Even now Owens was whispering some plot into the President's ear, some scheme to make some off-world entrepreneur even fatter. And the President would listen because he was the company's man. Hell, the Admiral reflected, what else could the old boy do in his position?
Admiral Willis stood beside his Dragon's ramp, looking back at the schoolyard as the other members of his party filed aboard the vessel. The security platoon moved with practiced swiftness, withdrawing from its defensive perimeter, the men mounting their vehicles, weapons at the ready. What must it be like to die like those children did, he wondered, nobody left to mourn them, much less remember who they were and give them a decent burial? He thought of his own great-granddaughter. She was seven, about the same age as that nameless little girl in the flapping skirt. Well, by God, I won't forget what happened here, the Admiral promised himself.
Before the Confederation transferred Admiral Willis to command of the Seventh Star Fleet over a year earlier, he'd been warned about Elneal. Public opinion had been building up for years, pressuring the Confederation Council to take action. Some members wanted intervention for humanitarian reasons alone—which, based on what Admiral Willis had just seen, was fully justified—others to protect the molycarbondum mines that provided an ore essential to the alloy used in building interstellar spacecraft, the economic lifeline of the Confederation worlds. But all agreed that intervention was a foregone conclusion. It was just a matter of time. And now was the time.
Settled originally by the descendants of nomadic tribesmen from the horn of Africa on Old Earth, from the beginning the inhabitants of Elneal had been a fiercely independent, warlike people who despised civilization and hated outside interference in their ancient ways. Subsequent migrations composed of dissident ethnic elements from other Terran cultures, unassimilable, fractious, and quarrelsome in their own way, only intensified the warlike xenophobia of the first settlers. Until the coming of the mining companies, the nomadic tribes had been content living in their desert fastnesses, venting their hatred on rival clans and, occasionally, the vastly outnumbered citizens in the few settlements on Elneal. The tribes hated the settlements because they saw them as breeding grounds for new ideas and government, the very concept of which drove them to murder.
By law, Admiral P'Marc Willis was the supreme Confederation authority in this quadrant of Human Space, with the power granted to him personally by the Confederation Council of Worlds to act on its behalf on his own initiative. He had already decided what had to be done, but now he must make it legal by going through the motions of soliciting opinions from his staff and the civilian representatives.
He walked up the ramp into his vehicle and the hatch closed with a hiss behind him. As he strapped himself into his seat he wondered, Now who in the hell am I going to send down here to straighten out this goddamned mess?
The briefing room on board CNSS Robert P. Ogie, Admiral Willis's flagship, was designed to accommodate a hundred persons. It was full when an aide announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, Fleet Admiral Willis." Everyone stood as the Admiral strode into the room. Nodding to Consul Dozois and his staff, Admiral Willis took his seat, a modified captain's chair taken from the bridge of the Admiral's first combat command, a Condor-class battle cruiser.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the Admiral announced, "as of 0001 hours this morning, the planet Elneal has been under martial law." An approving murmur ran through the room. Willis's N-3, his operations officer, sat straighter in his chair. He and his staff had worked all night to prepare the operations order for the relief of Elneal that now flashed onto the viewscreen before each participant. "Mr. President," Willis turned to President Merka, "you are now under my orders." An expression of relief passed over Merka's face; noting a faint scowl of annoyance on Owens's craggy countenance, Willis smiled to himself.
"Miss Ebben." The Admiral nodded at a young woman sitting next to Consul Dozois. As the chief representative of the Confederated Interplanetary Relief Association, Leenda Ebben was responsible for all humanitarian assistance operations in 7th Fleet's area of operations.
"Sir, we have stockpiled several thousand tons of relief supplies in the capital city, New Obbia, but over the past months much of it has been looted. Local police forces are unable to furnish adequate security in any of Elneal's settlements, much less the capital." Willis's N-2, his intelligence chief, nodded agreement. "We have adequate medical supplies and food for several hundred thousand people on Boradu. We can have it on Elneal in twelve to fourteen days, standard, depending on the availability of transportation. The details are in the logistics annex to N-3's ops plan." Her staff had been working all night too.
"We can get it there in that time, Admiral," the N-4, Fleet logistical officer, added.
"Admiral Nashorn," Willis turned to his N-2, "give us a brief rundown on the situation down there."
"It's bad, sir," Rear Admiral Jerrold Nashorn said gravely. A planetary map of Elneal appeared on the vid-screens. "Elneal has a total population of perhaps sixteen million. The last census was conducted twenty-four years ago and it was never completed. More than half of the census teams sent into the deserts to count the nomads just disappeared.
"About a million people live in New Obbia, the only city of any size on Elneal. The rest of them are spread out in the deserts that stretch more than three thousand miles from the ocean to the Honolato Mountains. These mountains rise to heights in excess of eight thousand meters and can be crossed only in a few places. Outside the city are numerous settlements—small villages and towns—but most of the people in the outback are nomads. They survive by grazing flocks of sheep and goats, just as their ancestors did on Old Earth more than three and a half centuries ago. The rest of the planet is virtually uninhabited. There are the Muong Song pirates on some offshore islands, as well as a small colony recently established by people from Boradu on an island continent a few degrees south of the equator, but the Democratic Republic of Elneal is the only body politic. The molycarbondum deposits are found only under the deserts of Elneal.
