A Small Colonial War (Ark Royal Book 6) (26 page)

And hope I do get sent to take the next lot of supplies
, she thought.  She
was
on the rota, but that had been before the Royal Navy arrived. 
They may think I should be kept here instead
.

“You’ll be digging trenches around the colony,” the guard ordered.  Someone had been busy; they’d placed tiny flags in position to illustrate where the workers were supposed to dig.  The Indians would probably emplace weapons later, Lillian thought.  They wouldn't trust the British colonists with heavy weapons.  “Get to work.”

Lillian sighed and did as she was told.

***

“They’re digging a network of trenches, sir,” Percy observed.

He peered through the binoculars as the workers started to do their job.  It
looked
as though they weren’t being given a choice, although he was mildly surprised the Indians hadn't brought out the heavy digging equipment.  A single bulldozer, adapted for local conditions, could dig a trench within minutes, while a military-grade handling machine could do the rest of the work in a day.  Putting the colonists to work was just pointless.

“Interesting,” Lewis said.  He sounded rather amused.  “They must want to keep the colonists busy.”

“Looks that way,” Drake agreed.  “Is there any sign of our friend?”

“None,” Lewis said.  He glanced at Percy, sharply.  He'd been doubtful about making any sort of contact with the colonists.  Even if they were loyal, they might not be trustworthy and accidentally betray the SAS.  “The last two transports we saw weren't broadcasting the signal.”

Percy frowned, inwardly.  Had they signed Lillian’s death warrant by giving her the transmitter?  It was certainly possible ... but then, if she had been caught, surely the Indians would have used it to bait a trap.  They did seem to be running random patrols around the colony, yet as far as he could tell they
were
just random.  There certainly didn't seem to be a proper search effort underway. 

Long hours ticked by, slowly.  The Indians brought out heavy weapons emplacements, then ordered the workers back inside as they slowly fitted their equipment into the trenches.  It wouldn't have lasted long against orbital bombardment, Percy knew, but the combination of ground-based plasma cannons, railguns and human shields would be enough to keep the Royal Navy from simply flattening the colony from orbit.  They’d have to launch an assault on the ground and
that
would be tricky. 

But we could do it
, he thought, as the Indians kept expanding their lines.  He’d been taught a great deal about defences, back on Earth, and one of the things he’d been taught was that defences were only as strong as the soldiers manning them.  The Indians didn't have enough soldiers to man them
all.  As long as we could get the marines down to the surface, we could overwhelm the defenders before they could react.

“We’ll have to forward this back through the link,” Drake said.  “Boone will need to know about it as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Lewis said.

Percy kept his amusement to himself.  The Royal Marines had picked fights with the Paras - and vice versa - on Vesy, but the SAS didn't seem to care that they were
reporting
to a Para Lieutenant-Colonel.  On the other hand, the SAS
knew
they were the best; they didn't
need
to engage in the rivalry that dominated interactions between the Royal Marines and the Paras. 
And
they had freedom to carry out their orders as they saw fit ...

“Percy, take the recordings to the transmitter,” Drake ordered.  “We may have to pull back if they keep establishing spotter outposts.”

“Aye, sir,” Percy said.

He took the datachips, placed them within his suit and headed off.  Drake was right; if the Indians were genuinely preparing for an offensive on the ground, it wouldn't be long before they started putting spotters on the nearby hills.  The SAS were past masters at sneaking around observers, but it would be harder to fool the Indians than terrorists on Earth.  They might have to take down the tents and head somewhere further into the wilderness before re-establishing themselves. 

And if that happens
, he thought,
it won’t be so easy to keep an eye on them
.

***

By the time she was allowed to re-enter the colony, Lillian was tired, sweaty, cross and sick of the endless grumbling about the pointless task.  The colony had plenty of digging equipment, designed to make it easier to emplace the prefabricated buildings in the frozen ground; there was no
need
to make them dig the trenches manually.  She couldn't decide if it was a deliberate attempt to keep them from thinking about the Royal Navy or simple sadism, but either way it was unpleasant, frustrating and largely useless.  The Indians ignored her as she made her way back to her tiny compartment, closed and locked the door behind her and fell on the bed.  She was aching everywhere.

And you’ll probably have to do it again tomorrow
, she thought, as she forced herself to sit up and start undressing.  Her pale skin was bruised badly; she wondered absently if one of the Indians had beaten her so hard she'd forgotten it, before remembering similar bruises from basic training.  The unaccustomed hard work had made her sore. 
Unless they decide to put someone else to work
.

She wrapped a dressing grown around herself, then keyed her terminal.  A message popped up in front of her eyes, reminding her that she would still be driving the transport to one of the mass drivers in two days.  Until then, she was still on trench-digging duty.  The Indians, it seemed, intended to keep the colonists busy.  By the time the Royal Navy attacked, the colony would be at the centre of an impossibly-large network of defences.

At least I’ll be outside the colony for a while
, she told herself.  She wanted a shower, but she was really too tired. 
And I can meet them.

She touched the pen in her pocket, then smiled to herself as she lay back on the bed.  Majors could have his transmitter, if he had time; she’d pass his words on to the SAS before destroying it.  And they
would
go to the Royal Navy ...

