“You’re lucky she didn’t do a winged dick or something,” Bernie said. “All she has to do is ink in the eyes.”
“Ooh, you’re acid today. What’s up?”
“Sorry. Man trouble.” Well, that was true, more or less. The door opened and Marcus stood there with his yeah-I-just-heard expression. “Got to go. Do me a favor, mate—look after Mac for me, will you?”
Rossi glanced down at the dog, sprawled on the floor by her stool and looking mournful. “Sure. Poor little guy seems a bit sorry for himself.”
“That’s why I’m asking you—I think he’s getting arthritic. Keep him occupied so he doesn’t come chasing after me and get soaked.”
She ruffled Mac’s fur and he flinched as if it hurt. Poor old bugger. You and me both. Marcus gave her an impatient jerk of the head and she followed him into the passage to find Dom waiting, wearing a matching frown.
“Hoffman just told me the news,” Marcus said. “You got any special insight that I haven’t?”
Bernie put her finger to her lips and gestured up the stairs to ground level. “Not in front of the children.”
It was still raining. Nobody would think three Gears running across the parade ground to find shelter was anything to worry about. They raced for the vehicle compound and climbed into a ’Dill to guarantee some privacy.
“Look, all I know is that Vic refused to evacuate and Prescott quit.” She shook her head, still amazed to hear the words coming out of her mouth like some bad joke. “So he’s formed a junta with the two sailor boys, and now they’ve got to work out how to tell the voters.”
“No, Prescott’s just not that sensitive,” Dom said. “The asshole’s walked out for some other reason.”
Marcus shook his head. “We’ll cope with him or without him. I just want to know what he’s doing now. Because I don’t think he’ll be writing his memoirs and offering Hoffman helpful advice on statesmanship.”
“Vic said he was talking about having to do something— usual shit, wouldn’t say what—and that he’d ask Vic to take it on faith. The next thing we know, Prescott throws in the towel.”
Dom shook his head. “Come on, no guy who’s launched a global Hammer strike and sunk a city would lose his nerve now.”
“Maybe he’s finally cracked,” Bernie said. “Could happen to any of us. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Something random happens and it just tips you over the edge.”
“Either way,” Marcus said, “Hoffman made the right call.”
“Is that a political opinion?” Bernie had never heard him express one. “That’s a first for you.”
“No, it’s a strategic assessment. We’re in no shape to go anywhere yet.”
“Well, not much we can do here. Come on. We’ve still got glowies out there to worry about.”
It wasn’t a good day for observation duty on the walls, but even with the rain and low cloud they had a good all-around view of New Jacinto and the ship berths. Marcus settled in one of the sentry points built into the wall, elbows braced on the brickwork to steady his binoculars.
Bernie found it comforting to retreat to a high vantage point on an uncertain day. She’d reached that overload stage where one more shock or disaster wouldn’t make things any worse. The stalks were getting everywhere and spawning things she didn’t even have a name for, leviathans were cruising closer to shore, and now Prescott had handed back the keys. She tried to remember if she’d felt this overwhelmed when she only had grubs to worry about, but time had bleached the intensity out of the memory.
Come on, Vic. You can do it. You’re not doing it alone, either. You’ve still got the same team.
“How do you think people are going to take the news, Bernie?” Dom asked. “You’ve seen Prescott out pressing the flesh. People have a lot of faith in him.”
“Depends who gives them the news and how they do it,” Bernie said. “Unfortunately, Vic’s got the diplomacy skills of a house brick.”
She didn’t feel she was being disloyal. Bluntness was just the rough-cast underside of Hoffman’s honesty. But she didn’t know how civilians would view that now. Trescu was an Indie, which was going to take some selling to the Pelruan contingent even without his personal track record in slotting prisoners. Civvies didn’t know Michaelson, but he was the one with the charm and silky voice who’d probably make the best front man.
Great timing. Just bloody wonderful.
“Hey, heads up,” Marcus said. He rubbed the rain off his binoculars’ lenses and adjusted the focus. “Trawler berths, halfway down the jetty.”
