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Chapter Thirty-Five

Makarov’s voice was tentative. “I have received a request for an update on mission status, sir.”

Murphy tried not to sound annoyed. “Who from?”

“Primus Anseker. Private channel.”

Oh, well that’s okay. At least when Anseker read, heard, or saw something that concerned him, he also presumed that there was a good reason for it, rather than the opposite. Similarly, if there was some issue that needed resolving, it was a straightforward discussion. Not like when Murphy had to manage a passel of easily alarmed, dominion-obsessed patriarchs with egos bigger than all of space. “Tell Anseker what you told me, Pete: that Major Bowden reports the insertion is in process and on schedule. No emergency signals from the assault team, so they are presumed to be at nominal readiness.”

Makarov stared quizzically at him. “Sir, that would seem to imply that you have now received Chalmers’s final ‘go’ signal?”

“Yes, it arrived a few hours ago on Timmy’s shift.”

“He should have left a note.” Makarov sounded more sullen than angry. “So may I tell the Primus that Chalmers’s team has fashioned a plan for securing access and that you are comfortable with it?”

Murphy didn’t catch his temper in time. “Pete, did you suffer an undiscovered concussion when the training exercise went south? We always knew we weren’t going to have the bandwidth to get a full update, and I’m not about to start lighting up comm arrays when we should be as silent as a tomb.” He raised a hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry, Pete. Not your doing. Look, you remember we were never going to hear much about Chalmers’s final plan, right?”

“I do, but you have obviously heard a bit more of his intents than I have.”

“True, but it was so vague that if I relayed it to the Primae, they’d all lay eggs. Even Anseker.”

“Because of the risk?”

“No, because there wasn’t enough concrete information to even quantify the risk. And we’re not going to tell him that because it’s not a change from the operational parameters as we agreed upon them. Reassessing risk is a sleeping dog that we’re going to let lie until, and if, we learn anything that changes our very wobbly best guesses.”

Makarov nodded tightly. “Yes, sir. Sending reply now.” After a moment, he turned back. “Sir, I understand your precaution in communicating with the Primae…but I wonder if I could ask you the same question on a personal level: given what you know of Chalmers’s plan—are you comfortable with it?”

“I am.”

“Despite Chalmers?”

“Despite Chalmers. Or maybe because of him.”

“He does seem to have a gift for…for underhanded actions, sir.” Makarov’s tone was at once admiring and disapproving.

“Maybe,” Murphy said almost defensively, “but this time, he’s using that gift for the right reasons.” Murphy glanced at the mission board and adjacent map. “Can’t ask a man for more than that.”


“Papers,” the guard said.

“Right here,” Chalmers said, handing the folio over. The requested paperwork was sweat-damp, but Chalmers wasn’t worried—at least not about sweaty papers. That was easily explained by the absence of air-conditioning for the truck’s passenger cab. The short-haul trucks were built on the cheap, and driver comfort was not a concern for the island’s overlords, so the cab was still sweltering hot, even in the third hour after sunsdown, and even though the cargo container he was hauling was one of the rare refrigerated models. Couldn’t have rations bound for the survey team go bad, now could we?

Even so, he missed his partner’s reassuring presence at his side. But Jackson had other work tonight.

The guard took the papers and rifled through them in desultory fashion. The new sergeant remained in the shack beside the gate, his feet up.

Chalmers relaxed fractionally. The bribes they’d been paying were meant to ensure just this kind of laissez-faire attitude from the guards for Twin Stars trucks, but only when transporting their various cargoes to warehouses, not when moving supplies necessary for a surveyor crew.

“Supplies for flight 1517B?” the guard asked after a moment.

“So I’m told,” Chalmers said. He gestured over his shoulder at the cargo container. “Where do I drop it?”

“Hangar sixteen, last but two on the left.”

“Right,” Chalmers said. That was good. Sixteen was the proper hangar. They hadn’t been sure of that prior to launching this phase of BUCKET. So that part, at least, was according to plan.

The guard motioned at the shack. A moment later the gate dropped.

“Go ahead.”

Chalmers put the truck in gear and drove slowly over the gate. He watched in his side mirrors as a hydraulic ram pushed the heavy metal plates upward from below the road surface. Once shoved almost vertical, the plates formed an inverted V that was too tall for a man to climb and tough enough to stop any truck on the island cold. Mopping his sweaty brow with the shoulder of his shirt, he picked his canteen up from the seat next to him and took a long pull. Setting the warm can of water down, he pulled his watch from his breast pocket and did the math. Five hours, fifty-five minutes to dawn. Three hours, twenty-three minutes to launch prep.

