Banjo snorted rudely.

Hart sobered. "This is no easy mission. Especially with LRH-1327 gone. We were d.a.m.n lucky to get down in one piece. They had us dead to rights from the moment we dropped out of FTL. But . . ." He swivelled absently in his command chair, burning up nervous energy. "We have a good chance to complete the mission. Red and Banjo and I are working up details now for overlapping recon plans, since we'll have to cover LRH-1327's mission parameters as well. It won't be a cakewalk, but we'll manage."

"Just do me a favor," Banjo smiled. "Dance at my wedding when this is over."

Gunny grinned. "You meet somebody?"

Hart laughed and thumped Banjo's shoulder. "Should'a known you'd go and pull an Ish Matsuro on me."

Banjo chuckled. "Wonder what Ish thought when we dropped off that ship without him."

"He missed it like h.e.l.l," Gunny muttered. "Should'a seen his face." Gunny--perhaps alone of the human crew--knew what it had cost Ish Matsuro to give up command of LRH-1313. Red knew, but she wasn't talking either. Not even Doug Hart, who had been seconded to command with his departure, probably guessed the depth of Ish's pain. Gunny remembered like yesterday the conversation he'd inadvertently overheard late in the night, with Ish pouring his heart out and Red listening, commenting quietly, trying to guide their commander toward the right decision.

No one but Gunny and Red herself knew that level-headed, no-nonsense Ish Matsuro had fallen in love with two women: the future Mrs. Matsuro . . .

And Red.

Gunny glanced into Red's video pickup and wondered if she could guess what he was thinking. He wondered if he could guess what she was remembering. Had it cost Red as much as it had cost Ish to file the recommendation that her commander be promoted into a slot suitable for a career officer to marry and raise a family? He would probably never know. But it was good they had Red to watch over them on the eve of their deadliest mission to date. Gunny knew that would be the deciding factor in whether or not he slept at all over the coming days.

Gunny suspected Doug Hart had no real inkling what a fine command he carried into war. If there'd been a way to tell him without betraying Ish and Red, he'd have made d.a.m.ned sure his commander knew it. So he cleared his throat and scuffed one boot toe on the deckplates and said, "Red'll take care of us, anyway, Banjo. h.e.l.l, who knows? Maybe she'll dance at your wedding."

A sweet chuckle issued from the speakers. "A Mark XXI Special Unit can't dance. But I could serve cake with my exterior manipulator arms. And I take a mean wedding photo."

Banjo grinned. "Deal."

Doug Hart smiled. "That's a rendezvous, then. Now, about this processing plant . . ."

Gunny retreated, leaving the officers and Red to plan out the next few days of his life.

To Willum DeVries' surprise, they stayed in the river for three days. The first day they spent checking everything and sitting in place. The officers went on thirty-three percent alert status, which meant at least one officer was awake at all times. Taking his first solo turn in Red's Command Compartment was unnerving; but Red was so good at her job, she left him with almost nothing to do but watch the vid screens. The second two days they spent crawling upstream to locate the boat landing marked on Red's map. During transit, they amused themselves playing cards with one another and with Red.

"Two, please," Red said. Delicate manipulator arms ran along a rail the length of the cramped box which comprised living quarters for six men and bunking quarters for eight. There were a few spots in the compartment Red couldn't reach, but not many. A folding table which could be lowered into the deckplates served the crew for meals and recreation. At the moment, Red's manipulator "fingers" held five ordinary playing cards. Red slid her discards to one side. Gunny dealt two replacements.

"Thank you, Gunny," Red said politely.

Willum wondered if anyone else had considered the practical side of betting against a machine with video monitors capable of seeing everyone's hand, not to mention medical monitors capable of detecting the slightest changes in biological responses. It seemed to him a little like asking the mouse to step onto the cat's tongue; then he decided it would be unforgivable to accuse a lady of cheating. He asked for three and received them.

They began to play.

Gunny bet four. Hopper folded. Crazy Fritz grinned and met the bet, then raised two. Eagle Talon grunted and dropped six into the pot. Red and Willum stayed in, too.

"Call," Milwaukee said.

Red had two queens and a pair of threes.

Fritz had a straight.

Willum kissed his money goodbye.

Milwaukee grinned and took the pot with a straight flush.

"d.a.m.n your lucky hide," Fritz groused. "Best hand I've had in a year and you go and beat it."

"Refreshments, boys?" Red asked as she delicately gathered and shuffled the cards. The process fascinated Willum. If he got through this mission, he was going to ask for a transfer. He wanted to find out how they put these babies together. Red continued the shuffle with the skill of a riverboat gambler. "I could do brownies in ten or an apple pie in twenty?"

"Brownies," Gunny voted.

"Pie," Crazy Fritz countered.

"Pie," Milwaukee agreed.

