by Dan Cragg
“Thrush Lead, I have a convoy on the ground.” The excited call came from Solitaire, the most junior pilot in Thrush Division.
“I have it too, Lead,” chimed in Wood, Lead’s wingman.
Hermit, Solitaire’s flight lead, kept his own counsel.
“I see it, Solitaire,” Thrush Lead answered drily. “So what?”
“So it’s a target of opportunity, Lead! We can get them all!” Solitaire’s voice had gone from merely excited to nearly orgasmic ecstasy.
Wood was just about as enthusiastic as Solitaire in declaiming the joys of hitting the speeding convoy below and getting closer. Hermit continued to keep his counsel to himself.
“Solitaire, Wood, take a look in the infra, about a klick behind the convoy. What do you see there?” Thrush Lead said.
There was a moment’s radio silence while the two junior Raptor pilots did as their lead bid.
“Ah, Marine vehicles?” Wood finally said.
“That’s right, children,” Thrush Lead said. “And they’re gaining on the convoy. Let’s leave the stragglers to our muddy-booted brethern, whilst we continue on to blast the blazes out of our assigned targets.”
“But…” Solitaire objected weakly.
“Lead, won’t the Marines on the ground want our help?” Wood asked.
Hermit finally spoke up: “Chillins, we’re at angels twenty-five, those mud Marines down there can’t even see us. They don’t know we’re here, they don’t expect our help.”
Neither Solitaire nor Wood had anything to say to that.
Thrush Division continued on its way to its assigned target, an artillery base in the making outside Austen.
“Hey, Sarge,” PFC Jim Ray Robbins called from inside the cab, easing back on the power and slowing the lorry, “ah jist got a call fum the Cap’n. He say we supposed ta stop an’ git out, fight them Confed’rations comin’ up, slow ’em down.”
“What?” Sergeant Knickers squawked. “Us an’ what army? We stop an’ try an’ slow ’em down, we gits kilt! Keep goin’ an’ doan you dare slow down none.” He pounded on the roof of the cab for emphasis.
“You tell ’em, Sarge!” Private Vilhelm Crustman shouted. “Ain’t no call fer us ta commit no damn suicide.”
“Thas fer damn sure,” someone else muttered.
“But the cap’n—” Jim Ray started to protest.
“Bugger the buggerin’ cap’n,” Sergeant Knickers shouted. “He ain’t here, his precious ass ain’t on the line. Mine is, an’ so is yourn! You wants ta try an’ stop the Confed’rations, ya move your fat ass over so’s I kin crawl in thar an’ take over drivin’, then you jump out an’ try by your own sef. Ah’m gittin’ out’n hyar alive!”
“Me try an’ stop ’em?” Jim Ray squeaked. “Nossir, Sarge!” He hit the power harder, and the lorry surged forward. It would only be a few more minutes before he caught up with the lorry to his front and passed it by. Then let the Confed’rations catch up with somebody else! He reached over and turned off the radio so he wouldn’t have to listen to the captain’s harping voice, demanding that he stop his lorry and try to get Sergeant Knickers to dismount the troops to fight for a forlorn hope. Hell, as far as he could tell, all the other drivers were ignoring the captain’s orders as well. Jim Ray’s mama might have raised herself a soldier boy, but she didn’t raise no death-wish dummy.
Lance Corporal Hammer Schultz stood in the front of the lorry that had picked up half of third platoon. He stared ahead, looking at the dust cloud raised by the convoy they were chasing. At first they’d been gaining on the enemy vehicles, but for the past quarter hour the dust cloud seemed to be maintaining its interval, neither receding nor getting closer. Schultz was impatient for action; he was one of the Marines with incompletely healed wounds who wanted the lorry to stop so he could get off and fight. Of course, Schultz would have wanted that even if he wasn’t in pain. So he stood in the front of the lorry, up against the back of the cab. His right hand held his blaster across the top of the cab, aimed toward the distant lorry; the fingers of his left hand beat an impatient tattoo on the cab’s roof.
