Into the Maelstrom

by David Drake

  “In which case we should get there first and fortify the city,” Ling said.

  “And what happens if wonder boy here is wrong?” Buller asked.

  Allenson looked at Buller. “Then we haven’t lost anything. I don’t have a better suggestion, do you?”

  Buller refused to answer so Allenson continued.

  “Very well, the bulk of the army will move to Trent. We’ll leave a small garrison at Oxford just in case. Please arrange that, Colonel Ling. I want Port Trent fortified under Colonel Buller’s supervision. Colonel Hawthorn will be responsible for suppressing sedition.”

  Allenson caught Hawthorn’s eye.

  “Minimal visible force, please, Colonel. I don’t want the Trent Home Worlders frightened and desperate enough to mount a countercoup.”

  He looked around the room again.

  “You have your orders gentlemen: if you would stay behind, Colonel Hawthorn.”

  Allenson went to the side table and poured three cups of coffee. One of the perks of being general was that you got to drink real coffee. He carried them back carefully so as not to scald himself and deposited one each in front of Hawthorn and Todd, who rightly assumed Allenson would require his services.

  “No need to record this conversation, Todd.”

  “What’s on your mind?” Hawthorn asked.

  “We are in a tricky situation legally moving the army into Port Trent,” Allenson said.

  Hawthorn guffawed. “Is that so? Is it any more or less dubious than fighting a war to take Oxford?”

  “Actually, it is,” Todd said. “I hadn’t considered that point, Uncle. At Oxford it could be argued that here we were just restoring the legitimate civilian authorities.”

  “And more importantly we were enforcing law and order rather than challenging it,” Allenson added.

  Hawthorn shook his head in wonder.

  “I doubt if the niceties of the law will save you if Brasilia wins. They might admire your rhetoric and all around gall but they’ll shoot you just the same.”

  He considered.

  “Shoot us just the same—although I may get away into the Hinterland while they’re dealing with you.”

  He grinned at Allenson who grinned back before explaining.

  “I’m trying to avoid a bloody revolution and factionalism. I want a political war for independence. I want to keep as many people as possible on our side and attract new colonists from the Home Worlds after we win. We must be seen to uphold order and stability. Most people will acquiesce with that, whatever their private political loyalties.”

  “What does that mean in practice?” Hawthorn asked, trying to prod his friend to get to the point.

  “It means we don’t go into Port Trent like a conquering army. I want you to make a public example of anyone who steps out of line.”

  “Anyone!” Allenson repeated again for emphasis. “Use civil or military law as relevant to the perp.”

  Hawthorn nodded.

  “Understood, no favoritism.”

  “Being a Home Worlder or expressing loyalty to Brasilia is not a crime,” Allenson said for clarification

  “But inciting violence is,” Hawthorn said.

  “Precisely.”

  Allenson paused to sip his coffee.

  “Then there is the problem of the new Brasilian governor.”

  “Couldn’t we just shoot him?” Hawthorn asked.

  Allenson assumed his friend was being deliberately provocative but you never knew with Hawthorn.

  “No.”

  Hawthorn sighed.

  “Arrest him and throw away the key.”

  “No.”

  “House arrest?” Hawthorn asked hopefully.

  “Certainly not.”

  “You’re not making my job any easier here!”

  “You’ll manage, you always do. I suggest you put an armed guard around the Governor’s Palace to ensure his safety. They should ostentatiously make records of who goes in and out . . .”

  “For the governor’s own protection,” Todd said with a grin.

  “Exactly,” Allenson replied.

  “Now I come to consider the matter, I think the governor should have a Special Projects bodyguard every time he leaves his palace,” Hawthorn said with a pious expression.

  Todd said, “That should clip his wings a bit.”

