Man O' War, стр. 60
And then he was upon them.
There were three figures camped behind the dune. Hawkes plowed into the largest of the trio at full force, lifting the man up and out of his crouch, sending him flying from behind the protective wall of sand. The man landed hard on his back, splashing sand and cinders in all directions.
Jarolic reached his first target at the same moment. He chose the same approach as Hawkes: simply running headlong into his target. His attack knocked loose his foe's pressure helmet. Before anything could be done, all the air stored in the woman's suit rushed out, and was quickly followed by whatever her tank supplied.
In a maddened panic, she scrambled for her helmet during the handful of seconds she had left. At the same time, the third member of the team turned, trying to bring his weapon to bear on either of the two attackers. He was able to get off a round of shots before Jarolic threw himself on top of him. They all went wild, however, managing only to further tear the panicking woman's suit.
Hawkes turned back from his first foe, watching the flying helmet land at his feet. Instantly understanding the situation, he scooped up the helmet and headed back into the fray, just as the last shots fired by the man on theground tore through the woman's suit—and her body. As the ambassador stopped, holding the helmet out to her, the woman gurgled, blood splashed out of her mouth, and then she fell to the sand—dead.
When the first man Hawkes had hit did not rise, the ambassador inspected the situation, finding him dead as well. His suit—and his spine—had been pierced by a short, thick dagger of obsidianlike rock. Hawkes stared at the blood that soaked into the ground beneath the dead man's body, and leaked out of and around the woman's pressure suit, and, remembering the wave of it flowing from Martel, sadly whispered, "Maybe they weren't so wrong when they named it the red planet, after all."
Then, throwing aside the useless pressure helmet, he helped Jarolic drag their only living enemy to his feet. Roughly pushing the man forward toward the security officers, who approached from the bunker, he thought to himself, Now . . . now we put an end to this.
28
THE PRISONER REFUSED TO TALK. HE HAD SPOKEN, OF course. He had made prophecies of the colony caverns running red with blood, warned of riots, the mass murders of Red Planet management, the rape and slaughter of their families, other ramblings in the same vein. But as to who he was working for, why he had twice tried to kill the ambassador, what he hoped to accomplish, his only answer—over and over—was, "The Resolute are firm. All else shall be washed away."
Those facts had been only mildly surprising to Hawkes—certainly no more surprising than to discover that his attacker was the same long-haired man who had attacked him outside of Recycle. The ambassador had almost hesitated in turning him over to Red Planet security. On the one hand, he wanted to question the assassin personally. On the other, he still had his doubts about whom he could and could not trust.
But, he decided in the end, standing in the interrogation area with the security men who had accompanied him and Jarolic to the surface, if I can't trust these two . . . who can I trust? Giving orders that the pair remain with the prisoner at all times, he retired for the moment. He had more than one reason. First, he wanted to check in on Martel. Despite her rally, he was concerned about her condition. Also, he wanted to consult with her on everything, especially his prisoner. He dismissed the man's rantings about being a member of the Resolute. His instincts told him that was a lie. Still, the captured assassin was the first concrete link he had found to whoever was behind what was going on, to whoever it was that was trying to kill him . . . and had killed Disraeli.
You just might be a little too emotionally involved to handle this guy. Besides, it's always best to be second.
Hawkes knew that Red Planet's people would play by the rules with their prisoner. Whatever he had to say under their gentle questioning, Hawkes would study the vids of it. . . then it would be his turn.
And I won't be so gentle.
The ambassador rounded the last bend before the intensive-care unit. In the distance he could see Jarolic in heated discussion with the two marines stationed outside Martel's door. As he neared, he asked, "Gentlemen, anything I can help with?"
"Our Mr. Jarolic here doesn't seem capable of understanding a no-admittance zone, Mr. Ambassador."
"Mr. Hawkes," started the environmentalist, "all I wanted to do was—"
"Please, please," said Hawkes, cutting Jarolic off, "everyone . . . we're all one big happy family here." Turning to the pair of marines, he said, "Ed, Dave, job well done. Thank you very much. I think in the future we can afford Mr. Jarolic a bit of latitude." Turning back to the steaming environmentalist, he said, "It's an old saw, but they were just following orders. My orders, to be exact. So blame me, and let's go see the patient."
The marine closest to the access panel stepped aside and then indexed the door open, allowing the two visitors to enter. As they did they found Martel, still flat on her back, stuck with tubes and attached to monitors, but with a highly amused look on her face. As they approached, she laughed