“There is a hidden military facility not too far from our planned landing zone,” Ivan explained, reluctantly.  “The planetary government will have relocated there, as planned, in the wake of the battle.  We will make contact with them, then proceed to gain a full report of conditions on the ground.”

“That makes sense,” Charles agreed.  He wondered, absently, if the Russians would ever have told anyone about the facility without being pressed, then decided it didn't matter.  It wasn't as if British secrets were shared openly either, although he knew that the other human powers had parsed them out.  “How do you plan to get down to the surface?”

There was a long awkward pause, long enough to make Charles wonder if the Russians really did have a plan – or if they were merely playing it by ear.

“That,” Ivan admitted finally, “is where we need your help.”

***

Ted had been right, he knew, when he'd told the reporters that military service was mostly boredom, broken by moments of screaming terror.  Knowing was half the battle, as the saying went, yet it wasn't that much help.  In a sense, he realised now, he'd been spoilt by spending most of his career as the commander of a starship held in the reserves.  It had been simple enough to arrange for bottles of booze to be shipped to him from Earth or even made a brief visit to Sin City or another Luna settlement.  The Admiralty had paid so little attention to Ark Royal that he could have turned her into a spacefaring gambling palace and they would never have noticed.

But now, alone and isolated, Ted couldn't help feeling the urge for a drink.  It mocked him, reminding him that he hadn't been able to work up the determination to smash his remaining bottles of alcohol ... or even to do more than insist that Anderson dismantled his still.  He could pour himself a drink, the voice at the back of his head insisted; he could pour himself a drink and take a swig and no one would ever know.

But it wouldn't stop at one glass, he told himself, savagely.  Would it?

It wouldn't, he knew.  Once, he had finished one or two bottles of Anderson’s rotgut every day.  In hindsight, it was a minor miracle he hadn't managed to invalidate himself out of the Royal Navy.  It wasn't uncommon for ship-made alcohol to be effectively poison, if the brewer didn't know what he was doing.  If the Admiralty had been paying enough attention to realise that he was drinking himself to death ...

They knew, his thoughts reminded him.  Someone had made note of his drunkenness and reported it to the Admiralty.  It had even been in his personal file.  They just didn't care.