Into the Maelstrom

by David Drake

  Suntalaw wondered how this could be worked to his advantage. His mind plodded carefully through the various possibilities, each scenario more paranoiac than the last. Should he sit on the information, pretend he’d never seen it, or report the matter to the advocate general. What spin should he apply if he decided to pass it on?

  His first reaction was to ignore the whole affair and let matters take their course. He would have to impress upon Preson the need to keep his mouth shut if he chose that option. The advocate general undoubtedly had spies within every DG including Home Security. Could he trust Preson? Now that was a stupid question.

  An unfortunate fatal accident could be arranged, of course, but suppose Preson was the advocate general’s spy in Suntalaw’s directorate. Terminating him might seem like an attack on the advocate general himself. That thought brought Suntalaw out in a cold sweat.

  He forced himself to think through the logical possibilities. It was of little concern whether this magic metal actually existed but who thought it existed. Could this be an elaborate and convoluted scam by Brasilian Security to discredit Exoworld? In that case it would be better for Suntalaw to lie low and let events take their course.

  Suppose it was a plot by Exoworld to discredit Social Welfare and hence him? If he misled the advocate general with false information it could be construed as treason. The AG had a swift way with traitors, real or imagined.

  Suntalaw examined Preson carefully, trying to read his mind. Life would be so much easier if he could read his subordinates’ minds. Preson was supposed to be his pipe line into Exoworld but it often occurred that Preson could just as easily be Exoworld’s pipe line into Social Welfare.

  An even more horrendous idea erupted into his consciousness like a gas bubble from a swamp. Suppose the advocate general himself had set up the scam to test the loyalty of his director generals? In that case not reporting the information could be construed as treason.

  The more he thought about the matter the more Suntalaw convinced himself that it didn’t matter whether the information was true or untrue. The only issue was whether the advocate general believed it might be true. He had developed paranoia into a high art form. The AG was likely to believe any tale no matter how fanciful where his own personal safety was threatened.

  He would prepare a report for the AG. If it all blew up he would just have to find a scapegoat. Suntalaw smiled at Preson, deciding to let him live a little longer. The man might yet be useful.

  CHAPTER 14

  Siege Lines

  Allenson spent the next few weeks reorganizing his army. He set up a rigorous training schedule. He busted down some officers and NCOs and promoted others. Slowly but surely the army changed from a ragbag collection of militia into a professional fighting force. He created uniform regiments by merging understrength units. He grouped the regiments into brigades until he had a field army of interchangeable units with predictable reactions.

  He pitched brigades and battalions against each other in competition. The winner was excused fatigues. The losers got the winners’ duties in addition to their own. Men lounging who had been catcalling and uttering unsubtle jokes to colleagues found themselves digging ditches instead. Allenson’s universal reply to any complaints: “It pays to be a winner.”

  He was cordially hated by all and sundry but they sweated and they worked nonetheless. Allenson consoled himself by the thought that being popular was not in his job description.

  He set up an event and was cheering on the contestants when the intruder alarm sounded. Companies were competing to dig and occupy a trench line before an automatic defense laser cannon raked the air space above one meter off the ground.

  There was in theory no danger. One meter was easily sufficient for someone to survive simply by lying down on the surface, never mind in a trench. Regrettably, some idiot always ran too slow or cut it too fine when the warning klaxon sounded. Live fire casualties inevitably happened in training. Each one lay on Allenson’s already burdened conscience, but a little bloodshed now could save rivers of gore when the army had to do the business for real.

  This time the klaxon went off early before either of the trenches was ready. The troops flung themselves at the ground without waiting for an explanation, but the lasercannon unaccountably failed to fire. It wasn’t even pointing in the right direction. The barrels stuck fast in the rest position. The weapon’s crew gawped at it in astonishment. They prodded a few buttons experimentally, but the machine continued to sulk like a teenager at an aged relative’s birthday party.

