David Weber - Bolo!

Granger bared her teeth at her tactical console. She’d read Merrit’s record. The man was tough, smart, gutsy, and as good as they came, but it didn’t matter how good he was. He knew who Sanders was, so he wouldn’t be suspicious of the colonel, and he had absolutely no reason to suspect that the other “Brigade members” with his superior were professional killers. If he proved difficult, it would be a very brief difficulty.

“Assault orbit in ninety-six minutes, ma’am,” her ops officer murmured, and she nodded.

“Double-check the fire solution on the com sats. All three of those birds have to go down the instant we enter orbit.”

“I’m on it,” the ops officer grunted laconically, and Louise Granger sat back in her command chair with an evil smile.

I advance through the jungle, sweeping on an east-west arc at 30.25 kph. As ordered, I have disabled my independent link to the planetary surveillance satellites and all com channels save for that to the emergency contact unit in the maintenance depot. I am operating blind, yet I am confident that I can fulfill my mission, and the challenge is both pleasing of itself and an anodyne to my anxieties over my relationship to my Commander.

It is odd, I reflect while my Battle Center maintains a 360-degree tactical range broad-spectrum passive search, but this is the closest I have ever approached to actual combat. I am a warrior, product of eight centuries of evolution in war machine design, and I have existed for eighty-two years, four months, sixteen days, eight hours, twelve minutes, and five seconds, yet I have never seen war. I have never tested myself against the proud record and tradition of the Dinochrome Brigade. Even today’s exercises will be but games, and I sense a dichotomy within my emotions. Through my Commander and the words of poets such as Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen, I have come to appreciate the horrors of war more clearly, perhaps, even than those of my brothers who have actually seen it. I recognize its destructiveness, and the evils which must always accompany even the most just of wars. Yet I am also a Bolo, a unit of the Line. Ultimately, war is my function, the reason for my existence, and deep within me there lives an edge of regret, a longing not for the opportunity to destroy the Enemy but for the opportunity to test myself against him and prove myself worthy.

My sensors detect a faint emissions source at 075 degrees. I am operating in passive mode, with no active sensor emissions to betray my presence in reply, and the source is extremely faint, but 0.00256 seconds of signal enhancement and analysis confirm that it is the short-range air-search radar of a Wolverine heavy tank.

I ponder the implications for 1.0362 seconds. Colonel Gonzalez is a clever tactician. Logically, she, even more than I, should be operating under emissions control doctrine, for she knows her objective and needs only to slip past me undetected to attain it. It is possible that she fears I have deployed reconnaissance drones and seeks to detect and destroy them before they can report her actual deployment, but I compute a probability of 89.7003 percent that this is a deception attempt. She wishes me to detect the emissions. She has divided her force and hopes to draw me out of position against the decoy while her true striking force eludes detection.

I alter course to 172 degrees true and engage my tactical modeling program. I now have a bearing to the unit she wishes me to detect, which indicates the direction in which I should not move, and I begin construction of alternative models of her probable deployment from that base datum. In 2.75 minutes, I will, in fact, deploy my first reconnaissance drone, but first I must generate the search pattern it will pursue.

Paul Merrit grimaced as the depot sensors detected an approaching bogey, then grinned as its emissions signature registered. Esteban had done exactly as promised and delayed Sanders’ arrival for over an hour, and from that signature, he hadn’t exactly given the colonel a luxury sedan, either. The power readings were just about right for one of the old man’s air lorry melon haulers, with a maximum speed of barely five hundred kph, less than twelve percent of what Merrit’s own recon skimmer could manage.

He watched the blip’s approach, and his grin faded. Clunky transport or not, that was-at best-the Sword of Damocles out there. And however politely obstructionist he intended to be once Sanders arrived, there were appearances to preserve in the meantime.

He shrugged and keyed the com.

“Unknown aircraft, unknown aircraft. You are approaching restricted Navy airspace. Identify.”

He waited a moment, and an eyebrow quirked when he received no response. He gave them another twenty seconds, then keyed the com again.

“Unknown aircraft, you have now entered restricted airspace. Be advised this is a high-security area and that I am authorized to employ deadly force against intruders. Identify at once.”

“Bolo depot,” a voice came back at last, “this is Colonel Clifton Sanders, Dinochrome Brigade, on official business.”

“Colonel Sanders?” Merrit was rather pleased by the genuineness of the surprise he managed to put into his voice.

“That’s correct, Captain Merrit. I’m afraid this… vehicle has no visual capabilities or proper transponder, but I trust you recognize my voice?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. My present ETA is six minutes.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll be waiting.”

* * *

“Damn that old fart!” the man introduced to Esteban as Major Atwell hissed from the passenger compartment in the rear of the lorry’s cab. “We’re way behind schedule!”

“I don’t understand what your problem is,” Sanders said petulantly over his shoulder. “You heard Merrit. He doesn’t suspect a thing. Everything’s going to plan as far as I can see.”

Atwell’s lips curled in a silent snarl at the colonel’s back, but he bit off his savage retort. Sanders had been antsy enough from the moment he figured out they were going to have to kill Merrit. He’d piss himself if he even suspected the real reason for this entire operation-especially if it occurred to him that he was about to become a liability to GalCorp, as well. He had no idea his severance pay was riding in the holster on Atwell’s hip, but, by the same token, he didn’t know Matucek was scheduled to hit the planet in less than thirty minutes, either.

“Let’s just get in and get this over with,” the bogus major said finally. “The faster we get off-planet, the less exposure we’ve got.”

“All right. All right!” Sanders shrugged irritably. “I don’t know why you’re so worried. I’m the only one that old dodderer can identify by name!”

“Don’t worry, Colonel,” Atwell soothed. “We’ll take care of Esteban on the way out. No one will ever know you’ve been here, I promise.”

Clifton Sanders shivered at how easily his “associate” pronounced yet another death sentence, but he said nothing. There was nothing he could say now. All he could do was obey his orders and pray that somehow GalCorp could protect him from the consequences of carrying out its instructions.

Lorenco Esteban eased himself into one of the veranda chairs and grimaced. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that something unpleasant was in the wind for Paul, and he wished there’d been more he could do for his friend. But Paul was right. If the idiots back at Central had decided to come down on him, getting involved in it wouldn’t do Lorenco any good, either.

He tipped his chair back with a sigh. Good luck, boy, he thought. You’re a better man than that fool colonel any day.

“I’ve got a drone, ma’am!” The sensor tech in Consuela Gonzalez’ command tank bent closer to her panel. “Coming up at zero-three-zero relative, altitude three thousand, heading two-niner-seven true. Speed three hundred kph. Range… three-six point five klicks and closing!”