by John F. Carr
FALKENBERG and Major Brent Myers studied the map of the Highlands. New signals were still coming in but the computer had connected them up with a least-distance line that spiraled inward toward Fort Camerone. When the Cousin Jack militia had been drilled sufficiently and Yeovil had convinced the colonel that he could hold both the fort and Eureka, the Forty-second airlifted out to the farthest transponder. On the way out a few SAMs came up but the gunships’ replies were so prompt and accurate that the word spread ahead of them.
And finally Myers learned what was so valuable about all those parts of the pig that neither the Forty-second nor the Cornishmen cared to eat. He had been hard put to understand the colonel’s fanatical insistence that every scrap of fat or rind, every piece of bone or gristle be conserved along with the other offal of butchering.
Muslim fury was surpassed only by their despair as the Forty-seconds’ gunships zigzagged across the mesa dropping small parcels of pig parts into every well, into every long-dried-up spring, dumping whole tons of high-smelling garbage into Crater Lake and into the headwaters of the low-and-slow-flowing Isis. By the time they reached the outermost transponder a huge pie-shaped wedge of territory had been rendered—for the Faithful at least—as waterless as the warm side of Mercury.
As the evacuation continued, the well-fouling continued apace until there was no potable water within a thousand kilometers of Eureka.
This made Falkenberg only slightly more popular with the Cornishmen than he was with the Mahdi’s men. Many of the outlanders had been on semi-friendly terms with their Bedouin neighbors, trading on occasion, sharing water and pasture. Unlike their fanatical coreligionists from the towns, the Bedouin prayed only three times a day, straining their necks awkwardly in a totally erroneous vector for Earth and Mecca which did not take into account Haven’s rotation or revolution. The Koran spoke the simple truth that the stars were fixed; anyone could see that they didn’t move—and that was that. Nor did the Mahdi’s devout Believers know that planet comes from the Greek for wanderer.
The Seventy-seventh survivors were in hearty agreement with Colonel Falkenberg’s tactics and only wished their own deceased colonel had been one-half so decisive. As Garrison Marines the Seventy-seventh had numbered about half the Forty-second’s strength; now it numbered less than a third.
The Cornish holdouts were less enthused but no amount of argument from them could induce Falkenberg to leave any water source untouched. Tanks and ground-effect transporters emptied every fuel tank and blew discouragingly large holes in the bottom of each. All livestock were rounded up and herded ahead. When Falkenberg’s hoarded supply of pig parts ran low he took to having his men shoot one of the wild Siberian boars and deposit the bloating corpse in a well or cistern. Rain gutters were stripped from eaves and flattened with a tank tread. Every bucket was bayoneted; every jug or bottle broken.
The regiment’s transporters could not keep up with the number of refugees being flushed out so only the elderly and women with children were sent on ahead. An increasing column of male refugees marched ahead of the Forty-second’s armor, preferring the risk of being on point to swallowing dust.
At Falkenberg’s instigation Myers had contacted Captain Sternlieht aboard the Relentless and gotten a container load of assault rifles and ammo dropped in their line of march and a brisk little fire fight developed when a small party of Mahdi scouts tried to reach the drop zone first.
The Cousin Jacks were not soldiers but they were hunters and any man who can swing a pick on his knees or flat on his back for nine hours is seldom daunted by a little walking. The next Arab probe was beaten off before the column caught up with the Cornishmen.
By the time they returned to Eureka for the final time, Myers calculated that ten thousand dependents and another thousand able-bodied men had been transported back to Eureka and Fort Camerone. Five thousand more armed miners marched in with the regiment. Of the scattered Seventy-seventh less than six hundred men had survived. Falkenberg gave orders to have all the Seventy-seventh’s men in the Shangri-La, except those stationed at Fort Stony Point, evacuated to Fort Camerone. Officers, noncoms and enlisted men were all needed to train recruits and rebuild the Seventy-seventh.
