Into the Maelstrom

by David Drake

  CHAPTER 22

  The Loneliness

  of Command

  The hologram showed a viewpoint down the sight of a single shot heavy laserrifle. The weapon was normally used to take out bunkers but at the moment it was aimed at a blunt armored prow grinding slowly towards the observer. The hologram whited out when the gun fired. In the aftermath a blue-white splash on the armor plate showed where the hit failed to penetrate. The whine of the rifle’s recharging capacitors was clearly audible over the feed.

  The tank paused and then turned by braking its right track. It spun ten or twenty degrees and slid. The left track sliced through the wet topsoil to kick a slice of turf across the ground like pudding slapped by a sharp knife.

  The turn revealed a tribarreled lasercannon mounted on the left rear side of the open topped vehicle. White streaks zapped out of the 3-D hologram when the tribarrel spun. Ling automatically ducked. Allenson was too focused on the picture to react.

  The Streamer fired his heavy weapon again. This time the pulse flashed on the suspension between the tracks on the flank of the armored box. A green flare of burning metal and ceramics spurted from the hit and the suspension caught fire.

  Smoke rolled up to mask the tribarrel just as it fired another burst. The explosive flashback blew out the back of the tank. The tank’s frontal armor clanged down to make a ramp and men ran out, one on fire. He dropped into the wet mud, rolling in a futile attempt to put out the flames.

  An internal explosion outlined the waving arms of a black figure propelled by the blast wave to the top of the ramp. The concomitant backdraft sucked the enemy soldier down into the blazing hulk.

  The hologram devolved into a confusing mess of white streaks and explosions. Then it winked out.

  “I’ll try to get the signal back,” said the communications officer in a disappointed voice.

  “No, show me a map of the whole peninsula,” Allenson replied. “Overlay the locations of troops with whom we still have contact.”

  A rash of blue dots sprang up.

  “Now put up the positions of units with which we have lost contact.”

  Yellow dots.

  “. . . and the location of known enemy forces.”

  Red triangles.

  Allenson picked up a marker pen and pointed it at the hologram.

  “You see these yellow dots along the west coast behind the Slapton line? My guess is that we have already been outflanked. I expect to see yellow dots and then red triangles on the east coast next. The Brasilians would have found the going easier in the sheltered waters of the Bay than on the open ocean side and so would have made faster progress.”

  He paused, rubbing his forehead.

  “We’ve been outplayed, gentlemen,” Allenson said wearily, momentarily forgetting that some of his officers were ladies.

  No one was stupid enough to raise the point in the current situation.

  “The enemy strategy is clear. They will pin Kaspary’s First Brigade into the Slapton line; then use their amphibious capability to outflank and surround before chopping into the defenses from the rear. They’ll slice the Line into segments and defeat each part in detail.”

  Ling said, “We could send the 11th south to hit the Brasilians in their rear.”

  “That would mean abandoning the Buller Line,” Allenson replied.

  “I could move troops from the Trent Line to take over the Buller,” Ling said hesitantly.

  “Yeees,” Allenson replied, unconvinced. He really didn’t want to strip Port Trent’s defenses in case the Brasilians had another surprise up their metaphorical sleeve.

  Allenson gazed at the map, head cocked to one side. There was absolute silence in the control room. This was the loneliness of command. Oh sure, you got to wear a fancy uniform and strut up and down while everyone saluted and laughed sycophantically at even your weakest attempts at humor. But there would come a time when you had to pay the price: when you sat in a headquarters and everyone waited upon your decision, when you could lose the war “in an afternoon.”

  He noticed an installation marked on the map at the western end of the Slapton Line.

  “What’s that,” he said indicating it with his pen.

  Ling peered at it.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “That’s Slapton Ferry,” one of the locals in the control room said. “No one lives there. It’s not much more than a dredged deep-water cutting with a jetty. It was built to load and unload lighters but most stuff goes by frame these days.”

