CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Murphy strode into his office aboard Ishtar.
Callum was there, leaning back against his desk with a tea service next to him. Callum looked up and smiled, and the man he was speaking to—Murphy could see the back of his head and a prominent bald spot—tipped a cup to finish his tea.
“Admiral,” Callum said. “Just chatting. You know our new arrival? Captain Lipshen?”
“Terrence.”
Lipshen stood and straightened his uniform. He and Murphy were of similar age, although the newcomer was several centimeters shorter than the admiral, and his chest bore a slightly modified eye of Horus branch insignia. It also showed a distinct lack of combat ribbons. Patrician features smiled as the two shook hands, but Murphy detected no warmth or sincerity in Lipshen’s face.
“Been too long,” the captain said.
“I prefer not to make formal inquests a regular event,” Murphy replied.
“He was telling me about Steelman’s Star,” Callum said. “Lots of details you never mentioned before.”
“It was a long day, one I prefer not to dwell on.” Murphy walked around behind his desk and sat. “What brings you here, Andy?”
“Orders from the Oval.” Lipshen removed a data rod from a sheath on his sleeve and plugged it into the desk. “Intelligence updates. Encrypted letters. Not quite the usual.”
“A visitor from the Inspector General rarely is ‘usual.’” Murphy touched his desk and a screen illuminated beneath the veneer. “Callum. If you’ll excuse us?”
“Any news from home?” Callum leaned over, but Murphy raised a finger from the desk and his son backed away with the tea set. “Guess it can wait,” he said, and withdrew from the office.
“The usual rigmarole of administrative tasks, something to keep O’Hanraghty busy,” Lipshen said. “How well’s he working out for you? I was surprised to hear you picked him as your chief of staff.”
“Eminently competent and a key part of my command staff.” Murphy glanced up. “You expected me to pick who, exactly, as my XO?”
“I would’ve guessed someone a bit more…mainstream. But such is commander’s prerogative. Shall I get down to brass tacks? There’s a highlighted intelligence file—an update on the attack on Scotia.”
Murphy swiped up and down next to his screen and a holo bust of a dark-haired woman in the uniform of an RLH admiral appeared over his desk.
“Xing Xuefeng,” he said softly, and Lipshen nodded.
“Herself,” he said. “She’s been all over the League’s Infonet as the ‘Hero of Inverness.’” He grimaced. “There wasn’t time to get many details from their coverage before I shipped out—just the initial announcement and heroic fanfare. But we have some additional info on her, because she was on Intelligence’s radar as an up-and-coming commander. She was on the usual career progression—smaller vessels, then a squadron command on the Beta Cygni front to see if she was lucky enough to survive and get promoted via attrition. Apparently she was, so they pulled her back home and gave her her very own carrier strike group. Turns out she became something of a black swan event when she led the raid on Inverness.”
“The League hasn’t held us to a stalemate for the last four or five decades because they choose their commanders through battlefield luck,” Murphy said, scanning the dossier displayed on his screen. “She was at Gargant and Theseus IV, both decisive League tactical victories. Didn’t you lead the inquest on those battles?”
“No, I was back at the schoolhouse as an instructor, though I did read the final IG reports.” Lipshen half smiled. “Perhaps you’ve had some time to reflect on what you learned when you picked up the pieces from Inverness? Because her tactics—as I understand it—were nothing particularly brilliant there.”
“They didn’t have to be,” Murphy said. “She arrived in-system and Drebin tucked tail and ran. She was smart enough to know how to inflict damage with no casualties in return…especially when there was no one in her way.”
“Let’s not put any motives on Governor Drebin.” Lipshen raised his hands. “That’s the IG’s final call to make.”
“And when is the inquest for the massacre at Inverness?” Murphy asked.
“It was under consideration when I left Sol.”
“I don’t see anything here on Xing after Scotia. Any idea where she is now?”
“There hasn’t been time for that,” Lipshen pointed out. “What we know so far about the League’s take on Scotia is only from the public boards. Our human intelligence sources take a lot longer than that to get info to us, so any real intelligence is months old.”
He cocked an eyebrow, and Murphy nodded. The slow flow of information was a given in an interstellar war that had raged for over fifty years.
“That said, Admirals Yuan and Quyền are still in command in Beta Cygni, as far as we know.”
“I’m aware. What about Than? Where’s he been?”