“Of course we haven’t stopped him,” Falkenberg told the collected city fathers of Eureka. “But we’ve given him a bit of a supply problem. There’s also bound to be a little internecine friction when thirst wins out over strict observance. Either way the Mahdi loses face and followers. Keep it up long enough and you could probably recruit a Muslim army to drag his remaining Faithful into some mutually assured destruction.
“Meanwhile, since the Haven Volunteers has no surviving officer higher than a captain, I’m taking charge.”
There was a roar of protest and several civilians were on their feet, along with every Company official. Major Myers noted that Captain Yeovil was not among them.
“Any lack of cooperation will bring about the immediate withdrawal of the Forty-second, along with all our arms and supplies. I will not say this twice, gentlemen.
“Now, is there anyone living in Medina?”
The town council had barricaded the swaying, suspension footbridge across the Isis and had no idea.
“Possibly a few strays, sir.” Captain Yeovil volunteered.
“Clean them out and have some of your people show the refugees how to build a wall around the town.” Falkenberg ordered.
“Sir!”
“All very fine,” the city treasurer said, “But who’s paying for it?”
“You,” Falkenberg said.
“I suppose you expect us to pay you, too?”
“The Company has already taken care of that.”
“But what are we to do when the Medina people come back? How do we get our laundry done and our lawns mowed?”
“By the time this is over there won’t be too many coming back.”
“Good God, sir! You can’t kill them all. What’ll we do for servants?”
“I doubt if I’ll have to kill too many,” Falkenberg said. “But with the pigs all used up the Mahdi will have to find some other way to clear his minefields.”
“Mines! You’re going to put mines around the city?”
“Unless the Mahdi’s beat me to it. I’ll lend you a couple of metal detectors when you go out there tomorrow to start digging.” Before the city fathers could assimilate this new outrage Falkenberg was gone.
As Myers followed his chief out the door, he turned to close it. The town council still sat rigid with horror.
“Relax,” Myers suggested. “You could always surrender.”
“Damned fools must think the Mahdi’s going to come marching up with a brass band and fight a set piece,” Falkenberg growled as they drove uphill to the fort.
It was just after Eyerise so headlights were unnecessary. Myers was still having trouble getting accustomed to the Cat’s Eyes and Byers’ Star’s rotational dance and the long Haven days and nights. Like Marines throughout the CoDominium, the Forty-second followed Earth’s day and night schedule. Still, it was strange to be going to bed just as the bloated orange Jovian planet rose over the horizon and the sharp scintillant light of Byers’ star shone down from above.
As they entered the bailey Myers heard the last notes of taps.
“Who’s OD?” the Colonel asked.
“Captain Frazer, I think.”
Although the Company and the Eureka town council displayed little enthusiasm, the refugees fell to with a will and within two weeks the town was walled—not against tanks or even an armored testudo type battering ram—but with a concertina-wire topped palisade that could slow down any human-wave attack.
While Falkenberg strove to put the battered pieces of the Seventy-seventh together again Major Myers and Captain Frazer led scouting teams to root the last Muslim out of Medina. Once the town was empty and the palisade extended around it they tore down the barricade on the bridge over the Isis and the refugees moved into one half of the town.
“You’ve done a splendid job, Colonel.” The mayor was a small plumpish smiling man. “Your methods are brutally direct, but effective. Order is restored, the Mahdi is on the run, and it’s time to get back to business as usual.”
“You seem unusually well-informed,” Falkenberg said. “Were you ever an intelligence officer?”
The mayor smiled and preened himself. “Well, not my specialty exactly—” he began.
“Were you ever intelligent?”
The mayor’s smile abruptly disappeared. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Mahdi is not running from anyone. Nor is his army destroyed. A little calculated savagery has given him a tiny setback but rest assured, gentlemen, the Mahdi will be back, ready to avenge every insult. At that time I may be forced to do something truly evil.”
“But surely, sir, you’ve already overstepped the bounds of common decency. Poisoning wells—really!”
Falkenberg fixed glacial blue eyes on the mayor. “There’s ample supply of thorium on this planet. When the crunch comes I’ll not hesitate to use it.”
