There Will Be War Volume II

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Entering target range!” the Scanner Officer reported.

  “All ships, fire at will.”

  The twelve warships raced through space virtually side-by-side, bringing all weapons to bear. Proton salvos shook the control deck. Orders and reports flew back and forth in hushed tones. He watched in the big tank, leaving to Captain Disad the direction of Jutland’s efforts. He had laid in the course. Now he could only watch, knowing each moment might turn off his own personal universe. God forgive him, how he loved it!

  Proton beams sought targets. ES guns strove to intercept torps in time. There could be no evasive maneuvering— the cruisers slugged it out. And since the squadron outgunned the purples two to one, when the slugging stopped, six Federation cruisers continued alone. FSS Anctium and FSS Trans-Jupiter would answer no more squadron musters. FSS Manila Bay took the point.

  They reached the transports, and englobed them just beyond maximum range. “Main force intersect in two minutes six, sir.”

  “Open a channel to their commander,” the admiral ordered. This was the crux.

  “Go ahead, sir.”

  “Attention, hivelord of the Dau. Halt at once, or we will annihilate all of the transports—including most particularly your queenship. Out.”

  The queen had to be aboard one of the transports. They wouldn’t have left her behind on such an apparently safe mission, nor would she have been risked in the fighting. Destruction of the queenship meant the death of the hive—the worst fate imaginable for any Shikaran. Of course, if he was wrong it would be an absolute disaster. But no time to think of that now.

  The ten cruisers decelerated to a dead stop relative to the squadron.

  “Very good. Now abandon your ships and set them to self-destruct. Rejoin your transports in your lifeboats. Out,”

  A replying message came from one of the cruisers. “You ask too much. We will not put ourrr continuity in yourrr hands. We can be upon you beforrre you can destrrroy morrre than a frrraction of the trrransporrrts.”

  The admiral called for the channel to the purple again. “Including, perhaps, your queenship. Am I speaking to Gelewa of Dau? Out.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Admiral Jarold Young.”

  “I know.”

  “We almost met during the Suicide Sortie, remember? We turned your flank, but you dropped your eggs and withdrew before we could clear the pickets.”

  “I rrrememberrr with pleasurrre. A well executed bit of levels-play.”

  “I give you my word your transports will be allowed to withdraw in peace.”

  “Acceptable. But you underrrstand, therrre will be severrre rrreperrrcussions frrrom yourrr intrrrusion herrre.”

  “I understand.”

  “I rrregrrret that we meet this way.”

  “So do I.”

  Two minutes later lifeboats began to emerge from the cruiser bays.

  “This is Jim Buser, back on Greenworld again. A shuttle evacuated us from Orbital Command just before the reactor blew its magnetic bottle.

  “Tonight I look down from the roof of the GalNews building at Market Lane, the wide concourse leading from the Park to the civic center. It’s midnight and the moons are down, but there are lights in the darkness. Yellow flickers of flame. Hundreds, thousands of burning candles, all proceeding slowly, solemnly toward the broad stone steps in front of Civic Hall. I can see faces behind the candles; young and old, men and women. I see joy and sorrow mingled, reflecting victory and loss on this night of dedication.

  “Government officials, including local hive representatives, stand at a makeshift podium. There will be speeches and songs until dawn, at this gigantic version of the traditional rural come-together. In hives around the world purples are also marking the light and dark sides of the great victory.

  “On a personal note, this will be my last ’cast. I can no longer sit behind a camera and make wise noises. Cynicism isn’t a viable lifestyle. So, as of the beginning of this new day, it’s Jim Buser, citizen of Greenworld. I don’t know how long we can hang onto what we have here, but I aim to do my share in the effort. Goodbye.”

  Jim didn’t like the feel of the uniform, the binding of heavy fabric and symbolism, and was beginning to regret his impulsiveness. Finding one’s roots was one thing; touring the badlands hunting terrorists was something else. But it had been the militia or nothing—he couldn’t fly, and except for a few shuttles the space force was nonexistent.

  The doubts were growing. Even in his reporter days he had worn the shield of his noncombatancy. Now the bad guys would be after him in earnest. The doubts had forced his hand—he couldn’t let them make his choices and still feel he was in charge.

  He had talked it. Now he would have to walk it.

  “You may go in now, Private.”

  He thanked the secretary, went to the door and entered President Marlowe’s office. Militia recruits weren’t ordinarily invited to meet the planetary president, but then he wasn’t exactly an ordinary militia recruit. Still, it was with a bit of trepidation that he pushed open the door.

  “Come in, young man. And relax. I have no desire to get used to being important.”

  The office was large and well appointed, but had the sloppy look of extreme activity. The President, understandably worn but wearing an exec’s confident smile, stood by the long window that looked down on the spaceport field. The expanse was empty and forlorn except for a single towering vessel surrounded by an alert Army guard. The sight of FSS Jutland brought a swirl of biting memories.

  The President looked him over. “From star ’caster to buckass private. Quite a step down?”

  “Depends on how you look at it… uh, sir.”

  The President frowned. “The way I read it, you’re a raving romantic.”

