AS THE CHOPPER roared through the occasionally light-pricked darkness, Fitz found himself wondering if he was out of his mind. Then the radio crackled in his headphones. Van Klomp probably didn't even need a radio, he was bellowing so loudly.
"Fitzy, you ugly bastard! Your satellite boykie just called in. Your lads have just blown something else. A big one. And he says that if he reads the signals right, there were a couple of smaller bangs after that! Over."
"I wish they were my lads, Bobby. Over."
"Heh. Your satellite boykie doesn't believe they can be anything else. Enjoy kicking that ass Charlesworth's butt for me. Over."
"I'll do my best. Over and out."
They roared over a snaking column of headlights. Well. Transport was on its way.
The brigadier's headquarters were in a now-abandoned country "chateau." Typical of the jumped-up slimy bastard, thought Fitz. The rows of tents outside it were a model of early morning tranquility, until Colonel Van Klomp's favorite chopper jockey buzzed the place at about twenty feet.
The chopper jockey dropped them to a neat landing barely thirty yards from the ornate porte cochere of the phony chateau.
It was a fine imitation of a disturbed ants' nest. With added lights. Through all of this Fitz walked like a giant iceberg passing through a turbulent sea. Unperturbed and unstoppable.
The biggest wave around, in the shape of Brigadier Charlesworth, washed ineffectually against the 'berg. "What is the meaning of all this?" Charlesworth demanded.
The chopper roared off into the night. When the noise had faded Major Fitzhugh stopped gazing icily at the glorious apparition in a frogged dressing gown. Fitz didn't answer. Instead he patted the neat briefcase he carried.
"Brigadier Charlesworth. Assemble all your staff, in full battledress, within the next ten minutes. I have here orders signed by General Cartup-Kreutzler for your immediate redeployment. Issue orders to get the enlisted men up and into full kit. Get your quartermaster to start issuing ammunition and combat rations. Your transport should be here within fifteen minutes. Where is the communication officer?"
"Sir. That's me, sir." A mousy one-pip lieutenant saluted.
Fitz looked at him with the bad side of his face. "There is a total communication blackout. As of this instant. We've discovered that the Magh' have tapped into our communications network. There will be no calls out. None. Not even by your commanding officer. Do you understand me clearly? You are to prevent it by deadly force if necessary. Detail a guard. Now."
"Sir!" The mousy individual left at a run. Something about that "sir" said he'd really enjoy it if someone dared to try to use the comms.
Charlesworth had finally caught his jaw and started to recover it. "Here! You can't do this! I need to speak to the general . . . I refuse . . . I demand an explanation. This is an outrage!"
Fitz took out an "official" sealed envelope, and handed it to a bleary-eyed man who'd at least gotten as far as his dress-uniform jacket over his pajamas. "Colonel Nygen. Read this."
Somehow no one dared to interrupt. The colonel opened the envelope and began to read. He passed from half-asleep to wide-awake in the process of silently reading one line.
Then the colonel looked at his commanding officer. "Brigadier Charlesworth. You are relieved of your command." He handed the document to the brigadier, who was doing the most remarkable imitation of an indignant toad.
The brigadier ripped the single sheet of paper in half. "I refuse . . ."
"Destroying official documentation. A court-martial offense!" Fitz had his bangstick against the brigadier's belly. "Colonel, I suggest you have the brigadier confined to his quarters immediately, under guard."
Colonel Nygen looked alarmed. "Er. A fellow officer . . ."
Ariel popped her head out of Fitz's magazine pocket. "Do it, bumsucker! He's got a set for you, too."