Into the Maelstrom

by David Drake

  “And the civilians?”

  Buller looked at Allenson uncomprehendingly.

  “What about them?”

  Allenson pointed out the obvious.

  “They’ll be massacred in the crossfire. We can’t evacuate the largest city in the colonies. We haven’t got the resources or anywhere to send them.”

  “Civilian collateral damage worries people,” Hawthorn remarked to Buller in the tone of someone reporting an inexplicable but reliably robust observation. “Personally I don’t understand why a civilian death is worse than a soldier’s but there it is.”

  “We won’t contest the town itself. We’ll declare it an open city and the Brasilians will have to respect that and forgo bombardment,” Allenson said. “They’re welcome to dissipate their strength moving troops into the urban areas and police them if they so desire.”

  “You have another plan?” Ling asked.

  “I do. Have any of you gentlemen ever heard of Julius Caesar?”

  Allenson was greeted with blank looks.

  “Well I’m not surprised. He’s all but forgotten now but once he was a very important man, a warlord who conquered half the world and made himself king. His descendants ruled for the next two millennia.”

  “Is this relevant?” Buller asked rudely.

  Allenson nodded.

  “I believe so,” Allenson said. “Caesar faced a situation not unlike the potential one we have here. His enemies occupied a city and had an army in the field. Caesar built a double walled fortification around the city facing inwards and outwards and allowed his enemies to dash themselves to pieces on it. We have the outer wall on the Trent Line already so all we need to do is build the inner and the Brasilians are very kindly giving us the time.”

  “We’ll be trapped within the Trent Line if anything goes wrong,” said Ling, fulfilling his chief of staff role of devil’s advocate.

  “That’s what Caesar’s enemies thought,” said Allenson with a grin. “But he used his fortress wall as a base for sallies to defeat his opponents in detail. Any further comments?”

  Silence reigned.

  “Take responsibility for fortifying the inner face of the Trent Line, if you please, Colonel Buller.”

  “I’ll get right on it. I take it I can requisition whatever resources I need?”

  Allenson nodded.

  The meeting broke up after that with no further discussion.

  “Buller was unusually cooperative,” Allenson said to Todd after they left the theatre and were alone. “I expected more of a protest when I turned down his plans for a bloodbath.”

  “Victory has many fathers but defeat is an orphan,” Todd replied cynically.

  “You think we’re about to lose?” Allenson asked.

  “I suspect Buller thinks so, as too much depends on imponderables outside of our control. We have next to no information on the Brasilian Order Of Battle so how can we possibly assess their capabilities?”

  “How indeed,” Allenson replied, “but keep that thought to yourself.”

  The problem was that Todd was absolutely right.

  Back in his private quarters Allenson prepared a report on the situation for the Assembly at Paxton. He created three copies in secure plastic folders to be carried independently by three of Morton’s commandos riding one-man frames. The Brasilians would be lucky to intercept one of the Canaries but there was no possibility of them capturing all three.

  As an afterthought he added a summary by visual record to emphasize the importance of his conclusion.

  “It is my belief that in the long run Port Trent may prove indefensible against the forces deployed against it. I intend to hold the fortified Trent Line as long as possible but then retreat to Brunswick rather than lose the army.”

  The Brasilians launched a massive attack on the Buller Line. It was preceded by a ferocious artillery barrage that fell upon vacant fortifications, a hammer blow to crack an empty shell. The Brasilians took another three days to regroup before spilling out of the Douglas Hundreds along the east bank of the Valerie in their amphibious carriers. They moved up their artillery and created new supply dumps in expectation of having to make a contested crossing.

  Allenson withdrew all military forces back into the Trent Line, leaving only paramilitary police to keep order in the urban zone. Apart from a few probes to confirm that Trent was indeed demilitarized, the Brasilians stayed out of the city, rather to Allenson’s regret. It would have been helpful if the Brasilian Army embroiled itself there but one cannot always hope to face an incompetent commander. The perils of urban warfare would be entirely familiar to a Home World general.

  But all this granted precious time to fortify the inner face of the Trent Line and create a string of forts like beads along a string. Then the unexpected happened. In response to his dispatch a delegation from the Paxton Assembly dropped out of the continuum in a fast yacht.

  Political interference in his conduct of the campaign was probably inevitable, Allenson thought, but decidedly unwelcome. Nevertheless he scheduled a meeting for the next day, giving the Assembly delegates just a night to recover from their journey. He took the opportunity that evening to look through the biographies of the delegates to gauge their likely reactions. He was pleased to see that Stainman led the group. As politicians went, Stainman had always struck him as having a sound grasp of reality.

  He gave some thought to the composition of the people who would meet the delegates. Ling and Todd with other members of the army staff would attend in full dress uniform, supposedly to supply information and keep notes. Mainly Allenson wanted them there to overawe the politicians and dissuade the amateur armchair strategists among them.

