Operation Orion - Kevin Dockery [95]
But the men were not there to eat. Instead, they used the anonymity of the large open area to watch the mouth of the corridor where the Eluoi guards were posted. The two soldiers stood before a sliding door that remained closed for the first hour. One of the guards stood at a small computer, occasionally checking the screen, and the other one kept his eyes on the crowd. Both carried the lethal ray guns attached to the powerful battery packs.
While the SEALS were maintaining their surveillance, they noticed a commotion in the street, with many people scurrying to get out of the way of some kind of important procession. Within seconds the crowded avenue emptied, and they saw a dozen Eluoi commandos approaching. They, too, were armed with beam weapons but wore the elite berets the SEALS had encountered on Batuu. Immediately after the armed men came a pair of Eluoi, one tall and one short, wearing white tunics with much gold braid on the shoulders and sleeves.
Jackson froze, recognizing Tezlac Catal at once. He didn’t dare make the announcement to his men, fearing that even a whispered word might attract the preternaturally powered savant’s attention. In any event, the other three SEALS were staring at the hostile lord with the same rapt focus as the LT—as was every other person in the street and food plaza, Jackson noted with some relief.
Tezlac Catal was a tall, hawk-faced man who walked with the arrogance of a Roman emperor. Looking neither right nor left, he strode along at a brisk pace so that his escort of commandos had to march double time just to keep up. The shorter official beside the savant, Jackson guessed, would be his mijar, a spokesman who made the savant’s will known so that the great leader did not have to inflict the painful effect of his voice on his listeners every time he wanted to communicate.
The crowd, which had been noisy and boisterous moments earlier, remained utterly silent as the savant and his entourage marched past. The two soldiers guarding the closed door snapped to attention and saluted, but their leader didn’t even turn to look at them. Even after he had passed and disappeared from sight, the people in the food court seemed reluctant to speak above a whisper, and the pedestrians moved only hesitantly back into the street.
“Well, at least we know he’s here,” Jackson said quietly. “And we know to look out for him.”
It wasn’t until the SEALS’ third hour at the OP that the guarded door finally opened as several white-coated servers drove up in a battery-powered cart towing a trailer full of what looked like linens.
The two guards at the outer door merely glanced at a computer screen, cursorily checked to see that the attendants were wearing badges, and pushed a button that allowed the sliding door to open. The service crew drove in, apparently making a laundry delivery. When, thirty minutes later, they emerged with the same cart and trailer, the trailer this time piled with unkempt sheets, towels, and garments, the SEALS decided they had guessed right.
“Let’s see where they go with that laundry,” Jackson suggested, casually rising to his feet. His three men did the same thing, and they all sauntered after the laundry cart and its two crewmen. One was driving, and the other, when he thought no one was looking, surreptitiously slipped a small flask out of his pocket and took a drink.
Good, Jackson thought. They’re obviously not too concerned about discipline, and that fact could only work to the SEALS’ advantage.
The vehicle, which was about the size of a large golf cart, moved slowly through the crowded passages of the station’s middle ring. Much of the traffic was pedestrian and included a mix of all three empires, people