Into the Fire

^{CHAPTER THIRTY}

Rafe woke finally and listened to the house. Silence. Was he alone here? It took him several minutes to remember that Teague and the others were out at the base, that the Vatta house had been damaged and he was at Grace’s. His implant told him it was 1600 local time, afternoon of the same day he’d flown in from Stone Crossing. He showered, raising his eyebrows at the bruises the cattlelopes had left on him, but glad the headache had gone. Dressed in slacks and a sweater, he tucked his usual weapons into their places and padded downstairs to investigate.

He found MacRobert in the kitchen giving instructions to a pair of men in uniform. MacRobert looked up sharply, then nodded at Rafe. “I was thinking we should call a physician, Ser Dunbarger.” Formality in front of the guard; MacRobert had been calling him Rafe. “You slept a long time.”

“Being run over by large animals with hooves and horns will do that to you,” Rafe said. “Is there anything to eat?”

“Can you cook?” MacRobert asked. “I’ve got to go back to Grace, and these gentlemen are here as guards, not servants.”

“Well enough for a quick meal. Eggs still in the cooler?”

“Fairly well stocked. Enjoy yourself. The Commandant will be glad to know you’re awake.”

The Commandant—that was Ky, now. “What else has been happening while we were gone?”

“Too many attacks on Vatta,” MacRobert said. “There’s a little brushfire out in the Southwest and a frank attempt at a revolution got started about twelve hours ago in Makkavo—that’s on Dorland. Last we heard something probably related was also popping in Fulland.”

“Heard that yesterday—if it was yesterday. That knock on the head messed up my time sense. Ky and Stella both all right, though?”

“Yes. Ky’s supposed to be interviewed on the news later.”

Rafe rummaged in the cooler, coming out with eggs and a chunk of ham. He put Grace’s smaller frying pan on the stove, added a knob of butter, and took a slice off the ham and diced it. The two guards hitched up their weapons harnesses and left the kitchen, one to the front of the house and one to the back.

“The Vatta legal staff and Grace are both working on your visa status,” MacRobert said, relaxing now that the guards were gone. “It’s too bad you lost your ID jumping a fence. Teague’s safe at the base. Immigration can’t get at him there, and the guards here have been told to say nothing.”

Rafe found the drawer with the whisks in it, and beat up three eggs and poured them into the frying pan. He reached for the diced ham.

“If you added an egg to that, I wouldn’t say no to some,” MacRobert said.

Rafe cracked three more eggs, gave them a brief mix with the whisk, and poured them in, along with the diced ham. “Easier to divide in half,” he said. “And if you don’t want that much, I can manage to get around it.”

MacRobert chuckled. “Always did appreciate a partner who could cook.”

“So we’re partners now?”

“Only in that we’re both working for Ky at the moment. And Grace, of course, though she’s gone odd since the gas attack.”

“Odd how?”

“Blaming herself for not knowing about the deal her father made to get her out of prison, and accepting a political post. She thinks that’s what set the Quindlans off. Which it isn’t; the attack on all the Vattas came before that.”

Rafe dumped a heap of stirred eggs and ham onto one plate and the rest on another, turned off the stove, and carried the plates to the table. “I thought that attack was mostly Osman.”

“Osman wanted Vatta taken down, but so did Quindlan.” MacRobert shoveled in a mouthful of eggs and after a moment went on. “After all, why put in a secret access to your customer’s basement if you’re not planning to harm them? We don’t know when the charges were actually placed, but my guess is that they’d been there a long time.”

Rafe nodded. “And Vatta had refused to carry Quindlan’s cargo that they couldn’t give provenance for—that was long before, wasn’t it?”

“Right.”

“That time in the psych prison Ky told me about—did Grace ever get any treatment for combat trauma?”

“Apparently not.”

“She should,” Rafe said. “It helped Ky a lot.”

MacRobert looked at him and shook his head. “Rafe… you’re too young to understand some things, never mind what you’ve been through.”

Rafe bowed slightly. “My apologies.”

“Accepted. That Vatta lawyer’s stopping by later to talk to you about the progress on your own legal problems.”

Midmorning, Ky gave a brief press interview, at Joint Services Headquarters, along with General Molosay, Sergeant Major Morrison, and a representative from the Assembly. She let the others explain how the rescue plan had developed.

“But then you were rewarded by being named Commandant of the Academy,” said one journalist. “Isn’t that so? And is that not unusual, that someone not actually a graduate should be offered such a post? Or did you ask for it?”

“I will answer that,” General Molosay said, “since I made the decision.”

“I asked Commandant Vatta,” the journalist said.

“It was not a reward,” Ky said, “nor did I ask, or imagine it, until the general asked me to accept the post. When the former Commandant left secretly, it was understandable that the higher command would be concerned someone else at the Academy—the next in line for promotion, for instance—might be part of the same conspiracy, the one that kept the survivors isolated and in captivity.”

