by John F. Carr
Sergeant Major Lobsang Dorji frowned and said, “But these are all survivors.” The smaller man paused, then added, “But two hundred of us are Gurkhas, so it evens out.” He smiled and raised his glass.
After a moment of stiffness, Sergeant Major Calvin raised his own glass to the old man’s. “Damn good men,” he admitted. The rattle of flatware and crockery was suddenly silenced as all hands listened to the amplified bugle.
“Time to earn our shilling.” Dorji’s smile broadened.
Fort Camerone commanded both Crater Lake and Eureka/Medina which lay directly under its guns. The Mahdi’s force, however, was coming down the Isis. In preparation for this mines had been laid in the shallows and along both banks. At the spot where the guns and rockets were all zeroed in stakes had been planted at an upstream angle with their sharpened ends just beneath the faint ripple of current. In the heat of battle obviously some of the attackers would end up skewered on these stakes but their principal purpose was to deflate the rubber rafts and create maximum confusion at this point.
The artillerymen manned the guns, muzzles depressed, from the hilltop fort. Every other man-at-arms, including mortar men and recoilless rifle handlers were behind the palisade that surrounded what Falkenberg’s men had promptly christened Eudina.
It has been said that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy. This battle, to Falkenberg’s growing delight, did go off almost exactly as planned. As the Mahdi’s forces predictably jammed and clotted among the stakes, a foreseeable few impaling themselves and others struggling ashore into minefields, the artillerists up at the fort made their contribution, proximity fuses spreading shrapnel at an optimum height above the water and riverbanks.
It was so like the sandbox exercises at which generals played that for a while no one could quite believe that all those things flying apart down there had been live human beings. Falkenberg glanced at his watch and at that moment the shelling ceased. Thirty seconds later it began again, farther upriver this time. It was a rolling barrage in reverse, with the first salvo hitting farthest out and herding the next contingent of mujihaddim downriver into the killing field.
By the third time this maneuver had been pulled off, the river—temporarily dammed by the corpses of the Mahdi’s finest—had stopped flowing under the narrow Eureka-Medina bridge. So far the CoDominium’s only casualty was the fingernail of a man up in the fort who was careless while repositioning a gun.
Finally, the last mine had been set off or neutralized under a mound of human flesh. The artillery ceased herding victims down while a drone blatted its noisy way upriver. Falkenberg and Myers studied the drone’s camera display on the screen. “Shocking,” the Colonel said.
“The men will be getting hungry,” Major Myers suggested.
He meant the artillerists up here at Fort Camerone. The men down in the town already had their field kitchens set up behind the walls.
“Feed one half at a time,” Falkenberg said.
While the second shift of artillerymen were eating some pitiful fragment of the Mahdi’s force managed to circle far outside the minefields and charged the away-from-the-river wall on the Medina side. The Gurkhas were pleased to see some action at last, but could not decide whether the men who charged them were suicidal or just crazy. None got closer than a hundred meters.
In another hour two of Cat’s Eye’s moons were below the horizon but Hornicott’s reddish light from the zenith was enough for the IR detectors to assure everyone that the battle was over. Those of the Mahdi’s men who were still alive and mobile were moving out aimlessly away from the killing field, heading west into the totally unlivable dehydration and freezing cold of the New Gobi. Myers wondered if any of the poor blighters had filled his waterski with pig-pollution before tottering off.
NINE
THE DAY AFTER the Mahdi’s human-wave assault Colonel Falkenberg took the digital recordings up to Captain Kraft’s orbiting ship where they were subjected to various analyses and the Forty-second’s infinitude of wild guesses were reduced to an accurate body count. While the computers did their stuff Falkenberg met with newly arrived Captain John Grant, Jr., who had been sent by Admiral Lermontov to warn Falkenberg that General Parker would soon be arriving to take command of the expedition and conduct an investigation. Falkenberg had frowned but said nothing.
There was no joy among the CoDominium forces. Even the Cousin Jacks, with their more personal stake in the outcome were sickened— unable to imagine what kind of madman would throw his troops away with such abandon. But Falkenberg knew the Mahdi had had no choice. He had been led down the garden path from the instant CoDominium reinforcements had landed. Now his golden horde was reduced to a corporal’s guard.