Bernie strained to see what he was looking at. A Gear was carrying a box, heading toward the boats. She couldn’t see who it was because he had his helmet on, but when he stopped alongside one of the small workboats that were moored with the trawlers, another Gear came out onto the deck and they manhandled the box down the ladder.
“What is it?” she asked. Gears did jobs around the docks all day. It was usually a busy place, especially since the Pelruan evacuation. She thought Marcus had seen something in the water. “Lambent?”
“No. The Gears. I think that’s Rivera. And Lowe.”
Dom took a look as well. “Yeah, are they still going to be holding Prescott’s coat all day now that he’s resigned?”
“What are they loading?” Marcus asked.
“Whoa,” Dom said quietly. “Look who’s coming.”
Bernie could only see the back view of an oilskin jacket, but it was definitely Prescott. He walked down the jetty and stopped at the ladder down to the workboat to talk to the two Gears. Yes, it had to be his CP team. Rivera, the heavier-set of the two, stood next to Prescott talking on the radio, finger to his ear. Prescott half turned with his arms folded as if he was waiting for someone or for a reply. Then Rivera climbed down to the workboat and disappeared into the wheelhouse. Prescott turned fully to face the naval base and just waited, staring back up the jetty. If he’d spotted Marcus, he didn’t show it.
“I don’t like this.” Marcus pressed his earpiece. “Fenix to Hoffman— Colonel, where are you? I’m watching Prescott and his CP guys loading a boat. You might want to find out why. They’re at—”
“Hoffman here. I know. The bastard’s just summoned me. Stand by.”
Bernie looked at Marcus and Dom. “You think we ought to be down there?”
“Yeah,” Marcus said, heading for the nearest steps. Bernie and Dom followed. “If only to haul Hoffman off him.”
“Well, Prescott can’t be skipping town,” Dom said. “Not if he’s called the old man down here.”
Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the thing that Prescott said he would ask Hoffman to do but couldn’t tell him why, the act of blind faith.
“He’s going to meet someone,” Bernie said. “That’s why he’s got Lowe and Rivera with him. Anyone want to place a bet on some deal with Lyle Ollivar? This resignation’s got to be some scam.”
“What the hell could he want from some pirate?” Dom asked.
Marcus shrugged. “Assistance. Protection. Who knows what the fuck goes through his mind.”
No, a deal with the Stranded fleet didn’t make sense either. But it might have explained the databursts. And how was he sending transmissions? Why would the pirates bother to do a deal when they were probably better off than the COG right now?
Hoffman was already on the jetty by the time they got there, walking briskly to the boat. Prescott must have seen them coming up behind Hoffman but he didn’t seem to take any notice. Dom pressed his earpiece.
“We’ve got your back, Colonel.”
Hoffman glanced back over his shoulder. “I don’t think he’s going to shoot me, Dom. But I might strangle the asshole.”
Hoffman came to a halt in front of Prescott. Rivera and Lowe emerged from the boat and stood beside their boss, and Bernie found herself adopting the same defensive position with Marcus and Dom. It was a real study in body language, the state of the COG summed up in a few people unhappy facing each other
down on a rain-lashed jetty.
Dom took a few steps back and turned away for a moment to radio someone. Bernie heard the word “Captain.” Yes, Michaelson needed to be here too.
Prescott thrust his hands in his pockets. “Thank you for responding, Victor.”
“What the hell is this?” Hoffman growled. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t tell you.” Prescott pulled his head back a little, almost looking down his nose. “But I have to go, and I have to go now. I can’t tell you why, but if I did you’d understand the urgency.”
“So how long are you going to be gone?”
“I won’t be coming back. But if I left without telling you, you’d only waste scarce resources searching for me.”
Bernie heard Marcus take a long breath. For some reason, the news didn’t surprise her as much as it seemed to surprise him.
But Hoffman didn’t seem to be taking it in. “This is some kind of joke, is it, Chairman?”
“No, Colonel. If only it were.”
