Early Byrd

by Phil Geusz

lethality, and every single thing that exists anywhere is either a weapon or a potential weapon. All the world is a battle, and therefore all the world is also a weapon." He looked each of us in the eye in turn. "This is the most crucial lesson you must ever learn. Do you understand it?"

  Tim nodded.

  "I . . . I think so," I replied.

  Rapput nodded. "I think so, too. In fact, I suspect you've understood in your hearts ever since you killed your first wild game. Nature is an excellent teacher. Now . . . try again. What is the most dangerous weapon you've seen employed since the kidnapping?"

  "Propaganda?" I suggested. "That's what motivated the Free State people."

  Rapput shook his head. "A good attempt, however."

  "Secrecy," Tim offered. "Or else maybe planning. The Free State people had to have a good plan and keep it secret to take us captive in the first place."

  "Also good answers," Rapput replied. "But not the best."

  I sighed and shivered. Despite Rapput's warmth I was far from comfortable, and things showed every sign of getting a lot worse before they got better. Tim apparently felt the same way, because except for his chattering teeth he sat silent as well.

  "Well!" Rapput replied at last. "You disappoint me! And after you gave such spectacular examples of using this weapon yourselves!"

  I blinked, then shrugged. Tim shrugged too. "Sorry to let you down, Uncle," I said.

  "It's quite all right. You're cold and hungry and in pain, while this is a lesson most commonly taught in a warm, comfortable classroom. Not that for a moment I think you'll ever wish you'd learned it any other way." Our adopted uncle squeezed first Tim's and then my skull in succession. "Right there! That's your best weapon of all!"

  "Our minds?" I asked.

  "Your creative, trained, focused, determined, and relentless minds," he corrected me. "Determined and creative, you both proved yesterday to my complete satisfaction. So, let us begin on 'trained.'" He leaned forward and gently turned us to face outward, into the cruel wind. Then he pointed. "Notice how the scrub reaches out to approach our position just over there..."

  22

  It was all so easy, once Rapput explained what "putting down a field of fire" and "military crest" and stuff like that meant. In ten minutes or less, Tim and I had a handle on how to read terrain and cover in the tactical sense. It was as easy as hunting deer, or maybe even easier. "So," I heard myself asking as I pointed. "The bad guys are going to try and set up right over there?"

  "And there as well?" Tim chimed in, pointing at a pile of rocks further off.

  "That'll be their base of fire," Rapput said. "Where they'll place their heavy weapons." Then he nodded at me. "And you've picked out their point of assault. The place where the final charge, covered by the base of fire, will almost certainly come from."

  I scowled into the darkness. It all made so much sense, but . . . "Uncle? I mean . . . if this is all so obvious, then wouldn't they know that we know and try to set up someplace else? Or at least scout things out?"

  "Experienced troops would," Rapput replied. "Or an experienced commander would see to it that they did, more correctly. But both history and my personal experience demonstrate again and again that battle is an art learned only slowly. Rookie small-unit leaders tend to be so frightened and overwhelmed with details that they revert to the simplest principles. In other words, they become predictable." He smiled. "Whereas I have much experience indeed."

  And so it was that Timothy and I found ourselves lying silent in the dark, wrapped tightly in our comforters and waiting, waiting, waiting for the right moment. It was hard not to fall asleep after such a poor rest the night before, and to be truthful I suspect I did nod off a few times. But the first snapped twig followed by a mumbled curse brought me around quickly enough.

  "Shut up, Millson!" another voice replied, a bit louder and more exasperated. "How many times do I have to warn you?"

  "It's goddamned cold!" a third voice snapped back. "We've got good coats, and we're practically frozen. The people we're chasing have to be either dead or dying by now. I say let's just light a fire and hole up until dawn. Then we can recover the bodies after sunrise."

  "Noted," the voice I'd tentatively labeled as "Officer" replied. Then he sighed, took two steps . . .

  . . . and something made a great whooshing sound as it flew upward in the night. One of Li's traps! Someone began screaming.

  "Millson?" the officer demanded, all attempts at stealth abandoned. "Was that you?"

  "No sir," the first voice I'd heard replied. "It's Crawford. And her leg . . . Uh . . ."

  "Medic!" the officer shouted in frustration. "Over here!"