  Jim couldn’t believe his ears. “You kidding? You mustn’t listen to my ’casts.”

  “I listen, and I hear them. You wear indifference badly.”

  Jim was beginning to get mad. “Do you psychoanalyze all your new recruits?”

  “Only the interesting ones. You seem to have a blind spot concerning your function. You think you didn’t ‘make news’ as a ’caster? You think reactions end with ratings? Have you ever considered the awesome power of delivering truth—or falsehood—convincingly to billions of people?”

  “Only in the abstract.”

  “Figures. You lived in a very small bottle, corked by GalNews and yourself. Now, though, you should know better. You’ve had a vivid demonstration. Your ’casts resulted in the intervention that saved us, you know. Which leads up to the reason you’re here. I’m appointing you head of our propaganda department. It’ll be your job to tell our story to the worlds. Congratulations, Major.”

  “I don’t want to do any more of that.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you want, Buser! You’re under military discipline now. You’ll do whatever best serves Greenworld. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” Jim said sullenly.

  “Don’t sound so martyred. You don’t really want to eat mud—you just wish you wanted to. And you’ll be working with your friend Astawa.”

  “Huh?”

  “You see, he got some good news and some bad news. GalNews fired him in your backwash. But we just appropriated its whole planetary operation for the duration, and put him back in charge.”

  “All this for a purple?”

  The President took a deep breath. “How do you bury hatreds and make a workable union of two utterly different cultures, one a majority and one a minority? We’re slowly getting the terrorists under control. Thank God they haven’t been able to polarize the cultures. Astawa has played a big role in that.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Oh, he didn’t enlighten you? I think I see why. He’s a sort-of-leader in a sort-of-organization of aesgi holding prominent positions in the ‘human’ culture. They form a vital bridge.”

  All the puzzle pieces that were the purple exec clicked together. Jim realized
he had been handled so smoothly it left no vestigial irritation. Yes, they would get along well together.

  The door opened, and Admiral Young entered.

  “Thank you for coming, Admiral,” President Marlowe said.

  “I can’t stay long, Mister President. The squadron has been ordered home.” The admiral turned to Jim.

  “Thanks for saving us,” Jim said, surprised at the simplicity of his statement.

  Admiral Young was quiet for a long time. “I wonder what it would be like to go up into those mountains west of here and do some ranching in a high valley not too near anyone else.”

  Jim understood. “I grew up on a farm. It’s brutal work, but the problems are refreshingly basic.”

  “You sound like you’ve been giving it some thought.”

  “I have.”

  The admiral turned to President Marlowe. “You realize, of course, that you’ve survived only the first battle. The Hive will be back. How will you survive then?”

  The President looked at his watch. “First let me repeat our world’s enormous gratitude to you and your squadron. The names of each of your crew members lost in the battle will be added to our memorial scrolls. And one last time I beg you to stay here. We desperately need military strategists. But you would be most welcome here even as a private citizen—you know what you return to.”

  The admiral’s expression turned bleak. “I know. That’s why I have to go back. But you haven’t answered my question.”

  President Marlowe looked at his watch again, then out the window at the azure sky.

  “I asked you gentlemen here in part to witness something you have a right to see, since you were both instrumental in bringing it about.”

  Jim looked up at the sky and saw nothing.

  “During Earth’s American Revolution there was an analogous situation. The American colonies were determined to win their independence, but had insufficient arms to overcome the British. The French were interested in supporting them, but doubted they could survive. Then they defeated the British at Saratoga. This convinced the French of America’s tenacity, and arms were forthcoming.”

  There were bright points of light in the sky, and a low but growing rumble. People were erupting out of the buildings onto the edges of the field, looking up, hands shading eyes. Two, five, ten, more than twenty painful brilliances.

  “Ten days ago our agents on Eridani, using the reports of our victory—and Federation assistance—closed an arms purchasing agreement.”

  Two enormous, bulging cylinders landed first. “Those are our wayward star freighters, carrying 144 of the newest multi-weapon satellites, and modules for twin Orbital Command stations. State-of-the-art power, computers, scanners—and armed to the fangs!”

  Twenty four other bright points became teardrops of white flame, and atop them Jim could make out utterly streamlined spears, silver and gleaming, two-thirds the length of FSS Jutland. Proton blisters fore and aft added wickedness to their appearance. Slender and spectral, they settled onto the field in a precise circle around the freighters.

  “Eridani interstellar carriers brought them here, and the Eridani crews aboard them will train our own crews before returning.”

  “Shiva 6B’s!” The admiral was smiling, and there was a hint of dampness around his eyes. “Perfect!”

  “Yes, they are exactly what we need; the best interplanetary defense ships available. Without the tachyon drive they can carry a heavy cruiser’s armament and defense. But because they are smaller and lighter, they are faster and more maneuverable. Not to mention poorer targets.”

  The people outside were cheering wildly, with many an excited gesture toward the ships.

  The admiral blinked several times. “Thanks, Mister President. I know now what I did will have some meaning.”

  “It would have anyway.”

  “Maybe. But I must go now. Goodbye and good-faring to both of you.” The admiral turned and left.

  “What’s with him?” Jim asked.

