“From the Heptagon?” Claypoole squawked. “What did he do there?”
“What I heard was, he was a staff officer.”
“What about before?” MacIlargie asked with a note of uncertainty in his voice.
“A staff officer someplace else.”
“His entire career?” Claypoole asked, unbelievingly.
“That’s what I heard.” Claypoole and MacIlargie could hear the shrug in Linsman’s voice.
“Buddha’s blue balls!” Claypoole swore. “A fucking pogue in charge of a war? Wolfman, I’ve got this real bad feeling that we’re in deep shit now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
* * *
Years before the war broke out on Ravenette, that area of Fort Seymour known as the Peninsula had been used as a storage depot. Engineers had constructed deep bunkers connected by tunnels that General Cazombi was easily able to convert into troop and headquarters complexes; power and sewage treatment facilities were upgraded by the engineer battalion General Sorca had loaned him and they also built fighting positions and bunkers to protect the underground facilities. By the time it became necessary for General Sorca’s troops to retreat onto the Peninsula it was fully ready to withstand a prolonged siege.
Barring the use of thermonuclear devices, the Coalition forces did not have weapons powerful enough to penetrate into the heart of the underground complex, some of which was as much as forty meters deep.
There were certain drawbacks to the defensive positions, however. Those portions of the redoubt closest to Pohick Bay, which surrounded the Peninsula, were subject to water seepage through the porous rock and soil, making drainage a problem. Even worse, after troops moved into the redoubt it became a source of food and shelter for a certain bipedal rodent-like creature native to Ravenette, Castor cleaverii. These were noisome creatures something like a sewer rat mated with a snake. With their strong forelegs and powerful jaws, they could eat or burrow through almost any natural substance and it did not take long for them to construct burrows in the complex. They fed off the troops’ food supplies, unattended dead, raw sewage, and one another. Those that survived on such provender grew fat and sassy.
The troops called the creatures “slimies” because the fine scales that covered their reptilian bodies resembled the pelts of wet sewer rats. Exhausted by long watches and short rations, it was not uncommon for a man to awaken from a deep sleep to discover a slimy gnawing away some body part. The bigger slimies could grow to twenty centimeters and weigh up to two kilos, and a pack of them could kill a helpless man. So the troops conducted “slimy hunts” when there was a lull in the fighting, and units vied with one another to see which could kill the most.
But as rations grew very short, the slimies became a badly needed source of protein. “If you can get past the smell,” the men joked about eating slimy meat, “it don’t taste so bad.”
Platoon Sergeant Herb Carman’s third platoon, Charlie Company, which was down to only fifteen effectives by the time it reached the Peninsula, drew one of the least desirable posts in the redoubt, a series of two-man observation posts situated in the southwest extreme of the complex, overlooking the bay. Because of their proximity to the water that area was not subjected to as many bombardments and probes as the more landward positions, but the positions were always damp and cold—and infested by slimies.
Carman’s mission was to observe the waters of the bay around the clock, apprise his battalion command post of any attempted landings, and engage any infantry assault units. The shoreline below his observation posts was honeycombed with mines and obstacles designed to impale or destroy landing craft. In the event of an actual assault, Carman’s men would oppose the enemy long enough to give the garrison commander a chance to shift forces to the threatened sector, and then, if they could, retreat into the bunkers and tunnels to join the defending forces.
Sergeant Carman constantly worked his way through communications trenches that connected the observation posts, making sure his men were alert and that they rotated into the underground bunkers at four-hour intervals to take advantage of the warmth and security. During the hours of darkness he required everyone to be on their toes, but during daylight he allowed men to sleep in shifts right in their positions. Carman slept when he could. And if a slimy crawling across a man’s face wasn’t enough to make sleep in the posts difficult, a Coalition corvette stationed just on the horizon frequently bombarded the shore with harassing fire. General Cazombi did not have the ammunition or the guns to spare for return fire, but so far none of Carman’s observation posts had been hit by the naval gunfire.