Bernie could only watch it in slow-motion horror. Everyone had their crazy moments, but Prescott had been the face of bureaucratic normality, the solid leader everyone accepted would always be there. And now he was leaving when there was nowhere much left to go.
“You are shitting me,” Hoffman said. He started at a rumbling growl but crept up the register. “You are fucking shitting me. You’re running away? You’re fucking running away when your people need a leader more than ever? Where in the name of God are you running to?”
“I’m not running away, but I have to leave.” Prescott said it slowly with that why-don’t-you-understand look on his face, but this time one fist was clenched at his side as if he wanted to grab Hoffman and shake him. Lowe and Rivera were getting twitchy. Bernie could see Marcus shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “I told you I’d ask something of you, and you didn’t want to listen, but I’m asking you again—come with me and help me do what I have to. I can’t tell you more than that.” He looked past Hoffman at Bernie for a moment. “You can bring Mataki. Damn it, bring Delta too. You’ll understand when you see. Just trust me.”
Shit, Hoffman was going to have a stroke any minute now. Bernie could see the color draining from his face. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Trust you?”
“You need to listen, Victor. And you’ll still have to evacuate Vectes.”
“Sir, you can ram it up your ass. Too goddamn right I won’t listen.” Hoffman was right in his face now, and if Lowe or Rivera didn’t step in, then Bernie would. “I can’t abandon thousands of civilians. Don’t give me this bullshit about you can’t tell me where you’re going—I want you to tell my Gears and those poor assholes in the camp why you’re really walking out on them.”
Prescott seemed to have had enough. He took a firm step toward the boat, a final gesture. “Just tell them I ran away,” he said quietly. “I’m sure you can make them believe it. And it’ll make life much easier for you and Michaelson. It really will.”
“Chairman, you could have run away any number of times over the years, but you never did.” Hoffman’s voice was hoarse. “Tell me. Tell me what the hell’s going on. How can we survive if we don’t know?”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere, Victor.” Prescott glanced at Marcus for a moment. Bernie wondered if he thought he was going to physically stop him. “And I really must go.”
“Well, fuck off, then, you traitor.” Hoffman turned his back on him for a moment and Bernie was certain he was ramping up to swing a punch. “Go on, get the hell out of here. At least I won’t have to waste time keeping an eye on your goddamn games anymore.”
Prescott had to turn to climb down the ladder bolted flat against the dock wall. It needed a careful maneuver to grip the high iron handrails while twisting to climb down backward. Bernie couldn’t believe they were watching him go, but what was the alternative? To haul him back? To shoot him? His senior officers had mutinied. There was no Sovereign’s Regulation to deal with what was happening now.
Then Marcus pushed forward.
“I abandoned my post once, and got men killed,” he said. “I thought I had a damn good reason. So you better have a fucking stunner, Chairman.”
Prescott looked up with one boot on the ladder. “I’ve done my duty all my adult life, Fenix, and I’m still doing it. I’m well aware of how many lives that’s cost.” He paused. Then his expression hardened as if he’d suddenly remembered something that disgusted him. “But I’ve never done it out of arrogance, and I never thought I always knew best.”
It was a really odd thing to say, very specific, very personal. It sounded like it was aimed at Marcus, but nobody could possibly think that about him. Marcus’s rigid self-control suddenly snapped. Bernie watched his fist ball, held tight against his leg. He had a bastard of a temper buried somewhere, she knew, but she’d never seen it this close to erupting. He looked like he was holding his breath.
“You’re accountable, Chairman. You don’t get to fuck with us like this. You don’t get to fuck with what’s left of us.”
Prescott’s expression changed instantly. He clenched his jaw. He was speechlessly angry for a second before he spat out his answer, and it didn’t look like an act.
“Fenix, you have no idea. You have no damn idea at all. I’ve been a lot more accountable than your father.”
Hoffman stepped in front of Marcus instantly and blocked him just as he drew his arm back. For a moment Bernie thought Marcus was still going to go for Prescott, but he got a grip of himself and stood down, looking murderous. That was his trigger—any insult to his dad. If you wanted a punch in the face, it was a good way to get one. Hoffman knew that from experience.