  The President stared after him. “When he violated Federation orders he knew that to avoid another War, the Federation would throw the Hive some raw meat. Him. He will be publicly court-martialed and executed.”

  Jim looked down at the field. Soon a lone figure, straight-backed in Federation dress blues, strode across the blast-blackened expanse. It detoured to pass the activity surrounding the freighters and Shiva 6B’s, and stopped near one of the latter for a handful of seconds. Then it resumed its trek toward the far cruiser.

  Jim moved toward the door. “Going somewhere?” the President asked.

  “Would you please have someone call Astawa and tell him I’m on my way over? I’m going to save that man.”

  Editor's Introduction to:

  PROUD LEGIONS

  by T.R. Fehrenbach

  Ted Fehrenbach is one of the best military theorists of the Twentieth Century. I can say this with no reservations. His book, This Kind of War, is not only the finest study of the Korean War ever done, but more importantly, is the only book I have ever seen that correctly draws the lessons of that war. I have several times used it as a text; which is to do it injustice. The book is very readable.

  Brigadier General S.L.A. Marshall has justly received much credit for his military histories. Lt. Col. T.R. Fehrenbach, AUS Ret’d, is not so well known. Whereas Marshal was a military historian and most of his duties were historical in nature (this didn’t prohibit him from being one of the very first US troops to enter Paris in 1944), Fehrenbach was a combat soldier.

  “Proud Legions” is one chapter from This Kind Of War. It is required reading for every officer nominated for promotion to general. It ought to be read more widely than that.

  Proud Legions

  by T.R. Fehrenbach

  We was rotten ’fore we started—we was never disciplined;

  We made it out a favour if an order was obeyed.

  Yes, every little drummer ’ad ’is rights an wrongs to mind,

  So we had to pay for teachin—an we paid!

  —Rudyard Kipling, “That Day”

  During the first months of American intervention in Korea, reports from the front burst upon an America and world stunned beyond belief. Day after day, the forces of the admitted first power of the earth reeled backward under the blows of the army of a nation of nine million largely illiterate peasants, the product of the kind of culture advanced nations once overawed with gunboats. Then, after fleeting victory, Americans fell back once more before an army of equally illiterate, lightly armed Chinese.

  The people of Asia had changed, true. The day of the gunboat and a few Marines would never return. But that was not the whole story. The people of the West had changed, too. They forgot that the West had dominated not only by arms, but by superior force of will.

  During the summer of 1950, and later, Asians would watch. Some, friends of the West, would even smile. And none of them would ever forget.

  News reports in 1950 talked of vast numbers, overwhelming hordes of fanatic North Koreans, hundreds of monstrous tanks, against which the thin United States forces could not stand. In these reports there was truth, but not the whole truth.

  The American units were outnumbered. They were outgunned. They were given an impossible task at the outset.

  But they were also outfought.

  In July 1950, one news commentator rather plaintively remarked that warfare had not changed so much, after all. For some reason, ground troops still seemed to be necessary, in spite of the atom bomb. And oddly and unfortunately, to this gentleman, man still seemed to be an important ingredient in battle. Troops were getting killed, in pain and fury and dust and filth. What had happened to the widely heralded pushbutton warfare where skilled, immaculate technicians who had never suffered the misery and ignominy of basic training blew each other to kingdom come like gentlemen?

  In this unconsciously plaintive cry lies buried a great deal of the truth why the United States was almost defeated.

  No
thing had happened to pushbutton warfare; its emergence was at hand. Horrible weapons that could destroy every city on earth were at hand—at too many hands. But pushbutton warfare meant Armageddon, and Armageddon, hopefully, will never be an end of national policy.

  Americans in 1950 rediscovered something that since Hiroshima they had forgotten: you may fly over a land forever; you may bomb it, atomize it, pulverize it and wipe it clean of life—but if you desire to defend it, protect it, and keep it for civilization, you must do this on the ground, the way the Roman legions did, by putting your young men into the mud.

  The object of warfare is to dominate a portion of the earth, with its peoples, for causes either just or unjust. It is not to destroy the land and people, unless you have gone wholly mad.

  Pushbutton war has its place. There is another kind of conflict—crusade, jihad, holy war, call it what you choose. It has been loosed before, with attendant horror but indecisive results. In the past, there were never means enough to exterminate all the unholy, whether Christian, Moslem, Protestant, Papist, or Communist. If jihad is preached again, undoubtedly the modern age will do much better.

  Americans, denying from moral grounds that war can ever be a part of politics, inevitably tend to think in terms of holy war—against militarism, against fascism, against bolshevism. In the postwar age, uneasy, disliking and fearing the unholiness of Communism, they have prepared for jihad. If their leaders blow the trumpet, or if their homeland is attacked, their millions are agreed to be better dead than Red.

  Any kind of war short of jihad was, is, and will be unpopular with the people. Because such wars are fought with legions, and Americans, even when they are proud of them, do not like their legions. They do not like to serve in them, nor even to allow them to be what they must.

  For legions have no ideological or spiritual home in the liberal society. The liberal society has no use or need for legions—as its prophets have long proclaimed.