  “Contact Kaspery again,” Allenson said to Ling. “Order him to retreat northwest with his advanced regiment to fall back on Slapton Ferry, then tell the commander of the 11th to move one of his regiments south into the Brasilan rear. Leave the other two to keep working on refacing the Buller Line, just in case.”

  A half-formed idea floated at the back of Allenson’s mind. If all went well it would stay a mere phantom. If matters went against the Stream Army then he believed he might just have taken out an insurance policy. But he needed someone trustworthy to help him set it up. He took out his pad and keyed in a private number, activating the sound damper so his conversation was private. An icon showed when Trina picked up

  “Trina, round up all the lighters you can get your hands on.”

  Trina’s smile vanished and she slipped into business mode instead of asking pointless questions.

  “Where do you want them?”

  “Slapton Ferry and don’t wait until you can assemble a convoy. Get each one moving as fast as possible.”

  “Understood.”

  She touched a key and cut the link.

  Trina looked up Slapton Ferry and blinked when she discovered its location. Putting the why questions out of her mind for the moment, she concentrated on the how. She dug through the Port Trent Chamber of Commerce list to find contact details. The first proprietor she pinged failed to pick up, so she left an auto to keep trying and pinged the next. A pair of bleary eyes looked out of her console.

  “Do you know what time it is?” the man said.

  “Chowtrees Lighters?” Trina asked.

  “Uh, yes,” the man said.

  “I’m Lady Allenson of Pentire. How many lighters have you available for immediate hire?”

  The man perked up.

  “Two available right now and a third is undergoing a motor service. My lads can get it back together in a couple of hours.”

  Trina nodded.

  “Very good, I want you to send them empty to Slapton Ferry and await further instructions.”

  The man stared at her. One could almost see his mind revolving.

  “That’s on the Hundreds.”

  He paused.

  “Why do you want them?”

  “That’s my business,” Trina replied.

  “The Brasilians are over on the Hundreds aren’t they? Here, I don’t want my boats anywhere near a warzone.”

  “You will be indemnified for any damage or loss,” Trina said.

  Actually she had no idea whether that was correct but right now she didn’t care.

  “And how about any lost earnings?”

  “They’re not earning anything at the moment are they?”

  The man’s eyes flickered.

  “No, I want double the usual hire rate, half paid in advance and indemnification.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” Trina said calmly.

  “Your problem,” the man said.

  He obviously thought he had her over a barrel.

  “As I don’t have time to negotiate, I will simply give you my terms which are normal hourly rates and indemnification. You will agree or I will send a Special Project detachment to requisition your vessels and man them. In that case no monies of any kind will be paid for any reason but you will get your barges back, assuming Special Projects don’t run them aground or something. Most troopers are none too careful with kit in my experience.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “J
ust watch me.”

  She got her barges.

  Dawn broke before she had finished. An owner of one of the larger lighter fleets had told her to commit an unnatural sexual act. She got the distinct impression that he was no friend of the new administration.

  When Trina was satisfied that matters were on the move so far as they could be, she pinged Hawthorn and informed him of her actions. She happened to mention the recalcitrant boat owner. Hawthorn ventured to suggest that he was confident the owner could be persuaded to change his mind after he paid him the compliment of a personal visit to explain the situation.

  Trina grinned. People like Hawthorn were a liability in the normal run of things but he definitely had his uses when push came to shove. She also took the opportunity to explain her anxieties to Hawthorn. Trina knew her husband better than he knew himself and she could predict his actions before he thought he had made up his mind.

  By nine o’clock the control room was deathly still. What do you say when a disaster slowly unfolds in front of you? Allenson waved away the aide who tried to serve him breakfast. Ling indicated that the aide should leave the tray on the side. While Allenson watched the monitor, Ling poured a mug of cafay and placed it at Allenson’s elbow.