Joy was unconfined for the citizens of Eureka. All memories of the gallant Colonel’s disinclination to suffer fools gladly had been swept aside as miners and their women vied to buy drinks for their valiant defenders. The town fathers, however, had an excellent memory for Falkenberg’s lack of patience. Together with the Humanity League rep, a Ms. Mennen, they had already drafted a full report on the extreme lengths to which the arrogant and bloodthirsty Colonel had gone in order to put down a poopy little uprising. There was, of course, no mention of the odds or what might have happened to them if the Mahdi had won.
Since Falkenberg controlled all off-world communications he obviously had seen the report too. And done nothing about it. Sergeant Major Calvin had stalked around for days with a face like a sack-full of hammers and it had required sharp words to keep him from beating the town fathers severely about the head and shoulders. Even Sergeant Major Dorji, who had not known the Colonel that long, was outraged.
Captain Myers was studying contour maps which delineated the aquifers, trying to decide where a mass burial would not administer a coup de grace to the local wells when an orderly came into his office. “Splashship landing, sir.”
“Oh? I didn’t know any were scheduled for today.”
“No, sir, none scheduled for today.”
Colonel Falkenberg was less mystified. “Company’s jumping the gun,” he guessed. “Be just like them to assume the war’s all over.” He turned and called, “Top soldier!”
“Sir!” Sergeant Major Calvin seemed unexcited about their overwhelming victory.
“Landing craft coming in. Probably some Company brass. You’d best arrange escort before one of the Mahdi’s stragglers picks them off.”
“Sir!” The Regimental Sergeant Major saluted and about-faced.
Falkenberg glanced at Myers. “Any idea what’s gotten into him?”
Major Myers suspected the RSM was disturbed by his idol’s failure to defend himself. Instead of censoring that report of his barbarity, or resorting to a little more barbarity to neutralize his attackers, the Colonel had shrugged and done nothing to stop its transmission.
Myers was still puzzling over Falkenberg’s total lack of interest in whether anyone liked him or not when a ground-effect vehicle entered the fort in a cloud of dust that had still not settled by the time the gate was closed again. He looked out his office window and saw two portly civilians and a huge, grossly overweight man in the uniform of a CoDominium general heading his way. Instantly Myers dashed from his office into Falkenberg’s.
“Colonel, you’ll never guess who’s coming to visit?”
“I’m afraid I can. Word just came through that Shafter Parker’s on his way.”
Lieutenant Fulton had just given his customary single knock and entered in time to catch the last of this. “Oh my god!” he moaned.
Invincible in peace, invisible in war, General Shafter Parker was a CD Service legend. Unlike most commanders who win some and lose some, Parker had never lost a battle. This bit of intelligence was often heard from the General’s own mouth and on occasion from his horse’s. It was true. On the other hand, this political hack had never actually fought a battle. True, Parker had put down the Folsom’s World uprising, but that was at best a glorified prison break and t
he massacre of wretchedly starved and unarmed prisoners had been even worse than that of the Mahdi’s men a few days ago.
General Parker had acquired that rank only because he had become a political embarrassment with his hand so blatantly in the till that even the Grand Senate squirmed with humiliation. Thus he had been shunted off to Grand Admiral Donie, who didn’t want him either, but saw a golden opportunity to get rid of Parker while simultaneously shafting one of Lermontov’s fair-haired boys.
Even before turning military General Shafter Parker liked to envision himself as the man on horseback. This was no more true than his boast of never having lost a battle. The hugest Clydesdale or Percheron would have collapsed under his weight and, too fat to manage a stepladder, the general would have required a sky-crane to mount. Instead of horseback, the general made his daily rounds in a buggy. Without knocking, the huge general slammed the door open.
Falkenberg and Myers strove valiantly to conceal their distaste. “Welcome to Haven, General,” the Colonel said.
“Umm, yes, good to be here.” Haven’s thin air coupled with the general’s obesity limited his utterances to short sentences. “Now we’ll get down to business—huff-puff. Have the job finished in jig-time.”
“I suppose you’d like to inspect the site, sir?”
