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the responsible parties. Can you get Cawman to talk?”
    “Yes, sir. Within the next hour I’ll have the truth out of him.”
    “How’re you gonna do that?” Admiral Hoi was genuinely perplexed at Ensign O’Reilly’s confidence.
    “Sir, I’m going to use the oldest trick in the book. I’m going to tell Cawman that another prisoner has put the finger on him. Even now guards are ‘dragging’ one of our men into the brig. Cawman can’t see him, but he’ll hear a lot of shouting and cursing. I’ll simply walk down to his cell and tell him the jig’s up, that he was identified as the mastermind, ‘So if you don’t want to hang, give up the others.’ Believe me, this guy’s a pushover. I’ll have names within the hour. Or I’ll have whatever it is he knows—and he knows something.”
    Admiral Hoi shook his head in wonder. “Well, go get him, then.” He chuckled.

CHAPTER THREE

    “Company L, now hear this,” Captain Lewis Conorado said into his helmet’s all-hands circuit. “By platoons, assemble in your platoon assembly areas. Bring all weapons and field gear. I say again, assemble in your platoon assembly areas. Bring all weapons and field gear.”
    “Oh shit!” Lance Corporal Isadore “Izzy” Godenov, on radio watch, exclaimed. “We’re moving out.”
    “Moving out to where?” asked his fire team leader, Corporal Joe Dean.
    “How do I know?” Godenov retorted. “All I know is the Skipper just came on the horn with orders to assemble at the platoon areas, and bring weapons and field gear.”
    Dean grimaced and strode the few steps to the entrance of the bunker, grabbing his blaster as he went. He leaned out and looked up and down the corridor that ran behind the defensive positions. “Looks like you got it right, Izzy,” he said as he pushed back in and went to his field gear. “I saw some other members of the platoon heading for the assembly area. Now move it—I don’t want to have to explain to Ensign Bass why first squad’s third fire team was the last to show up.” Working by feel, he grabbed and donned his gear. Loaded up, he checked his men, Godenov and PFC John Three McGinty. It felt like they had everything; he had to check by feel because their gear was as chameleoned as their uniforms and he couldn’t see any of it in the dim light inside the bunker. “Let’s go.” He led the way, carrying his helmet in his hand so people could see him. Along the way he rolled up his sleeves to increase his visibility. Godenov and McGinty followed suit.
    Third fire team, first squad, wasn’t the last to reach the platoon assembly area; basically, the Marines reached it in order relative to the distance they had to travel. All of them had their helmets and gloves off, most also had their sleeves rolled up.
    Ensign Charlie Bass and Staff Sergeant Wang Hyakowa were waiting for the platoon. Ration cartons and water containers were at Hyakowa’s side. The platoon formed up, facing the platoon commander and platoon sergeant. The Marines didn’t stand at attention, but their postures were tense in anticipation of learning the reason for the assembly. They didn’t have to wait long.
    “The Supreme Commander,” Bass said with a peculiar emphasis on the title, “has decided to mount a breakout. He wants to break through the Coalition lines facing us, and he wants the break to be in the center of the enemy line—the strongest part of the line. Three guesses who gets to be the point of the spear, and the first two don’t count.” He paused to let groans and curses ripple through the platoon, then continued, “That’s right. Thirty-fourth FIST’s air, and all the artillery will pound the enemy lines before we advance.” He checked the time. “If you listen carefully, you should be able to hear the barrage starting right about now.” The Marines didn’t have to listen carefully; the barrage was heavy and not all that far away—some of the artillery pieces firing were on the ridge top