Eagle Talon grinned. "Brownies," he said, as though tying the vote were the most sinfully delightful task in the universe.

Hopper exchanged glances with Willum. "Uh . . . Brownies?"

Willum's turn. "Pie."

Red actually chuckled. "Oh, goody, I get to break the tie. How about both? Brownies going in now. Pie'll take a little longer, boys, but it ought to be good. And there's cold milk in my fridge. My deal and the game is seven-card no-peek . . ."

And so the hours pa.s.sed.

"Okay, men, listen up." Hart stepped into crew quarters and banged on the bulkhead wall. Willum blinked sleepily and pulled himself out from under. "Move it," Hart rasped. "We're about to leave the river. Before we go, we review mission priorities one more time."

A general groan met that order; but Red's crew rolled out of their hammocks and folded them away, taking their seats to await the briefing. Willum, blinking sleepily, had to stand, since his place was up in the Command Compartment when he wasn't asleep. Hart motioned for him to remain where he was. At the front of the Crew Compartment, a vid screen lit up with a map that could only have come from the mining colony's own archives. Hart took a lecturer's stance beside it. Banjo, on duty as officer of the watch, remained sealed off in the Command Compartment.

"This is our original Target Prime," Hart said crisply. Red thoughtfully highlighted a spot on the map for him. "It's a fully-automated mining facility. We believe a heavy Deng concentration lies here"--another spot lit up about three kilometers away--"where the terrain will accommodate a larger number of Deng transports. But we're not sure. Our job is to confirm and estimate enemy strength and emplacements, extrapolate attack plans, and report back to FleetCom with our findings the instant they drop out of FTL."

The map changed. "LRH-1327 was charged with scouting this position. Ordinarily two LRH units would not be dropped this close together; a mission like this would be entrusted to one team. Fortunately, two teams were dropped for just the kind of emergency we've encountered: destruction of one team during combat drop. LRH-1327's target becomes our new Primary. This is a processing plant, semi-automated. Terrain here will accommodate a very large Deng force. It's reasonable to a.s.sume the Enemy would concentrate its a.s.sets on this site, since it's capable of producing a finished product ready for export.

"We scout this location first, from extreme range. Terrain will allow for long-range monitoring. Once we've reconnoitered the processing plant, we fall back to our original Target Prime and complete our mission. Red, how far is the processing plant from us now?"

"Twenty-nine point six kilometers upstream. The colony situated this facility on the closest area of flat ground suitable to accommodate a s.p.a.ce port. There is a good road." The map changed to a broader-scale view. A thin red line flashed to indicate the road. "The mines are 63.5 kilometers upstream from the processing plant." Two dots appeared, marking the targets.

"Okay. Questions?"

Gunny spoke first. "Do we have any photos of these facilities? Or pics of the terrain around them?"

A collage of photographs flashed onto the screen.

"Thanks," Gunny said, moving closer to study the images. "Looks like we won't need to dismount for the processing plant. That's open ground. Visibility's as good there as anywhere on this ball of rock, I expect. What'll you use for cover, Red?"

"I will engage Chameleon screens to simulate the appearance of an ore carrier." Another photo appeared, this one of a large, unwieldy tracked vehicle that Willum recognized as one of the completely automated types developed for remote worlds just like this one, where the labor force was small but the planetary coffers were rich. "The map indicates a parking compound for ore cars in need of maintenance here." The processor-plant map reappeared. A circle of light marked the maintenance depot.

"If Commander Hart agrees, I intend to park in this compound and gather data over the course of twenty-four hours, provided there are enough vehicles in it to act as camouflage and provided no Enemy or human personnel approach closely enough to recognize the Chameleon screens for what they are. If I cannot use this site, I will move along this road, circle this position eight thousand meters from the processor plant, then retrace my route and initiate the second phase of our mission."

"What about that d.a.m.ned mine?" Crazy Fritz asked uneasily. "That place looked treacherous."

"That's our job," Gunny grinned. "If it's treacherous, we'll tackle it."

Danny Hopper looked scared again.

Hart said, "Okay, Red. Your plan for the processor plant looks good. What about the mine?"

Red switched maps. "We will need Dismount Teams, Doug. The mine is situated at the base of a cliff and runs 12.5 kilometers beneath the surface. A narrow draw curves away from the surface-level facilities plant through here. An access road capable of supporting ore cars runs through it, between these two ridgelines. The suspected concentration of Deng forces is here, north of this larger ridge."