  Hawthorn and Buller would have to be included on the dual basis of keeping your friends close but your enemies closer. By the same principle he invited Venceray and his political opponent, Carhew, a lean and hungry-looking lady who represented the trade guilds. They attended as delegates for the civilian politicians of Port Trent.

  When the politicians were conducted into the meeting room by junior officers, the military commanders were already in place. Allenson rose from his chair and personally greeted each politico in turn before they were shown to their seats.

  Allenson took immediate control of the meeting by acting as chairman. He introduced Ling and asked him to take the floor. From the podium Ling took the delegates through the military situation while Allenson stood supportingly at his elbow. Complete silence met the completion of his crisp, clean exposition while the politicians digested the unfamiliar military terms and concepts.

  “Any questions?” Allenson asked, walking forward.

  Silence descended.

  Carhew stood up.

  “You’ve pulled out of Port Trent, so you don’t propose to defend us?”

  “No, I don’t propose to fight in Port Trent, Sar Carhew. I am defending it by occupying the Trent Line. The Brasilian Army can’t just ignore my force.”

  Venceray shook his head.

  “Sit down, Carhew, Allenson’s right. We can’t give the Brasilians any excuse to smash the city.”

  “Just the argument I would expect from a Homer sympathizer like you,” Carhew said to Venceray.

  “Gentlemen, the decision is mine and I have made it,” Allenson said without raising his voice but there was a whiplike edge that stopped the argument before it got out of hand.

  “I don’t understand why you’re not defending the river,” said Greasebe, a delegate with whom Allenson had no previous dealings.

  “Because I can’t,” Allenson replied, irritated at having to point out the obvious. “Wherever I positioned my troops the Brasilians would just pin them with artillery fire. Then they would cross the Valerie in their amphibs on our flanks and roll up our line, unit by unit.”

  Greasebe frowned, not really understanding the point.

  Allenson continued.

  “To counter that strategy all I could do would be to spread my troops ever more wide
ly along the river. Eventually the line would be so thin that the Brasilians could punch through anywhere they chose. Modern firepower may favor the defender tactically but modern mobility favors the attacker operationally because they can mass at the contact point to overwhelm any static defense.”

  “Yes, I see that,” Stainman said thoughtfully. “So you intend to sit tight in the Trent Line and hope the Brasilians lose a battle of attrition by throwing themselves against the fortifications.”

  “Fortifications are a valuable force multiplier,” Allenson replied, “but I think we can be a little more proactive than that.”

  He took control of the podium and drew arrows and troop locations onto the strategic hologram.

  “The Brasilian amphibs are not seaworthy enough to cross the Bay, so I have placed my most inexperienced regiments from the 11th garrisoning the southern forts. My best troops, the First Brigade, are up in the northern forts close to the river. My battle plan assumes that the Brasilians have a limited amphibious lift capacity and can only move a section of their army at any one time.”

  He paused to pour himself a glass of water and sip it, making the delegates wait.

  “The most mobile unit in the Army, the Canaries, will form a dispersed tripwire along the riverbank. They will offer only token resistance to an invasion before retreating north back into the continental mass. The Brasilians will then find themselves advancing into a vacuum. I believe the temptation to press inland to outflank the Trent Line before waiting for their whole army to cross will be irresistible.”

  Light dawned in Stainman’s eyes.

  “It’s a trap.”

  Allenson smiled at him.

  “Precisely. When the vanguard are beyond direct fire support from the Brasilian artillery, we hit them with a full frontal attack from First Brigade. Simultaneously, the Canaries assault them in the rear to spread confusion.”

  “It’s a bold plan, but what are the chances of pulling it off?” Stainman asked.

  Allenson focused on him.

  “The most optimistic results from strategic modeling suggest that we can destroy a subsection of the opposing forces and drive them back across the river. The most pessimistic outcome is that the Brasilian vanguard holds long enough to be rescued by reinforcements. Either way we will have given them a bloody nose and blunted their attack.”

  He stopped and looked around the room, meeting each delegate eye to eye.

  “Any questions, sars?”

  “Your plan depends on some key variables working out right,” a young delegate called Peeki who was dressed in a fashionable purple suit observed.

  “Such as?”

  “Well suppose the Brasos have enough amphibious transports to move the whole army in one go?”

  “Those transports had to be transported all the way across the Bight from the Home Worlds. How many could there be? Besides, if they had more they’d have used them in the Douglas Hundreds.”

  Stainman looked worried.

  “I see that but suppose the Brasilian commander is more timid than you anticipate. Suppose he just moves his whole force over the Valeria before advancing one meter,”

  “In that case we do nothing and we’ve lost nothing,” Allenson countered, “but I don’t expect that to happen. The temptation of a quick bloodless advance to gain ground cheaply will be too strong.”

  He took another sip of water.

  “Well if that is all, sars—”

  “Not so fast,” Carhew said. “I understand from the Paxton delegates that you intend to cut and run to Brunswick and leave us in the lurch here in Trent.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that,” Allenson replied.

  “How would you put it?”