“But you—”

“But she had no connection with any of them,” Molosay said. “And she had combat experience, which most of our officers do not have. Plus familiarity with the Academy and its procedures. So for an interim appointment—and I stressed that it was an interim appointment—my staff and the government all agreed that she was both qualified in terms of military knowledge and stature, and completely unconnected with the current group of senior officers.”

“I see,” the journalist said.

“Next question,” Molosay said before the man could ask more.

Afterward, Molosay complimented her on her responses.

“The Public Affairs officer at the Academy coached me,” Ky said. “I could have used such coaching in the past—I know I ruffled feathers best undisturbed.”

“On another matter,” Molosay said, nodding toward the corridor that led to his office. “You have been busy over there, ferreting out bent officers and discovering most of the missing evidence. But have you had time to go over the items I sent with you that first day?”

“Frankly no, sir, I have not. Is there something that you want to brief me on?”

“Yes. Come on in—” He opened the door, then spoke to his aide. “Jerry, we’ll want something to drink and sandwiches; this may take awhile. Be sure the screening’s on max.” He waved Ky to a seat. “Do you have any information on the size of the conspiracy? Who else is behind it besides the former Commandant and this Colonel Stornaki you sent us?”

“I would bet on the Quindlan family, or some part of it,” Ky said. “While I was on Miksland, the Rector discovered some evidence that they had known about Miksland very early and had originated—or cooperated with—the plan to keep it secret. I’d always known our families were rivals in trade; what I didn’t know was that one of my ancestors refused to help one of theirs transport raw materials from Miksland and sell them—illegally—offplanet.”

“I’m more concerned about the military conspirators,” Molosay said. “You told us about Greyhaus; his logbook reveals that he was training military personnel chosen for their political bias and attachment to the Separatists, preparing for an insurrection funded in large part by those valuable ores being mined in the northern part of the continent. But such a conspiracy has to be bigger than a few officers and a few hundred disaffected soldiers. Even a large corporation like Quindlan, or a criminal organization like Malines—that’s not enough to pull off a successful revolt. Controlling the surveillance satellites so that in several hundred years they never reported what the surface was really like—?”

“The data could’ve been intercepted and falsified elsewhere,” Ky said.

“Not reliably for that long. And there’s this: you, as Commandant of the Academy, have other military duties that—worst case—might show up.”

“What’s that?” She hadn’t signed up for anything but running a military academy, definitely a full-time job. The sudden realization that though her word might be final in the Academy, she had someone above her in the command chain put a chill down her spine.

Molosay handed over a folder with the title of EMERGENCY ORDERS LOCAL. “The Academy is part of the Central Command’s Table of Organization. Normally that means nothing much. But in the event of an attack on Port Major, or any major emergency situation involving the capital, the Academy is tasked with protecting the seat of government. The ceremonial honor guard, though armed, may not be sufficient in the case of attack.”

Ky opened the folder and scanned the first few pages. “Has the Academy ever been called on?”

“Once or twice for urban riot situations, when the request for help came from the police. Never for protection from military attack. Even at the height of the Unification War, conflict never made it to this continent.” He looked at her as if expecting an answer.

“But now, since Kvannis hasn’t been captured, you’re worried. Any idea what troops he might turn up with?”

“Greyhaus’s bunch, for sure. They’d been moved to a northern base, but then dispersed, and now a number of them are AWOL. Right now it looks like somewhere between five hundred and a thousand, which isn’t anywhere near enough to win a war. Kvannis must know that. And I don’t know how many more there might be—two thousand? Three? Surely not more than that, at least not on this continent. But if they decided to hold the President hostage, occupy the Palace or Government House—”

“So… it’s my job to protect them with the ceremonial guard and cadets and staff? Is there an actual operational plan in here?” Ky tapped the folder.

“That’s a copy of what was written originally, with an update from maybe a hundred and fifty years ago. Not worth the paper it’s printed on, but you needed a copy. I know ground warfare isn’t your thing, and you were right to get your people out ahead of the trouble in Miksland, but I don’t have a spare thousand or so troops to lend you.”

“Any idea when this mysterious possible attack might take place?”

“No. But my gut tells me it’s coming. Not today or tomorrow, but if he’s got powerful and most of all wealthy allies in Port Major, it could be within a few tendays. There are riots in both Makkavo and Esterance; word is some ground troops have broken into the armory at Fort Jahren and marched toward Makkavo’s portside.”

“If we’re in your command, then how do we get more supplies?”

“Ask me, or my aide. We’re well supplied at the moment, so I can release ammunition, firearms—”

“Transport?” Ky asked. Molosay looked confused. “If there’s already an element of this conspiracy in the city, it would be stupid to march the entire cadet corps on foot across town to the government complex. They’ve had no training in urban maneuvers.”

“I’ll connect you with someone,” Molosay said. “I’m sure we have vehicles, but… do you have room to park them over there?”

“Some, certainly. I don’t know how many it would take. No Land Force background.”