“Ahhhh,” PFC Raglan “Rags” Mesola exulted, hoisting the squirming slimy on his fighting knife, “lunch!” The slimy squealed piteously, clawing at the knife blade stuck into its guts. Mesola laughed. “Shut up, lunchie,” he admonished the creature.
“Unggh,” Private Haran “Happy” Hannover snorted, but his stomach rumbled at the thought of roasted slimy meat.
“This sucker must weigh a kilo, Happy.” Mesola chuckled as he deftly broke the animal’s neck. He sliced off its head, limbs and tail, skinned it expertly, and gutted the carcass. He tossed the offal out through a firing slit, then wiped his hands on his battle dress trousers. The stench of the slimy’s insides mixed with the miasma of unwashed bodies, fecal matter (the men relieved themselves into tin cans and tossed the effluvia onto the beach through the firing slits), and dead fish, producing a fetid atmosphere nobody noticed anymore; the air was only a little less disgusting back in the underground bunkers.
“Shall we boil him or roast him?” Mesola asked as he boned the carcass. When he was done he had a respectable pile of white, stringy meat.
“Boil.”
“Okay, you know the drill.”
Mesola produced a two-liter fruit can, long, long, ago emptied of its delicious contents, and urinated into it. He passed the can to Hannover, who did the same, shaking it to see if there was enough fluid to bring to a respectable boil. Judiciously, he added a little precious drinking water from his canteen to “cut” the liquid. From a pocket he withdrew a little packet of salt, which he emptied into the can.
Hannover groaned. “I never thought I’d live long enough to live like this,” he said.
“You call this living?” Mesola chuckled. He put the can on a makeshift grill, produced a whitish lump of material from a cargo pocket, stuck it under the grill and lighted it. The material instantly flared into a bright, white flame that brought the concoction almost immediately to a boil.
Hannover stirred the contents with his knife. “Ready in a minute. Too bad we don’t have no bread or crackers to go with it.”
“We’ll get all the crackers we want when we reenlist,” Mesola grunted. They both laughed.
“And just what in the hell is going on in here?” Sergeant Carman’s voice boomed from the entrance.
“Mary’s knockers!” Mesola exclaimed, almost knocking over the fruit can, “you scared the living daylights out of me!”
Carman ducked through the entrance and nodded at the fire. “Tell me that’s not semiprytex you’re using to cook that shit.”
“No! No!” both men exclaimed. Semiprytex was the explosive used to detonate antipersonnel mines. In small amounts it could also serve as an excellent source of heat to cook rations. Dismantling mines and stealing semiprytex was easy, but if a man took too much of the stuff the charge left in the mine would be too small to set off the mine’s main charge.
“That is a court-martial offense,” Carman said. He sat wearily on the observation step.
“Well, there’s millions of those mines out there, Sarge,” Hannover protested, “and we only took one.”
“I don’t suppose you fellows have had any time today to watch things out in the bay, have you?”
“We was just breaking for lunch, Sarge,” Mesola said. “Besides, sunshiny day like this, nothing’s going on out there.”
“Have you guys heard the news?”
�
�No, Sarge, what is it? The war’s been declared illegal?” Hannover chuckled.
“Better than that. Our new CG has just arrived, a genuine four-star named, uh, I forget his name right now, but he’s brought big reinforcements.”
“I hope he brought some crackers,” Mesola grunted, stirring the contents of the fruit can. He lifted a steaming fragment of meat on his knife blade. “Crackers and slimy—haute cuisine.”
“You got enough for three in there?” Carman asked.
The bunker that served as Charlie Company’s headquarters and billets was a good twenty meters beneath the ground. It was reached by a complex of communications trenches and tunnels and relatively safe from the enemy’s gunfire, not that the men of Charlie Company were allowed to spend much time in there. At least in the observation posts there was a constant flow of fresh air; in the bunker the overworked ventilation system did little to dispel the stench of dozens of unwashed bodies in such a confined space. The one latrine available, a hastily constructed affair, was constantly in use and only contributed to the disgusting smell that pervaded the place. The water used to flush the thing was piped in from Pohick Bay and carried with it the distinctive aroma of dead sealife. But the men of Charlie Company worked and slept there, took their meals there, such as they were, and over time came to accept the conditions as normal.
