0125 Hours

T- 5 Hours, 5 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting

N2 National Highway, Madagascar

"Sorry, Centurion." The scar-faced Senior Decurion running the roadblock looked up at Pietr Ellis and utterly failed to show any regret. For all that Ellis nominally outranked him, the way he folded his arms across his barrel-broad chest and the pair of Buffalos pulled across the road behind him left no doubt as to who he thought was in charge of this situation. "Mah orders from Merarch Bohner's headquarters are specific. No one's to be allowed through the cordon into the Nova Archona area without his specific okay. Yo' ain't got that, so I have to ask yo' to turn around and go back where you came."

Ellis clenched his teeth together, and spoke only when he was sure he could control what would come out of his mouth. "Decurion…Miller, is it?" The man nodded. "Decurion, I got travel orders here from the Archon." When the man's face still didn't move, Ellis' eyes narrowed and his voice took on a biting edge. "Yo' know, the Archon? Old man, bout yay high, lives in a big house up thataway where he guides the destiny of the State an' Race? That Archon? I think his authority supersedes Merarch Bohner's."

"An' there we may disagree." The Decurion shifted his Holbars assault rifle forward on the patrol sling looped around his shoulder, and behind him the Draka troopers in the back of the Buffalos copied his gesture. "Accordin' to Merarch Bohner, the Archon who signed yo' orders is a traitor to that very State and Race. So I'll give yo' one more chance, Sir. Turn round, get away from my roadblock, or I will turn yo' into a crater to discourage the next dumb sumbitch decides to argue with my orders. We can play it any way you want."

Ellis stared into the man's eyes. Then past his shoulder. Then he smiled widely.

"I think the situation's changed somewhat, Decurion. Look behind yo'."

The man snorted. "Please. That's the oldest one in the bo-"

With a sharp CRACK-WHAAAAAM, one of the ancient trees by the side of the road exploded, showering flaming splinters for hundreds of yards around. Most of the Draka at the roadblock threw themselves flat instinctively, but one trooper who'd been a fraction of a second slower than the rest screamed and rolled on the floor of the Buffalo's troop compartment, his skin perforated by a dozen smoking slivers of wood. The Decurion wheeled around, his eyes wide and his face going white around the scar as he took in the four Scorpion combat cars that had just crested the ridge behind the roadblock. One of them, its barrel smoking, turned to cover the Buffalos with its three companions. Behind them, more Buffalos were coming up with D Century of the First Reaction Cohort's infantry, but their presence was more or less ceremonial. The Scorpions would need a single shot each, perhaps two, to turn the entire roadblock into smoking wreckage. The Buffalos shuddered into gear, their drivers pulling them out of the road before abandoning them with the infantry, rushing for the dubious cover of the trees. Just as the Senior Deucrion turned back towards him, face darkening in rage, Ellis landed a neat punch between his eyes.

Walking past the collapsed man, Ellis heard Jenny pulling the jeep up behind him. As he strode down the road. The lead Buffalo pulled up towards him, turning sideways. The familiar head of his Century 2IC appeared above the troop compartment's side rail, sweeping off his helmet and grinning. Ellis grinned in response, snapping a parade-ground salute.

"Service to the State, yo' old bastard. What kept yo'?"

Master Warrant Michael McWhirter laughed as he leaned casually against the rail. "Glory to the Race. And I think considerin' we got a call not two hours back that yo' were in some kind of unspecified trouble, in addition to all the weird shit comin' over the radio tonight, we made damn good time. 'Sides, we got here in time, didn't we?"

"That yo' did. Good thing too, jeep's about busted." As he spoke, Ellis headed for his command car, sensing rather than hearing Jenny fall in at his heels. "Let's not hang around the crime scene, Warrant. But once we get five-six klicks up the road I want to pull off to the side someplace and have a laager. Y'all aren't goin' to believe what we gotta do next."

0200 Hours

T- 4 Hours, 30 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting

Flag Bridge, USS Reprisal

"Boy, I hate being right all the time." Julius Rosemont stared at the flag plot unhappily, watching the trace making its way in from the southeast. An airborne radar plane had picked up the trace half an hour before, and one of Reprisal's A2H Vampire light attack planes had just confirmed the contact with parachute flares. The Akita Maru, a ten thousand ton freighter registered out of Yokohama, making for the Madagascar coast right where there should have been a break in the Quarantine. "I suppose it's too much to hope that we can just sink the sonofabitch and have done with it?"