  “If the force multiplier of defending fortifications moves the attrition rate to our advantage such that the Brasilian army has to call off the siege, then well and good. If it doesn’t then Port Trent will fall. In that case it would be idiotic to allow the field army to fall with the city and I intend to break out and regroup at Brunswick.”

  Uproar followed. Amongst the more incoherent cries of outrage Allenson managed to decipher the following points.

  “But they’ll simply follow you . . .”

  “They’ll advance straight on to Paxton . . .”

  “We can’t lose Port Trent. It’s unthinkable . . .”

  “Silence!”

  Hawthorn stood up.

  “This is an army, not a political debating chamber.”

  “I doubt that the Brasilian Army would be able to immediately follow us,” Allenson said. “In my experience, Home World armies are powerful but extremely ponderous. Home World warfare depends on strength, not speed. We should have plenty of time to fortify our reserve base at Brunswick and repeat the whole process again. We attrit the enemy by making them attack fortifications and then we jump to Trinity. With every move we drag their army farther from its logistics base at Trent. Brunswick, you will recall, lacks a trans-Bight port.”

  Another sip of water.

  “By the same reasoning the Brasilians can’t make an overwhelming strike on Paxton. They will have to strongly garrison Port Trent or I will take it back from them and cut their supply line. No Home World commander will risk that.”

  “What do you think, Colonel Buller?” Peeki asked.

  Buller just shrugged and kept his council. Allenson smiled cynically, as he suspected Todd had read Buller correctly. The man didn’t want to be proved wrong and the best way to achieve that was to say nothing. Predicting failure would make him look ridiculous if Allenson’s strategy was successful and might make him look like a Jonah if it failed. Equally, he wouldn’t want to have been seen to support the plan if it failed.

  “Well,” Stainman said. “I think that covers everything. I am obliged to tell you that the will of the Assembly is that you defend Port Trent vigorously. We fear it will never be recovered once lost. There are many in the city who would welcome the Brasilians but obviously we can’t afford to lose the city and the army.”

  In other words, you’re on your own, Allenson thought.

  Not that that changed anything.

  The politicians wanted to tour the Line to see the preparations with their own eyes, but Allenson dissuaded them on the grounds that an attack was expected at any moment. He saw them back to their yacht personally, accompanied by Ling and Hawthorn. He did this partly out of politeness and partly to stop any of them having a private meeting with Buller or some other dissident officer.

  “Would it be unkind to hope for a Brasilian gunship intercept?” Hawthorn asked, as the yacht made a low level full transition into the Continuum.

  Ling snorted.

  “Now, now, we should respect the people’s representatives,” Allenson said mildly.

  “Really?” Hawthorn replied. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You’ll join me for lunch, gentlemen?” Allenson asked. “If you have time, that is. Don’t let me detain you if you have urgent duties.”

  He added the codicil because a general’s offer of hospitality was normally unrefusable.

  Hawthorn chose the after-luncheon cafay to drop a depth charge into the conversation.

  “I wonder which of our respected representatives will be the first to leak your battle plan to the Brasos?” Hawthorn asked casually.

  Allenson’s jaw dropped.

  “You don’t really think one of those people was a traitor, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” Hawthorn said darkly. “In my experience the only sure thing you can trust a politician to do is save his own skin. Actually in this case, I’m less worried about politicos themselves than those they’ll tell to show how important they are. This’ll include their friends, their wives, their wives’ friends, all the servants present at the conversations and the servants’ friends and relatives.”

  He grinned and tipped a generous measure of plum brandy into his cafay.

  “Well, I suppose so, but hopefully the ma
tter will be decided long before the information leaks anywhere that matters,” Allenson replied.

  “No matter, I’ve already made sure that the Brasilians have received a full description,” Hawthorn said casually.

  Ling inhaled his cafay and choked.

  “You’ve what?”

  Hawthorn smiled.

  “I’ve passed the information in a leak through one of their own people.”

  “Why?” Ling asked, showing commendable restraint.

  “They have reason to think I’ve already turned this particular agent.”

  “I see,” Allenson said, and he did. Light was beginning to dawn.

  “They also have all sorts of conflicting information flowing in through their other agents and intelligence assessments. In fact, I’ve made sure of it.”

  “In war, truth is so precious that it must be protected by a bodyguard of lies,” Allenson murmured.

  “What?” Ling asked.

  “Nothing, just remembering an old quote I read somewhere,” Allenson replied.

  Hawthorn topped his cafay cup up with more brandy.

  “I’ve arranged for the body of a Canary officer to be washed up on the Brasilian side of the Valerie. Rather stupidly he was carrying an unsecured datapad just full of orders.”

  “I hope I have a cunning plan?” Allenson asked.

  “Indeed, you simultaneously intend to launch multiple seaborne and frame raids across the Bay and Valerie as I recall,” Hawthorn replied.

  “Bold, not to say completely reckless,” Allenson said, with a grin.

  An aide entered the dining room and handed a note to Ling. He glanced at it poker-faced and motioned that it be passed on to Allenson. It was brief and to the point.