Into the Maelstrom

by David Drake

  Allenson continued as if nothing had happened.

  “Our primary task is to rebuild the army, gentlemen. Desertions cost us more troops than combat losses and sickness combined. We did our best to transform militia into regulars but failed. I propose to start again with a New Model Army of professional soldiers. They will answer direct to the Assembly through the powers that our masters have chosen to delegate to me.”

  Allenson paused to let the implications of the power change sink in.

  Buller tilted back his head and stuck out his chin aggressively. “I propose we reform our people as guerrillas and adopt a scorched earth policy. We burn out anyone who supports the Brasilians and assassinate their officials in the bloodiest manner possible. We can pick off individual soldiers while avoiding serious battles—”

  “We have discussed this before, Colonel,” Allenson replied, eyes as hard as granite chips. “The Brasilians will respond in kind to terrorist tactics and our civilians will bear the brunt of it.”

  “So much the better,” said Buller. “Every farmer they hang and farmer’s wife they rape will add to our support: nothing like a good massacre or two to whip up a bit of patriotism, what?”

  “I said no!”

  Allenson voice was cold and final.

  Buller flushed and lost his temper.

  “You never learn, Allenson, that’s the trouble with bloody amateurs. You tried matching colonials against regulars and got your clock cleaned. How the hell you weaseled out of being sacked for the mess you’ve made I’ll never know. Suppose you have old friends in the Assembly who pulled strings.”

  Hawthorn’s eyes blazed and Allenson had put his hand down hard on his friend’s shoulder to keep him in his seat.

  “One more word, Colonel, and I’ll have your commission.”

  Buller choked but shut up.

  Ling hurriedly jumped into the conversation.

  “The Lower Stream want a local commander to oversee preparations for their defense in case the Brasilians move their way. I’ve told them such a move is unlikely but they’re insistent.”

  Ling spread his hands apologetically.

  Allenson said. “Very well, you will command the lower Stream militias, Colonel Buller.”

  “It’d be best if you took up your commission immediately,” Hawthorn said, enunciating each word clearly and unemotionally. “Your orders can be sent on.”

  Buller looked at Hawthorn and rose without speaking. Hawthorn’s eyes tracked him across the room like point defense sensors until he was the other side of the door.

  “Thank you, Colonel Ling, I do believe you defused a difficult situation there,” Allenson said.

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  Allenson continued as if Buller had ceased to exist.

  “I intend to create new line regiments and we will need to look at the officer corps. I want people with combat experience but we must also be prepared to train promising material.”

  “Officers who do their jobs with the field army are disadvantaged for advancements against their contemporaries,” Ling said, “who find reasons to go home and lobby their local politicians.”

  “That stops now.”

  Allenson rapped the table with his knuckles.

  “All militia commissions are rescinded. Only new commissions granted by the Assembly in the form of ourselves will be recognized. You may make it clear to any interested party that I don’t give a rat’s arse for the opinions of any politician when it comes to promotions. Advancement by merit only will now be the order of the day. Once we have regimental cadres for The New Model Army sorted, their first mission will be to go back home and find recruits to fill the ranks.”

  “We have lost most of our heavy equipment, sir,” Kaspary said.

  Allenson said, “You can leave that to me. I have been in touch with the Terran War Directorate. They took a bashing in the last war and show little inclination to repeat the experience, which suits me just fine.”

  “We don’t want to exchange the devil we know as a master for the devil we don’t,” Hawthorn said.

  Allenson replied, “Quite, however they appear willing to supply us with state of the art weapons and logistical equipment.”

  Kaspary rubbed his hands together.

  “With a new unified command structure and top of the range gear we actually stand a chance.”

  “I bloody hope so,” Hawthorn said gloomily. “If I have to hang I’d rather it not be alongside Buller and a bunch of politicians. One has one’s standards.”

  Allenson examined the credentials of the small slender Terran diplomat sitting opposite him very, very carefully. Hawthorn would already have gone over his diplomatic accreditation with microscopic attention to detail, but an additional show of caution might be beneficial to negotiations. It also gave him a chance to assess the negotiator.

  The word that came to mind was “slippery.” The man oozed charm like hydraulic fluid from a leaky valve. One got the impression that if one tried to pin him down he would slip from one’s grasp like a bar of soap.

  “These seem to be in order, Sar Preson,” Allenson said, handing the plastic clip back. “But I notice that you are here in your capacity as deputy to Director General Suntalaw. I was under the impression he held the portfolio for Terran internal, not external, affairs.”

  “That is so,” Preson replied with a smile that showed perfect genosurgeoned teeth decorated in cream and powder blue whirls. “However, DG Suntalaw has also been given the portfolio for the Exoworld Directorate on a temporary basis by the Central Policy Bureau.”

  Central Policy Bureau was a euphemism for the Terran advocate general himself. The other members were pensioned off nonentities who could be relied upon to rubber stamp whatever the AG proposed.

  “Indeed,” Allenson raised an eyebrow. “What happened to Lady Fancisco of Exoworld?”