“What does it matter?” Lipshen shrugged. “Than’s been a propaganda device for years. They won’t risk him at the front. But the Oval has made collection on Xing a priority going forward. She seems ambitious, and she could shake things up for their Eternal Forward and get them to one-party rule by the next election season.”
“Which is…soon?”
“Which is soon,” Lipshen confirmed. “And which is why I’m here with an additional order. Magenta file. Code Victor Charlie Delta Six-One-Nine. I’m required to be present when you read it to confirm receipt.” The captain slipped a small disc from where he’d had it palmed and onto the front of his uniform. “Recording.”
Murphy read aloud from the memo that had replaced Xing’s dossier.
“Order hash Everest Crown Ninety-Nine. To: Admiral Terrence Murphy, commanding officer, Task Force Seventeen-Oh-Five. From: Fleet Admiral Fokaides, CNO.” He paused as he digested the sender, then continued. “New Dublin System new designation tier Delta. Any significant threat to TF Seventeen-Oh-Five FTLCs hereby requires local system displacement to nearest tier Gamma system. Signed…orders received. Rear Admiral Terrence Murphy, Commanding.”
Lipshen removed the disc from his uniform.
“This can’t be right,” Murphy said. “There are a hundred million people on Crann Bethadh, and the Oval wants me to give ground if the League show up in force?”
“Orders seemed quite clear to me,” Lipshen said. “And it’s to protect your carrier squadron. FTLCs are vital strategic assets, but I don’t think I have to tell you that.”
Murphy brought up a star chart, and his jaw tightened as one of the icons on it changed.
“I see the nearest Gamma system is Endymion. It’s a mining system. Says here—” he raised his eyes to Lipshen “—that total system population is under twelve million.”
“The Chaegul Conglomerate’s sunk considerable resources into developing the mines there as a strategic resource,” Lipshen said. “We’ve got to keep the long term in mind, Admiral.”
“Which is why this chart just updated from your data rod,” Murphy observed in a flat tone. “Endymion was a Theta tier system up until now, ranked well below New Dublin. Or even Scotia, for that matter. Now you’re telling me that Chaegul’s ‘strategic capital investments’ are worth more to the Federation than every life on Crann Bethadh? And a mining colony is more strategically important than the repair yards here?”
“I’m not telling you anything. I’m just the messenger.” Lipshen shrugged. “We’re all cogs in the machine, Murphy. The IG does what it can to make sure everything runs correctly.”
Murphy’s face darkened.
“Let’s not pretend about the reasons this decision was made,” he said.
“And just what are you suggesting?”
Lipshen raised an eyebrow, and Murphy’s nostrils flared. He swiped the star chart aside and looked down at the list of document headers which replaced it. He had to guess whether or not Lipshen’s recorder was still on, and he reminded himself that the IG officer was probably as trustworthy as any other officer in his branch.
“Clearly…the war will continue for the foreseeable future and our long-term material interests are critical to that effort,” he said without looking up.
“Again, I’m not one to speculate,” Lipshen replied.
Murphy leaned back in his chair, then tapped one of the files.
“You’re assigned to New Dublin?”
“That was my next order of business, yes,” Lipshen said. “With domestic tensions—I hesitate to call it discontent, although it seems to be headed in that direction—rising throughout the Fringe sectors, Admiral Fokaides wants more eyes on the ground so the Oval can send any…appropriate response to local developments.”
He eyed Murphy speculatively, and the admiral shrugged.
“New Dublin’s been most welcoming,” he said.
“I’ve heard! Your son was telling me about the drills, cultural outreach efforts…I’m pleasantly surprised, Murphy. Most commanders would take their time before rocking the boat in a new system. You’re doing much more than I’d expect.”
“Walking through the massacre on Inverness set my priorities straight.”
Murphy stood, signaling that he was done with Lipshen.
“Then I’ll speak with the adjutant and have my things delivered to the governor’s mansion,” the captain said. “My role as Inspector General’s representative is rather passive, as you know.”
“I’m well aware of your role,” Murphy said, as they shook hands.
He smiled and leaned both hands on his desk as the other man left. He waited another moment, then reached under the desktop to press a button.
O’Hanraghty arrived through a side door a moment later, scanner in hand. He waved it, and the device beeped more and more rapidly as he approached a set of cabinets built into the bulkhead. He reached underneath and removed a bit of plastic film, which he slotted into the side of his scanner.
There was a small flash, the beeping ceased, and the scent of ozone filled the room.