"The original colonists came from Africa, in the Somalia-Ethiopia-Kenya region. Their ancestors were rugged nomadic peoples who never submitted well to civilization. The initial wave of immigration was sponsored by the governments of various oil-rich emirates in an effort to dispose of these unassimilable people peacefully. It proved remarkably successful, and once the word got out, other Terran governments sponsored similar programs to rid themselves of their problem children. Subsequent waves of immigrants came from such diverse regions as Afghanistan, Southeast Asia, the British Isles, and, in the wake of the Second American Civil War, North America.
"The basic social unit on Elneal is the clan, a unit of a tribe. Over the last three hundred years they have developed along two lines, nomadic warrior clans and the families that dwell in the settlements and make their living by farming. The largest and most powerful tribe is the Siad, who are descended directly from the original North African immigrants. The Bos Kashi is the second-largest group. They came originally from Afghanistan and are responsible for importing the ancestors of the herds of wild horses that roam the grasslands and plateaus. They and the Siad constantly fight each other over grazing lands and water rights. The Muong Song from the Thai-Laos-Burma border region of Southeast Asia were among the third wave of immigrants. They emigrated when the opium trade upon which they depended for their livelihood died out. They eventually settled in the Sharja Islands, about two hundred kilometers off the coast, and took up piracy for a living. Finally there came the English-speaking elements, the Gaels from what was formerly Ireland on Old Earth, and the Sons of Freedom, an extremely militant North American group that arose in the wake of the Second American Civil War. These last two groups settled the temperate regions just across the Honolato Mountains, and for generations they have raided—and been raided—through the passes.
"There has been a lot of interbreeding among these groups—women are valued property and are prime booty of raiding parties—
and numerous schisms have arisen over the generations, which have resulted in changing the demographics of the various clans and tribes. For instance, the city dwellers and farmers were originally members of one nomadic group or another who split off on their own over quarrels now long forgotten.
"But one thing all the warrior tribes have in common is love of combat. Every male in the warrior clans—and many of their women as well—goes armed everywhere, all the time. You are not considered a man until you are proficient with a weapon in this society. Until about twenty years ago, when the mining operations began in the Siad and Bos Kashi lands, the weapons the clansmen carried were pretty primitive devices, mostly projectile launchers of various types. Now, thanks to the money the mining consortiums have invested in Elneal," here the N-2 glanced sharply at Owens, "some of them are almost as well armed as our own Marines. And since the Siad profited most from the mining operations, they are now the ascendant tribe on the planet.
"Also about twenty years ago," the picture of a fierce-looking bearded man appeared on the viewscreens, "this man, Shabeli the Elder, a very intelligent and charismatic leader, began to get some of the clans to cooperate with his own in raids on New Obbia and the coastal settlements. He was able to craft workable nonaggression pacts with the Gaels, Bos Kashi, and Sons of Freedom that have eliminated the episodic but disastrous interclan wars, while continuing the tradition of individual feuds and vendettas that all these people seem to relish so much. Before Shabeli's coming, raids on the settlements had been sporadic. Whenever one of the clans or tribes felt like tormenting somebody and doing a little looting, their men would take off for a month and raid a town.
Before Shabeli, no one had ever successfully kept the tribes from fighting among themselves. But Shabeli was a genius. When he died six years ago his son, Shabeli the Magnificent, as he styles himself, stepped into his sandals."
The older man's picture disappeared, to be replaced by a striking face: It was of a man in his early fifties. His skin was very dark and pulled tightly across high cheekbones. The lips were sensuous and full; his nose long and aquiline. His black eyes burned under shaggy brows. A thick, dark mustache blended smoothly into a short, sharp beard. It was a face of great intelligence and determination.
"How did we get those images?" Admiral Willis asked.
"They were taken by an off-world journalist. Somehow, she got the Shabelis' confidence and was allowed to make several visits to the rebel stronghold somewhere in the Honolato foothills. She disappeared completely about five years ago. Some think she perished in the desert. Others say Shabeli killed her. But there's a persistent rumor that she's now the mistress of Shabeli the Magnificent." The N-2 shrugged.
"That man is a devil!" President Merka blurted out. "Sorry, Admiral," he said sheepishly. "I could not control myself." Merka sank back into his chair, silent and brooding.
"This is a man to be reckoned with," the N-2 affirmed. "We estimate he has between six and seven thousand heavily armed men under his command. Over the past six months his raids have just about closed down any trace of government on Elneal; the mining operations have totally ceased. About a million people in New Obbia and the villages have died of starvation. Nobody really knows what it is he wants. He inspires his men with an appeal to their ingrained lust for combat and loot, but the big difference now is that he's convinced them the time has come for a crusade against the non-nomads and everyone else not of the warrior tribes. He preaches a vague messianic mysticism that promises complete restoration of the nomadic independent life their distant ancestors led back on Old Earth. He believes, as evidently do most of his followers, that the original plan has gone astray and now is the time to restore that vision of the past. I think what we have here is an ambitious and politically astute man who's seen a chance to grab supreme power and is taking it.