“I’ll see that you get that information in the next two days.”

It was three days before a Colonel Hatch called her and explained that the only transportation available for the Academy was a unit of four buses usually reserved for transporting dependents. “And we need a week’s advance notice to reserve them,” Colonel Hatch said. “The forms for reservations are here in the transport division office—”

“That won’t do,” Ky said. In those three days she had reviewed all the information she had and conferred with the senior Land Forces instructor on urban tactics. He had not been encouraging about what she could hope to accomplish, and she was not in the mood for procedural nonsense from Transport. “Transportation is needed pursuant to Emergency Orders Local—”

“Emergency? What emergency? Why haven’t I been told?” Hatch sounded completely rattled.

“Emergency Orders Local states that, in case of attack, the Academy is tasked with supporting the honor guard at the Presidential Palace and Government House,” Ky said. “General Molosay has told me to develop a new plan for doing so, and that involves arranging transport from the Academy to those locations. As an attack would be without warning, that transportation must be immediately available.”

“But—but what if it’s scheduled for another—what if it’s full of dependents—”

“That’s why your initial option won’t do. The Academy needs a permanent installation of enough vehicles—armored, preferably—sufficient to transport cadets—”

“Cadets! You’d be taking cadets into—”

“A combat zone, yes. Because that’s what Emergency Orders Local says to do. So let’s start over. I need transport for the three upper classes of cadets and another fifty to sixty—”

“But that’s over a thousand—”

“Major.” Ky’s tone cut him off. “If you like, I can have this conversation with your commander. It’s true I do not have a Land Forces background, as you probably know. That’s why I’m not simply telling you what models and numbers I need. This is supposed to be your area of expertise.”

“We don’t have enough,” Hatch said, in a calmer voice. “A third of our transports are either off on remote assignment or in maintenance. Those four buses are all I have to spare, and they’re spoken for through eight days from now.”

Ky thought longingly of Vatta Transport and Stella’s ability to move trucks seemingly at an instant’s notice. But a convoy of Vatta freight haulers would be just as obvious and less secure for her cadets. She wondered, though, about Hatch and his reluctance to cooperate. “I’ll see if I can knock something loose for you,” she said, and ended the call. She was shaking her head when her new clerk came in.

“Something wrong, Commandant?” Bik Kamat, a corporal from Joint Services Headquarters, had brought a completely different feel to the former secretary’s office.

“Major Hatch of Transport,” Ky said. “What have you got there?”

“Major Hemins’s latest assessment of the second years’ performance, and Colonel Laurent’s notes on the defense of Government House. With annotated plats, as you requested.”

“Thank you,” Ky said. “Anything urgent in the next hour?”

“No, Commandant. Do you want your lunch sent in from the Academy mess or Commandant’s Residence?”

“Residence. I’ve annoyed Chef already by skipping too many meals.” Ky grinned at Bik, who grinned back. “Tell him to make that two lunches, unless you want what the mess has.”

“Thank you, Commandant; I’ll eat at my desk, too. That way the calls won’t interrupt you.”

According to Hemins, the second year was already improving, though still far from the goals Ky had set for it. But better was better. She turned to Laurent’s plats and comments. He had come to the same conclusion she had, that the complex of government buildings surrounding the Presidential Palace and Government House would be impossible to defend from a serious attack with twice the troops the Academy could supply:

“It would be better to remove the President and her staff, and the senior legislators, to a safe place—not that such a place exists at this time. The Academy itself would be easier to defend from ground attack, but not from the air. The only substantial bunker-like areas are under the oldest buildings. I do have a file of previous plans other than the one you sent me—I would have expected them to be in the Commandant’s office somewhere unless they were removed by the previous occupant.”

Ky felt a chill go down her back. Kvannis had taken the plans, of course, and that meant he was up to date on the most recent. She read further.

“My senior Land Force students participated in the updating of the plan every year, as well. I’ve shipped the copies to your desktop. However, I believe we need to talk about this.”

“Indeed we do.” Ky looked at her schedule and then his, then touched the button that connected to his office. “Colonel Laurent, this is the Commandant. I agree with your assessment. Do you have anyone scheduled for your office hours today?”

“No—are you free then?”

“Yes,” Ky said. “I will be scaring the second-years again today, but then I will come by your office on my way to the gym.”

“Thank you, Commandant.”

Ky looked quickly at the plans he’d forwarded. All brief, not much change from year to year. Starting back in the days when a ditch had encircled the future “government place” for drainage, the plan had been to place a cordon of troops around that margin—first using the ditch and the little mound on the inside as cover. Later, when the ditch was eradicated during the construction of Ring Street, the plan developed two concentric rings of “protection”—the outer being a ring of “checkpoints” where a small number of troops would supposedly control entry, and the inner being the perimeter of each building. At no point was defense of the government complex moved out across Ring Street to make use of the cover of other buildings.

“Insane,” Ky muttered.