To a chorus of cries about barbarism and complaints that Haven’s background radiation made the planet already dangerously close to uninhabitable Lester Shirreffs raised his hand and mildly asked, “What’s the half-life of hog guts?”
Falkenberg nodded his thanks. “The Mahdi,” he said into the sudden silence, “is doing the same thing I’m doing: getting ready. And he has one advantage over me.”
Still playing straight man, Lester Shirreffs asked, “And what, sir, is that?”
“He doesn’t have some panel of ‘experts’ telling him what to do.”
* * *
It was five weeks after Captain Hawes had left with the HQ Battalion before Jeremy Savage finally managed to shoehorn his regiment into the CDSS Adamant, a fleet cruiser commanded by Captain Ernest Kraft, who was the son of some political bigwig Savage had heard of but knew nothing about. After a few days aboard he concluded that Kraft knew his business and was not some political hack foisted off onto the CoDominium. The same could not be said for General Shafter Parker who compensated for limited ability with his unbelievable bulk.
The General’s party boarded at the last minute and loudly demanded that some of these “goddamn Burelocatees be offloaded” to make room.
“Sorry, General.” Captain Kraft did not seem sorry at all. “The troops to which you refer are urgently needed to put down a rebellion on Haven. I doubt if your fact-finding committee or whatever is needed anywhere.”
Captain Kraft waited with glacial patience through the General’s next suggestion.
“Utterly impossible,” Kraft replied. “Officer’s quarters are also each officer’s work space and there can be no musical chairs. If any of your gaggle of sycophants and lackeys are qualified and documented I can find things for them to do. We’re short a navigator, for example. If you cannot contribute to the running of the ship you’ll doss down with the Gurkhas in the outer shell or, alternatively, the lot of you can have the second navigator’s cabin. Sleeping three shifts you’ll fit in somehow. The first bungler to lay a finger on that console will be jettisoned via the bow torpedo tube.”
Jeremy Savage had witnessed this exchange with growing astonishment. It was common knowledge that General Parker was a political appointee, but it was equally obvious that he had powerful friends. So too, perhaps, had Captain Kraft. When he had asked the captain about his shortness with General Parker, the captain had replied, “He’s not my CO.”
The General hauled in his horns with surprising rapidity and Jeremy, busy with slightly under four thousand men and twice that many dependents, many experiencing an Alderson Point jump for the first time, never did learn where the general’s party had found accommodation.
Having found the captain impervious to bluster, the general and his staff settled on the acting Gurkha CO as a suitable target. Captain Kraft retaliated by inviting Major Savage to mess with him. “One commanding officer to another,” he said with a grin calculated to infuriate General Parker.
EIGHT
SINCE a Muslim raiding party would have to carry its own pig-free water five hundred kilometers, Captain Sternlieht of the Relentless had taken to splashing shuttles in the traditional drop path before he shipped out-system. Falkenberg didn’t like it. Nobody did; but even in war some economizing is necessary. Choppers and ground forces had scoured the ground within SAM distance of the glide path, finding one more tiny seep of water which was promptly caulked with the unwashed stuff of which sausage casings are made.
Five splashships from the newly arrived Adamant came down less than thirty seconds apart, which was cutting it fine for plowing into the wake of the last shuttle, and Marines erupted like beer from a well-shaken bottle and established their perimeter. Captain Lucius Hawes took position before the regiment with his Gurkha battalion and presented arms to Colonel Falkenberg.
“Good to see you again, sir,” Captain Hawes said.
“Welcome to Haven,” the Colonel replied. “I didn’t expect you so soon. They look smart.”
“They are, sir. These are seasoned troops. Major Savage will be along with the rest of them as soon as he can arrange transport out of Ceres for the rest of the regiment.”
Accompanied by Sergeant Major Calvin, Sergeant Major Lobsang Dorji marched the men downhill, followed by their families and baggage and spent the rest of the day establishing the Gurkhas in the unoccupied half of Medina. Hawes repaired to Fort Camerone where he caught up on the local situation.