"What he's got is a small army that can do whatever it wants to whomever it wants on Elneal because there's nobody here who can stop him. And, ladies and gentlemen, make no mistake, this man and his people are not pushovers. If we send forces in to restore government on Elneal, there'll be fighting." The N-2 settled back in his chair.
"Thanks, Admiral," Willis said. "General Curry?"
Immediately the Forces annex of the operations order appeared on the screens. General Larray Curry, Commander, 4th Fleet Marine Force, cleared his throat. "Sir, as you can see, we propose a provisional brigade-size deployment force. It would be composed of the 121st, 62nd, and 34th FISTs. Each will establish a base of operations in one of the three coastal cities. After reestablishing order in the urban areas, they will move units into the outlying countryside and relief operations can begin. If we can feed and protect the people until the next crop gets harvested, about six months from now, then we can devote our full efforts to destroying Shabeli's forces. We estimate nine months, from start to finish."
"How soon can we have forces on the ground in Elneal?" Willis asked.
"Sir, the closest unit is the 34th FIST on Thorsfinni's World, about two standard weeks away. The 121st and 62nd can be here in a month standard. Until the 34th gets here, we propose forming a provisional FIST from the Marines in the ships' complements in the fleet to secure a base for the 34th FIST in the capital city. The outlying settlements, I'm afraid, will have to make do on their own until our people can get here in force."
"The 34th FIST? Fine combat record." Willis then turned to the rest of his staff. "I want you to study this plan thoroughly for the next hour, people. Be back here and in your seats then."
Admiral Willis let his staff debate the operations order for another hour after they reconvened. Technical details concerning logistics, ordnance, quartermaster, transportation, communications, and medical support matters were adjusted. During that time Owens and the other civilians sat quietly, if impatiently, on the sidelines.
"All right," Admiral Willis announced at last, "that's it. The plan is hereby approved and ready to be executed. Captain," he turned to his chief communications officer, "dispatch hyperspace drones immediately to the President of the Confederation Council and Commander, Combined Forces Headquarters, the commanders of the deploying units, and all other commanders in the Fleet. Encode the standard deployment message to include the final version of the operation order. Fleet staff and Consul Dozois will prepare updates every seventy-two hours.
"Oh, one more thing. Mr. Owens?"
The Consolidated Enterprises executive looked up expectantly from a hushed conversation he was having with President Merka.
"Mr. Locklear Owens, you are under arrest."
Owens gaped at the Admiral as two Marines stepped up to his side and grabbed his arms. "You can't be serious!" he managed to blurt out.
"Oh, yes, I am," Willis answered. "Never more serious, sir. Naval investigators have dug up enough dirt on your operations on Elneal to earn you a death sentence, Mr. Owens."
"What charges?" Owens demanded.
"Violation of the Intra-Confederation Arms Control Act of 2368, selling military weapons to civilians without a license."
"You'll hear about this, you certainly will hear about this! My company will not stand by and let you—"
Admiral Willis stopped the executive with an upraised hand. The conference room had fallen completely silent. "Sir, under the constitution of our Confederation, you have the right to a fair and speedy trial. As the supreme judicial power in this quadrant of Human Space, I guarantee you will get one. It will be over and sentence passed before your company even knows you've been charged. The Fleet Judge Advocate will assist you in finding counsel, and you will be given adequate time to prepare your defense." For the first time Admiral Willis displayed emotion. His face turned red with anger as he almost shouted at Owens: "I have asked the Judge Advocate to seek the death penalty for you, mister. Now get this piece of shit out of here," he said to the Marines, and turned his back on the prisoner.
Owens had gone white and his mouth worked silently as he tried to form words of protest. Nothing ca
me out of his throat but a high-pitched wheezing noise. Stiffly, holding the quivering executive as if he might rub off on them, the Marines escorted him toward the door.
"Oh, one more thing, Mr. Owens." Admiral Willis whirled around in his captain's chair. "A complete copy of my investigative report will be in the drone to the Confederation Council. Before your superiors even know you're on trial, they'll be in court themselves. Take comfort in the coming weeks that misery loves company, Mr. Owens, and you are in very bad company."
Admiral Willis sighed and forced his breathing to return to normal. "Now, Bernie," he said, turning back to his communications officer, "get a drone off to the 34th FIST on Thorsfinni's World. I need those men out here yesterday."
Chapter Twelve
During the next month and a half the days and weeks passed in a whirlwind of activity. Dean, McNeal, and Chan were fully processed-in—including back pay—and the loans they'd received their first night were promptly repaid.
There was much to do: equipment issue; learning the names of everyone in the platoon and their chain of command; and learning how the infantry squad, platoon, and company really functioned in the Fleet. They learned that during the times they spent in the field—a minimum of two days a week, once for more than a week. In garrison, they cleaned the barracks—even when it didn't need cleaning—stood daily inspections, managed to stay awake during seemingly endless classroom lectures, and between running, calisthenics, and weight training, the newer men blossomed into the best physical shape any of them had ever experienced, surpassing even the conditioning they'd achieved in Boot Camp.
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