  Red triangles poured around the Slapton Line and sped up the flanks to the Buller line, neatly bypassing the green regiment Allenson had ordered south. The regiment promptly disintegrated when the troops realized the enemy was in their rear.

  The green square signifying the unit dissolved into a swarm of green dots representing individual units at company or even section level. Green dots fled on for the safety of the Slapton Line, back to the Buller line or merely dodged randomly in zig-zag circles, bouncing off advancing Brasilian tanks like ricochets in a pin-ball machine.

  Under relentless Brasilian pressure the troops of the 1st stationed at the eastern end of the Slapton line abandoned their position. They became hopelessly intermingled with green units from the 11th.

  The only regiment maintaining cohesion was the Greenbelts. They were under Kaspary’s direct control and had a purpose other than just waiting to be attacked. Information flowed into the control room and orders flowed out with little discernible impact on the growing chaos.

  “All this technology and I have no more control over the battle than an ancient general standing on a hill waving colored flags,” Allenson said.

  The first green dots slipped from the Buller Line in the direction of the city as the panic spread to the remaining troopers of the 11th.

  “There’s nothing to stop the enemy taking the Buller Line on the bounce and rolling straight into the city,” Allenson said tonelessly.

  “I could send the 5th Brigade from the Trent Line to advance into the Hundreds,” Ling said.

  Allenson shook his head.

  “There’s no point in reinforcing failure. We’d just lose another brigade.”

  “Then let me send them into the city. The Brasilian tanks will be useless there and we can make them fight for every street and block.”

  Allenson’s lips pursed.

  “And Port Trent will be left a shattered ruin with extensive civilian casualties. It wouldn’t matter who won the battle then as we would most decisively have lost the war. No keep the 5th back as a reserve so we can salvage something from this mess.”

  Allenson rubbed his eyes, feeling very tired and very old. Ling diplomatically inched the cafay forward a centimeter or two. Allenson automatically picked it up and took a gulp. It was cold, but he felt suddenly thirsty and drank it anyway. Ling signaled an aide and a fresh mug magically appeared accompanied by baked bread and cheese.

  “You’re starting to act like my wife, Colonel,” Allenson said, between mouthfuls.

  “I believe the duties of a chief of staff and wife have similarities but only up to a point, sir,” Ling said, deadpan.

  While Allenson ate, Ling studied the changing depositions of Brasilian units.

  “I may be wrong but I think the Brasilians have ceased advancing,” Ling said.

  Allenson carefully put down his bread and studied the hologram. The red triangles had stopped their rush north on the edge of the Buller Line.

  “Are they regrouping for an assault?” Ling asked.

  “But they’re not concentrating,” Allenson replied, in wonder. “In fact they seem to be doing quite the opposite and dispersing across the peninsula.”

  The two men stared at the hologram until Ling cleared his throat.

  “You know,” he said hesitantly. “It looks to me that they might be digging in.”

  “Thank all the gods of lost battles for over-cautious generals,” Allenson said. “They’re digging in to prepare for a systematic assault. They must be waiting for artillery to come up.”

  Allenson laughed with relief.

  “Now we have a chance to save the army.”

  He sprang up and pulled on his jacket, all fatigue a lost memory.

  “But where are you going?” Ling asked.

  “Where I might be useful because there’s nothing I can do here that you can’t do just as well if not better.”

  He paused at the door.

  “Sorry, Colonel, but for the moment I leave the loneliness of command to you.”

  “Bloody super,” Ling replied. “Go with him, Fendlaigh, and take a field set.”

  Allenson left the control room at the run. Actually doing something, as opposed to watching other men fight, made him euphoric, like discovering exactly where a splinter was located in one’s softer tissue and extracting same.

  He slowed as he left the building, partly to key the voice communications icon on his pad and partly because generals shouldn’t be seen to run. It implied that all was going to hell in a frame with a broken pedal. It was especially important not to convey such an impression when all was actually going to hell.

  “Sar,” Boswell answered instantly.