"Fraid so, Rosie." Jaime Guitierrez threw the newly developed photos of the ship down on the chart table in disgust, splashing droplets of developing solution over the surface. "Blowing away Zanzie boats and chasing off trawlers is one thing. But when it comes to a major Japanese-flagged merchantman…"

"I know." Treaty or no treaty, international mandate or not, with the U.S. and Japan already in a proxy war in Indonesia an American warship couldn't just sink a large Japanese merchantman, even if she was busting the Quarantine. "So what do we do?" Guitierrez shrugged.

"Closest escort is the Yarrow." Both men shared a glance at that. They both remembered Dan Yarrow, who had flown an AR Revenant off the first Reprisal and sacrificed himself so that one Julius Rosemont and his crew could survive and drop their bomb on Genoa. Talking about the ship that bore his name had always felt a bit too much like calling up a ghost. "She's running full-out now, should be in position to board by sunrise. We've already got a full Sierra package standing by for the Zanzies, so if she runs into too much trouble we can divert a few planes and ruin the Japs' whole day. But we have to at least try."

"I know." Rosemont flicked his eyes up the plot. "What's the situation up north?" Guitierrez sighed.

"Well, appealing to the Sultan seems to have worked, at least partially. The Director's message said that worthy appears to be running scared of something- we could probably figure out what, given the day or two that we don't have. Problem is that the boats in his harbor are funded and crewed from all over Africa, so they're not necessarily going to listen to him when he tells them to knock it off, and his own Navy is sympathetic enough to their viewpoint that he's not sure which way they'd fall if ordered to stop the boats leaving harbor. Figure he can keep the lid on until sunrise, maybe an hour or two after, but sometime during the morning those boats are going to sail and we're not going to be able to stop them."

"And then Bohner makes his move-"

"And we all know what comes after that." Guitierrez fixed Rosemont with a stare. "Rosie, I'm pulling your squadron off Sierra duty. I think you'd better go to your cabin and review the sealed documents there. I think you know which ones."

"Aye aye, Sir." Rosemont wouldn't have wasted that on his friend, normally, but that hadn't been an ordinary order. He left the Flag Bridge and descended three levels to his stateroom, where he locked the door to make sure he wouldn't be disturbed. That done, he folded down the small writing desk from one of the stateroom's bulkheads and reached behind it, dialing the combination into the small safe there by feel. Rosemont pulled a heavy manila envelope out of the safe and laid it on his desk. For a moment he stared at the heavy black seals across the flap, then carefully ran his finger along the seam and broke them. He began to page through the thick bound book inside, whose cover read,

SINGLE INTEGRATED OPERATIONS PLAN

OPTION D- DRAKA ARCHONATE, FULL ATTACK

USN VAH SQUADRON COMMANDER

TOP SECRET- SCI

Rosemont stayed awake for another hour, reading over the details of how his squadron would unleash Armageddon on the last vestiges of the Draka Race. When he finally collapsed from exhaustion, his sleep was uneasy, his dreams haunted by the specter of a mushroom cloud rising over Marseilles and by the face of a young gunner nearly twenty years dead.

0300 Hours

T- 3 Hours, 30 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting

Checkpoint Baker, Outside Regentropfen Airport, Madagascar

D Century rolled down the road towards the Regentropfen perimeter, gun barrels pointed in the air and with all the troops grasping the side rails of their Buffalos. Even that much had taken a crucial half-hour to arrange, and Pietr Ellis could barely keep from grinding his teeth together in frustration. He'd heard nothing about the larger situation since his hurried call with the Archon hours before, but it didn't take a genius to figure that the situation was on a knife's edge. If nothing else, the steady stream of transport aircraft leaving Regentropfen told him that. The Americans were evacuating their enclave.

On another level, he supposed he should be grateful. Regentropfen Airport was the Archonate's only facility capable of handling fixed-wing airplanes, and ever since the Draka had founded Nova Archona the enclave around the it had been American territory by treaty and very jealously guarded. Ellis supposed that it counted as a minor miracle of diplomacy that he'd been allowed to bring a formed body of troops inside the perimeter at all…which in turn meant he didn't have to look back every sixty seconds to make sure troops loyal to Bohner hadn't started some kind of pursuit. That's the problem with thishere setup, he thought, sweeping his commo helmet off for a moment and running a hand through his hair. I got entirely too many sides shootin' at me. Least for Daddy and Granddaddy, they just had the one.