  “Alas, she was taken unexpectedly ill and is being treated by the advocate general’s personal physicians.”

  Which probably meant that if she wasn’t dead yet she soon would be. No doubt she had would sign a full confession implicating several politicians against whom the AG needed leverage. Frankly Allenson wouldn’t give much for Suntalaw’s chances either, long term. Holding both the internal and external directorates in his sweaty grasp gave Suntalaw total control of Terra’s various security apparatus.

  Some might wonder whether such power might be used as a springboard for a coup against the advocate general himself. Many Terran bureaucrats and politicians had bet that they could beat Advocate General Ferroman to the draw but none had yet succeeded. Allenson suspected that Suntalaw might be one of the people implicated by Fancisco’s imminent confession.

  But none of this was his problem

  “I see you are offering to supply us with military equipment and subsidies in the form of favorable import credits for Terran commodities. What do you require from us in exchange?”

  Preson made a moue and languidly waved a hand.

  “Terra supports the rights of free peoples everywhere. We regard it as our privilege, nay duty, to support the colonists’ struggle to rid themselves of Brasilian tyranny.”

  “Quite,” Allenson replied, almost managing to keep a note of sarcasm out of his tone. “But is there nothing more practical we can do to show our appreciation of your support?”

  “Well there might be one small matter you could assist us with,” Preson said, after apparently searching his memory.

  “Indeed?”

  “But yes, now I recall,” Preson became more animated.

  He gazed at Allenson with transparent honesty.

  “One of our prospectors discovered a mineral found in the Hinterland, some sort of exotic metal I believe, to which Terra would like exclusive access. The stuff is valueless but attractive.”

  “I see, so why do you want it?”

  “Oh, I believe there is a plan to make unique jewelry, medals, badges of rank, that sort of thing.”

  “How
odd,” Allenson replied.

  “Why so?” The charming grin again.

  “Because Brasilia also has found a unique heavy element in the Hinterland, only this one is extremely valuable. It will revolutionize Continuum travel, or so I’m told. Naturally, I don’t concern myself with such matters.”

  It was Allenson’s turn to flash the teeth and wave languidly to indicate an aristocrat’s proper disinterest for technical details.

  “Surely some mistake,” Preson said desperately.

  “No doubt, but for the sake of argument let’s assume that this magic metal actually does exist, purely hypothetically you understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then the Stream’s policy would be to export it to all the Home Worlds partly to generate income, but mainly to keep the balance of power. Of course, to do that we have to win our independence, otherwise Brasilia gets the unbihexium. Then we are all in a precarious situation. You know, I really think that Terra will find it in her interests to support us generously.”

  Allenson beamed at the negotiator, but Preson’s face was a perfect blank.

  “On that basis I will gladly accept Terra’s kind offer of free support. Rest assured if we find any unique material in the Hinterland suitable for jewelry you have my personal assurance that Terra will get exclusive access.”

  Allenson switched his pad off with an air of a man reaching closure.

  “I fancy Advocate General Ferroman will wish to hear your report personally upon your return home, so please convey to him my warmest thanks and well wishes.”

  Preson’s face reflected a funereal pallor. Allenson made a mental note to get the visual spectrum on his office lights checked.

  Allenson had been pretty sure that the Brasilians would pause and regroup on Brunswick. He doubted they would press on to Nortania or swing back to attack the undefended Heilbron colonies but there was always that nagging doubt. He had been wrong so many times now that it was almost anticlimactic when the enemy behaved exactly as he expected, if not quite exactly as he predicted. Days passed to weeks and the Brasilians showed no plans to go anywhere.

  He seized upon the opportunity to rebuild the army. Volunteers poured in from all over the colonies, motivated by a mixture of patriotism and the offer of decent equipment and regular pay. The troops who escaped Trent and Brunswick, those that hadn’t deserted, were pretty solid. Many of the new recruits had prior military training from one source or another. Some of them were probably deserters reenlisting under new identities. Allenson had passed the word not to investigate the backgrounds of promising recruits too assiduously. Some stones were better left unturned.

  Allenson read through the latest intelligence reports. The material was massive and anecdotal, which made it difficult to interpret. Nevertheless, he drew some very comforting conclusions. However, intelligence data was usually fragmentary at best and often misleading or even contradictory. It was so easy to cherry pick material to support a preconceived view and overlook contrary indications.

  He needed a second opinion from someone clever, someone cynical and pragmatic, someone who didn’t care enough about outcomes to let his opinions taint his analysis. Most of all, Allenson needed someone lacking ambition or fear who would tell him the unvarnished truth. In short, he needed his friend Hawthorn. He reached for his pad.

  Allenson was struggling in trying to get some sense from a supplier who had delivered five hundred combat boots for one-legged soldiers with only left feet when Hawthorn knocked and entered. He gratefully dispatched the correspondence to Trina with a request that she look into the matter, something he should have done from the start.

  Boswell followed right behind with two mugs of cafay on a tray.

  When he left Allenson got down to business.

  “The Brasilians are consolidating their hold on Brunswick,” Allenson said, gesturing at the plastic file with the intelligence reports.