  Allenson pushed a rebellious lock of hair out of his eyes.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Digging In

  When Hawthorn arrived at the Port Trent waterfront, the mob had heavy cables attached to the Mother of the Nation statue. They bolted the cables to the back of a heavy tractor. The driver incompetently slammed it into gear with a thump that caused the machine to rock on its suspension. The tractor surged forward until the cables tightened with a twang, then it promptly stalled. The golden statue swayed but remained upright. The mob jeered and howled. Stones glanced off the tractor’s ceramic mudguards.

  Hawthorn looked around for the civilian police. They stood in groups well clear of the riot. He walked across the road toward the man whose platinum braid marked him out as the senior officer. He would have run but his leg was still stiff from the haul through the Continuum to Trent. The ache did nothing to improve his temper.

  “Who are you?” Hawthorn asked.

  Startled the man responded automatically.

  “Chief Supervisor Brent—of the magistrate’s office.”

  The official looked Hawthorn over and drew himself up to his full quite impressive height. He sucked in his stomach.

  “And who the hell are you?”

  “Colonel Hawthorn, Commander of Special Projects of the Cutter Stream Army.”

  A loud cheer from the mob interrupted the conversation. They pulled the incompetent driver out of his cab and boosted a replacement into his seat. The new man got the engine going immediately and the tractor rolled forward to take up the strain. He gunned the engine and applied power through the clutch until the statue swayed once more. The tractor driver played it like a fish on a line, letting it rock back then reapplying power. The Mother of the Nation swayed forward until he had it rocking rhythmically.

  One final burst of power and the statue toppled. The waterfront handrail sliced through the statue’s head like a guillotine and the head fell into the water with a splash. The eyes that gazed to the horizon were lost to the fish and the mud.

  The rest of the statue shattered like a china vase hit by a hammer. The gold exterior was microfilm-thin over cheap ceramic. The mob surged forward to smash up and steal the remains.

  “They’ll be looting shops next. Why aren’t your deputies stopping them?” Hawthorn snarled, putting his face close to the chief supervisor, who recoiled.

  “They’re your people,” the Supervisor said, presumably meaning they supported the revolution.

  “No one who destroys or loots property is ‘my people,’” Hawthorn replied. “Sort it.”

  The chief supervisor’s eyes hardened. He nodded with satisfaction. He touched his collar and gave the necessary words of command. Uniformed officers fanned out from their various bolt holes.

  The supervisor touched his collar again and some sort of communication device appropriated public address systems. His voice boomed across the waterfront.

  “This association is illegal under section nine, subsection seven of the code civilis. Disperse immediately.”

  The rioters’ response involved jeering, rude gestures and threatening moves with various improvised weapons. The cops didn’t seem to expect anything else. They pitched in with electroshock batons and sublethal ion pistol shots without bothering to wait for the rioters to comply. Presumably the disperse order was necessary for some legal reason but otherwise was not serious.

  Hawthorn slung his heavy rifle off his shoulder and switched it on. He held it at the high port position, not pointing it anywhere in particular, but holding it ready.

  A rioter reached under his coat. He
produced a stubby two-handed weapon with a short barrel and a long downward-pointing ammunition clip just in front of the trigger. He fired from the hip. Leaping flame erupted from the muzzle, accompanied by the harsh chatter of a cheap automatic firearm. The gunman sprayed bullets indiscriminately knocking down two rioters and a cop.

  The rifle swung in Hawthorn’s arms. He fired without seeming to take aim. The gunman’s chest exploded in steam and cooked flesh. The blast flung the man backwards, to crash onto the pavement. He lay like a broken doll, torso at an impossible angle, indicating his spine was shattered.

  “Nice shot, gov,” said one of the Special Project troopers.

  “It’s sir, not gov,” Hawthorn said wearily.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Spread out behind the magistrate’s deputies and shoot anyone using a lethal weapon.”

  “Yes, gov.”

  “By anyone I mean rioters,” Hawthorn added for clarification.

  Experience had taught Hawthorn that Special Project Troopers tended to have literal minds. He didn’t want any screw-ups involving a trail of dead cops.

