The idea of arming civilian cops with military-grade weapons makes me feel like we’re crossing a line, but we’re preparing to defend this place against battle-tested soldiers. With our limited strength, I have to admit that it makes sense to upgrade the capabilities of the cops that are responsible for the town’s safety in the first place. It’s not like we’re opening the armories and throwing missile launchers out for the farmers and ice miners to use. When we all end up at a court-martial, I doubt that violating weapons regulations will make our trouble any deeper in the end.
On the tarmac in front of the tower, the four Dragonflies are sitting with idling engines. They’re the entire armed component of our rebellious little air-and-space force, waiting for my word to intercept whatever the fleet will send our way to yank us back to the doghouse by our collars. We’re outnumbered in the air, vastly outgunned, and in a ludicrously exposed and predictable position. For some reason, however, I’m more at ease than I have been in months—or perhaps years.
CHAPTER 18
For the next two hours, I coordinate the shuttle flights between the base and the atmospheric-processor stations. The civvie shuttles are slow and ponderous compared to our stolen drop ships, but we can’t spare any of our sparse airmobile firepower for taxi duties. The civvie shuttles start bringing back the exiled HD battalions, one platoon at a time. On my fleet comms, the urgent traffic from our old command goes unanswered. Sergeant Fallon has instructed us to ignore fleet messages until she can make her broadcast to the rest of the NAC units on New Svalbard. Outside, the new Dragonfly jocks are killing time by practicing dry attack runs at the end of the runway between puddle-jumper arrivals.
Finally, the people in charge over at Camp Frostbite are tired of leaving messages. One of the ground sensors at the outskirts of town picks up vehicle traffic coming down the road from the camp. I paint it with active ground radar, and use the optical sensors on the array to get a fix on what’s coming our way. A pair of the camp’s armored personnel carriers come down the gravel road at a cautious pace. Their modular weapon mounts are fitted with autocannons.
“Fallon, this is Grayson,” I send on our encrypted command circuit.
“Go ahead.”
“We have incoming, ground. Two mules with cannons. They’re coming down the road from Frostbite. Figure ten minutes to contact at their current pace.”
“Understood.” She pauses for a few moments. “Send one of the Dragonflies to intercept. Shots across the bow first. Give ’em fair warning.”
“Copy that. Grayson out.”
I relay Sergeant Fallon’s instructions to the flight of Dragonflies currently swarming the far end of the airfield.
“Rogue One, move to grid Delta Seven and play goalie. When they get in range, sweep them with the fire-control radar. Let’s hope they get the message before we have to trade shots.”
“Rogue One copies,” the pilot sends back. “We’re on our way.”
The Dragonfly breaks off its mock attack run, pulls up, and accelerates across the airfield at full throttle. When the seventy-ton war machine passes overhead, the sealed windows of the control tower rattle in their reinforced frames.
“Time to go public, I suppose,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Andrew, patch me into the fleet channel. Make sure they can pick me up down at Frostbite, too.”
I fire up the civvie comms, which have about a hundred times more output than the radio suite in my armor. Then I open a link to the fleet emergency channel, and route Sergeant Fallon’s comlink through it.
“You’re on,” I tell her. “Until they jam us.”
There’s a moment of static on the channel, and then Sergeant Fallon’s voice comes on again, this time in her Squad Leader Lecture cadence.
“All Commonwealth units, all Commonwealth units. This is Master Sergeant Briana Fallon, 330th Autonomous Infantry Battalion, Homeworld Defense.
“I have taken charge of all Commonwealth units in the city of New Longyearbyen. Three hours ago, we received an order to seize the civilian food storage and production facilities in the city. I refuse to execute that order. I will not be part of a military dictatorship on this moon. The troops under my command are now under control of the civilian administration.
“All Commonwealth units outside of the city: Do not approach the town under arms, or you will be fired upon. We may be outgunned, but we are not defenseless. Any assault on the civilian assets we’re defending will be considered a military coup attempt, and answered accordingly.
“All fleet units in orbit: We’re sitting on most of the food, fuel, and water in the system. If you attempt an orbital assault or bombardment, you will endanger thousands of civilians and destroy vital supplies. All you grunts and space jockeys: The choice is yours now. You can choose to follow orders without question, or you can choose to follow the law. Keep in mind that without the law, we’re not a military, just an armed gang that dresses alike.
“Make your choice wisely, but don’t think for a second that we won’t shoot back. Fallon out.”
There’s a brief and total silence on the emergency channel. Then my comms suite starts lighting up with dozens of incoming comms requests from all levels of our command hierarchy. I block all requests for now and shut down the open link.