Finally in the Officers Mess Hawes had time to look down on the twin towns by the light of a single moon. A brace of pipers from the decimated Seventy-seventh vied with the full pipe and drum corps of the Forty-second to create an ear shattering chaos.
“Sounds like a pig being castrated,” Hawes muttered while smiling and lifting his glass to the pipers. Lieutenant Swoboda was astonished to learn the captain’s distaste for this monotonous shrieking wail was equal to his own. He too raised his glass and saluted the pipers. Across the table Falkenberg’s face was enigmatic.
Hawes wondered if the Colonel really enjoyed pipes or merely put up with this squealing for the sake of regimental tradition. He had occasionally seen a hint of moisture in the Colonel’s glacial eye during these concerts, but enough piping could reduce anyone to tears.
“Captain, how do the Gurkhas like the climate?” Falkenberg asked when the red-faced pipers stood down for a break.
“Fine, sir. It probably reminds them of Nepal, although they probably miss the mountains. A couple of generations from now and the Girdle of God range will be dotted with Gurkha hamlets. Regardless, they’re not complainers.” Hawes recalled the soul-searching that had gone on among the enlisted men when he had explained that this engagement would probably turn into a lifetime commitment, and that any man who enlisted could bring his immediate family but there was scant hope of any of them ever seeing Nepal again.
Only ten men opted out. Sergeant Major Lobsang Dorji had rejected two others with stern lectures about familial duties; the remainder had marched cheerfully aboard the chartered jets on the first leg of their one-way journey. So far, apparently, the Bureau of Relocation had not penetrated Nepal with enough thoroughness to propagate the usual horror stories about life off Earth. But, Hawes reflected, it was more likely Gurkha character. For centuries these cold-climate mountaineers had conquered desert and jungle, exuberantly fighting other people’s wars in impossible climes. After a campaign through Burma, a trip to another star was no big deal.
The Cornishmen on Haven had never actually seen a Gurkha but some of their great-grandfathers had served the raj in India and the prowess of these short, dark-skinned men was legendary. Within days their cheerful “Hi, Johnny.” to ever
y light-skinned soldier, and their ability to down a glass of beer without transforming into some wog amok made them welcome everywhere in Eureka.
* * *
Haven’s northern hemisphere summer was only beginning and already the Mahdi had more problems than headquarters could handle. The flow of refugees from Medina, added to the Bedouin nomads whose wells had been polluted and/or capped had put a strain on limited supplies. In the first days of the rebellion raiding oases had been sufficient but no new crops had been planted. The Company’s pumping to replenish Dire Lake had lowered the water table sufficiently to dry every spring and most wells. The Mahdi had attempted to explain this but most preferred the simpler hypothesis that Allah was annoyed.
But in spite of the deity’s displeasure the Mahdi’s headstrong call to jihad had backfired. Once bloodlust is sicklied o’er by the pale cast of thought it is difficult to revive. Much as the Mahdi would like to attack, he was not ready. Nor would he ever be ready until Levant broke the blockade and again got more arms to him.
But jihad contains no provision for watchful waiting. Battle was expected of him. Already there was talk of desertion. Secretly, the Mahdi thanked Allah for Colonel Falkenberg’s intransigence for there would have been more talk if the Colonel took prisoners. When combined with General Barbarossa’s dire treatment of deserters, the Mahdi’s army remained intact only because there was no other place to go.
Invisibly high above the Mahdi’s base camp, which lay eight hundred kilometers due north of Eureka, a jet emitted a supersonic blast. The SAM crew knew it was too high for their missiles to reach so they relaxed.
Relaxation turned to taut interest when another double boom, indicated the jet was throttling down to subsonic speed. But it was still more curiosity than worry. Smart weapons did not require that a jet slow down over a target. Several minutes passed before Jarfi Danb, who had been in a university prep school and had expected to go off-planet to complete his education, but was now the youngest and best-eyed of the missile men, pointed.