  By the time Allenson arrived at Port Trent, the civilian authorities had the situation back under control. Allenson kept the regular army off the streets, letting just Hawthorn’s security troops in their distinctive badged uniforms support the magistrate’s deputies. Port Trenters could hate the security troopers all they liked because they would be gone after the war, one way or another, but he wanted to keep the regular army aloof from politics. Nevertheless he made it known that he would not hesitate to intervene if the deputies were attacked by armed insurgents of any political persuasion.

  Allenson’s desk in his new office in Port Trent drowned in a sea of petitions, requests and unwanted advice. He was unsuccessfully trying to delegate to Hawthorn and Ling, who were putting up a fine defensive action when Todd rushed in without knocking.

  “They’ve done it!” Todd said, waving a datapad triumphantly.

  Allenson groaned inwardly.

  “Who’s done what?” he asked, cautiously.

  “The Assembly,” Todd replied triumphantly, “have voted to form a new state independent of Brasilia. It was your victory at Oxford that tipped the balance. It put some backbone in the waverers. I came back from Paxton as fast as possible so you would get the news first.”

  A muted wah-wah-wah noise from outside penetrated the office double glazing. It sounded like the cry of a multitude of the faithful at prayer.

  Hawthorn rose from his chair and walked to the window.

  “Not quite fast enough it would seem, young Todd. The Independence Movement is staging an illegal victory march up Stanton Street to celebrate. Home Worlders are throwing bottles.”

  He winced.

  “There goes the across town omnibus. The Home Worlders have set it alight to block the road.”

  Allenson held out his hand and Todd passed the datapad over.

  “I see they have drafted a Bill of Separation and Proclamation of Equality,” Allenson said, perusing the pad.

  “Really? What does it say?” Ling asked.

  “It starts by stating that we have no choice but to dissolve the political bonds between the Stream and Brasilia . . .”

  Hawthorn sniffed. “Tell that to the Home Worlders.”

  “. . . and then goes on to list our reasons, starting by declaring that we hold certain truths to be self-evident . . .”

  Hawthorn said, “If they were that self-evident we wouldn’t have spent months rotting outside Oxford or be facing whatever happens here.”

  “Let’s see,” Allenson said, ignoring his friend. “All people created equal.”

  “Including indentured servants?” Ling asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “It says all and gives no exceptions,” Allenson replied.

  “That will go down well among the Manzanita Better Families,” Ling said with a grin.

  “Certain unalienable rights,” Allenson continued, skipping through the paragraphs. “Life, liberty and security, consent of the governed, no taxation without representation—Trina will be amused to see her phrase recycled—justice for all, and so on. I think it’s a fine document. No doubt there will be a few rough edges to smooth off in later drafts but this will do admirably for the moment. We’ll distribute it unabridged among the troops.”

  Ling made a note on his datapad before looking up.

  “It will soon leak out to the people if we do that.”

  “Let it,” Allenson replied. “Better still, let’s publicize it ourselves among our new citizens. This document changes everything, gentlemen. The Brasilian governor and his officials are now unwanted guests in a foreign land. I want them treated with all civilized norms. Equally I want them off-world on the next trans-Bight ship. It also means that Home Worlders have the choice of accepting citizenship or applying for foreign resident rights. Anyone agitating against the elected Assembly is an enemy alien and can be arrested and deported. Is that clear?”

  Ling nodded, but Hawthorn was intent on the view outside the office.

  “Colonel Hawthorn?” Allenson asked gently.

  “What? Oh yes, crystal clear,” Hawthorn replied. “Look I think I had better get down there. Someone has just lit up a lasercarbine . There it goes again. I will draft security proposals for you to sign later.”

  He rushed from the room.

  “Never a dull moment, this independence lark,” Ling muttered, rising from his chair.

  “Right, Allenson, let me outline my preparations,” Buller said.