Just past the outer fence, a company of American tanks were drawn up, a baker's dozen heavy Greenes with long gun barrels tracking the Century as the gate closed behind them. Ellis had no doubt there were plenty of other hidden guns registered on them- in a way, the display was reassuring. Displaying enough firepower to wipe out the Century was intended to intimidate him into not trying anything- which meant that as long as he didn't, they probably weren't planning to blow the Century away out of hand. Progress. A man in U.S. Army khakis waited out front of the formation. When the Century was perhaps a hundred yards away, he held up one hand in an unmistakeable signal. Ellis spoke into his mic and the Century ground to a halt, then clambered out of his Hyena and strode towards the American officer with McWhirter loping along in tow. The Master Warrant was entirely too Old Domination to like what they were about to do, but he was also entirely too much a soldier to let it affect how he performed his duties. The expression on his face was thunderous as he strode over behind his officer, but he kept his hands carefully in sight and away from his gunbelt.

Ellis drew up opposite the American and saluted, American style hand-to-forehead rather than the Draka fist-to-breast. The other man returned it, then spoke before Ellis could.

"Major Simon Hunter, U.S. Army. We let you come this far because you said you had something for us, Snake. This far, and no farther, so let me tell you the script for the rest of our conversation. You're going to make whatever offer is currently passing through your brain, I'm going to tell you to go to Hell, and you're going to disappear over the horizon before we use your tin cans there for target practice. If you don't think you have something good enough to make me change that script, I suggest you stop wasting both our time and go help whichever side you favor in the little fracas you Snakes have going in the capital."

Another loaded C-67 screamed overhead, saving Ellis from having to come up with a direct response. The backwash ruffled his uniform and almost sent his service cap flying, but he forced himself to hold the American's gaze. This one looked like a wolf, which meant that at the first sign of weakness he could feel jaws around his throat.

"Centurion Pietr Ellis. Major, I do have something for you. I have the location of the nerve gas depot for Merarch Bohner's little toy rockets." Hunter raised an eyebrow, his face still carefully impassive.

"Who's little what nows?" That was it. This might well mean death for the whole Race, but there was only so much a Draka could take. Ellis took a step forward, heedless of the heavy guns backing the man up.

"Almighty Nothing, Yankee, shoot me if yo' will but please don' treat me like I am some manner of idiot child. Yo' and I both know about Merarch Bohner's ballistic missiles, unless yo' flyin' all yo' people home for that damned Thanksgiving Day of yours. Yo' and I both know that if he pops one off, yo' Nothing-damned carrier is goin' make this whole island glow in the dark. If yo' want another option, I know where the warheads for the damned things are, and I'll show yo'."

"In exchange for what? Security for your men?" Ellis rolled his eyes.

"In exchange fo' nothing, Major Hunter. All I want is to pass on this information so that maybe, maybe everyone I care about don't die in the next 24 hours. That convincin' enough for yo'?" The man's dark eyes bored into his for what seemed an eternity. Then he nodded.

"All right, Centurion. You can come ahead, but not your Century. We're not letting them inside the perimeter."

"Hell you say." McWhirter spat the words out, his eyes narrow. "We're not leaving our commandah to-"

"Yes yo' are." Ellis cut him off and turned to face him. "Take the Century off to one of the N2 dispersal sites, Warrant. Use this week's comm schedule and the rendezvous places we talked about on the way up here. Find fuel and supplies, then hunker down and wait for my signal. Don't hear from me by sundown today, then congratulations, you're finally an officer." McWhirter looked even less pleased at that prospect. "My job is to get this information through- and if it comes to that, the Race needs that to happen more than it needs one middlin'-good mechanized Century leader." McWhirter nodded, grudgingly. "Now get gone."

"Sir." McWhirter gave Major Hunter one last harsh glare, then turned to trot back to the collection of vehicles waiting down the road. Ellis turned, once, and spotted Jenny's head sticking out of the command car.

He waved, once.

Almost half an hour later, by his watch, Major Hunter threw open the door to the small interrogation room he'd been hustled into as soon as the Yankees had him. Ellis stood.

"Ready to listen now, Major?"