“That fucking snake,” O’Hanraghty said.
“I’ll assume you got all the bugs he planted, if you’re going to say that out loud.” Murphy sank back into his chair and loosened his collar. “Zapping that device won’t be an issue?”
“You think he’s going to admit it was his?” O’Hanraghty pocketed the scanner. “I had the room swept by my people before Callum brought him in. It was clean then. It wasn’t when he left.” He shrugged.
“I’d almost be insulted if he hadn’t bugged my office,” Murphy said. “His arrival is a bit of a wrinkle, though.”
“My guess is that our trip to Scotia raised some eyebrows. They thought you’d be nothing more than a wide-eyed tourist marking time on the frontier.”
O’Hanraghty sniffed at the seat Lipshen had occupied and sat in another.
“And then Callum told him everything we’re doing in-system—everything he knows, at any rate.” Murphy laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “We’re going to have to bring him into the fold, Harrison. We just need to give him a bit more time to catch on.”
“Not so bad, really, if the Oval’s spy thinks Callum has loose lips,” O’Hanraghty pointed out. “We could feed him disinformation that way.”
“Not my son.” Murphy shook his head. “Callum’s a bit naïve, but he’s no fool. And he may not be ready for the whole truth yet, but he’d figure it out quick enough if we started lying to him just so he can pass it on to Lipshen. We use him that way, and he’ll lose trust in me. In us. Speaking of which, trust will be in short supply if Tolmach finds out about the system redesignation. Gamma. I can’t believe it.”
“Not the first time the Heart Worlds have sacrificed a Fringe World for something more…economically viable. Keep that quiet or have it leaked?”
“Quiet. Tolmach is warming to me, but he hasn’t made his mind up yet. If he hears that his planet is suddenly worth less than a mining operation in a star system with fewer minerals and metals than New Dublin Extractions has already proved on Goibniu, alone, he’ll lump me in with all the other Heart Worlders he doesn’t trust.”
“As you like, Sir. And if I can’t isolate one IG snake, then I don’t deserve to be on the inside. But, much as I agree with you about Tolmach, we’re not really here to make friends with the Fringe. We’re here for evidence…and speaking of that, we have another visitor.”
“He’s here?” Murphy sat up straight and tapped a fingertip on his desk.
“Silas is here.” O’Hanraghty nodded. “Came in on Papsukkal along with the snake. Different passenger pods, but he decided to keep a really low profile when he realized Lipshen was aboard. I’ve got the details for the meeting. This is the hard part, Sir. Hope you’re ready for it.”
* * *
Murphy took an unsteady step off the curb.
The lifts in his boots made walking through the fresh snowfall in Tara City more difficult than usual. They also made him preposterously tall, in his considered opinion, given his natural height, but O’Hanraghty had insisted that people on the lookout for skulduggery expected those bent upon nefarious deeds to try to blend. Which meant that not blending in was often the most effective way of blending in.
There were times he found wrapping his mind around his chief of staff’s logic more difficult than others.
He glanced at the window of an architectural firm and almost paused when he didn’t recognize his reflection.
The beard was the oddest part of his new features, but scarcely the only one. The thicker forehead and wider jaw would’ve been out of place with his lean frame had his broad shoulders and back not looked like they belonged to a laborer.
He shouldered open a hotel door and tugged his gloves off as he entered the warmth. The carpet was worn near the door, and the lobby had a musty smell of old coffee and too-full garbage cans. The robot at the counter tried to turn toward him, but its servos malfunctioned and snapped it back forward with each attempt.
Murphy removed his hat, and overly long hair fell into his eyes. There was a coffee station in a corner of the lobby, with two white streaks of what looked like spilled creamer dribbled down the cabinet beneath the coffeemaker.
“Complimentary caffeinated beverage,” the robot clerk said with a hiss of static. “Courtesy of the Hibernian Arms Lodge.”
Murphy poured himself a cup and, in the process, brushed against the two streaks, erasing them with a pass of his coat. He affixed a snap-on lid to his cup and went to the lifts. A bit of graffiti near the UP button caught his eye as he hit it. A crude hat with an arrow to a hallway to one side. He looked up and spotted a bathroom sign, then ambled toward it, ignoring the lift’s open doors.
He rounded the corner and saw a man in an overcoat leaning against the wall with a slate in his hand.
“You here for the consulting job?” the man asked.
