Leto could see lines of small barra ferns poking out of the ground like scorpion tails, thousands and thousands of them waiting to be harvested. The air had a sharp resinous scent, a dangerous undertone he recalled from the dried ferns in the Muadh village, but now there was also fear, smoke, and blood.
Soldiers hurried forward, wearing full protective gear and masks. They extended flame-nozzle weapons, squirting and igniting gel fuel so that the stockpile of dried ferns became an inferno, gushing noxious smoke. More suited fire warriors made their way methodically through the cleared fields, and the long rows of growing ferns went up in smoke. The smoke in the air made Leto’s eyes burn, and he fitted his own mask in place. Hawat did the same.
Angry shouts filled the air, mixed with the crackle of flames. Workers in roughspun clothes bolted into the fields and the thick sheltering forest, trying to hide. Others, though, stood their ground with weapons raised and turned to fight. They had an intense gleam in their eyes and a fanatical set to their expressions. From the way the determined opponents moved to defend themselves, Leto recognized hardened mercenary fighters. But they had to be more than just paid fighters—these people had a cause. The drug lord’s security men were not merely frightened peasants out of their depth. They were trained and deadly, and would clearly fight to the death.
“Round up prisoners if we can,” Leto said. “Some of those out in the fields are truly just uneducated workers. The rest will face the Duke’s punishment in my own time.”
Duncan and Gurney led their squads deeper into the ailar processing camp. An explosion erupted near one of the outbuildings, and Leto saw a front line of Atreides attackers flattened by a hurled explosive, while mercenary fighters had been protected from the brunt of the blast by body shields.
With a whistling shriek of engines, the Atreides attack craft circled overhead. Leto glanced up. “Our air support needs to have the other sensor nets down.”
Hawat shouted orders into the comm. “Priority, find the sensor webs so we can expose this entire area.”
The first sorties cut down the tall fern trees, and as the stalks tumbled, the sensor webs snapped with a twang. The shimmering field overhead disappeared. The Atreides forces pushed forward.
Leto and the warrior Mentat strode away from the flagship frigate, while Atreides combatants swept forward to clash with Marek’s fighters.
At the edge of the hidden landing field, two insect-like vehicles began to move, armored black aircraft that had been covered with protective nets, now exposed. Their engines were powering up.
Leto shouted a warning, “They have combat ’thopters!”
The illicit aircraft lifted into the air, pumping their jointed wings either to escape or to attack. Nearby, Duncan Idaho led his squad of fighters toward the landing field. As the ’thopter rose above the tall fern trees, Duncan hurled a compact explosive that detonated just shy of the lower hull. The second ’thopter powered up its shields swiftly enough to thwart another thrown explosive.
The damaged craft’s wings flailed and snapped, and it tumbled to the ground, plowing a long furrow as it skidded into one of the outbuildings. It fishtailed and caught on fire. Three men inside boiled out, racing for the trees.
Two more unmarked aircraft from the far side of the outpost took off, reached altitude, and streaked away. They were pursued by Atreides attack craft, which activated their jet-pod boosters and raced beyond the forested horizon. Leto lost sight of them.
“Where did Chaen Marek get such significant weapons and equipment?” Leto demanded under his breath. “Mercenary troops and military aircraft do not simply come through the Cala City Spaceport!”
“I will interrogate any prisoners we capture, my Lord. But first, there’s a battle to be won.” Hawat drew his sword and looked at his Duke. “I am not so old that I cannot throw myself into personal combat.” He turned toward the clash of forces, the clamor of blades, the shouts of fighting.
Leto pulled out his own sword. “Neither am I.” With weapons drawn, they ran into the battle.
Love is a dance between trust and secrets.
—LADY JESSICA, letter to the Duke
After the Atreides military had departed for the north, Castle Caladan felt empty and cold, rather than safe. Paul’s frustration at being left behind was difficult to tamp down. Though he could not countermand his father’s orders, he tried to make peace with the Duke’s decision. He was not a spoiled child.
In his room, Paul assessed his instinctive response and compared it with his analytical one. He was not excited for war, not giddy for reckless adventure. Oh, he had read stories and history, and Gurney Halleck sang many songs about the glory of victory; Duncan Idaho talked about his training as a Swordmaster, the fiery conflict that had brought about the downfall of the Ginaz School, and his battles against the Tleilaxu on Ix.
Although such stories captured his imagination, Paul was not a starry-eyed fool. He knew full well the hardships and dangers of a military operation, and he was the son of the Duke, trained to be a leader. Nevertheless, he had been impacted by the illicit ailar business and its ruthless mastermind. He should have been included in this retaliation!
He had been cut out of other things as well.
Though the castle rang with silence, he knew that by now Atreides forces would have reached the target zones identified by the Archvicar. Paul knew the Atreides troops would be successful. Illicit drug producers could never match a fully trained army, especially an Atreides army under the Duke’s direct command.
Still, the reality of the situation weighed on him. Who knew what weapons Chaen Marek’s operatives would turn against the attackers? They had already demonstrated uncanny fanaticism. His father might be facing a life-or-death battle.
Restless now, he wandered the castle halls. The household staff went about their duties cleaning, arranging things, hanging holiday colors, adding fresh-cut flowers where appropriate. In the dining room, the kitchen staff polished the dark wood table with a citrus-scented wax, then arranged a damask runner down the length. As he entered the hall, the workers were startled. Before he could tell them to stay, they withdrew like nervous pigeons, giving him his privacy and leaving him in the suddenly oppressive hall.
Paul’s gaze was again drawn to the painting of his grandfather in his dashing matador outfit. Trapped in the persona he had created for himself, the flamboyant Old Duke had been obliged to demonstrate his fearlessness again and again, until Death finally defeated him.
Was this operation against Chaen Marek now Duke Leto’s version of the reckless bullfight? A spectacle that his father felt honor-bound to participate in, whether or not there was a true military necessity for the Duke to go personally? Leto could have directed the operations from the safety of the headquarters building, just as he had watched Captain Reeson’s squadron fly off to their deaths. Thufir, Duncan, and Gurney were capable of commanding the operation on the ground.
The barra fern growers had already shown disregard for their own lives, as demonstrated by the blasted crater left by the pseudo-atomic explosion. If their entire drug operations were about to be overrun by Atreides forces, would the defeated criminals be willing to do the same again? Vaporize everyone and everything, especially if it meant they could kill the Duke as well? What would make them so fanatical?