"All right," Hart said, studying the map. "Gunny, put DT-1 here, where the contour lines form a point south of this V-shaped cut at the tip of the ridge. You should be able to scope out the Deng in this wider valley from there. Milwaukee, I want you here on the second fork of this double ridge, line-of-sight to Gunny, overlooking the access road in this draw. Red, you I want here, behind the tip of this third ridge, hidden but line-of-sight to Milwaukee. That'll put us close to the mine; but colony records indicate it's completely automated, so we shouldn't encounter anyone. We take readings, transmit data to Red for transmission to FleetCom, and get the h.e.l.l out of there. We'll be operating on a very tight schedule. Given the distances we have to cover and the speeds we'll be restricted to, I estimate we'll have less than half a day at the mine before FleetCom drops out of FTL and requests our data."

Gunny asked, "Red, how far is the mine from pickup point?"

"Forty point six kilometers." A new map flashed onto the screen. "Pickup point sits atop this mesa. I should have no trouble gaining the top via this route." A series of dots marked the route she intended to take, along the edge of a precipitous canyon.

"Good," Gunny nodded. "Time frame on these missions?"

"An ore car's top speed is 48.3 kilometers per hour. From our current position, I estimate 36.7 minutes to reach a position from which we can conduct our recon of the processing plant. I will do a thorough survey, to include Deng departure and arrival schedules. This is, after all, the larger of the two a.s.signed targets which must be scouted."

Hart just nodded.

"It will take approximately one hour eighteen minutes to reach the mine from the processing plant. Due to the proximity of the mine facility to extrapolated Enemy positions and the need for Dismount Teams, I do not advise a prolonged recon effort here."

"No," Doug Hart agreed, looking grim. "We get in, do our business, and leave. Like I said, half a day tops, from Dismount to Recall. Less, if we can manage it. I'd rather not be anywhere near that Deng concentration when we have to transmit to FleetCom. Hopper . . ."

Hopper cleared his throat. "Sir?"

"What equipment do you take?"

The Marine answered immediately. "We go suited, sir. Our stealth suits won't match Red's Chameleon screens, but they'll mask our heat signatures. We take energy conversion screens to cover our positions. If we're blown, they'll protect us from Enemy fire for a little while, sir, and transfer energy they absorb to operate the automated infinite repeaters tied into the system."

Hart nodded. "I don't expect you'll be blown, but we're always thorough."

"Yessir. My mission is to provide security for Sergeant Petra. He operates comm and does any additional recon he can from our position. My job is to guard him while he does it and make d.a.m.n sure he gets to our recon position in one piece so he can transmit Gunny's data."

Hart nodded once again. Clearly, Danny Hopper knew his business, even if this was his first combat mission. "Very good, Hopper. Fritz, you take point. Nursemaid him if he needs it. I don't think he will. Questions?"

n.o.body had any.

Willum DeVries knew he wouldn't sleep till this mission was over.

"All right, then, Full Alert Status as of now. Red, take us up."

Hart gestured curtly to Willum; he followed his commander into the Command Compartment and strapped into his seat. Banjo scarcely paid heed to their arrival; he was intent on Red's data screens. The Bolo moved smoothly. The decking tipped as she climbed the steep grade up out of the river. The main screen flashed to a real-time video picture. They halted again while still underwater.

"Extending whip array, Doug."

The picture shifted, periscopelike as the Bolo lifted a sensor array into the air. The lens cleared and revealed an abandoned boat landing. Pleasure craft sat in the starlight, motionless hulks that registered clearly under Red's light-enhancing sensors. The first faint hint of dawn was visible in the dark sky. n.o.body left alive to rent any boats. . . . Willum wondered if the Deng had spared anyone to run the machinery. He didn't know much about Deng military operational strategy.

The thought of becoming a slave to a hairy, multilegged "spodder" with a body the size of a small dog was almost as bad as the thought of dying.

"Proceed, Red," Hart said quietly. "Engage Chameleon."

"Chameleon engaged."

They rumbled quietly up out of the water and headed into Enemy territory.

The boat ramp I have accessed is made of concrete which is approximately five centimeters thick, varying in depth in the manner of poured concrete. Ordinarily a vehicle of my weight would crack such a thin concrete slab; but my designers have considered the need for leaving no trace of my pa.s.sage. My treads are each 0.9 meters across. They and my independent-drive wheels protrude beyond either side of my hull, skirted with chameleon screen nearly to ground level. Thus my treads and wheels distribute my weight across a broad cross-sectional s.p.a.ce, which gives me a ground-pressure per square centimeter less than that of an adult male human.

I pull onto the concrete pad and halt, surveying the access road beyond. It is made of dirt, with old track imprints from wheeled vehicles. I lower my rear track-camouflaging unit and engage its drive. I move forward, scanning the imprints and sending their configuration to the roller I now trail behind my rear fender. Its thousands of small studs extend and retract in synchronized patterns to duplicate the tracks I encounter. When I pa.s.s over the tracks, obliterating them and making my own minute signature in the dirt, my track-camo unit recreates the old tracks in my wake, leaving no trace of my pa.s.sage.