  The other defense cannon positioned around the perimeter of the camp also went on strike. They failed to react even when a swarm of one and two-man frames phased in directly overhead. The intruder alarm successfully detected intruders, but that wasn’t all that helpful if the defense cannon failed to respond.

  Allenson pulled his ion pistol out and shot it uselessly into the air. He had enough trouble hitting anything with a rifle. With a pistol he could barely target the sky. His action was more in the way of a warning to the camp. Krenz’s men closed up on each side of him, carbines at the ready. They, sensibly, did not try to target small fast-moving objects at extreme range.

  The klaxon continued to wail, signaling an air attack. Soldiers tumbled out of tents. Some, those who had both remembered to grab their rifles and managed to switch them on, fired at the frames—mostly without effect. A rare hit caused a two-man frame to sideslip towards the ground, trailing smoke. The front rider slumped forward over the controls while the man behind pedaled furiously.

  The frames scattered, some rephrasing back into the Continuum. Others dropped swiftly to the ground, braking only just in time to effect a soft landing. The crews dived off their machines as soon as they were down. They hid in the half-finished trenches or lay flat with their arms over their heads. If this was an attack then the enemy were a right bunch of pacifists.

  Allenson keyed an all ranks channel. “Cease fire. The newcomers are friendly, cease fire immediately.”

  Rather to his surprise his men obeyed and the shooting died away. Allenson shrugged off the restraining hands of his minders and bounded over to the half-finished defenses.

  A young man wearing a cheeky grin and an unfamiliar canary-yellow uniform climbed out of a trench with his hand extended.

  “Who the hell are you?” Allenson demanded, ignoring the proffered limb.

  “Captain Reese Morton, sir, Morton’s Marauders. I guess you must be our new general,” the young man said, saluting with a flourish.

  At that point the klaxon sounded again. Allenson turned and was horrified to see the exercise lasercannon swiveling on its gimbals. The damn thing was still obeying its preprogramed fire pattern instructions.

  Some things are so burned into one’s body that they override the conscious mind. Allenson’s old combat reactions kicked in. He was the first into the trench. The others landed on top of him.

  Allenson felt the back of his neck gingerly. Some damned squaddie had planted a combat boot on one of his upper vertebra.

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t think,” Morton said.

  “No, sir, you bloody well didn’t,” Allenson replied. “You are damned lucky half your command wasn’t flamed by our lasercannon. Never ever try to beat up my command like that again or I will shoot you personally if the autos don’t do it for me.”

  He turned to Ling.

  “And why is Morton still alive, Colonel? Why didn’t our autos fire? What if it had been the Brasilians and not some damn fool from our own side.”

  Allenson glowered at Morton, who was not noticeably crushed.

  Ling said, “I anticipated you would want to know what went wrong so I’ve had the engineering officer check the equipment over. It seems there’s a flaw in our control system.”

  “A flaw that could get us all killed,” Allenson snarled.

  Ling nodded seriously.

  “Yes, sir, taking one cannon off line for the exercise shut down the ent
ire system. Apparently, it’s a health and safety measure to render the equipment safe in the event of a malfunction.”

  “Safe?” Allenson asked, pronouncing the word as if it described an obscene act involving rubber trousers and an electric prod. “I see we are using a novel definition of the word safe. Safe to me means having a working bloody air defense system.”

  “Yes, sir, I agree. I have instructed Major Kiesche to disable the, ah, safety feature.”

  “I suppose you actually did us a favor, Morton. Just don’t do it again,” Allenson said, rubbing his neck.

  “Do you want the doctor to have a look at that?” Ling asked.

  “I’ve had worse. A plum brandy will put me right.”

  Taking the hint, Morton caught the waiter’s eye and ordered drinks.

  “Remind me, what are Morton’s Marauders?” Allenson asked.

  “A small detached commando operating independently in the Hinterland,” Ling replied.

