. And reinforcements were half an hour away. The platoon's position was tenuous.

“We need to buy time," Anders said.

“Agreed. How?"

“I'm going to take us in. Close enough we can suppress the infantry, at least, with the gun pods. Tell if things get too hot, okay?"

Multani paused a long few seconds before replying. “Okay."

But he heard her coordinating with their lieutenant, and with Sergeant McNelly, the crew chief who had the most experience with the gun pods. He moved to the port side, which was also where Anders sat. As he brought the Peregrine lower, the husky stared at the road, and the bursts of intermittent light like flashbulbs as their enemy traded fire with the harried platoon.

'Close enough' to hit anything with the minigun meant 'close enough' for the rebels to shoot back. Anders had to trust that between Multani, the platoon on the ground, and McNelly they'd be able to take any threats out before they became serious. Still, he—

“Break right! Break right!"

Anders jerked the Peregrine over and nosed for the ground as Multani switched every countermeasure on at once. He craned his head, catching sight of the newly tagged threat—a few kilometers up the road, separate from the main body of rebel infantry—just as it disappeared in an abrupt burst of fire, and the alarms silenced. “What…"

“That was a Longbow."

“ Was."

“Yeah. I'm not sure what happened to its launch vehicle."

“Olmec to all units. Be advised that Tachi 4 is now on station with two Kestrels providing suppression of air defenses." The voice on the radio sounded, in Anders opinion, at least mildly irritated.

“Oh. Hey. There's the Kestrels." Multani sounded irritated too. “Do they say 'better late than never' in dog?"

“I'm sure I could find something to fit."

More importantly, with their trump card at once revealed and dispensed with, the fight had gone out of the Galtonians. Lieutenant Frazee reported that they were pulling back, and when 'pulling back' brought them into contact with Bravo Company's timely appearance they surrendered without any further mess.

“Are we ready to head back?"

Multani held up her hand: wait. “Yes. But, uh, by ourselves. They've got almost ninety prisoners. They'll have to sit tight until they can be relieved. We'll probably—hold on." Someone must've been talking to her. “Understood, Amos. No problem. Lancer 2, out."

“Well?"

“Lieutenant Frazee says to thank you for bailing her out. And to contact orbital. They're staying put, so we might as well recover."

'Bailing her out.' He had the keen sense that they could've done more, or been more aggressive. The platoon had taken casualties, he learned on the ascent: not life-threatening, but it was only a minor blessing. Your guard dog instinct, Multani would say, if he vocalized the thought.

So he didn't. Back aboard the Tassafaronga, as they started work on a debrief, he said nothing when her summary was: “routine, I guess."

“Mostly. The Longbow, though."

“True. We're definitely calling out orbital for dropping the ball on those Kestrels, right? Where the hell did they come from?"

Anders grunted. “Well, they did their job when it counted…"

“Sure, but Wade didn't know. You heard how pissed Captain Tipton sounded?"

“That was Tipton on the radio?" Joe Tipton was all but unflappable. “Wouldn't have wanted to be in the C3 bird if that was filtered down to us. Yeah, let's find a… diplomatic way to ask how LOC forgot to tell anyone our Fleet boys showed up."

“Diplomatic, huh? Gonna ask your friend?"

The husky rolled his eyes. “That would be too diplomatic. I do wish to convey our, uh… unhappiness. Are we sure that was a Longbow? I didn't get a good peek."

“The search radar sure looked like it. We're having too much fun. Like you and those rockets," Multani added, grinning across the table at him. “The LT thinks it bought our platoon a little more time to dig in, and it scared up the gnomes' hoverdynes, so…"

“Worth it."

“Yeah. I'll—what'd you say? Find a 'diplomatic way' to explain why you fired a hundred and thirty dummy rockets into the dirt."

McNelly, who'd just entered the room, caught only the end of it. “Did you know that, though? I thought I told you they were duds."

“I knew, sergeant."

“You didn't trust me?" He was smiling too, though.