And then they can come get us
, she thought. 
We’ll be safe at last
.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Clarke III, Pegasus System

“You understand how to make it work?”

“I
was
a starship crewwoman,” Lillian said, gently.  “I’m not a complete dunce when it comes to modern technology.”

“You point this part at the stars,” Majors said, ignoring her.  “Once you lock into the target, you push this button to trigger the pre-recorded message.  It repeats ten times, then the system automatically wipes itself.  You throw the transmitter out of the vehicle and try to crush it beneath the treads.”

“Understood,” Lillian said.  It might be better to throw it into the ocean, but she'd prefer not to take the risk.  Falling through the ice would be bad enough even with the Indians willing and able to help rescue her.  “I’ll see that it gets destroyed.”

“Good luck,” Majors said.  He gave her a brief hug.  “If they do catch you, tell them it was my fault and you didn't have the slightest idea what I was asking you to do.”

Lillian snorted.  There was no shortage of war movies from the Age of Unrest where women - regarded as little better than animals by the bad guys - ran rings around the terrorists, just because the terrorists didn't take them seriously.  One of the spies had been blindingly obvious to anyone who hadn't been blinded themselves by their own preconceptions.  The movies had always struck her as funny - she particularly liked the one where a topless spy had hypnotised the enemy merely by waving her breasts in their faces - but the Indians weren't anything like that stupid. 
They
wouldn’t dismiss her simply because she happened to be born without a penis.

“I think they’ll shoot us both,” she said.  Some of the
other
war movies had lingered too much on precisely what kind of fates certain spies had endured for her comfort, but at least the Indians weren't
that
unpleasant.  “Are you sure you want me to do this?”

“Yes,” Majors said, flatly.  “Go.”

Lillian nodded, then took the transmitter, stuffed it into her bag and headed up the corridor towards the vehicle bay.  Sweat trickled down her back as she approached the two guards on duty - the Indians hadn’t bothered to search her bag before, but they might change their minds now the Royal Navy was actually investing the system - and then breathed a sigh of relief as they waved her past.  Neither of the young men looked particularly nasty, she noted; they seemed more inclined to worry about the conflict than her presence.  She walked up to the vehicle, slipped through the hatch and carefully hid the transmitter in the engineering compartment.  Someone would have to search the transport
thoroughly
to find it, if they wanted ...

Pity it wasn't small enough to be hidden under my clothes
, she thought, as she walked back into the cab and checked the rota.  She would be driving to Outpost Seven, it seemed; a six-day round trip.  It wasn't as long as she could have preferred, but still ... six days away from the colony and digging trenches was something to be enjoyed. 
I could have forced them to strip search me if they’d wanted to make sure I wasn't carrying anything dangerous
.

The engine hummed to life as she checked in with the control room; the entire vehicle shuddered slightly as the hatch opened, allowing her to drive out of the colony and past the growing network of trenches.  Someone had noticed - unfortunately too soon for the Indians to trap themselves - that they needed to leave an open path for the transports; the Indians had cut a gap through the defences for the vehicles and then expanding the surrounding fortifications.  She silently bade the colony goodbye as she drove onwards, silently grateful for the modified caterpillar tracks.  There was no such thing as a
road
on Clarke.

“Good thing too,” she told herself, as she kept a wary eye on the timer.  “The transport would probably wreck it within hours.”

She smiled at the thought.  She'd been told that tanks and other heavy military vehicles weren't allowed to travel on motorways, unless it was genuinely urgent.  They were simply too heavy and smashed up the roads when they drove down them.  The transport, if anything, was heavier.  She checked the timer again, decided she was far enough from the colony and carefully removed the pen from her pocket.  She’d looked at it before, time and time again, but as far as she could tell it was a perfectly normal pen.  It even
wrote
normally.

Let’s just hope you’re listening
, she thought, as she clicked on the transmitter. 
Because if you’re not, I may be in some trouble
.

It was an hour before the sound of the hatch opening made her jump.  She braced herself, careful to remain quiet, as the door behind her opened; she turned, slowly, and smiled as she saw Percy Schneider.  He tapped his lips as he produced a bug detector from his pocket and swept the compartment, then the rest of the vehicle.  Lillian almost didn't dare to breathe until he returned, smiling openly.  This time, she noted, he was alone.

“It should be safe to talk,” he said.  “How are you?”

“They know about the fleet,” Lillian said.  “They’ve been making us dig trenches for them.”

“Wankers,” Percy said.  He sat down facing her.  “I’ve got quite a few questions, I'm afraid.”

“So do I,” Lillian said.  She went on before he could say a word.  “A friend of mine built a transmitter to send a signal to the navy.  I said I’d take it and transmit ...”

Percy cut her off.  “You’d never be able to send the signal without being caught,” he said.  “Is he mad?”

“Desperate,” Lillian said.  “He wants to do something.”

“And then leave you with the transmitter,” Percy pointed out.  “Did you intend to destroy it?”

“I planned to give it to you,” Lillian said.  “If you take the message, you can forward it to the fleet, can’t you?”