  “We’ve been hitting isolated Brasilian outposts and their supply routes,” Morton replied proudly.

  “Pin-pricks only, I’m afraid, sir,” Ling said. “I doubt the Brasilians care overmuch, but Morton’s raids do show the flag around the mudball colonies and dissuade Brasilian loyalists from trying to raise an army in our rear.”

  “I think I do rather more than that,” Morton said, a trifle stiffly. “On this raid we captured Fort Champlain, slighted the defenses and burned the building to the ground.”

  “Indeed,” Allenson said, impressed.

  “Fort Champlain was a weapon store. We’ve brought back some useful captured equipment,” Morton said.

  “Like what?” asked Allenson.

  “Mortars, sir! Ceramic tubes and a supply of shells.”

  “Now that is truly useful,” Allenson replied, delighted.

  With mortars in support, an infantry assault on Oxford might become a viable proposition. Allenson would prefer the Brasilians to be the ones to launch an attack. It was true that modern troops were so tactically mobile that the attacker had all the strategic advantages of tempo. He who chose the time and place and could easily concentrate overwhelming force on the point of contact before the defender could reinforce. Nevertheless the defense was always tactically stronger. This was especially true if the defenders were aided by the force multiplier of a prepared position. Green troops in particular found it easier to defend fortified positions than to attack them.

  “How did you storm Fort Champlain with only light infantry?” Allenson asked.

  “Truth to tell it wasn’t as difficult as it sounds,” Morton replied with disarming honesty. “The walls were in a parlous state. The fort was undermanned with demoralized garrison troops. They fired a few volleys for effect then legged it.”

  Allenson thought Morton underrated his achievement.

  “Nevertheless, a successful coup de main requires boldness and skill. Well done.”

  He noticed that Morton visibly preened under the praise. The young man wasn’t overly modest at all. In fact he was incorrigibly vain but it was difficult not to like him.

  “The choice of uniform for your unit surprises me. Isn’t bright yellow a little, well, visible?”

  “You are not the first to express that view,” Ling added.

  “There was talk of a combat uniform in some peasant shade like earth brown or olive green but I soon put a stop to that,” Morton replied, loftily. “I want my men to be seen and recognized as an elite fighting force. Besides, no gentleman should be asked to go to war looking as if he has just rolled in a swamp.”

  “So how are you getting on with your new minders?” Hawthorn asked, easing himself into a chair in Allenson’s office and sinking half a glass of brandy.

  Allenson glowered at him.

  “Not well, the bastards follow me around like randy youths after a girl with a reputation. I had to physically dissuade some of the more enthusiastic from accompanying me to the bathroom.”

  Hawthorn snorted into his drink, shooting a fine spray across Allenson’s desk.

  “Excellent. I must organize a suitable bonus for Krenz.”

  Allenson glowered.

  “Pleasurable as it is to offer myself up as the butt for your peculiar sense of humor, was there something else you wanted to discuss?”

  “Information!” Hawthorn said succinctly. “I take it you are interested in what is going on in Oxford?”

  “Very much,” Allenson replied, refilling Hawthorn’s glass.

  “The short answer is not a lot. The Brasilian military have hunkered down and are playing a waiting game. The troopers are getting bored. There have already been one or two incidents. Some of the licentious soldiery caused trouble and one or two local hotheads picked fights in retaliation. The general in charge, one Moffat, is old school. He may not be the shiniest cog in the Brasilian military machine intellect-wise but he does have a grasp of discipline. He hung a few malcontents from both sides and publically flogged others as an example and so is keeping a tight lid on things. Shame really, a good insurrection and blood bath might have been useful propaganda.”

  Allenson winced.

  “I suppose it might have given us opportunities in the short term but I’m rather glad Moffat is competent to that degree. I don’t want a civilian massacre on my conscience. The key question is whether they have enough supplies to withstand a siege? Oxford must have depended heavily on a continuous supply of fresh agricultural produce from the surrounding farms. I doubt if they had much in the way of sterile long-term food storage.”