When Sergeant Carman slept, which was neither very often nor for very long, he slept like a dead man, the dreamless unconsciousness of the extremely exhausted. But on that particular day he was dreaming of home. More important, he was dreaming of Quettana, the love of his life, as remote from him then as the chance he would be promoted to the rank of General.
“Herb! Herb! Get up, goddamnit!” Someone was shaking him, none too gently either. Carman pried his eyes open with effort. It was Captain Jasper Walker, Charlie Company’s commander. “Come on, shake a leg, Sarge, we’ve got visitors.”
Carman swung his legs to the floor and stood up. “Visitors?”
An enlisted man stuck his head in from the tunnel and whispered, “Here they come!”
“Ten-HUT!” Captain Walker commanded as General Billie, followed by Lieutenant General Cazombi, Major General Sorca, and Lieutenant Colonel Radford Epperly, Walker’s battalion commander, ducked through the doorway. Captain Chester Woo, Billie’s aide-de-camp, clipboard importantly in hand, brought up the rear.
“At ease,” Billie ordered, wrinkling his nose. “By Allah’s pointed teeth, Alistair, this place smells like an open latrine! Chester, make a note we’ve got to do something about ventilation in this complex!”
“Not much that can be done, sir,” Cazombi interjected, “the system is overloaded as it is, and when your reinforcements arrive it’ll get even worse.”
“Well, General,” Billie grinned slightly, “all the more reason to break out and maneuver against the enemy, eh?” Billie casually returned Captain Walker’s salute as he reported Charlie Company ready for inspection. “No inspection, Captain, I just want to see what conditions you and your men are operating under. How many men do you have in Charlie Company?”
“Seventy-three, sir. One sergeant and the rest all junior enlisted men. I’m the only officer left.”
Billie raised his eyebrows and glanced at Sorca, “No officers, man? How do you run a company, even reduced in numbers, without any officers?”
“I use my noncom, sir, and when he and I are not around, the men know what to do.”
“We don’t have any other choice, sir,” Colonel Epperly said, “and as it is, the system works well. These men have done a fine job, sir, and I’ve recommended many of them for commendations.”
Billie shook his head and put a handkerchief over his nose. “Enlisted men running a company!” he snorted. “How in the hell does anyone survive in this stink? Don’t these people ever wash?” he asked Cazombi.
“You get used to it, sir,” Captain Walker volunteered, grinning slightly. “We don’t have enough water to drink, sir, much less wash ourselves. And the reason I have to use EM to help me run my company is because all my officers are dead, as are most of the men who came to this shithole with me in the first place.” Billie frowned and in that instant Walker sensed his days as a company commander were numbered.
Walker silently regarded the officers. Cazombi and Colonel Epperly, haggard, hollow-cheeked skeletons, their uniforms hanging on their bodies like rags, resembled Walker himself. Even Major General Sorca, who had thus far kept himself well out of harm’s way, looked the worse for wear, but Billie stood there before him, uniform immaculate, four silver stars gleaming on his collars, a snow-white handkerchief fastidiously held to his nose. The ubiquitous Captain Woo, overweight, skin smooth and face well-shaved, nose wrinkled in disgust, stood self-importantly surveying the men, ready to take down his master’s orders. Those men, badly fed, unshaven, unwashed, their uniforms in rags, interrupted by this visit during the only rest they ever got in this sewer, stood respectfully at attention. It occurred to Walker that what he was experiencing now was the height of military insanity. No fighting man deserved to be commanded by such a popinjay.
Walker glanced surreptitiously over at Cazombi, who nodded slightly and in that simple gesture transmitted between them the thousand-year old wisdom of battle-hardened veterans. The age-old disdain that the frontline officer felt toward the staff officer secure in his headquarters began to coalesce into actual hatred for this new commanding general.