  He flicked up a hologram depicting a three-dimensional map of Port Trent and its environs. Trent Bay formed a rough north-south orientated isosceles triangle with its opening to the ocean at the base. Many rivers running southeast drained into it from the forested highlands of the continental mass to the west. The east bank of the bay was formed by a large flat alluvial peninsula called the Douglas Hundreds. This provided the wide protected anchorage for Continuum ships which had made Port Trent rich by colonial standards.

  Port Trent sat on the south bank of a northward loop of the Valerie River where the estuary widened into Trent Bay at the cone of the triangle. The Valerie was the largest river in the drainage basin, rivaled only by the Joanne to the south. Port Trent’s commercial docks ran south from the city along the upper west bank of Trent Bay.

  Buller got up from his chair and walked to the hologram; unlike the other officers, he hadn’t bothered to stand when Allenson entered the operation’s room. He pointed to a red line that ran around the western suburbs of Port Trent from the Valerie to the coast below the docks.

  “This will be the path of our main defensive line to protect the city. Ideally I would build two or three circumventions to give us defense in depth. There just isn’t time so one will have to suffice,” Buller said. “Fortunately the river estuary and bay act as blocking terrain to the north, east and south. We only have to fortify the west.”

  The use of circumvention in this context struck Allenson as an unfortunate choice. He knew Buller meant the word simply as a synonym for surround but in the military histories he had read it was often used to mean entrap. That was always the issue in a siege. Sometimes it wasn’t clear who had who trapped until the dust settled. He shook himself out of his customary pessimism when something on the map caught his eye.

  “What’s that?” he asked Buller, pointing to a second red line across the Douglas Hundreds. It lay just to the south of the neck of the peninsula where it joined the mainland.

  “I intend to dig a second line in there to defend the Douglas Hundreds.”

  “In case the Brasilians land on the peninsula?” Allenson asked.

  “Of course not, the Douglas Hundreds’ fortifications will point north for the same reason that Port Trent’s face west,” Buller said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  A number of the junior officers in the operations room developed a keen interest in their work stations or the ceiling. Allens
on let his breath out slowly. He kept his face impassive until he was certain he had a grip on his temper.

  “And that is?” Allenson asked.

  “Because the Brasilians will need to build up a bridgehead somewhere safe from counterattack as they unload. They will be relying mainly on small civilian ships to bring in their equipment. We control the only port capable of docking a trans-Bight ship. That narrows their options considerably, so they will land somewhere well inland.”

  Buller waved his hand vaguely across the inland regions to the west.

  “Why won’t they land on the Douglas Hundreds itself?” Allenson asked.

  “You haven’t been there have you, Allenson. Know why they call it the Hundreds?”

  “No doubt you can enlighten me,” Allenson said.

  Buller looked at him suspiciously, probably rightly sensing sarcasm. Allenson kept his expression bland.

  “It’s the market garden of Port Trent. There’s hundreds of small agricultural plots growing fresh produce for the city. They’re irrigated by a spider’s web of streams fed from a canal off the Valerie. Not exactly good military going if you see what I mean. It’s also close to the city so we could move forces in faster than they could unload.”

  Allenson frowned.

  “I see. So why waste resources fortifying it at all?”

  “To stop the Brasilians just walking into the peninsula. I don’t want them to set up a base there for two reasons: we may need the food grown on that peninsula if the siege drags on, and artillery positions onto the peninsula could interdict the port. They could do to us what we did to them at Oxford.”

  Allenson considered. Buller seemed to have thought matters through. It did make sense that the Brasilians only had two options for a landing zone and of the two the inland choice was by far the superior. Nevertheless doubts assailed him. Again the old maxim that if the enemy only has two choices he will inevitably select the third gnawed at his mind. He studied the map again but could not see a third option.

  There was no effective defense if the enemy used a fleet of specialized assault ships to drop right in on the city. This whole war was based on the assumption that Brasilia wouldn’t risk diverting resources on that scale across the Bight. Allenson saw no flaw in Buller’s plan, so he signified agreement.