I follow the dirt road for 5.8 kilometers and encounter the paved road my on-board charts have indicated. There is no traffic. This concerns me; but following the paved road is the better choice of those I currently perceive. It is a faster, more direct route and I am less likely to encounter very soft ground in which my track-camo unit would have more difficulty in covering signs of my pa.s.sage. It is also better than very rough, broken terrain which would slow down my progress and place us behind schedule for this mission. I have already discussed this decision with my Commander, who agrees that it is the best choice; but the lack of traffic disturbs me. I voice this concern.

"Any sign of aerial observation?" Doug asks. "Or ground crews that might be watching?"

I do a pa.s.sive scan for Enemy energy signatures. The only traces I discover are to the north, over the visible horizon. I see no sign of aerial capabilities in this region. Should I be spotted from orbit, my Chameleon screens will mimic the reflective surfaces, angles, and part-to-part ratios of a mining ore car. We should be safe.

"No, Doug. I am uneasy; but we should be fine."

"Let's do it, then. Move out as planned."

I turn onto the highway and drive slowly north, at the top speed of an ore car. The slow pace is worrisome, but necessary. I scan the surrounding countryside on pa.s.sive systems and register the presence of small farms. I pick up no trace of human heat signatures. Farm animals have been left to fend for themselves. Cattle are visible in fenced pastures. They are thin, but appear to be surviving. I cannot determine whether the same can be said of their human owners. We do not know the Deng policy on captured humans. I file my discoveries for later transmission to FleetCom. It is useful to know what the Enemy will leave intact as well as what it will destroy.

We join a convoy of ore cars from a side road while still an estimated 16.1 kilometers from the processing plant. These ore cars are southbound from a small mine which shows on my maps but is not considered a target. The terrain surrounding it is too rough for Enemy forces to concentrate there. My scan shows no human or Enemy personnel inside any of these cars. This matches records from the mining colony, which state that these vehicles are fully automated. I am pleased the Enemy has not stationed its own personnel on the ore cars, as this would complicate my mission. I scan the signals which these ore cars use to communicate with one another and mimic their own transmissions, asking permission to join the convoy. s.p.a.ce is made for me. I pull into the s.p.a.ce and join the line of slow-moving ore carriers.

We are still an estimated 10.8 kilometers from the processing plant when I encounter our first direct evidence of human survival on a Deng-held world. At a distance of 3062 meters we pa.s.s a fenced enclave in which my pa.s.sive data-gathering sensors detect both human and Enemy personnel. From visual data, I determine that the humans present in this enclave are largely female and/or immature children. No males over the approximate human age of twelve are present. My Commander watches them on video screen and remains silent. Banjo speaks.

"b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are using 'em as hostages. Must be forcing the men and most of the women to work the processing plant."

My Commander nods silently. I note that the Enemy's need for war materiel is sufficiently urgent to use slave labor rather than import their own labor force. I fear these people will die during the reoccupation of BFS-3793-C, but I see no way to safeguard them. My mission profile does not include protection of civilian populations. I add my observations to my growing report file and turn my attention to mission parameters. The first of our two targets is within sensor range.

The maintenance depot for ore carriers holds six such vehicles. I am pleased. I tell the ore carriers ahead of me and behind me that I must break ranks for depot maintenance. I receive messages acknowledging my status update. I turn into the depot lot and take up a position which commands a view of the processing plant below. It is a good position, as extrapolated from my on-board charts. From this place, I can perform a thorough reconnaissance of this facility without risking my Dismount Teams.

I go to work.

The processing-plant reconnoiter went smoothly.

So smoothly, Willum started to worry.

He'd always heard the old military axiom, "No plan survives contact with the Enemy." So when they completed their recon from the maintenance lot without a single hitch, he started to fret. Things have already gone wrong, he tried telling himself. We're due a break or two after what happened to Bonny and LRH-1327. But the pep talk didn't help much. He was still worried.

Red set out for the mine in a convoy of automated ore cars returning for a new load. They crawled along at a fraction of Red's top speed while Hobson's double moons rose above the fractured horizon. They were still on full fifty-percent alert, which meant half the Dismount teams were awake in the Crew Compartment, ready for combat if an emergency arose. Doug Hart and the other half of the Dismount Teams' members had bunked in hours ago, resting up for the arduous mission facing everyone, leaving Banjo with the night watch.

Willum DeVries hung in his hammock, unable to sleep. Unlike the others, he had nothing to do. Nothing to plan for. Hart and Banjo both had a million details to sort out, plans to review, alter, subst.i.tute. The Dismount Teams had equipment to check, stealth penetration plans to finalize, their own set of a million details to fuss over. Naturally, they were content in their frenzy. Even Hopper, for G.o.d's sake, had calmed down once given something to do.