“Aff, fluvial spectrographs. Old models,” Murphy replied. His accent was very different from his usual one.
“Go on in.”
The man nodded to a set of double doors, and Murphy pushed through them. Beyond them, several round tables were dressed for a wedding reception. Two men sat near the entrance to a kitchen. One was dark-skinned, with a dome of short-cropped hair, and a golden hoop in one ear. The other wore an overcoat very like Murphy’s and looked like a Viking raider lost in time, with unkempt blond hair, a bladelike nose, and a long, droopy mustache.
“Amateurs,” the dark-skinned man said. “The both of you.”
“Good to see you, too, Silas.” Murphy pressed a thumb beneath his chin and his false face split down the middle and retracted beneath his jacket collar. “You didn’t even bother with a sheen?”
“That’s what I said.” O’Hanraghty squeezed an earlobe, and the Viking raider façade came down.
“You’ve got your double in place?” Silas asked.
“My son’s in my office at the mansion engaged in very serious paperwork that I didn’t give him enough time to finish.” Murphy sniffed at his coffee cup, made a face, and set it aside as he joined the others. “O’Hanraghty’s got the baffles on the windows and floor sensors. Anyone watching my office will see me in there, and I made it clear I’m not to be disturbed. Calls are on hold.”
“And what did you to do about the snake?” Silas reached across the table for Murphy’s discarded coffee cup. His arm stretched from his shirt and Murphy saw jagged scars on his skin, left by a bite from some massive and toothy animal.
“His shuttle down from Ishtar experienced an emergency maintenance issue in the launch bay,” O’Hanraghty said. “He’s still stuck in his seat for, oh, a couple of more hours until the new part is installed. Can’t be too careful with radiation leaks, even if the readers are showing a false positive.”
“Then maybe you two aren’t as amateur as I feared.”
Silas shook Murphy’s hand.
“We can’t all be Federation Intelligence out beyond the blue line,” O’Hanraghty said. “How’s life out there? Must be something interesting, if you’ve come in from the cold.”
“Crann Bethadh is just balmy.” Silas drank coffee and smacked his lips. “Free space is free space. Every last criminal, scumbag, and deviant that can’t function in the League or the Federation ends up out there. You carry the law in your holster and hope someone with an ounce of respect tends to your body.” He flicked the hoop earring. “Operating just outside Rishathan borders is a bit risky, but there’s opportunity for the ruthless and those that won’t ask too many questions.”
“And you’ve come across just such an opportunity,” Murphy said.
“One of my long-term sources has.” Silas leaned forward slightly. “We’ve got something this time, Murphy. Proof the Rish are supplying the League. Not with tchotchkes and victuals, but lethal aid.”
“And why bring it to us?” O’Hanraghty asked. “Every time you come up for air, you put yourself at risk. It’s not just Federation Intelligence operating out beyond the blue line. The League’s there. So are the Rish’s proxies.”
“There are a couple of Leaguies working for me…not that they know I’m Federation.” Silas snorted. “Which is how I came by this bit of information; there’s a ship transiting the Alramal System in twenty-three days. A merchantman registered as the Holy Oak. She’s a regular in the area, and her skipper has contacts in Alramal. He’s about due for one of his normal cargo drops, but my information is that this time he’ll be making another drop, ‘losing’ an entire nine-hundred-meter cargo pod on his way back out.”
“Really?” O’Hanraghty leaned back. “That would be very careless of him, Silas.”
“And also pretty nearly traceless,” Silas replied. “Which would be a good thing, for him at least, since the pod in question is carrying Rishathan-made parts for the League.”
“You’re confident of that?” Murphy asked.
“About as confident as it gets in this business. The shipment originated in Hardasik.” Murphy raised an eyebrow, and Silas shrugged. “Hardasik’s one of the Outer Sphere’s systems, but the cargo’s moving through Fringe space.”
“Why?” O’Hanraghty asked, cocking his head. “Why not just load it onto a Rishathan FTL bulk carrier and take it straight through wormhole space to its destination?”
“Because the Rish don’t think like us?” Silas shook his own head with an expression of mild disgust for O’Hanraghty’s obtuseness. “Aliens, remember? Hell, the worst mistake humans ever made was mirror-imaging Rishathan thinking! They don’t think like us, and we don’t think like them, and sometimes they do things that don’t make a hell of a lot of sense to a human. But there’s usually a reason for it if you look long enough and think far enough out of the box.”