Corporal Claypoole stood on Schultz’s right. Not because he particularly wanted to be next to Schultz when the big man was impatiently waiting for the chance to shoot someone, but because Schultz was his man, and he believed a fire team should stick together in the field. Lance Corporal Ymenez was to Claypoole’s right. Again, it was the fire team sticking together. But Ymenez was glad that Claypoole was between him and Schultz; the big man made him nervous.
Ymenez wasn’t the only man Schultz was making nervous. Everybody else nearby was getting the jitters, waiting for something to trip inside him, and they were afraid of what he might do if he didn’t have a proper direction in which to vent his desire—need?—to fight and kill.
Ensign Charlie Bass was on that lorry. Normally, when a platoon was split between two lorries, the platoon commander would ride in the cab of the lorry that carried the first squad, and the platoon sergeant would do the same with second squad. But Bass chose the back of the lorry with second squad. The reason for that was Hammer Schultz. Bass knew Schultz would be anxious to get into action, to extract vengeance for the injuries inflicted by the Coalition army on third platoon. Not to mention for his own wounds. And Bass didn’t have any great expectations of such opportunity rising soon.
So after a time, when he saw Schultz getting more impatient and agitated, Bass rose from the left side of the lorry and gingerly made his way to the front, where he leaned against the back of the cab to Schultz’s left. He moved in close so he could talk privately.
“Don’t worry, Hammer,” Bass said into Schultz’s ear, “we’ll catch them.”
Schultz grunted.
“Then you’ll do what needs to be done.”
Schultz made as though to spit, but didn’t.
“How’s your back doing?”
Schultz grunted again, but there seemed to be a word hidden in it: “Hurts.”
“This war’s almost over, Hammer. Then we’ll get some proper care for your back. You’ll be back to your normal irascible self by the time we get back to Camp Ellis.”
Schultz turned a gimlet eye on Bass, a look that had made many strong men blanch and back off. Bass didn’t budge. “Right,” Schultz snarled, and turned back to stare after the fleeing convoy. But he stopped drumming his fingers on the cab roof, and some of the tension eased out of his body. The Marines nearby began to breathe more easily.
Not long after that, the retreating army reached the prepared positions outside Austen. General Cazombi arrayed his army in front of the defenders.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
General Davis Lyons sighed. There was only one thing left for him to do. The terrible devastation his army had suffered on its move to the Cumbers had reduced his combat strength enormously. What happened to his air-defense capability, he wondered. Well, he could not hold out much longer. “Rags?”
“Sir?” Colonel Rene Raggel had been standing nearby watching his commander stare at the trid overlay of his opponent’s dispositions around the town of Austen. The command center was oddly hushed, each man’s senses attuned to the lull that had fallen over the fighting. It was as if the army now confronting them had paused in its forward advance to take a deep breath, and was flexing its powerful muscles one more time in preparation for its inevitable, inexorably overwhelming assault. All eyes not on the enormous screen were on their commander. Even the lowest-ranking enlisted man in the center knew what was coming.
“Rags, get Admiral DeGauss, the rest of my staff, and as many of my commanders as can come on such short notice, and have them assemble here. Get President Summers and his cabinet too. While you’re doing that”—General Lyons reached into a cargo pocket and took out a Davidoff—“I am going into my little cubicle and smoke this here last cigar.” He bit the end off the cigar, grinned, and parted the curtains to his private retreat.
“Ted, Balca, gentlemen,” Cazombi addressed h
is staff. They were headquartered in abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the little town of Austen in the foothills of the Cumber Mountains. It was a brilliant day. Sunlight gleamed off the snowcapped summits of the taller peaks ranged in serried rows beyond and above the town. “I want the army to stand down.”
A soft murmur ran through the assembled officers. “Sir, we’re ready to mount the final assault,” Major General Sorca ventured. He had been given the job of deputy army commander upon Billie’s relief, a position he filled with great efficiency because it required no decision making on his part.
Brigadier Ted Sturgeon had been temporarily assigned as Cazombi’s chief of staff. “I think I know what’s coming, Balca,” he said. “Unless you want to lead the first assault wave.” He grinned at Sorca, who winced but remained silent.