  “True, they’ve spent an inordinate amount of time refortifying our old base outside the capital, Palisades. God knows why, we were hardly in a position to storm the place,” Hawthorn replied.

  “What I don’t understand is why they have scattered their regiments in penny packets across the world,” Allenson said.

  Hawthorn produced a hip flask and poured a generous splash of brandy into his cafay. “When you put it like that, I suppose it explains why they fortified the base.”

  Allenson looked quizzically at his friend.

  “So a small garrison could hold off an army until relief arrives from the outlying garrisons,” Hawthorn explained.

  “The enemy is always three meters tall,” Allenson said, shaking his head at the idea that the shattered colonial army could launch a full blown offensive at the Brasilian base.

  “I suppose the garrisons are to hold down the rural population,” Hawthorn said. “If you look at appendix seven in the report it seems that the Brasilian units on Brunswick are having trouble with their supply line. They are relying on the locals for food.”

  “I expected that, as Brunswick lacks a port capable of handling the necessary quantity. Nevertheless it raises the question of why they haven’t pulled the bulk of their forces back to somewhere like Port Trent?”

  “No rational reason that I can think of, unless it’s about imperial prestige. Where the Brasilian soldier plants his boots, he stays,” Hawthorn said, expertly mimicking the upper class accent that was de rigueur for senior officers in the Brasilian military.

  Allenson’s butterfly mind wondered whether the accent was a necessary qualification for admission to Brasilia’s Gravelwick Military Academy or whether successful candidates were given voice training. He forced himself to get back to the matter in hand.

  “You’re beginning to sound like Buller now,” he told Hawthorn with a grin.

  Hawthorn gave a glare of mock outrage.

  “I shall have to call you out if you continue to hurl base accusations like that.”

  Allenson just smiled, so Hawthorn continued.

  “However, the policy does seem to be working to our advantage. The troops are garrisoned among the locals. This policy is less than popular, especially as the soldiery are no more fastidious than any other occupying army about helping themselves to whatever they fancy from whatever the civilians have available. It hasn’t been helped by the replacement of Brasilian regular regiments with mercenaries. They are even less likely than the regulars to stint themselves when, ah, requisitioning.”

  “Indeed,” Allenson’s interest perked up. “So despite the Loyalty Certificates, Home World enthusiasm is cooling rapidly on Brunswick.”

  “I’d say so,” Hawthorn replied.

  “Tell me about the mercenaries,” Allenson said.

  Hawthorn shrugged, “What’s to tell? They’re recruited from Cornuvia, a not particularly wealthy Home World within the Brasilian sphere of influence. I’ve no reason to think that they’ll be any better or worse than any other mercenary army.”

  “No,” Allenson said slowly.

  He was sure he’d read something interesting about Cornuvia but he struggled to lift the memory from out of the morass that he was pleased to call his mind. He recalled that the world was mainly known for mining but he was sure there was something else. Now he thought about it, he hadn’t read about Cornuvia, he’d heard about it. Trina had mentioned something about the world over breakfast some months ago. He hadn’t been listening and they’d had a fight over him ignoring her. He would have to approach her delicately on the matter, very delicately.

  Another month passed with no move by the Brasilians. Comedians on the entertainment circuit coined the struggle for independence The Phony War. One did a passable imitation of Allenson himself as a senile military commander who kept forgetting which world he was on, all such jolly fun. Allenson passed word that he thought the parody amusing in order to defuse attempts by patriots to force the comedian to desist. As he surmised, the joke soon ceased to be fashionable when it had the public a
pproval of the powers-that-be.

  Allenson was in the habit of chairing briefing meetings attended by all his senior and middle ranking commanders from the combat, security and logistics divisions so there was nothing unusual about the meeting he called one windy and wet Nortanian morning. Not until he dropped the bombshell.

  “Gentlemen, we move against the main Brasilian army on Brunswick in forty-eight hours.”

  Some of his closest confidants suspected something was up, of course, as their responsibilities made up pieces of a puzzle that when put together pointed to his plan. But secrecy had to be maintained. He worked on the assumption that anything of interest known to more than ten people on Nortania would be on the Brasilian general’s desk two days later, that being the average journey time between Nortania and Brunswick.

  There was a stunned silence, followed by a babble of sound that was a mix of anxiety from the senior commanders and excitement from their juniors. Allenson held up a hand for silence.

  “I have decided on this for the following reasons,” he counted them off on the fingers of his left hand.

  “My first reasons are military. Firstly, it is vital that we regain the strategic initiative. Up to now we have allowed Brasilia to dictate events. That has to stop because we are being forced into a losing war of attrition in a series of set-piece battles that favor Brasilian military methods. Secondly, our troops’ expertise with our new Terran-supplied equipment has probably reached the optimum balance between training and boredom. Our army is probably as good as it is ever going to get. Thirdly, the enlistment period of many of our veterans of the Port Trent and Brunswick campaigns is almost up.”

  Ling coughed.

  “You wish to say something, Colonel?”

  “There’s nothing to stop us asking them to reenlist, sir.”