"No." Hunter looked like he'd bitten into something sour. "I'm not, because it seems that people above my pay grade want to listen to you right away. Come on, Centurion. You're going for a little ride."

0430 Hours

T Minus Two Hours to Sunrise and Counting

Aboard USS Yarrow

"Big son of a bitch." Rob Delacour swept his eyes over the superstructure of the Akita Maru, drinking in the sight of the big freighter. "How you want to play it, Cap'n?"

Ray Archer had been wondering the same thing since they got the order to intercept the Japanese blockade runner hours before, and he still wasn't certain. Normally he'd never have considered boarding a target this big at night- besides all the hazards that maneuvering near an unknown ship in the dark usually brought with it, it would make it harder for his Marines to see any react to any threats. If there was one thing tonight sure as hell wasn't, though, it was anything resembling normal. The all-commands messages he was copying out of Regentrofpen and Venta Bellagrium were looking more worrying by the hour, and the flagship's message had made it utterly clear that there was no time to lose on this one.

All of which meant that, as Captain-under-God, Ray Archer was going to ask his people to do things he'd normally never ask of them. Well, they'd mentioned at the Academy the job could get this way sometimes.

"Easy way first, XO." Archer grabbed the loud-hailer microphone off its clips and keyed it.

"Merchant vessel Akita Maru! This is a U.S. Navy Warship operating under the International Quarantine Enforcement Authority! You are in violation of the Restricted Zone and are ordered to stop and heave to immediately or you will be fired on and sunk! You will receive no further warnings!"

As the last echo died away, the heavy snort of marine diesels that had carried across the water to Yarrow's open bridge died away. Akita Maru's headway fell off as she went dead in the water. Archer looked over at Delacour, mouth open.

"No way it's that easy."

"Prob'ly not, Skipper." Delacour gave the merchantman's bridge a dubious glance. "We know what the next move has t' be, though."

"Yeah." Aft, the whaleboat was already swinging out on its davits, the Marine boarders already sitting in it with their weapons slung and ready. As the two men watched, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, it drew up alongside the Akita Maru's flank. The low cough of a grapple mortar carried across the water, and the dark web of a boarding net draped itself over the ship's side. Dark shapes began to crawl up the net, and the first ones tumbled over and onto the deck.

The night exploded.

The first warning Archer had of something unusual was the long flame-tongue of a recoilless rifle shooting out from the Japanese freighter's bridge and slamming into his ship's deck just aft of the 5" turret. A mass of machine guns cut loose, some onto the Marines on deck and some spraying Yarrow down. The ship veered sharply away from the Akita Maru, the helmsman pushing his wheel over to get her out of danger without waiting for orders. Another recoilless round barked out, then hissed into the sea where her bow had been just seconds before.

"Jesus Christ!" Archer could still see tracers arcing back and forth over the Japanese ship's deck, so at least some of the Marines were still alive and fighting back. How long that would last with the firepower that seemed to be on that ship was anyone's guess, though. "Damage reports?"

"Still coming'in." Delacour's cheek was torn open in a long, jagged cut and blood was running down across his chin and neck, but his voice was perfectly level. "We got a fire near the five-inch magazine from that hit forward, though. DC team on the scene wants permission to flood." Archer nodded. Flooding the magazine would take his ship's biggest weapon out of action for the duration, but if the fire spread too far the first he'd know about it would be when he saw Saint Peter.

"Do it. Casualties?" Delacour leaned over to yell instructions into the bridge talker's ear, and within seconds Archer could feel the deck shift under his feet as Yarrow's bow ducked down towards the waves. The damage control team must have been waiting by the sea valves. Delacour leaned over again.

"Five dead, Skipper, 'bout a dozen more hit. Nothin' else major." Yet was unspoken between them. Destroyer escorts weren't built to stand up to very much punishment, and whatever was over there was definitely not a merchant vessel. "Radio says they got a contact report off t' Flag, no reply yet."

"Right." The fire from the Akita Maru had slacked off as Yarrow pulled away, and now Archer took a long look over at her. "They won't be able to do much until daybreak, though, and the Marines aren't going to last that long. Japs can just run 'em out of ammo. They sure as hell can't call this off now." Ever since the Armistice in 1944, the U.S. and Japan had glared at each other and fought proxy wars, but Archer could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times American and Japanese regular units had exchanged fire. When they opened fire on the Marines the Japanese had made it clear they were going to carry through whatever they had planned regardless of the cost.