A sign of good humor, a slight muscle spasm, creased Cazombi’s face. “I think old Davis Lyons has had it. I’m going to sit here for a while and see if he takes the hint. I don’t fancy frontal assaults on fortified positions, especially when the enemy occupies the high ground. Ted, pass the word to our combat commanders to stand fast until further notice. Now, gentlemen”—he produced a box of cigars—“General Billie left these behind when he, er, departed. They’re Clintons but they’ll smoke. Help yourselves, light up, and take it easy for a while. We may have a little wait before us.”
“I am going to request surrender terms,” General Lyons announced to the assembled staff and government officials. The military men uttered a sigh of relief, and some even smiled, but the Coalition cabinet officers, all but Preston Summers, blanched at the announcement and protested loudly.
“Gen’ral, that leaves our asses hangin’ out high an’ dry!” the finance minister protested. He’d had no part in anything since the war had started, but as a high-ranking official of that government and a coward, he was worried about being arrested as a rebel. Several other cabinet officials protested loudly.
“Gentlemen, pipe down,” Preston Summers demanded. “You was all in favor of goin’ to war with the Confederation an’ Gen’ral Lyons here, he warned us first off that we could never win. An’ now we all know the incident at Fort Seymour was a gawdam setup.” His voice turned bitter now and his face flushed. “It’s time to ante up and take our knocks. Gen’ral,” he said, turning to Lyons, “save what’s left of your army and get the best terms you kin. For me, I only ask for an escort out of these mountains. I want to go home an’ drink some o’ my bourbon before they haul me off to jail.” He paused. “Oh, one more thing.” He handed Lyons a small box. “Here’s some Davidoffs. You deserve ’em, an’ mebbe you kin take ’em along with you to jail.”
General Lyons, Admiral DeGauss, and Colonel Raggel stood in the center of General Cazombi’s command center. “I am Alistair Cazombi, General, this is Ted Sturgeon.” They shook hands all round.
“I am here to surrender my army, General, and end this fighting. I only ask for fair terms for my men under the articles of war.”
Cazombi regarded Lyons carefully. “Yes. Well, I only wish we’d met under more pleasant circumstances, General.”
“As do I, sir,” Lyons responded.
“Well, all right.” Cazombi glanced at his officers. “Here are my terms, if you’ll accept them. Return to your army and have your men stand down all military operations at once. We will make arrangements to transport your men and their equipment to their home worlds—”
“Uh, you mean their weapons and equipment?” Lyons asked.
“Yes, General. But first each will sign an oath of allegiance to the Confederation and promise never to take up arms against us again. When we round up your politicians, I’ll do the same with them. Once all this is properly taken care of, will you and your staff join me and mine in a farewell dinner? We got bigger fish to fry and have to be on our way, now that this little unpleasantness is over.”
Lyons nodded. “Those terms are most fair and honorable, General. I must tell you though, I have proof that the incident at Fort Seymour, the tragedy that sparked the Ordinance of Secession and started this war, was a setup by some of our politicians. Our people fired the first shot.”
Cazombi raised an eyebrow, an expression, for him, of great surprise. “So. Well, General, that is your problem. Deal with the varmints as you see fit.”
Now it was Lyons’s turn to be surprised. He nodded his agreement. “One more thing, sir. Our children are suffering from a variety of TB. You have developed not only a vaccine but a cure. Can you please get that stuff to us as quickly as possible, now the war’s over?”
“You bet. Have your surgeon get with mine and we’ll have the medicine shipped in immediately.” He offered his hand. “You fought a good fight, General.” They shook. “Since every soldier is measured by his enemies, you make me look like some tough sumbitch. Now if you’ll go back to your army and make the arrangements, I’ll have my judge advocate get with yours to draw up the formal surrender terms. I’ll need the president of your coalition to cosign them.”
“He’s already left, sir, gone home to get drunk.” Lyons chuckled.
“Can’t say as I blame him. Well, I’ll send someone over to his place when you and I have signed the terms.”
