Designated Targets

“Be nice if we had some more bladders to move it around in,” he continued. “And some heavy lift choppers to do the moving. Ammo is getting to be a worry. We’re going to have to gear down after this op. I spoke to that Robertson bloke this morning. They’ve got an arms plant at Lithgow retooling to produce a simple AK-Forty-seven clone, but using thirty-aught-six cartridges. Should have a pretty good underslung launcher, too. He’s promising a full production run by Christmas. The prototypes are ready now, if you’d like a look.”

Jones sucked air in through his teeth. “I just wish things were that simple at home. Kolhammer’s banging his head against a brick wall, trying to get an assault rifle into general production.”

Horan used the toe of his combat boot to dig a well in the thick carpet of jacaranda blossoms that lay at their feet. The air was almost sickeningly sweet with the scent of their decomposition. “He’s equipping the guys you’ve got to train with one, isn’t he?”

Jones nodded. “With a Forty-seven knock-off, just like you. Weapon of choice for the third world, and that’s the comparative level of industrial sophistication we’re dealing with, even in the U.S. I think it’s going to be a long time before we see caseless ceramic again.”

“Or GPS,” added Barnes.

“Or VR porn.” Horan grinned.

Jones grunted. “Colonial riffraff.”

The dull thud of rotor blades reached them through the warm, moist air, but the sound trailed off before they were able to spot the helicopter.

“Well, gentlemen, I suggest we get our staff together ASAP and sign off the plan for this party.”

Brigadier Barnes fetched a data stick out of his shirt pocket and handed it over.

“Holomaps of the route I’d suggest we take. We’ve got rail transport for about a hundred and twenty klicks. Robertson has already requisitioned the rolling stock. It’ll save on the fuel bill.”

Jones slotted the stick into his flexipad and thanked the tank officer for the maps. “Just one thing, Mick,” he said. “How in hell do they fit you into a tank, anyway?You’re what, six-three?”

“Six-four.” Barnes smiled. “I crouch.”

12

PACIFIC THEATER OF OPERATIONS

It was a cruel trick of the gods, allowing a magnificent warship like this to fall into the hands of a barbarian such as Le Roux.

Commander Hidaka was an educated, well-traveled man, and he knew at an intellectual level that the gaijin were not all hairy brutes, as such. Their technical accomplishments, for one thing, had to be acknowledged. But Le Roux actually did look like a barbarian. He did not shave regularly. He stank of some ditch weed called garlic. And the uniform he wore was stained!

Hidaka wondered how he retained the confidence of his men. But of course, these weren’t “his men” in any formal sense. They were mutineers, effectively. Little better than pirates. But for now, they held the key to Admiral Yamamoto’s grand design.

“I think the Clinton, she is leaving now,” said Le Roux in his heavy accented English.

“Why do you think that?” asked Hidaka, barely able to conceal his scorn.

The Frenchman tilted his head to one side and pushed out a fat lower lip as he crossed his arms over an ample belly and examined the giant screen in front of them. “Well, this is not my specialty, you understand. The men who ran this station, they would not cooperate. But the ship’s Combat Intelligence, she tells us that a great deal of radar and energy waves they are passing over us right now.”

Hidaka’s heart gave a sudden lurch. “We are being scanned!”

“Yes, well, no. She is scanning for a general threat, not to locate a specific target. So she does not know we are here. The ship you tell me they lost at Midway—the Leyte Gulf—she was their Nemesis cruiser, a protector. Her sensors were more capable, much more capable. But even so, the Dessaix, she is a stealth ship, too. The Americans do not have—how do you say?—a monopoly.

“So no, the Clinton will not see us.”

Hidaka regarded the hairy lout with an expression of open disbelief. “And the Siranui?” he asked.

“Oui. She is there, too.” He pointed at a window in which a colorful set of lines pulsed and undulated. “These are her sensors. They are not operating at full power. They have not, for as long as we have been observing them, and we must assume they were damaged at the Emergence.”

The Japanese commander considered that for a moment. His orders were specific. The Clinton was not his target. But he could not help asking. “So we could strike at her?”

Le Roux snorted in amusement, colored by a contempt that he didn’t bother to conceal. “Oh, well, yes, we could. But there would be no promise of success. The missiles would be detected, and targeted for countermeasures. The launch would be detected. We would be detected. And so on . . . you understand.”