“Probably,” Percy said.  “Unless this is an elaborate trap for us.”

He shrugged.  “I’ll take a look at the transmitter in a moment,” he said.  “Now ...
my
questions.”

Lillian sighed and braced herself for another interrogation.

***

Percy had to admit, when he finally looked at the transmitter, that David Majors was actually a
very
capable technician.  The Indians had presumably confiscated any purpose-built transmitters that might have been able to get a signal out, but Majors had strung together a dozen different components to produce the same effect.  Percy carefully removed the datachip storing the message itself - Majors hadn't rigged a proper self-destruct system, which was a dangerous oversight - and then broke the transmitter back into its component pieces, which he dumped into his bag.  They could be hidden somewhere or dumped under the waves if necessary.

He put the bag out of sight and walked back into the driving compartment.  “You’re on your way to one of their bases, correct?”

“Correct,” Lillian said.  “I don't know what I’m carrying, but they consider it important.”

“It could be anything,” Percy agreed.  He took a breath.  “I brought a set of tools this time, Lillian.  If I tried, I could open the boxes.”

He winced at her expression.  Taking him onboard and chatting to him was reasonably safe - she was practically unmonitored until she reached the outpost - but opening the boxes, which might reveal signs of tampering, was a whole other matter.  If someone took a careful look and discovered what he’d done,
she
would probably get the blame.  The Indians would be unlikely to accept her curiosity as an excuse. 

She swallowed, hard.  “Do it.”

Percy frowned.  There was something about her that spurred his protective instincts.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Lillian said.  She reminded him, just for a moment, of the same determination Penny showed.  “Do it, before I have an attack of brains to the head and realise just how dangerous it is.”

“All right,” Percy said. 

He gave her a reassuring smile - if necessary, they could arrange an accident for the vehicle and smuggle her back to the tents - and walked through the hatch, into the hold.  It was suddenly very cold, but the atmosphere was breathable.  The Indians, he was amused to note, had largely copied the Royal Navy’s standardised transportation containers, although
that
might have been caused by the global push towards standardizing as much as possible.  He moved from container to container, looking for one that could be used to fake an accident if necessary and finally chose one near the rear.  If the vehicle happened to hit something big enough to make it shake, he decided, it was just possible that the container would be damaged in transit.

“Let’s see,” he muttered to himself.  Burglary skills had been part of his basic training, although he’d never quite understood why until he’d been seconded to the SAS.  A burglar needed to think about ways to bypass locks and security protections, as well as developing the nerve to proceed with something that could get him in deep shit if he were caught.  “At least they used the standard duct tape.”

The thought made him smile - he’d had a sergeant who rhapsodised about the power of duct tape - as he carefully cut his way into the container.  It would be simple enough to replace, once he was through.  Inside, he found a set of smaller boxes, clearly marked as ration bars and sealed bottles of water.  He puzzled over the latter for a long moment - Clarke III wasn't short of water, even though it did need to be purified - and then dismissed the thought.  It wouldn't be the first time some bureaucrat back home had decided it would be better to ship supplies to the front rather than let the troops source it for themselves.

At least this time someone else has the barmy bureaucrats
, he thought, coldly. 
Good to know they learned more than just tactics from us
.

“Now,” he mused, pushing the thought to the back of his mind.  “How many soldiers are based on the outpost?”

There was no way to be sure, he knew, but it couldn't be more than a few dozen at most.  The Indians weren’t crazy enough to stick an entire regiment on top of each of the outposts, even if they were going to be defending the mass drivers.  There were enough ration bars in the crate he’d opened to feed a company of Royal Marines for several months, at least.  If the rest of the containers were
all
crammed with ration bars ...

He did the math, slowly.  The Indians would need at least a couple of thousand men on the outpost to make the expenditure worthwhile.  Either that, or they were establishing a supply dump for later expansion.  But with the task force bearing down on them, why bother?  They could do it afterwards, if they won the war.  He sealed up the container and went looking for a second that could be opened, gingerly.  This time, he found a stockpile of railgun pellets.

Shit
, he swore.  Lillian was transporting
ammunition
.  If that wasn't a breach of the laws of war, he wasn't sure what
was
.  And she didn't even
know
she was transporting ammunition; hell, food and drink alone was skirting the edge of the rules. 
She could wind up being hung for this
.

He sealed up the box, then opened a third.  It held more railgun pellets.  The Indians, clearly, were anticipating KEW strikes on their positions.  It wouldn't be a bad bet, either; the task force would need to clear the mass drivers before they could get into orbit and KEW strikes would work, given half a chance.  But the Indians had clearly taken precautions of their own ...

But they don’t know about us
, he thought, as he sealed the box carefully. 
If they did, they would have made different choices.

There didn’t seem to be any boxes left that could be opened and still maintain plausible deniability, so he repacked his tools - taking extreme care that none of them were left behind - and walked back into the cab.  Outside, the snowfall was growing stronger; Lillian had already slowed the vehicle as visibility had dropped to zero.   It would be too dangerous to try to make his way back to the team until it cleared.