The bridge phone rang, and Archer pulled it off its clips.

"Bridge, Captain here."

"Radio, Skipper. Flag advises they have a Sierra package spooling up now, should become a factor in about thirty minutes. Your discretion on what to do until then, Sir." Archer cursed under his breath. "Sorry, Captain?"

"I said thank you, Radio. Carry on." Archer slammed the phone down. "Flyboys will be here in half an hour, Rob. Three guesses what happens then." Delacour grunted humorless laughter from over by the chart table, where a pharmacist's mate was stitching his cheek while a seaman striker held a flashlight. He waved the mate off for long enough to speak.

"After what happened there, Cap'n? They'll blow it the hell out of the water."

"Yeah." In the military abstract, it was the right thing to do, Archer knew. Whatever was on that ship had to be important, which meant that if it got to Madagascar it would probably further destabilize an already critical situation. Therefore it couldn't be allowed to get there…and therefore the lives of however many Marines were still on the ship's decks couldn't be allowed to matter. Admiral Wallis would

order Reprisal's aircraft to sink the Akita Maru right away.

But those were his people over there, not the Admiral's. And that meant he had about thirty minutes to get them out of there, give or take a few.

"Allright, Rob." Archer kept his eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the Japanese cargo ship, still lit with tracer fire as his Marines fought for their lives. "Here's what we're going to do."

0450 Hours

T Minus One Hour, Forty Minutes to Sunrise

Flag Bridge, USS Reprisal

Reprisal heeled into a hard turn, and a high, piercing shriek from the flight deck outside filled the flag bridge. Two flights of A2H Vampire light attack bombers were lining up on the catapults, their wings heavy with flare pods and glide bombs, with a pair of F12F Bobcats going along for fighter cover. The nightmare call of the jet engines rose to a deafening roar as the first catapult slammed and a Vampire raced down the deck, but no one on the bridge noticed. They were all fixated on the young, lean man who had just finished speaking, and was now eyeing them with the vibrating tension of a man who had let all his chips fall on the next roll of the dice.

"Well." Admiral Wallis shook his head, and took a commander's privilege to lean against the bulkhead for a moment. "Centurion Ellis, the information you've brought us is quite valuable, no doubt about that. I'm not sure what we can do with it, though."

"What yo' can do with it?" As he looked across the bridge at the American admiral, Pietr Ellis felt his gut clench with sudden, sick anger. "Yo' son of a bitch, I found Bohner's weak spot, the thing that makes him more than an overgrown six year old cooped up with his buddies in a little jungle tree fort. Put myself on the line to bring it to yo', risked my people's lives along the way. And yo' not going to do anything with it?"

"I didn't say that, Centurion!" Wallis rocked forward on his heels, eyes blazing. "Despite what you may think, I want a way out of this that doesn't mean nuking the Draka into extinction! I want alternatives! But I don't see that this gives us one! If the gas Bohner has is anything like the stuff we've been experimenting with, it's going to be resilient. We'd have to rip open all the storage vessels and expose it to enough heat to inactivate the gas, and God help us if we missed even one. I don't see how to do it without a nuke. Hell, I'd use a nuke if I could, better one than a dozen or two, but by the time I convince Washington to let me do it this whole damn thing will be over!" Wallis' face was splotchy red, and he rested his hands on the plot table as he spoke his last words in a husky whisper. "I hate what I'm going to have to do in a few hours, son. I'm sorry. But I don't see another way."

"I might." Both Ellis and Wallis turned to look at Julius Rosemont as he spoke carefully, arms folded over his chest. Neither looked happy- the Admiral at being challenged, the Draka because he would have preferred not to acknowledge Rosemont's presence in the room. "We've got some of those new fuel-air bombs down in the magazines, Admiral. If we get close enough to the nerve gas store with those, they'll give us enough heat and blast to do the job. Next best thing to a nuke."

"But it's not a nuke. You'd have to hit almost dead-on. How are you going to manage that? And won't Bohner's people have something to say about it?"

Rosemont shrugged. "Doubt they have more than one SAM site, Sir. Give me a -4 model with a couple Nails and we can kiss that problem goodbye." The A4R-4 model of the Retaliator sacrificed the internal bomb bay for a sophisticated electronics package that let it sniff out enemy radars and guide Nail antiradiation missiles onto them. "As for accuracy…I'm thinking a couple Deadeye packages."