Jackson would be starting the show any minute now. Chalmers stuffed the watch back in his pocket. Wearing it was out of character. He relied on a mental countdown instead, hoping he wouldn’t reach zero.

Chalmers killed the engine as he passed hangar fourteen. The truck rolled to a quiet stop a bit short of hangar 16’s doors. He listened carefully before stepping down from the cab. He pulled a sap from beneath the driver’s seat and slipped it into his back pocket. Bypassing the massive hangar doors, he went to the much smaller personnel door near the corner of the building and listened again. Nothing. He tried the door. It opened under his hand.

A man sat at a desk with his back to Chalmers and his feet up. He was breathing deeply, just on the edge of snoring. Chalmers recognized him and stifled a sigh of relief. Supply Officer First Class Justhines was up to his eyeballs in debt, having invested everything he had—including loans from a number of creditors—in purchasing cargo from the various brokerages.

Chalmers grinned and waited. Standing in the open doorway let him enjoy the momentary and slight artificial breeze released from the office as the cold air fled across the threshold to join the heat outside.

The dull thud of the explosion from just outside the wire made Chalmers flinch even though he’d been fully anticipating it. He heaved a relieved sigh. He’d had thirty-five left on his mental countdown.

The supply officer started awake, jumping to his feet.

“What th—”

“A fire! Over at the warehouses!” Chalmers said, standing in the doorway and pointing toward the fireball climbing into the sky.

“What?” Justhines said, face contorting as his sleepy mind tried to catch up with what was happening. The supply officer joined Chalmers at the door. His face went white with dread, but he didn’t move.

Not wanting to resort to the sap if he didn’t have to, Chalmers played it up. “Never thought I’d be so glad to be a simple wage slave. Those that invested too much in cargoes’ll lose everything if that fire spreads much more.”

That did it. Justhines rushed back into the office and grabbed his duty belt. Buckling it on, he went to the inner door, threw it open, and shouted at the men working in the hangar proper, “You men, grab firefighting gear and meet me out front!”

The pair of cargo technicians working inside leapt to do their officer’s bidding.

“What should I do?” Chalmers asked.

“Wait here!”

“But the shipment…” Chalmers said, hiking a thumb over his shoulder and, in the process, positioning himself to block the door if he had to.

“Right, right.” The supply officer yanked the receiver from the cradle and put it to his ear. He started snapping orders into it a moment later.

Chalmers sweated in the doorway. He could see the fire was spreading, but he wasn’t really paying attention. Instead, he strained to hear what the officer was saying.

“Looks like it started in the Fangat warehouses,” he said into a lull in the phone conversation. “But now it’s spreading to the others, too.”

“Wha—I don’t bloody care what your sergeant says!” the supply officer screamed into the phone. “We have a schedule to keep to, and I’m the duty officer. Get your men into firefighting gear and down to the warehouses—now!” He listened for a moment, then snapped, “I’ll be there shortly, and I want everyone turned out to fight this fire.” Something said to him made the officer look at Chalmers. He turned away. Despite the officer’s attempt at quiet, Chalmers still heard him lower his voice and say, “Of course no locals. One of them might have started the damned fire, you idiot!”

He slammed the phone down.

Chalmers turned and raised a questioning brow. “What do I do?”

The officer looked him up and down, then came to the only decision the plan allowed for. “You’ll just have to stay inside the wire for the duration of the emergency.”

Chalmers frowned, said grudgingly, “Can I give you and your men a ride?”

“No, someone’s coming for us. Get out of my way.” He shouldered Chalmers aside and went out the door just as one of their smaller military vehicles, the Kulsian equivalent of a World War II Jeep, rolled up between the truck and the hangar. He looked over his shoulder as he jumped into the open-topped vehicle. Two men hustled out of the main hangar door, leaving it open behind them. They were moving slowly, firefighting gear weighing them down. One of the hangar doors was left ajar as they climbed in behind the driver and their officer.

“I’ll bring her in, then?” Chalmers said.

The supply officer nodded. “And get that cargo aboard the lighter!”

“On my own?” Chalmers whined, hoping he wasn’t laying it on too thick.

“Yes. That’s why we trained you on the lift system! Oh, and get the truck out of there once you’re done.”

“I’ll just sleep in it out here if you aren’t back.”

“Good. Have it done before I get back, and I’ll drop you a few extra coins as well as put in the good word for your brokerage.”

“Oh, thank you!” Chalmers called as the vehicle roared away. As it did, he couldn’t keep a feral grin from his lips.

Not that he tried too hard.


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