  “Uh, right,” Allenson said. “You’re there.”

  “Yes, sar, was there anything else, sar?” Boswell asked.

  “Ah, yes, how soon can you bring my frame round?”

  “Your official general’s carriage or your barge?”

  “The barge. Where we’re going I need reliability and robustness rather than cute decorations.”

  “Very good, sar.”

  “So how long?”

  “Perhaps you should look up, sar.”

  Allenson raised his eyes to find the barge parked outside his headquarters with Boswell up front in the driver’s position. Someone had bolted ceramic ablative armor around the pulpit to the front and sides to reduce the driver’s exposure. The faint shimmer coming off the barge’s extended pylons indicated that it was energized and ready to fly.

  Todd leaned over and helped him up into the rear compartment. Hawthorn leaned casually against the other side. He methodically checked the charges on extra power loads for his rifle and stowed them carefully in a pouch strap that he wore over one shoulder.

  “Nice of you to join us,” Hawthorn said with a smile.

  “And what the freaking hell are those for?” Allenson asked.

  Two long tribarrels on flexible gimlets were clamped to the front corners of the barge’s rear compartment, pointing out to the port and starboard flanks. They were manned by men in Special Projects uniforms wearing helmets with reflective full face visors. One half turned and gave Allenson a cheery wave which he half returned before thinking better of it. Thick braided power cables coiled down to a large power supply cemented against the front bulkhead.

  “Oh, I thought they might come in useful,” Hawthorn said.

  “I’ve no intention of looking for trouble,” Allenson said defensively.

  “Of course not,” Hawthorn said sadly. “But somehow you’ll stumble across it. You always do.”

  Allenson bridled but decided not to pursue the matter.

  “There is a possibility of danger,” he said to Boswell, “and you’re not signed up to be a soldier. Maybe
you should stay behind. Lieutenant Allenson can drive.”

  Boswell answered by activating the field. Fluorescing blue balls rolled down the barge’s pylons. It lifted as the Continuum field bit on reality.

  “Sir? Sir?”

  Lieutenant Fendlaigh ran unsteadily out of the headquarters building, her slight figure burdened by a heavy rucksack over each shoulder.

  Boswell looked at Allenson, who indicated he should kill the field and the barge settled back onto the ground.

  Hawthorn hauled Fendlaigh aboard before she could mount the ladder and she ended up in his arms. He smiled at her, eliciting a blush. Allenson coughed and made the introductions. Fendlaigh stepped back into officer mode and started to unpack her gear.

  Allenson nodded to Boswell, who lifted the barge off the ground once more, climbing steeply to avoid Port Trent’s administration buildings.

  “Hang on, I haven’t said where we’re going yet,” Allenson said, taken by surprise and having to grab a rail to steady himself.

  A trooper held out his hand but quickly retracted it when Allenson glared at him.

  “Slapton Ferry, where else,” Hawthorn replied.

  CHAPTER 23

  Slapton Ferry

  The sun came up, bathing Port Trent in pastel light. Filtering through kilometers of air it stained the few clouds in the sky bright satin pink like drapes in an upmarket brothel.

  The barge dropped down to near water level where waves ran up the bay, breaking and rebreaking into white foam as the swells tumbled into shallower and shallower water. Whipped by the wind, the foam quickly blew away to add to a sea mist hanging over the water. There was little sensation of speed within the continuum field. Allenson couldn’t even feel the chill air whipping past as the barge maintained its own microclimate, but he estimated their speed at barely eighty kph.

  Boswell made a course correction, so Allenson moved to the right-hand side of the barge to see why. They passed close on the port side of a lighter ploughing slowly through the waves. It was not much more than an open rectangular box with a cut-off prow to facilitate loading and an engine compartment at the rear. The two-man crew stood in an open pulpit at the back, huddled up in warm overcoats and fur caps with side flaps that tied under the chin to protect their ears.