"Deadeye?" Wallis snorted. "Let's forget for a minute that they've never been tested on the fuel-air jobs-"

"Let's. My ordnance troops will make it work. Stake my pension on it, Sir."

"- how are you planning to mark the target? The area's too heavily guarded for a special forces insertion."

"'Scuse me." Both men turned to look at Ellis, who was regarding them with a sardonic grin. "Just a poor dumb membah of the Master Race ovah here. Somebody want to let me know what this 'Deadeye' thing is all about? Seeing as how it may mean life or death for my people and all." Wallis looked inclined to argue, but Rosemont cut him off.

"It's an experimental system. Uses something we call a COIL projector, for Coherent Illumination- basically, light with only one frequency."

"What, like some kind of zap gun?" Rosemont laughed, his eyes dancing.

"Been watching our decadent bourgeois Tele-V, Centurion? Something like that. Only we can't give it enough power to fry something, but we can use it to mark a spot. Then the Deadeye seeker on the bomb sees the spot and parks the bomb right on top of it. Problem is, somebody's got to be there to put the spot on the target." Rosemont studied the young Draka for a moment, a grin starting to spread on his face. "Someone close. On the ground. Someone who could get inside the perimeter, maybe someone who commands an armored force that could punch the hole we need in Bohner's defenses."

"What?" It took a second. "Oh, Hell, no. We'd never make it past those emplacements at the mouth of the valley. Yo' must have-"

"Marine commando teams, yes, but no heavy equipment and no time to get an assault ship into position. As for Bohner's emplacements…they're impressive, from your descriptions. But I think you can crack them, Centurion. Merarch Bohner's forgotten about a little thing the Draka haven't seen since 1945."

"And that is?" Despite himself, Ellis was listening. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Admiral Wallis was too.

"Close air support."

0510 Hours

T Minus 1 Hour, 20 Minutes to Sunrise and Counting

Archonal Residence, Nova Archona

Because he was a gentleman, Eric von Shrakenberg had designed the Archonal Residence to have a pleasant set of ground surrounding it, neatly terraced, planted with flowers and trees, and with a creek and hedges to amuse guests. Because he was a Draka, a paratrooper, and a ruthless pragmatist, the terraces had been carefully laid out to allow open fields of fire from above while obstructing ones from below. The foliage of the top levels had been planted so as to give defenders concealed firing positions, while at the bottom heavy vines sunk roots deep into the soil and made entrenching difficult. The creek bed was currently serving as a trench for a Tetrarchy of loyal Archonal Guards, while a few minutes with a power saw had turned the hedge maze into a concealed firing position for a Scorpion combat car.

"Drop two and fire fo' effect!" From his position with his back to a sandbagged barricade, Eric watched his son's face as he spoke intently into a radio microphone from his perch at the window. The mortars in the garden outside coughed, and a moment later the walls of the Residence echoed with the low, muffed thud-whaaaam of a distant explosion. John howled with glee, keying the mic one more time. "Out-damned standing, Black Nine. That oughta put the fear of God in those sons-of-bitches."

Eric laughed softly to himself, shaking his head from side to side. From her perch at her son's elbow, Sophie looked back at him and quirked an eyebrow in response, giving him a rueful shake of her head before leaning back towards him.

"Kids. One day yo' changin' they diapers and teaching them to talk, next thing yo' know they callin' fo' they own artillery support. Where's the time gone, hey?" Eric let out an honest chuckle at that, letting it break loose into the laughter he so desperately needed.

"Well, he's had the trainin' in school, Sophie. Might as well let his old man get some rest. Tell me true, were we ever that young?"

"Yep." Sophie wagged her eyebrows at him. "Might even remind me of a young officer I used to know."

"Used to? Thank yo' so very much, Decurion-"

"Yo' know, I can hear yo'." Johnny turned back from the window with a mock-scowl, his voice impatient as only a teenager's could be. "And if I can interrupt yo' second honeymoon fo' a minute here, it looks like Bohner's boneheads down there aren't takin' no fo' an answer. Mother, can yo' help me keep commo up to the mortars?"

"Sure thing, sweetlin'." Sophie leaned forward and bent over the field radio they'd taken from the Guard's stores, her fingers moving with the easy dexterity that seventeen years away from the field hadn't been able to erase. After a moment, she looked up, frowning. "Eric, I got somebody breakin' in on the channel. Sounds like young Ellis."

