Freedom’s Choice (14 page)

“Wonder what's back here, though,” Easley said after the briefest glance in the wardroom, turning his attention to the final, large door that took up the end of the passageway. It was dogged tight with large Catteni glyphs in white.

“If empty is white on Catteni guns, would it be caution on equipment?” Kris asked.

The moment Easley put his hands on the toggles, an alarm sounded.

“Don't enter.” Zainal's voice issued from an intercom right above their heads. “Please,” he added.

“He's not totally assimilated, is he?” Easley remarked. “Let's see what they're up to. Unless you want to clear out those lockers. We might need clean Catteni uniforms.”

Kris gave him a stern look. “We might but I think it would count as a morale booster for others to see just what slobs the Catteni can be.”

“Point!”

“What I really want to do is itemize all that lovely gear I hope we scouts have first pick of,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Damn, I've no paper.”

“Voilà,” Easley said, taking a wad of small sheets out of one thigh pocket and a pencil from his chest pocket.

“Hey, the comforts of home. Mitford can't operate without a pad and pencil, either.”

“Where do you think I got them?”

Sharing a grin over that, Kris and Easley began to take stock. They were interrupted by a clanging on the open hatch.

“Who's on board?” an irritated voice demanded.

“Scott?” Easley called back.

“With Fetterman, Reidenbacker, and Marrucci,” and the four men climbed on board, crowding the passageway. “Didn't see you leave, Easley.”

Easley smiled, ignoring the implied accusation. “Decided to inventory what's here before the crowd gathers. Rastancil's forward with Zainal, doing printouts or something operational. I have six only of what looks like pack frames,” he went on to Kris, and put the first one back in its slot.

When they heard the newcomers moving forward, Easley grinned at Kris.

“Took 'em long enough to miss us, didn't it?”

“I wonder,” she replied, grinning back at him, “if they ever reached any conclusion.”

“Oh, probably not until they've gone over Baby with a fine-toothed comb. The Catteni don't seem to stock such items, do they? Not even toothbrushes or soap.”

“I found what looks like liquid soap, remember?”

“Oh yes, drawer nine.”

The inventory turned out to be the pleasantest part of the day.

O
nce that was finished, Kris went to Mitford. Easley, who had initially gone forward to see how Zainal was faring, ran to catch up with her halfway to the barn where Mitford held office in Camp Narrow.

“The compartment's jam-packed back with those who need-to-know. I'll wait for a quieter time,” Peter said.

Kris gave a snort. “No matter what he explains, they'll still need him to fly the thing.”

“I expect so,” Peter replied equably.

Chuck Mitford's eyes bugged out when he spread out the pages of available equipment. He was flabbergasted when he saw the aerial photos.

“Clearest recon photos I ever saw,” he said, amazed, picking up one after another and scanning them.

“Look, here…here…and here,” Kris said, pointing out spots on the various photos. One was quite close to Camp Narrow although it was in an area that had been lightly explored. “More of those dead-end valleys. Zainal thinks they have, or had, a purpose.”

“If they didn't before, they may now. Especially as we've got enough personnel—
and
the equipment,” and
Mitford's voice rang with satisfaction, “so a team could hang around, safe enough, and see what comes up.” He tapped the near valley with his index finger. “If we can secure this area—” He broke off as his shoulders convulsed in a shudder. “I want us
out
of the Farmers' facilities. I got a hunch about 'em.”

He gathered the inventory sheets into one neat pile and the photos into another one. “Anyone seen these yet?”

“No,” Easley replied, “you're in charge of exploration. And were I you, I would secure these supplies for your teams and start sending them out.”

Mitford grinned crookedly. “Appreciate the advice, Peter.” He turned to Kris. “The rest of your team's doing KP but they should be finished by now. I'll just rev up the load bed trundler and secure those supplies. Any weapons?”

“Some but I'd leave them where they are until Zainal drills us in their use,” Peter said. “Some of 'em'll make right nasty holes in people. You know,” and he scratched his head, contorting his features as the sort of prelude that Kris decided was his way of leading up to utterance of a diplomatic suggestion, “we might take a page from the Catteni book of colonial administration and drop the next bunch of Turs into one of those valleys. Come back in a few weeks and see how they've got on.” He paused. “Or better still, dump any Catteni prisoners we take in them. A bit of turnabout's fair play.”

Mitford stared, frowning at Peter Easley. “You a bleeding heart or something?”

“It was Yuri Palit's notion, actually,” Easley replied, slightly abashed. “I mentioned that you'd discovered the one. I don't see the need for gratuitous violence or killing. There's been quite enough of that. I'd rather we humans fell on the side of the angels than the Eosi. Besides, it rounds things out,” and he made a cage of the
fingers of both hands, rotating one around the other, “and they get back a little of what they've been dealing out besides supplying us with guinea pigs for whatever might lurk in one of those valleys.”

Mitford was unconvinced. “They want this referendum first, don't they?”

“I think you'll have trouble getting the notion of lenience across to any one who's tangled with a nerve whip,” Kris said.

“I can see it for the Turs, Easley,” Mitford allowed. “I've never liked just turning them loose. They're dangerous and, if there're enough of them, they constitute a menace.” He rubbed his jaw. “Actually, we could use valleys as a detention facility. That's less messy than staking a guy out at night for the crawlers.” Then, with a shrug, he dismissed that topic and split his attention between the photos and the inventory.

“The print won't fade,” Kris said, pulling his sleeve. “Let's go get what we need before someone else requisitions it.”

“Damn well told,” Mitford replied, and Easley and Kris had to run to keep up with him.