“Carry on, Captain,” Billie said abruptly, spinning on his heel and striding back into the communication tunnel. Captain Woo scrambled to follow right behind him.
Cazombi grinned at Walker as he turned to go, tossing him a small packet. “Pin these on your man, Jasper.”
Walker’s men continued to stand at attention, waiting for him to dismiss them. The sotto voce comments he heard about the visitors, however, were not very complimentary. “No talking in ranks, men,” he ordered facetiously. “Sergeant Carman, front and center.”
Carman emerged from the knot of enlisted men and stood before his commander at stiff attention. “Normally I’d have some beer to wet these down,” Walker announced. “You’re now Second Lieutenant Carman,” Walker handed Carman the pips of his new rank. “Your orders and pay will catch up with you, someday, maybe. All right, men, you may now come forward and kiss your new executive officer.” Later, after the handshaking and back pounding were over, Walker said, “I need a sergeant to replace you, Herb. Who do you recommend?”
“Mesola, sir.”
Walker raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t he a bit of a, um, well, wiseass, Herb?”
“Yessir, but he’s very resourceful. He’ll make a good junior noncom.”
“Very well, Mesola it is,” he laid a hand on Carman’s shoulder. “Herb, years from now when we tell our grandchildren we met in the women’s wear department of the Fort Seymour post exchange, will they believe us?”
“Depends what we’ll be wearing at the time, sir,” Carman laughed, “but first we’ve got to live through this hell.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
* * *
In the time Charlette Odinloc had been on Ravenette she hadn’t studied the planet’s geography in much detail, so she never properly gauged the full extent of the “Ocean Sea”—it had never been given any other name—on the other side of which was Donnie Caloon’s home. Likewise, a trip of a mere ten thousand kilometers on any of the settled planets in the Confederation of Worlds was a mere jaunt, at the most no more than a week or ten days even by oceangoing vessel. But not on Ravenette. On Ravenette many things had reverted to the nineteenth century.
Donnie had booked them passage on a very slow freighter that took two months to cross the ocean, traveling in a huge arc from north to south to north that added thousands of kilometers to a voyage that Charlette thought would’ve taken them straight across the water to Cuylerville, which was one of the few settlements on a continent about the size of Africa on Earth. And it stopped at every port along the way, even
the tiniest inhabited islands, discharging and embarking passengers and cargo. As the captain explained to them on their first night at sea, his ship, the Figaro, made this trip twice a year and was the only contact many people along its route had with the rest of the world. “Ve brings dem der supplies and newses, picks up da peoples, drops off da peoples, brings evertings dey needs,” the captain, Ermelo Putten, told them in his expansive manner, pulling constantly at his huge black beard as he talked. But the Fig, as everyone called the vessel, was a tightly run ship, the crew polite and competent, and the food plentiful and good.
“And vot you do, young lady Miz Charlette?” Captain Putten asked one night at his table. It was obvious to everyone on board that Charlette was not from Ravenette. Her Standard English was perfectly understandable to all on board, but her accent was not of their world. Neither was Captain Putten’s or that of most of his crew. Putten explained airily that he came from Earth originally, a place he called “Neederlan,” somewhere in Old Europe.
Charlette had anticipated questions like this. She was careful not to answer too quickly. “I was in the army, stationed at Fort Seymour, sir. I met Donnie and we became engaged. I took my discharge when my enlistment was up and now we’re going to Donnie’s home to get married.” As she spoke she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach, like she had stepped into quicksand and was sucked ever downward into it. Goddamnit, I don’t want to get married! she screamed to herself. Where was this adventure taking her anyway?
Captain Putten slammed a massive fist on the table, causing the silverware to jump, and shouted, “Och, marry, you two marry? Wunnerful! I, as de captain of dis vessel, I can do the marriages, all legal! Why not you let ol’ Ermelo do the marriages for you? Den, ven Donnie he gets himself home, aha! dere you is, married! Hooked up for the rest of your lives! Saves a lot of money, do it on board de Fig,” he added winking. The other passengers and the ship’s officers at the table applauded and heartily congratulated the pair.
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