“And have you found this one?” Murphy asked.
“Not really, but two possibilities do come to mind.” Silas sipped more coffee. “One is that the Sphere’s a hell of a long ways away from Alramal. They’ve got to cross an entire lobe of human-occupied space to get there from Hardasik in the first place, and if they’ve got to drop the cargo there for some reason, they don’t exactly want a Rishathan bulk carrier being spotted that far from home, now do they?”
He looked back and forth between Murphy and O’Hanraghty until O’Hanraghty shrugged to concede the point.
“The second possibility that comes to mind,” he continued then, “is cut outs. The one thing I can tell you about how Rish think is that they’re…devious. They really like this clandestine shit, and the better xeno-anthropologists I’ve talked to about it tell me it’s a sort of ritual substitute for open warfare between the clans.” He shook his head. “They’ve done a pretty damn good job of hiding a lot of their history from us, but we do know that up until a couple of centuries ago, they spent a hell of a lot of time shooting at each other. Eating each other, for that matter. They stopped a while before we ran into them, but they didn’t stop competing for power and resources. They just do it a different way now, and there are honor considerations—what you might call prestige points—involved in how slick they are in that competition. I think this may be at least partly a reflection of said cultural…idiosyncrasy.
“And there’s just ‘medium confidence’ of that, if you want to go by secret squirrel speak.” He shrugged. “That’s part of the problem. But I think this information is solid or I wouldn’t have brought it to you.”
“I already knew that, Silas.” Murphy reached across the table to pat the other man’s shoulder. “It’s just that there’s a lot riding on this. Harry and I had to pull a lot of strings and cash in a lot of debts to get me out here, and I don’t think we’re going to get very many bites at this apple.”
“Well, in addition to the fact that my agent in Cranston—that’s the system where Holy Oak picked up the cargo pod—saw her collect it from a ‘free trader’ with Rishathan smuggling connections shortly after one of the Rishathan smugglers in question arrived on a back-vector into the Sphere, someone’s taking unusual pains to grease the skids this time around. Free-traders always pay a fair amount of bribes—or transit tax, if you’re into weasel semantics—to the feral system ‘authorities’ as they go through the unregulated lanes. It’s the price of doing business. But a known League agent’s been clearing the path for Holy Oak, paying a little extra to keep pirate bands and local despots off of her. And not just any League agent. This one’s a true believer, the sort they tap for sensitive cut-your-own-throat-after-reading security-level operations.”
“Um.” Murphy frowned, rubbing his upper lip, and glanced at O’Hanraghty. The chief of staff looked back, then shrugged.
“Tempting,” Murphy said.
“‘Tempting,’” Silas repeated. “Admiral, there’s enough smoke here. Let’s go snuff out the fire.”
“Like I said, tempting. Very tempting, actually, even if it is circumstantial.”
“Circumstantial? Do you want a Rishathan-language confession along with a mountain of physical evidence? I’m not law enforcement where ‘beyond reasonable doubt’ is the standard. This is intelligence work, where a reasonable suspicion is enough for me to arrange an accident or a visit from a homicidal associate. The smoking gun we need is on that ship. This is the best lead we’ve had since the Montclaire disaster.”
“No leads in the twenty years since that,” O’Hanraghty said. “The Rish and the League have been too careful. So why are we picking up on something so juicy now?”
“Because something’s going on in the League.” Silas stood up and began pacing. “Something’s changed. It’s not about them just hanging on by their fingernails in Beta Cygni. Not anymore. There’s rumors of a call-up of retirees and reserves. The next two draft classes are conscripted early. Experienced shipwrights and engineers are just vanishing off the grid. They’re up to something big. And then there’s this shipment…” He shook his head. “I don’t care how good you are, if what you’re trying to pull off is big enough, managing the endgame and keeping the details out of sight always gets tricky. Always. That’s one of the things that bothers me. If they’ve been that careful for so long, and now their security’s starting to spring a leak, that suggests they may be moving into the endgame, whatever the hell it is.”
“We need cover,” O’Hanraghty said. “Some plausible deniability for why we’d cross the blue line and intercept this ship.”
“Well, you could do it because another Federation agent will show up in-system tomorrow or the next day with actionable intelligence of a slave ship moving survivors from Inverness through Alramal.” Silas stopped pacing and grinned. “You leave right after that, and you’ll be in Alramal when the Holy Oak shows up.”