“Later, perhaps. Uff-puff. Appointment in the town—huff whop— what’s the name of the place?”
“Eureka, sir,” one of his staff replied.
“Quite right. Topeka it is. Whooo—carry on, Colonel.” The general and his staff transferred to a chopper since hovercraft wasted prodigious quantities of fuel negotiating the climb from town to fort. The chopper took so long lifting for the downhill slide into Eureka that Myers suspected the general would have to return in a tank.
That evening General Parker was back in Fort Camerone in time for dinner. Without a qualm he took the Colonel’s place at the head of the table. Heedless of the unwritten rule about discussing business or women at mess, he said, Umm…disquieting reports…uhh-huff…from municipal officers of—whoooof.”
Falkenberg continued spooning down his soup and the other officers at the long trestle table followed his example.
“Reports atrocities…uhhh-whooeee…no-prisoners campaign… huff…expulsion of law-abiding civilians—uh-hooo. Poisoning wells… puff…blatant disregard well-being of—aaaaaahh.”
When everyone apart from his adjutant continued quietly eating General Parker’s tone began to rise. Like many fat men, his voice was shrill even at his best moments. “Contrary all rules civilized warfare!” he wheezed and halted once more to gather breath. “Never happen again!”
Everyone waited but General Parker was temporarily finished with huffing and puffing.
Colonel Falkenberg’s tone was mild. “Never would’ve happened in the first place if the Mahdi hadn’t tortured and murdered a few hundred Cornishmen.”
“Nevertheless—will not happen again!”
The sudden silence which the General’s shouting had provoked at other tables was punctuated by a short burst of automatic weapon fire. Everyone waited tensely but it did not happen again.
“What was that?” General Parker wheezed.
“Firing squad,” Falkenberg replied. “Fellow’s been slipping into town to slit throats and indulge in a little friendly rape.”
“Umm.” Clearly, the General did not know on which side of the fence he belonged. “Will you…huh…return the body?”
“Most assuredly not,” Falkenberg said. “They’re already tossing it into the garbage pit along with the by-products of that pork chop you’re tucking into.” As the General put down his fork and began turning green the Colonel added, “I’m doing the next best thing though. Pictures of the whole procedure will be scattered where the Mahdi’s men can find them.”
General Parker had already thought through the situation. The war was over. Nobody needs this bloodthirsty colonel any more. If Parker was to take credit for a rapid and humane pacification of Haven he’d best get cracking. Turning to his adjutant, he said, “Arrest Colonel Falkenberg.”
The silence in the officers’ mess grew deadly.
“I know it’s unjust. But he is a general in the CD Marines.” Major Myers had offered Sergeant Major Calvin a drink and had asked him to sit down but the Sergeant remained at quivering, rage-filled attention in the major’s small room. “I’ve gotten a few messages off to people like Captain Grant and Admiral Lermontov. They’ll sort it all out. Apart from that we’ll just have to wait. Unless you want to face charges of mutiny.”
Sergeant Major Calvin was about to speak when the door opened without the customary knock. Outside stood two MPs whom Myers did not recognize. Probably, he thought, they had come on-planet with General Parker. “You’ll have to come with us, sir,” the corporal said.
Major Brent Myers did not lack for company in the stockade. Several hardcase privates in for brawling and/or drunk-on-duty had done their best to create some small comforts for Colonel Falkenberg, but the privates’ resources were strained beyond limits when every officer but two of the Forty-second’s command found himself under arrest.
The two exceptions were Captain Hawes and Major Jeremy Savage who did not partake of the blame because they had come out on the same ship with the general and not been with the Forty-second while Falkenberg was graduating from atrocities to war crimes. Captain Hawes’ Headquarters Company of Gurkhas had also escaped the general’s wrath and Hawes now commanded the full regiment that Jeremy Savage had delivered.
And by elimination, Acting Colonel Jeremy Savage was now CO of the Forty-second.
‘Colonel’ Jeremy Savage had been at a loss to understand why he and Captain Hawes were the only officers of the Forty-second not to be arrested along with Colonel Falkenberg but as the days went by he began to see more clearly.