  The moon was high in the sky, so if I strained my neck far enough I could just make out a swirl of individuals maybe twenty yards downslope. Soon a hunched figure came bustling up and disappeared into the mass. "Her ankle's broken," the medic reported. "She won't be able to walk a step anytime soon."

  "Shit," the officer declared. "First we had to leave a guard at the boat. Then we lost Grammond to the other trap. And now . . ." He sighed. "Millson, you'll remain here with Barb. The enemy can hear you barging about from a mile off anyway. We'll pick you both up and improvise a stretcher on the way back.”

  "Yes, sir!" Millson replied, clearly pleased to be spared from further stumbling about in frigid darkness. "I'll take good care of her, sir!"

  Much stirring about and rattling of gear followed as the officer rearranged everyone and everything. "Remember," he warned his newly-assigned scouts. "They're well-armed. They could turn on us at any moment and do considerable damage. If that happens, just take cover and keep them pinned down. Your job is to make contact, not destroy. That's what the rest of us are here for."

  I frowned and checked to make sure my brightly-colored comforter was still properly covered with pine needles and mud and such. While the travois was simple to track even when Rapput wasn't riding in it, my goal was to be much harder to find than that. I laid my equally-camouflaged head down on my muddy arms and, as instructed, waited as calmly as I could for the enemy column to pass me by.

  And pass me by they did, though every minute felt like forever and there were far more of the enemy than any of us had anticipated. We'd only ever seen the handful in the boat, but at least fifteen marched past my hide. I had no way to count them accurately—Rapput had explained that my nearly-white face sort of glowed in the moonlight and that it was vital for me to keep it lowered to the ground as much as possible. Everything—literally everything—pivoted on Timothy and me remaining undetected. Then, while an extra-large pair of combat boots was passing just in front of my nose, the Free State people stopped.

  "Sir!" a scout reported. "The tracks lead into a cave. They don't seem to come out."

  Then it happened, right before my unbelieving eyes. Everything, down to the tiniest detail, went exactly as Rapput had predicted. And as Li would've predicted as well, I was fairly certain from his conversation with Rapput on the subject.

  "Chilman! Dobbs! Van Decker!" the officer ordered. "Set up the heavy stuff in those rocks right over there—see how they'll offer a good field of fire? The rest of you, settle in here until the others are ready. Then we'll send forward a scout."

  Was it really that easy to out-think an enemy, or had Rapput merely gotten lucky? Great generals don't win only from time to time; they emerge triumphant again and again. So probably he really was just that good.

  By then my heart was thumping away at a hundred miles an hour in my chest, and I panted in excitement. "Not yet," I whispered to myself. While my prey was offering an excellent shot indeed, it'd get better still in time. "Not yet . . ."

  I watched extra-close as the heavy-weapons people took up position directly in front of where I'd seen Tim dig in, fingers trembling on my weapon's twin triggers. If they detected him, my orders were to take my best shot and then take advantage of the confusion to move to his aid. But they didn't. Instead they lined up even more prettily than they
had for me, dead across his sights at practically zero range. Now, all that was left was the final, toughest wait.

  The Free State people had no way to be certain that anyone was in the cave until they actually sent someone to look. Rapput had assured us that no weapons would be fired until they were sure. "The shots will give away their position for miles around," he’d explained. "The reports and flashes both. Plus ammunition is heavy, especially the kind you humans use. They won't be carrying a terrible lot of it for fear it'd slow them down. So they'll make sure first. That's why at least one of us has to wait here."

  That was why Rapput was still inside the cave, or at least that was what he wanted us to think. But as far as I could tell it was also the best place available for a cripple to fight from, and I was beginning to get the idea that it wouldn't have been honorable for him to allow his newly-adopted nephews to fight his battles for him unsupported.

  "Murphy!" the officer whispered once the heavy weapons people had signaled their readiness. "It's your time now, sergeant. Scout it out!"

  Murphy smiled in the darkness—his teeth showed up extra-white because his skin was so dark. So far he was the only black man I'd seen in the Free State army. Certainly he was a fine soldier; he handed his rifle to a friend, dropped to all fours, and completely disappeared. He didn't turn invisible or anything like that. What I mean is that at first when he