Ричард Бейкер - Valiant Dust

“You don’t have much room to talk, Mr. Randall,” Captain Markham said, turning her attention to the operations officer. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you egged on Braun with that innocent little question about fixing the Tanjeer accords.”

Randall grimaced. “Guilty as charged, ma’am. I was curious about what sort of rationale the Dremish might employ, so I took the liberty of performing a little experiment.”

The shuttle’s induction drive hummed, and Panther ’s hangar deck gently rotated out of Sikander’s view. The pilot smoothly accelerated through the open bay door, climbing up and away from the Dremish cruiser to rendezvous with Hector in its higher orbit. “Remind me to put you both on watch when the Dremish come over,” said Captain Markham. “Clearly neither of you is fit for company.”

“When will we have them over, ma’am?” Sublieutenant Larkin asked.

“Let’s give it a week or so,” Markham decided. “In the meantime, I think it would be good to offer a show of support to the Montréalais. I suspect we’re going to wind up backing their position, not the Dremish demands. I’d like to show Captain Harper and his XO that we’re on friendly terms with the Republic, regardless of what they might think of it.”

“Shall I arrange a social occasion with Ambassador Nguyen?” Randall asked, now serious again.

“Please do,” the captain replied.

15

Tanjeer, Gadira II

For the first time since the shootdown of her uncle’s luxury flyer, Ranya el-Nasir’s leg did not ache. She’d been on her feet all day, and in odd moments she noticed that it wasn’t sore at all—a testament to the effectiveness of Montréalais medicine and the care lavished upon her since her injury. On the other hand, her temper was rapidly fraying. For all the study and effort she’d put in over the seven years since her father’s assassination, too many of the sultan’s officers treated her as a child playing with things beyond her years, and it positively infuriated her.

At this moment, the object of her anger was Major Louis Cheney of the Republic Marines. She’d called over to the Montréalais embassy first thing in the morning to speak with him, only to discover that he was already in the palace, meeting with the sultan’s military advisors. Naturally, none of them had thought to advise her that any important discussions might be taking place. Ranya could almost understand that from her own countrymen; they simply didn’t think of including her in anything resembling strategy discussions or operational planning. But she’d hoped that the Montréalais—especially Major Cheney, after the lesson she’d imparted a few weeks ago while examining the grav tank on the parade ground—would have figured out by now that she needed to be included in any conversations about the ways and means of supporting the sultan’s military establishment. She’d had to wait until the private meeting broke up, then send Tarek Zakur to fetch Cheney before he left the palace grounds.

She waited in the Sultana’s Conservatory, a room that she often used for meetings and discussions with visitors to the palace. Since Sultana Yasmin avoided long stays at El-Badi, the room was pretty much hers to use when she liked. Its outer wall consisted of sliding glass doors in a decorative iron framework, leading out to the well-shaded eastern gardens. The morning sun helped to warm the room swiftly, but the shade trees kept it from getting unpleasantly hot before the sun moved to the other side of the palace. Ranya could keep the whole outer wall opened up for most of the day, listening to the birdsong and the sounds of the fountains outside as she worked.

Footsteps echoing on the marble floors caught her attention. She closed the documents and reports in front of her, and turned to face the parlor’s door. After two soft knocks, Captain Zakur entered with the Montréalais major Cheney in tow. “Major Cheney, Amira,” he said.

The major crossed the room and bowed. “Good afternoon, Amira,” he said. “I was just leaving the palace when Captain Zakur summoned me. What can I do for you?”

“Major, I was hoping you could help me solve a little mystery,” Ranya began. She glanced at her dataslate to check the numbers. “As best I can tell, our Royal Guard took delivery of one hundred and twenty-two Léopard grav tanks three weeks ago. But when Tarek checked on the depot where our new Léopards are supposed to be refitting for desert service and our troops are supposed to be training with their new machines, they weren’t there. It turns out that they were deployed out to our field commanders already, and they’re now scattered over half the planet, chasing Caidists. Is that correct?”

Cheney stood easily with his hands clasped behind his back. “Yes, Amira. The grav tanks have already been deployed.”

“I thought we had agreed that Montréal would furnish training programs and desert-ops modifications for these grav tanks.”

“Yes, Amira,” Major Cheney said. “We did. We sent a training cadre to the depot at Nador, along with sufficient mod kits to ready all the Léopards for Gadiran operations.”

“The training course is supposed to be six weeks long, isn’t it? And our planning anticipated that it would take about the same time to complete the mods, didn’t it?”

“That is correct, Amira.”

“So, why in the world were these grav tanks put into immediate operation without the proper training or equipment?” Ranya glanced again at her dataslate. “I see that we’ve already had eighteen of our new Léopards immobilized due to mechanical failures. More are failing every day. Did you even bother to apply some desert camouflage, or are they still painted in the parade-ground colors I saw a couple of months ago?”

Major Cheney looked uncomfortable. “Amira, the decision was made to provide the crews with an abbreviated training course so that the new grav tanks could be employed in the sultan’s current offensive against the Caidist strongholds. Only essential refits—mostly additional dust filters for the fuel and ventilation systems—were carried out.”

“Who made that decision?”

“I think it was General Mirza, although the sultan’s military council concurred.” Cheney frowned. “I advised against rushing the Léopards into service, Amira Ranya. Your uncle’s officers thought that operational demands required their immediate availability.”

Ranya glanced over to Tarek Zakur, standing by the door. The Royal Guard officer gave her the tiniest of shrugs, reminding her that it was not Major Cheney’s idea to dispense with training and maintenance in order to rush grav tanks to battlefields where they weren’t needed. Over the last few years she had managed to establish some basic oversight of purchasing and logistics, the elements of military readiness that Gadiran generals found boring. But gaining any kind of access to operational decisions remained out of her reach, thanks to her gender. As a result, she had to find out that the sultan’s new tanks had been rushed into the field by quizzing the Montréalais who had provided them to the Royal Guard.

It is not Major Cheney’s fault, she told herself. And she could hardly blame him for acceding to the demands of Gadiran generals, even when they were being foolish. The Montréalais were certainly aware of the fact that Dremish and Aquilan warships were orbiting a few thousand kilometers above the sultan’s domain, and that if they didn’t give the sultan’s generals what they asked for, somebody else might. She consciously set aside her anger, and took a deep breath. She would take it up with a more appropriate target later on.

“Very well, so the grav tanks have been deployed,” she said in a calm voice. “What can we expect as a result of inadequate training and desert readiness?”