Although Falkenberg’s textbook destruction of the Mahdi’s forces had pretty well wiped out the oasis farmers and the more intelligent and/or educated Arabs, nothing had been accomplished against the Bedouin. At the height of the Jihad these marginal wanderers had temporarily ceased raiding the oases in favor of bigger and better loot. Now that the Mahdi’s feet were seen to be increasingly clay-like they had reverted to their old ways. Adapting, of course, to present circumstances. Since the oases were all dried up from excessive pumping to top up Crater Lake, and their inhabitants mostly ruined or dead from the Mahdi’s abortive campaign, the Bedouin now raided the only people left on Haven with anything worth stealing. The Cousin Jacks were getting pretty sick of it.
Major—Acting Colonel, he reminded himself—Jeremy Savage was now commanding officer of the Forty-second. In truth, he was in charge of nothing. Between having another piece of pie and another gulp of air General Shafter Parker was calling the shots.
First, Parker had encouraged all the Cornishmen from outlying areas to go back to their farming, mining, whatever. Get back to business as usual. To ensure their safety the general broke the Gurkhas into five-man squads of glorified company police. A thousand were to remain close-by to protect Eudina. (The short-breathed general was a great approver of this contraction.) The remainder were scattered around Cousin Jack homesteads where they learned the monotony of a cuisine in which the high spot is a pasty—a bit of pie dough filled with mashed potatoes. And Cornish housewives wrinkled noses at the occasional curry or vindaloo whipped up by brave little men who knew they were as good as dead.
The Bedouin kept pecking away. General Parker solved the problem by sending an emissary to the Mahdi. That visionary had long since lost any semblance of control over the Bedouin and was having the devil’s own time holding onto any of his troops. He could not believe his ears when the emissaries offered peace.
“Majoun?” the Mahdi asked his chief of staff.
“I don’t believe he’s crazy,” Sirdar Idris replied. “Just stupid.”
“Maktoub,” The Mahdi’s tone was awestruck. “It is written.”
“God is truly gr
eat,” the Sirdar agreed. “And He gives us this opportunity only once. If we bungle, His face will justly turn away for all eternity.”
“Maktoub,” the Mahdi agreed. “It is written.”
They surveyed one another in the light of a teapot lamp. “You’ll have to try to stop those Bedu raiders,” the Mahdi said.
The Sirdar sighed. “While I’m at it I’ll command the sun and the moons to stand still.”
“You could explain that it’s only a temporary measure.”
“Assuming I can get two words out before they shoot me.”
“Prepare letters,” the Mahdi suggested. “The next ten thieves can save their right hands by delivering them to the Bedu.”
“Bismillah,” the Sirdar said with a sense of relief. “In the name of God it shall be done.” And thank that same God it would not be done by him.
“This is really true?” the Mahdi insisted, “That he scatters the little brown men over the countryside where we can have them at will?”
“Even so. The Defiler of Wells now lives like a pig in the fat general’s pen. The Gurkhas are scattered and Pig-man’s regiment is to be dispersed even as the others. Providing we make no overt move until we’re ready.”
“And get those wild Bedu to settle down for a few weeks.”
“The citizens of Medina are invited to come home,” the Sirdar said.
The Mahdi’s eyes gleamed in the smoky light. “Will miracles never cease?” he marveled.
In the weeks that followed Eureka—outwardly—resumed its normal pre-Mahdi pace. The mines began operation again, the Cousin Jacks were underground, and the Medinites were doing the Cornishmen’s laundry and lawns. There was still an occasional Bedouin raid but, as the Mahdi had protested, he did not have that much control over those savages. And the ones that the Mahdi’s forces had managed to catch had visited the headsman with a promptness which General Parker found reassuring.
Colonel Falkenberg still languished in the stockade. The remainder of the Forty-second’s officers had been released to house arrest when it proved impossible to accommodate them all with any degree of sanitation. There had been stern warnings from the General’s staff that any secret meetings or other such shenanigans would afford an excellent excuse to shoot the lot of them. ‘Acting Colonel’ Jeremy Savage still commanded the regiment but held no real authority. His orders were countermanded by the General or his toadies and it became increasingly obvious that Savage was the appointed flak catcher.