“Do you know where to start?” Huang asked. I could see him beginning to relax. The plane of his shoulders softened. “Where will you start?”
“New Columbia.”
“Why New Columbia?” Huang asked.
“Because Jimmy Callahan is a two-bit know-nothing, and Billy the Butcher Patel tried to kill him,” I said, only just beginning to put the pieces together.
“What are you talking about?” Huang asked.
“There’s a two-bit thug on New Columbia who thought he was a big fish,” I said. “He sold supplies to the Mogats or the Confederates and thought he was a player. He tried to sell out Patel and nearly got himself killed. Remember the Safe Harbor bombing? Callahan was the one they were going after.
“I figured they wanted to make an example out of Callahan, but now I have another idea.”
“What does this have to do with Klyber?” Huang asked impatiently.
“I never stopped to figure out how they knew about Callahan…. Klyber was the one who sent me to meet with him. If Klyber knew about it, Halverson must have known as well. Halverson must have known something else, too, like where Callahan was getting his supplies.”
“Did Patel get him?” Huang asked.
“I locked him up in the local Marine base brig for safekeeping,” I said.
“You think he knows something?” Huang asked.
“He’s too small-time and too stupid to have set up a deal with the Confederates himself. Somebody with bigger ambitions must have used him as a middleman. I need to sweat the name out of him.”
“You’d better get there quickly,” Huang said. “Intelligence says the Confederates are going after New Columbia next. We’re already evacuating the planet.”
Huang thought for a moment. “I told you you’ve got a blank check on this. You can spend whatever you need. I’ll send you whatever equipment you need. And one more thing. I don’t think I need to tell you this, Harris—but just in case …feel free to kill anyone that gets in your way.”
PART III
WAR
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A fighter carrier and two destroyers floated just a few miles away, guarding the broadcast discs that orbited New Columbia. The carrier brought a compliment of Tomcats, Hornets, and Harriers. The fighters flew in groups of three as they buzzed back and forth, “inspecting and protecting” the solid lane of traffic that stretched from the edge of the atmosphere to the discs. The authorities stepped up security in some areas of New Columbia and evacuated others. After considering the attack on New Gibraltar, the Pentagon decided to evacuate Safe Harbor.
“You’re flying into Safe Harbor?” Colonel McAvoy had asked when I told him my plans. “They’re evacuating the planet. The only people there are going to be Marines and looters. Come to think of it”—he brightened as he thought about this—“you’ll fit right in.”
As I glided out of the reception disc, I saw the line of ships leaving New Columbia. This was a mishmash that included military transports.
From what I had read, New Columbia had a population of over fifty million civilians. Looking down this seemingly endless line of evacuation ships, I would have believed that an entire population was on its way out. Big ships, small ships, just floating there waiting for a turn to enter the Network. As I flew toward the atmosphere, I took one final look at the line of ships. It looked like a kite string holding the discs in place. At the top of the line, the electrical field created by the broadcast discs flashed bright white against the eternal blackness. That distant flash burned ghosts into my eyes, but the ghosts faded quickly.
I traveled toward the planet at the intolerably slow pace of three thousand miles per hour, aware that below me were Marine, Army, and Air Force cannons that tracked my every move. Any suspicious deviation from my specified flight course would be fatal.
By the time I reached New Columbian space, my ship had been scanned so many times that the security computers even knew which of my bones had pins in them. The only worry the military types had about me was that I might be an enemy scout.
“Starliner A-ten-twenty-thirty-four, this is Safe Harbor spaceport. Come in.”
“This is Starliner A-ten-twenty-thirty-four,” I said.
“Starliner A-ten-twenty-thirty-four, we are evacuating this planet.”
“So I’ve been told,” I said.
“I show that you are a Marine,” the controller said. “Please confirm.”
“Colonel Wayson Harris, Unified Authority Marines Corps,” I said.
“You have chosen to use a civilian landing facility, Colonel. Are you aware that there is a Marine base with a landing field just outside of town?”
“I am aware of that,” I said. I was also aware that that base would be a prime target once the Confederates arrived. I wanted my ship in one piece.
“We can offer you landing assistance. Please be advised that this spaceport will close within the next three hours. All traffic control will close at that time. Should you choose to leave your ship here, this facility cannot be held responsible for your ship.”
“Got it.”
“Can’t talk you out of this, can I, Colonel?” the man asked.
“You got a problem down there?” I asked.
“Yeah. I can’t spare the men to check in your ship. Everyone I have is busy sending up transports. I don’t know if you noticed that little line of ships leaving home.”
“Of course I noticed it,” I said. I also noticed how absolutely vulnerable these transports would be if a couple of GCF dreadnoughts happened to appear, but I did not mention it. Shoot a few cannons straight down this line of traffic, and you would likely kill half the population of New Columbia. But judging by the pinpoint tactics the invaders used in their siege of Gateway Outpost, I did not think they were after civilian casualties.
On the other hand, a billion casualties would interest Bill “the Butcher” Patel. Patel was a radical separatist from the Cygnus Arm who was not constrained by morals or religious beliefs.
The line of transports did not extend from the edge of the atmosphere down to the spaceport. In the full gravitational pull of the atmosphere, transports would not be able to support themselves in a slow-moving line without burning tons of fuel.
I flew down through an evening sky, penetrating a thick layer of clouds as my approach slowed to a few hundred miles per hour. The weather had turned bad over Safe Harbor. Mercury-colored clouds formed a washboard ceiling over the city. Lightning illuminated pockets in the clouds with dazzling flashes. Rain fell in heavy drops that burst across my windows. Below me the city was dark. Not a light shown in the forest of skyscrapers that covered Safe Harbor. No street lights shined. The giant billboards on the sides of the buildings were invisible in the blackness.
The city may have looked lifeless, but the air above it fairly bristled with movement. I looked up through the top corner of my rain-spattered windshield and saw the darting profiles of three F-19s passing above me like shadows against the steel wool clouds. Beneath me, three more crossed my path.