“This other agent is on the team?” O’Hanraghty asked.
“No, he’s a complete imbecile I’ve been feeding middling information to since he was assigned to free space. Now he’s got his first big break, so expect him to be very certain when he arrives.”
“That’ll pass the smell test,” O’Hanraghty said with a nod of approval.
“Except that we know there were no slavers on Inverness,” Murphy said.
“We’re talented enough to play dumb.” O’Hanraghty donned his very best, earnest, wide-eyed credulous expression. “You know the nav buoys and recon satellites were all taken out in the initial attack, Sir, so there’s no sensor record to tell us whether or not someone else visited the system immediately after Xing hit it. It’s entirely possible that some loathsome slaver—some bottom-feeding scavenger—following in the Leaguies’ wake—or maybe even in cahoots with them!—took the opportunity to scoop up a personnel pod full of prey before we could get there.”
“I see.” Murphy’s lips twitched. “Of course, none of the survivors we rescued said anything about it.”
“Sir, I hate to admit this, because I’m your chief of staff and I’m the one who’s supposed to be in charge of your intelligence briefs, but I never asked anyone about slavers. An oversight on my part, I know, and I apologize. None of them volunteered anything about that, either, but, you know, those people were all in a state of shock. It’s certainly possible that it just never occurred to anyone who actually saw these people to mention them to us. And we’ve sent all of them except Callum’s little friend off to be resettled, so we can’t ask them now. And Eira wouldn’t know, anyway—she was trapped in a bunker the entire time and never saw anything. So, that brings us back to my original question. Do we want to risk not accepting this information as possibly accurate just because we don’t have positive confirmation?”
“That would be…unfortunate, wouldn’t it?” Murphy murmured. “If it was accurate and we didn’t act on it, I mean.”
“Not just unfortunate, Sir,” O’Hanraghty said somberly. “It would be tragic.”
Murphy nodded, then glanced back at Silas.
“Tomorrow?” he asked.
“Or the day after. I came ahead by way of Jalal because I had to get here before he did so I could brief you on what to expect. I planned to be here over two weeks ago to give you more time to prep for his arrival. But somebody—” he looked hard at Murphy “—had purloined Calcutta and diverted her from her normal run from Scotia through New Dublin, so I was stuck in Jalal until Papsukkal came through from Sol. Our patsy—excuse me, I mean my fearless fellow agent, the imbecile—is coming on one of the independent free traders who maintains a regular run from the blue line through New Dublin and back. I hear he does a fair amount of quiet trade here in the system. Not that I know anything for sure about that, you understand. Wouldn’t want you to think I did and feel compelled to mention anything about smuggling to the local authorities, after all.”
“Oh, of course.” Murphy nodded, and Silas rubbed his hands together.
“The fallout will be fun to watch,” he said. “An intelligence coup like this tends to shake things up, gives me a chance to look behind the veil and see what else the League is up to. Just imagine what this will mean, gentlemen. Proof the Rish are propping up the League. If they lose that support, the entire war could come to an end.”
“Ending the war…You know, despite everything, it’s hard to even imagine that,” Murphy said. “Fifty-six years and billions of lives lost on both sides. Generations that have never known anything but conflict.” He shook his head. “How do you even wrap your mind around ending something like that?”
“And we can expose the Rish for keeping it going, prolonging the bloodshed,” O’Hanraghty said. “It’ll be a whole new galaxy.”
“We can’t take the entire task force,” Murphy said thoughtfully. “We can’t uncover New Dublin for this. But we don’t need to, anyway. One carrier—Ishtar—and her parasites. That’s all the hammer we could possibly need.”
“It would be a good thing to not have any…unfortunate observers along,” O’Hanraghty pointed out. “Like a certain recently arrived snake.”
“Well, clearly time is going to be of the essence,” Murphy mused. “I’m assuming you know the heading your fearless agent will arrive on, Silas?”
“I do.”
“Good. So if we just happened to have an FTLC already out beyond the Powell Limit, underway in the right spot when the information arrived, there clearly wouldn’t be time to waste hours accelerating back inside the limit to pick anybody up from Crann Bethadh, would there?”
“I wouldn’t think so, Sir. As you say, time will be of the essence.”
“Surprise drill?” Murphy suggested.
“Surprise drill.” O’Hanraghty nodded. “Won’t be popular with the rank and file, but I’m not here to make friends.”