“I trusted you. Just… maybe you threw a live round or two in for me as a surprise. A treat." He saw Multani mouth: he likes those out of the corner of his eye. “Hey."

“Weird definition, anyway, if you ask me. Like pointing me at a hundred angry gnomes and telling me to have at it." McNelly took the can of soda he'd come for, and sighed heavily. “I need a new line of work…"

“He loves it," Multani assured Anders, when the hatch had closed again. “Okay. If they've got Longbows, we need to reexamine the AMAC programming before the next drop."

“Yeah…"

One more thing to worry about, when the time came to it. They kept working, going over every step of the operation that had—despite everything—gone fairly well. A new arrival interrupted them: one of the flight deck crew, apparently impressed into service: “Hey, Anders? Major Kinsey wants to see you immediately."

“The XO?" He sighed. “Thanks for letting me know."

“If it's a medal, see if I can get one, too," Sergeant Multani said.

But it would not be a medal. It would be, he knew, some no-win scenario or another. Probably the rockets: someone in the bureaucracy was already upset that he'd launched with inert weapons; somebody else was upset that he'd fired them without direct approval from anybody higher than Lieutenant Frazee. Maybe even both complaints at the same time, from the same person.

As the husky approached Major Kinsey's office, though, he heard raised voices. —when it was convenient before, did you? The answer came from Lieutenant Commander Sherman, their political liaison officer aboard the Landing Carrier Ship: it's just that it introduces an unstable element to a critical situation, major.

The hell it does. Anders frowned, straightened his uniform, and knocked gently at the door. “Come," Kinsey demanded.

He stepped inside. “Reporting as ordered, sir."

“At ease. Commander? No, somehow I didn't think so," Major Kinsey said, when Sherman remained silent. “Apparently you're rather close to an Ambassador Rualishad, here on Tycho?"

Kinsey's pronunciation was a bit off, but more than comprehensible. “Not 'apparently,' sir. Personnel is aware and the disclosure forms are in my file. Is something the matter, sir?"

“You're grounded until further notice, Mr. Anders. That's nothing personal, just… guidance from task-force command."

His ears splayed, and he fumbled for words. “Uh. Sir, as I said, ah—Personnel is—"

Major Kinsey picked a computer from his desk, holding it towards Anders with a sharp snap of his wrist. “Passed to the sector ecclesia from the BBKI two hours ago, Mr. Anders."

At midnight, our request to the Jericho Administrative Board concerning the demilitarization of the Arkadiensee Economic Zone expired without response from the Board. Accordingly, we must regretfully take action commensurate with the state of hostilities that now exists between Kashkin, the Board, and the Board's local allies. We intend all necessary measures to conclude such hostilities on terms ensuring the safety and well-being of the Commonwealth and its citizens.

We must stress with utmost sincerity the absence of any desire to expand or escalate these measures to nations and peoples who do not seek to injure us or aid our foes. Neutral traffic and citizens of neutral powers will enjoy the continued respect of their neutrality so long as it is maintained. We request you convey this to any such entity lacking in formal diplomatic relations with our country, so they may take any appropriate precautions.

Ambassador Rualishad's signature ended the note. Anders felt the unsteadiness of his hold on the computer. “What are… 'necessary measures'?"

“I don't know. CODA has no representative on the planet. Everything comes through 'neutral powers,' and we're trying to find back-channels we can use to talk to Geruda—they have a training operation there. But all indications are that a massive, coordinated attack is underway."

“The Alliance Congress will be meeting shortly," Sherman continued. “Until we know what the reaction will be, it seems prudent that you… that you be kept from any scenario that might… put you in a position of conflict."

“Conflict," Anders echoed.

“An appropriate precaution."

Major Kinsey took the computer back. “ An, Commander Sherman. An appropriate precaution."

“Yes. What did you think I said?"

Kinsey didn't answer Sherman directly; he looked, instead, straight towards the husky. “You're dismissed, Mr. Anders."