  Hawthorn shook his head.

  “My informants tell me that the city’s on short rations but there’s not much chance of starving them out. They’re getting a constant supply of material from tramp ships running in from nearby worlds and even some of the outlying areas of Trinity. The price of food in Oxford has doubled and some of our dear, patriotic countrymen can’t resist making a fast crown or three.”

  “It’s difficult to blockade a port when you have no navy,” Allenson said. “Of course many ship owners support the status quo rather than the rebellion and many others won’t care much one way or the other. After all, business is business.”

  Hawthorn tapped his glass.

  “We could turn Morton’s men loose on the food supplies and ship owners, I suppose.”

  “We could but that might do us more harm than good in the long run,” Allenson replied. “We’ll eventually need those people for our own purposes, if not during the war then certainly after it. In any case the Brasilians could ship supplies in on military transports if necessary.”

  “If we lose I suspect we won’t have to worry too much about what comes after,” Hawthorn said with his usual cynical detachment.

  “How long have we got before the Brasilians attack?” Allenson asked.

  “What makes you think they intend to? My information is that they intend to sit out the siege until we die of boredom, dysentery or old age. There seems to be some debate as to whether we’ll attempt to take the town by storm.”

  “Indeed, does the thought bother them?” Allenson asked.

  “The junior officers positively salivate at the thought,” Hawthorn replied. “Anything to relieve the tedium. They foresee promotion and honors all round.”

  “Not a morale problem then.”

  “No so’s you’d notice, no.”

  “How about the senior officers, what’s their opinion?” Allenson asked.

  “Publicly they seem confident of being able to resist any assault we might mount.”

  “Well they would say that, wouldn’t they? I wonder what they really think?”

  Hawthorn shrugged.

  “I don’t yet have an agent in place who is privy to the command staff’s private discussions. One of my agents is laying the colonel of artillery. He boasts that he had enough multibarreled lasercannon to weave an impenetrable shield over both port and the town and still have guns left over to sweep both causeways clear of any attackers on
foot.”

  Allenson’s heart sank. Fond ideas of using Morton’s light mortars to overcome the defenses melted like summer hail.

  “I see. Was he exaggerating to impress his girlfriend?”

  “Possibly.”

  Hawthorn shrugged again.

  “I am going to need some more Brasilian crowns. I’ve spent my own money up to now and I’m running short of ready cash. My agents refuse to accept the Heilbron paper Thalers we pay our troops in.”

  “I see your people are not optimistic about our chances,” Allenson said dryly.

  He made a note on his pad.

  “I’ll make sure you get a plentiful supply of hard currency. Pay yourself back whatever the treasury owes your personal account as well.”

  “There was one other point,” Hawthorn said. “A youth in my employ was part of a group hired to entertain naval officers and overheard a rather odd remark.”

  “Oh?” Allenson looked up from the pad.

  Hawthorn said, “An off-color joke about the size of an officer’s personal weapon involved comparing it to a new über-powerful secret device being developed for the Brasilian Navy. Apparently it’s going to crush us rebel scum.”

  “A war-winning secret weapon?” Allenson asked, raising both eyebrows. “And how much credence do you put on that information?”

  “The same as you: as next to none as makes no difference,” Hawthorn replied with a grin. “But if I start filtering information before you get it then we might miss something important.”

  Allenson nodded agreement.

  “Historically, that’s always the problem with intelligence. Everyone always gets accurate information about the enemy’s intentions but it’s usually a lone straw hidden in a hayrick of crap. Okay, secret weapon, Brasilian Navy, for the use of. We’ll make a note and file under Doubtful.”

  “Only a bloody fool would send troops along that causeway. You might as well line them up and shoot them yourself. Save a lot of time and the result will be the same,” Buller said, jabbing his finger in the direction of Oxford.