“Oh, I almost forgot, General,” Lyons said, reaching into a cargo pocket. “President Summers gave me this travel humidor before he left. There are five fresh Davidoffs in there. I want you to have them.”
“Well, thank you, General.”
“Sir? One final question?” Cazombi nodded. “What happened to your General Billie?”
Cazombi did not answer at once. He stood there, turning the humidor over in his hands. “Well,” he responded at last, “he went on home, just like you and I are going to do.”
After Lyons and his party had departed, Cazombi gestured for Sturgeon to join him in private. “Earlier today I received this back-channel message from Marcus Berentus. I thought you’d be interested in knowing what it says: ‘Defeated worlds must be allowed to defend themselves when returned home. You are herewith ordered to return to Earth as soon as hostilities are concluded to face a court of inquiry into your conduct.’” Cazombi shrugged. “I’d have let Lyons’s troops take all their weapons with them anyway.”
“Billie’s been busy.” Sturgeon grimaced.
“Yep. To be expected. Ted, I’m not going to involve you in this mess.” He held up a hand as Sturgeon began to protest. “You take your Marines home and drink a lot of beer and eat a mountain of that reindeer steak you’re always bragging about. I’ll face this inquiry on my own. Besides,” he said, and broke into an actual grin, “I have this get-out-of-jail card.” He produced another back channel. “It sez, ‘Good job. Senate asked to confirm your fourth star’ and it’s signed by President Chang-Sturdevant, Ted. Long as I got that old girl in my corner, I can give the Marines a rest.”
“Sound an alarm, your sil-ver trumpets sound, and call the brave, and on-ly brave, and on-ly brave a-round.” The rich tenor voice filled Preston Summer’s music room. More than half the contents of the bourbon bottle on the side table were gone and he was feeling no pain. “What a way to go,” he muttered, his head wreathed in a rich cloud of cigar smoke. “Nuttin’ like a little Handel to get a handle on…” On what? he wondered. What had this mess come to? The government had dispersed, each slobbering politician with his tail between his legs running for his worthless life.
But he was home at last. No one was there, of course. Summers had long before sent his family and household staff to a remote corner of Ravenette where they’d be out of the fighting. The empty halls echoed his footfalls as he walked through the house. Dust lay everywhere, the furniture covered by white linens, reminding him of a mortuary. That thought made him smile. “Sic transit gloria mundi,” he said with a sigh.
He poured himself another glass of bourbon. “To you, Mr. Handel.” He toasted the soaring music.
“Jus-tice with courage, jus-tice with courage, is a thou-sand men,” the voice sang. Summers
shook his head. Courage they’d had all right, but justice? No justice after what Lyons had found out about the incident at Fort Seymour. The bitterest disappointment about the war for Preston Summers was not that it was lost but that nobody would ever believe he didn’t know about the plot. Well, that’s how the chips fall, he thought, and finished the drink in one huge gulp. The only consolation—and the only courage—he had now was of the liquid variety.
A tremendous roar penetrated from the front of the house, the unmistakable thunder of military vehicles drawing up outside. “Damn,” Summers muttered, getting unsteadily to his feet, “didn’t take ’em long to get here.” He straightened his clothes and brushed off the dust. He patted his vest. Yes, he had a few cigars in there. Would they let him keep them? Maybe not. He opened the humidor and stuffed more into his pockets. He paused, considering. “Ah, Mohammed’s golden toilet water,” he mumbled after a moment. “A peace offering never hurts. Hope those boys are smokers.” He thought they would be. He’d heard that Marines love good cigars. Sticking the humidor under one arm and squaring his shoulders, he walked slowly, ponderously, but with dignity toward the front door which was now being vigorously assaulted by a pounding fist.
He paused. “What a way to go, out on Mr. Handel!” He fumbled for the control in his pocket and turned the volume up on the music until the dust on the floor began to spurt in little fountains. “Sing it out, Georgie, you old bastard,” he shouted to the empty house. “Sound the trum-pets! Beat the drums! See, the conq’ring he-ro comes!”