He tied the other end of the line to the top bar of the safety railing that surrounded the observation platform, and stepped back.

“Good,” she said. She stooped then, knees bent, and took Darwin’s body under the armpits. “Get his feet.”

Murchison obeyed. He didn’t need to be told anything further—they both rose, lifting Darwin’s body up with them, and the change of direction in her gaze was enough. They held Darwin between them, raised him shoulder-high to clear the railing, and threw him over. The line paid out, whistling, and snapped taut.

“No one sells out the Wolves and lives to spend the money they got for it,” said Anastasia Kerensky.

“No one.”

She stood at the rail, her back to her assembled Warriors, staring fixedly out to sea and gripping the rail in her bloodstained hands. There was a long silence. The Warriors were waiting for her order to disperse, and she wasn’t saying anything.

Then Murchison saw her eyes widen. She was looking at something now, not gazing blankly out at the landward horizon. He followed her gaze.

A dot. No, two dots, moving rapidly and growing larger, one of them following the other. Aircraft.

Anastasia Kerensky spoke. Her voice had a different tone to it now, the snap of action rather than the measured beat of judgment. “How many birds do we have up on patrol? Anybody?”

“One, Galaxy Commander,” a voice replied out of the watching crowd.

“Then we have been found. Pass the word to the VTOL pilot: Weapons free, eliminate pursuit if possible.” She swung away from the railing to face the assembled Wolves. “For a little while, we still have the element of surprise. Prepare to lift the DropShips and attack.”

30

South of Benderville

Oilfields Coast

Northwind

February 3134; dry season

Brigadier General Griffin’s task force continued southward in the reported direction of the Steel Wolf VTOL. The day continued eerily quiet, with nothing to look at but the sea and the grassy sand hills and the cloud of dust thrown up by the reconnaissance column. Despite the apparent calm, Griffin’s muscles were tight with worry and the need for action. He wanted to be fighting something, releasing his tension by putting the Koshi through moves designed to cause death and destruction, rather than continuing his steady pace forward while he listened to the running reports from Balacs One and Two.

“Command, this is Balac One. Our Wolf is definitely making for that oil rig. Balac Two is on his tail.”

Griffin keyed on the circuit. “Balac One, this is Command. Does the Wolf know Balac Two is on him?”

“That appears to be a negative… no. Damn. He’s putting on speed.”

“Command, this is Balac One. I’ve been spotted.”

“Stay with him, Balac One,” Griffin ordered. Thoughts passed through his head in a rush. There was a slim chance that the unidentified VTOL belonged to Balfour-Douglas—coming back from a supply run, maybe, or responding to a medical emergency—and that this was a false alarm. “Hail him and request identification.”

Even as he gave the order, he admitted to himself that he didn’t believe in the VTOL’s innocence. But learning that Anastasia Kerensky had possession of an offshore oil rig still wouldn’t give him an answer to the main question—where in hell were the Steel Wolves hiding their DropShips?

He raised his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Jones, on the command circuit. “Owain.”

“Sir?”

“Send a message to the CO back at Fort Barrett: ‘Possible enemy base sighted. Recommend you put all local forces on high alert.’ Put my name and codes on it; you know the drill.”

“Yes, sir.”

There. That was covered. Griffin went back to waiting and listening. The sweat that ran down his back and shoulders was not all from sitting in a ’Mech’s cockpit in the noonday heat.

The radio crackled. “Command, this is Balac One. The Wolf is not responding to hails.”

“Keep on him, Balac One. Balac Two, do you still have both units on visual?”

“That’s affirmative,” came the distant, tinny voice of the pilot of the second Balac. “The Wolf is still on course for the oil rig—no, wait, he’s turning.”

“Command, this is Balac One—the Wolf’s doubling back on me. Permission to engage?”

“Permission granted, Balac One.” Balacs mounted a single heavy machine gun and a pair of Advanced Tactical Missile three-packs. The armament loadout wasn’t meant for prolonged engagements—Balacs were cavalry, not artillery, meant to strike hard and get out fast—but this encounter wasn’t likely to be prolonged. “Balac Two, can you see what’s going on?”

“Affirmative, sir. Balac One is firing—it’s a clean miss—the Wolf is holding fire and maintaining course and speed toward Balac One—Balac One’s firing again. The Wolf’s hit!—but he’s still coming, he’s letting go with all his missiles at once, and Balac One’s been hit… Balac One is down… Permission to close the distance and engage, sir?”

Balac Two sounded hungry for action, wanting it badly—the pilot of Balac One had probably been a friend. Griffin knew how he felt. The knowledge wasn’t going to help.

“Permission denied, Balac Two—they have to know by now that we’re on to them. Turn around and get back here as fast as you can.”

“Yes, sir. Balac Two returning t—” The voice transmission ended in a burst of earsplitting cacophony.

“Balac Two?” Griffin tried the circuit again. “Balac Two?”

Nothing came through in response except the painful noise of fried or jammed comms. Resigned, already knowing in his heart what would happen, he tried first the command circuit—“Owain? Lieutenant Jones?”—and the general circuit, without success. “Damn.”

At least everybody can see me, he thought, and raised the Koshi’s massive arm in the visual signal for the column to halt. Then, moving stiffly—it had been a long tense morning and the day wasn’t over yet—he unstrapped from the cockpit’s command seat, stashed the neurohelmet, and made his way out and down the exit ladder to the sandy ground outside.

The stiff breeze chilled him at the same time as it blew white sand against his sweat-slicked arms and torso, coating him with a fine layer of grit. Lieutenant Jones was already waiting for him with water—over a gallon of it, in a collapsible plastic jug. Griffin poured half of the tepid water over his head, neck, and arms, and began drinking the rest in long, thirsty swallows.

Jones said, “The bastards jammed us. Sir.”

“I know,” Griffin said, between pulls at the water jug. “At least it eliminates any doubt that these are the Wolves we’re dealing with.”

“Orders?”

“Keep the troops on alert, make ready to head back to Fort Barrett on my word. We don’t have what it takes to winkle Anastasia Kerensky out of an offshore hideout, but they do. And keep trying the comms; whatever trick the Wolves played isn’t going to last forever.”

After that, there was nothing to do for a while except drink more of the water and wait for Balac Two to make its appearance. Griffin knew that the column couldn’t remain halted indefinitely. At some point—and this was what the Regiment paid people like him for—he would have to make the call, decide that Balac Two had joined Balac One in the deep water off the Oilfields Coast, and march back north leaving what remained of the Balacs and their pilots behind.

Thinking about it later—but not much later—Griffin realized that Balac Two had made good time on the return flight. He’d barely begun to consider the various worst-case scenarios before the VTOL came screaming down into a cloud-of-dust landing on the dirt road ahead of the recon column.

The Balac’s cockpit opened and the pilot climbed out. General Griffin and Lieutenant Jones hurried to join him.