Hoffman jabbed his finger in the direction of the open sea. Bernie could have sworn he was shaking. “Okay, Prescott, get out. Go on. Run. Just get out of my fucking sight.” He looked across at Rivera. “I’m not blaming you or Lowe. Do what you feel you have to. But you should let the bastard drown.”
Bernie could hear boots thudding now, someone walking very fast down the long jetty and almost breaking into a jog. It was Michaelson. He strode up behind Hoffman as Rivera slipped the mooring line and stepped down onto the boat. It puttered away.
“The bastard’s taking one of my vessels?” Michaelson asked.
“Is that all you’ve got to say?” Hoffman snapped. “Nice of you to show up. Goddamn, Quentin, what’s wrong with you?”
“Never mind, I can track him now.” Michaelson looked indignant. “He’ll have thought of that three moves earlier, but I’ll ask Miran to get Zephyr on the case. The workboat’s a lovely noisy little thing for a submarine to follow. Let’s give him a head start and see what happens. He won’t be going far in that without refueling.”
Michaelson was a nice enough bloke, but Bernie was still wary of him. “Did you know he was going to do a runner, sir?” she asked pointedly. He relished these games. “What else do you know?”
“I didn’t, Sergeant,” Michaelson said. “But now that Prescott’s on my turf, so to speak, I have the advantage.”
Bernie wondered if the deal with the Stranded was as outlandish as she’d thought. Prescott might have been heading for a rendezvous. It explained the short-range vessel, anyway.
“Shame that Clement’s out of torpedoes,” Hoffman muttered. “But I need to know where that asshole’s heading.”
Michaelson patted his shoulder. “Think of Lowe and Rivera.”
Wave once, and don’t look back again. Bernie hung back to watch the boat for a few moments, then realized everyone else except Marcus had walked off, even Hoffman. The handful of civilians and Gears out on the jetties and on decks glanced up, apparently oblivious of what was happening. The rain started to hammer down in rods again.
Marcus stared after the boat with utter loathing. “I don’t believe it.”
Bernie wondered whether to ask him what Prescott had meant about Adam Fenix. She had a long history with Marcus. She’d been
with him through some of the roughest moments of his adult life, so she could get away with it when others couldn’t. But even she didn’t dare, not right then.
“Well, we’re really on our own now,” she said.
“The hell we are.” Marcus finally looked away from the shrinking boat. “This is still the COG. He’s the one who’s left it. We’ll carry on without him.”
Bernie decided to leave well enough alone. Hoffman needed her now. In a normal world he’d have been a couple of years into retirement, but now he was embarking on a new role that she knew scared him a lot more than grubs, glowies or even death.
He was the reluctant leader of the last remnant of the COG. He wasn’t going to like that at all.
FORMER UIR SUBMARINE ZEPHYR, SOUTHWEST OF VECTES: TWO HOURS AFTER EX-CHAIRMAN PRESCOTT’S DEPARTURE.
“He’s still there,” said Teo. The workboat was heading southwest at a respectable speed. “What kind of range has that piss-pot got? Because it’s not heading for the nearest land.”
Trescu listened to its propellers on the headset, baffled. As far as he knew—and as far as Michaelson could tell him—the workboat had only the most basic radar and radio, just enough to do its job of moving men and material around a harbor. It had no sonar or advanced communications, because the NCOG fleet had been cannibalized. Everything useful but not essential had been stripped out to be used elsewhere—again, as far as Michaelson was aware. But Trescu didn’t know if Prescott had managed to add some refinements that could detect a submarine tracking him.
When would he even get the chance to do that? Ah, maybe he has. The boat hasn’t been used for months. It’s small. And nobody was keeping a special eye on it.
Prescott would have to be an idiot if he didn’t expect to be followed, though, and the man was anything but that. Did it matter if he knew where Zephyr was? He probably couldn’t outrun her, but even if he did, even a small boat’s props could be heard at a considerable distance in the current conditions. He couldn’t just disappear.