"Ellis?" Eric reached over. Sophie was already holding up a headset just-so, and his fingers closed around it without thought as he pulled it on.

"Fist Actual. That yo', Flashfire?"

"Affirm on that, Fist. Reportin' in." Eric laughed at that.

"'Bout damn time too, youngster. Where are yo', what's yo' situation?" Next to him, he could see Sophie plugged into an earphone, listening just as intently.

Ellis' voice was utterly dry. "Right now, I'm aboard the USS Reprisal, Fist, gettin' ready to strap myself to a Yankee whirlybird and ride back to Madagascar. Yankees got a guided bomb they figure can do for Bohner's gas, but somebody needs to spot it. Figure that's me. I can bust in with my Century and maybe-so put paid to this whole deal."

"Yo' Century? Are they still around?"

"Should be, Excellence. Master Warrant McWhirter's got 'em, and I don't think the man's been born who can run the old bastard down."

"McWhirter?" Eric's eyebrows raised. "That Michael McWhirter?"

"Yessir. Ah, you know him?"

"My Senior Decurion a long time back. Yo' right, Centurion. He'll still be out there." Next to him, Sophie was shaking her head, one hand over her mouth to stop the giggles. Eric shook his head to clear it. "Think the Yankees can come through with it?"

"Hope so, Excellence. Man who put the idea up seemed pretty sure." Ellis paused again, his tone even drier. "They attack squadron CO. Might could be you've heard of him. Fella named Rosemont."

"Mother Freya." Eric leaned back against the barricade, shaking his head as he looked up at the sky. "Yo' tellin' me that Julius Rosemont and Attack Squadron One are the Draka's last hope."

"Just so, Excellence. Cheer up. Weren't yo' the one said in yo' book that history had a sense of humor?"

"I did. But it's usually not quite this low brow." Eric laughed anyway, then keyed the mic again. "Good luck, Centurion."

"And yo', Excellence. Talk to yo' in an hour or two, I hope." Both men knew that if he didn't, Ellis probably wouldn't be in any condition to be making any calls at all, and Eric was even less likely to be able to receive them. As the transmission ended, Sophie spoke into the silence.

"So, lemme get this straight. A third of the Draka die, and old Ironbutt the death-fuckah lives. Would've figured him a shoo-in for Gayner's crowd, but guess not. And now we dependin' on him, that puppy, and the Yankee what nuked us all back in '45 to pull our bacon out of the fire? Thor God of Thunder, we might as well slit our throats now."

There was a choked sob from down the hall. As both older Draka turned, they saw Yolande there, her eyes big as she sagged against the wall. Sophie's hand clamped down over her mouth as though she could call the words back, her eyes lowered as she bent over the set. Eric crawled over and looked at the young girl.

"Hey, punkin'. What're yo' doin here? S'posed to be with Anna and Marie down below." Dammit, that had been working so well- the girls were close in age and had been friends all their lives. Why had she gone wandering?

"I…I'm sorry, Uncle Eric. Just…just couldn't be underground no more. Too much like when the bushmen came. I got to thinkin' about how Ma and Pa went away. They said they was gonna come back, but they never did. So I…" She trailed off. "Are we gonna die, Uncle Eric?"

"No." Eric kept his voice firm, looking levelly into his niece's eyes. "No, we not. I didn't make it through all this to have Stonewall Jackson Bohner be the one to punch my ticket. This all gonna be over in an hour or two, sweetlin'. Then we'll come fo yo'. Promise." Yolande bit her lip.

"Can't I stay up here, Uncle Eric? Down there, I keep thinkin'…thinkin' that maybe…"

Eric stared at her for a second, running down options in his mind. Say no, and worry about Yolande running off again at a time when looking for her would be just plain impossible. Say yes…he sighed.

"Stay behind me. I tell yo' to get down, yo' get. Got it?" Yolande nodded, her eyes wide. "Go sit by your Aunt. She tells yo' to hand her the spare battery, do it." Yolande nodded again, pressing herself up against Sophie as she visibly fought not to shake. Eric met his wife's eyes, and shrugged. She returned the gesture with an ironic grin.

Outside, the sky began to flush in the east with the first light of dawn. Not for the first time, Eric wondered what that light would bring