Vic Yowell was back on duty, standing squarely in the inset door, his expression inscrutable until Mitford leaned out of the driver's side of the trundler.

“Open up, will ya, Vic. I've requisitioned some of the gear on board to outfit my scouting teams.”

Vic took no exception to that and pushed the main door back. So Mitford reversed the vehicle right up to the hatch, the load bed almost level with it. With Joe, Sarah, Whitby, Leila, Pete, and Mitford working quickly and quietly, Kris checked off the items they were taking from the inventory list. They soon had emptied the passageway lockers. While the others were stowing the last acquisitions, Mitford took a quick look at the arsenal and closed that compartment firmly.

Temptation, step behind me,
Kris thought.

Just then Scott appeared in the forward end of the passageway.

“What're you doing, sergeant?”

“Looking at the arsenal sir. Could be useful.”

“Pete and I have just finished the inventory of the lockers, admiral,” Kris added, holding up the pad.

“Good idea, Bjornsen. Carry on.”

“We will,” she said jauntily, and, stifling a giggle at her deception, she followed Mitford out.

“Get what you needed?” Vic asked as the flatbed silently moved out of the hangar.

“I think so,” Mitford said, and elbowed Sarah before she laughed loud enough for Vic to hear.

* * *

They had their loot all neatly stored at the back of Mitford's office covered with Catteni-issue blankets. The rest of Kris' team went to get some lunch while Mitford called in Judy Blane, who'd been a cartographer. He wanted to match the photos to their appropriate areas on the map. Meanwhile, Mitford called in the recon squads he wanted, ordered travel food from the kitchen, and was ready to equip them as soon as they reported in.

“Before the brass-heads find out where it's all gone to,” Kris said when the sergeant paused briefly.

“Brass-
heads
?” He chuckled. “Zainal?” She nodded.

“Are you going to lead a group this time, sarge, and get out of their way?”

He shook his head with a rueful smile and grimace. “Naw, not this time. I figure I better hang around.”

“I can't say I'm not happy you will, Chuck,” she said, tilting her head toward the hangar and the “brass-heads” occupying it. “But you deserve to get out of here for a while and clear your head. You've done more than your share. You need some R and R.”

“I'll go after Phase Two's complete. And don't you worry, Kris. No matter what they decide in their conferences
and brass-headed strategy meetings, they need Zainal more than he needs them. Or us.” Then he leveled a cocky grin at her. “With the exception of you…Bjornsen.”

“Scott doesn't trust him at all,” Kris said, perching on the edge of the worktop.

“The admiral doesn't trust anyone,” Mitford said with a snort, folding his arms across his chest. “For starters, he's stuck on dry land, which isn't really where he functions best. But distrust's not altogether a bad habit.”

A knock on the door, which opened without his permission, disclosed the first of the teams he'd called in, Ninety Doyle's. The Scandinavians arrived, breathlessly eager, before Mitford could brief Ninety's squad on the current situation. Kris left him to it and eased herself out of the now crowded office and went to get some lunch.

Part of the original strategy-and-tactics group were still busy at the end table and those coming in to eat left a sort of no-man's-land of unused tables around the area to maintain their privacy. She picked up her lunch of soup and fresh bread and made her way to where Sarah, Joe, Leila, and Whitby were sitting.

“Are we going to get to use some of that beaut gear?” Joe asked.

“We won't be going out…”

“Until the brass start believing Zainal?” Sarah asked in caustic voice.

“Oh, I think they believe him,” Kris said.

“It's trust that's lacking,” Whitby added when she paused.

“I would rather wait until Zainal comes with us,” Leila remarked in her quiet but firm way, and sipped soup.

“Besides which, I wouldn't want to miss Phase Two for anything,” Joe added. “Got any update on that, Kris?”

She shook her head and gave a little snort, jerking her thumb toward the earnest knot of men at the end table. “They have to make up their minds first.”

“Whaddya bet they'll end up doing what Zainal suggested in the first place?” Joe asked, looking around the table.

“Just so long as they make up their minds before the next transport gets here,” Sarah said. “It could come any day now, too, judging by the frequency we've been getting drops lately.”

“You'd think they were planning World War Three,” Whitby said, entering the conversation, “instead of a minor commando action.”

They had just finished their meal when the rumble of male voices was heard, heralding the arrival of Scott, Fetterman, Rastancil, Beverly, Marrucci, and Zainal. Zainal halted at the door, surveying the room, spotted Kris, and, cocking his finger at her, indicated she was to join them at the strategy table.

“I've been paged,” she said, cleaning the corners of her mouth of any traces of soup with two fingers and brushing bread crumbs off her front with the other hand as she rose. “Hang about, will you?”

“Over at Mitford's, dear,” Sarah said, also rising. “I don't want to get sucked into another session of KP just because we're all sitting here looking as if we're doing nothing.”

“Which we are,” said Joe, but he got up, too, and as Kris joined Zainal, they all left the mess hall. Peter Easley passed them on his way in, sauntering in that easy bent-knee gait, pausing to exchange a few words and a laugh.

As he came up, he winked at Kris.

“There you are, Easley,” Scott said. “When can the next transport be expected?”

“Anytime now,” Easley replied indifferently.

Every one turned around to stare at him.

“They come when they have a full load, evidently,” he said, and looked to Zainal, who shrugged.

“Last one was eight days ago. Sometimes there's twenty-one days between drops.” He dismissed that concern with a flick of his fingers. “Deskis hear the best. Deskis spread out…” and now he waved his big hand, splay-fingered, over the map that occupied one end of the long table. “They hear. They report.”