Hope Renewed

by S. M. Stirling

  And not doing a bad job. He hated to think what had happened to the construction people up above; he’d spent a long time training them. All we have to do is hold out until the reinforcements drive off the landing parties. Then—

  “Sir! Movement on the beach below us!”

  He blinked. “Get some extra propellant charges.” They came in fabric containers the size of small garbage cans. “Strap grenades to them. Pull the tabs and roll them over the edge of the casement. Move.”

  Suddenly the background rumble of naval shellfire exploding on the plateau overhead ceased. Wallers looked up; that took his eyes away from the slit of light where the embrasure mouth pierced the cliff. Something flew in. His head whipped around, and trained reflex threw him down, not quite in time.

  Durrison plastered himself to the lip of concrete above the gun embrasures. Every time the long cannon within fired, the concussion threatened to flip him off the ledge, despite the rope sling fastened to pitons driven firmly into the rock above. A couple of his men had been flipped, to dangle scrabbling on their ropes until the hands of their squadmates could haul them back. The enemy hadn’t noticed, thank God; the embrasures might be narrow firing slits in comparison to the size of the guns within or the scale of the three-hundred-foot height of the cliffs, but they were still fifteen feet from top to bottom.

  The gun fired again. Durrison kept his mouth open to equalize the pressure, but his head still rang as if there were midgets inside with sledgehammers, trying to get out. The rock flexed against his belly; no telling how long the pitons would hold, with that sort of vibration. The wind was building out of the south, with dark clouds along the horizon south of him—perhaps one of the rare summer thunderstorms of the Gut.

  Joy. Absolute fucking joy. At last a man came around the curve of the rock to his right, clinging like a spider as he made his cautious way.

  “Everyone’s in place, sir!” he screamed into Durrison’s deafened ear.

  The mountaineer officer nodded and pulled the flare gun out of his belt, pointed it up and out.

  Fumpf. The trail of smoke reached upward. Pop.

  Abruptly, the rolling bombardment from the fleet stopped. One last eight-inch shell ripped its way through the air overhead, and relative silence fell as the continuous thunder of explosions overhead ceased.

  That was the signal. A half-dozen men swung their satchel charges out on cords for momentum and then inward, to fly through the openings of the gun embrasures. Durrison freed the submachine gun and clamped his right hand on the pistol grip. His left took the rope that held him by the slipknot and he let his weight fall on it, crouching and bending his knees to his chest with the composition soles of his high-laced mountain boots planted firmly against the rock.

  Four. Five.

  Smoke and debris vomited out of the opening below his feet, bits trailing off down the cliff and whipping away in the rising wind. Durrison leaped outward and down with two dozen others—with over a hundred, counting the men at the other gunpits—and swung like a pendulum, straight through the embrasure and into the cave within. It felt exactly like a swing when you were a kid, momentum fighting gravity as you swung upward. His left hand released the rope and hit the quick-release snap of his harness, and now there was nothing holding him back.

  He hit the ground rolling, amid chaos and screams. Wounded men were staggering or thrashing on the ground, caught by the blast or the thousands of double-ought buckshot packed into the satchel charges. Those luckier or farther away were turning towards the Santander assault troops.

  Durrison shoulder-rolled to one knee. A blond Chosen officer with blood on his face and one arm hanging limp snarled as he brought an automatic around. Durrison’s burst walked across his body from right hip to left shoulder, punching him backward.

  “Go! Go!” the Santander officer yelled, diving forward towards the armored doors at the rear of the cavern. Behind him his men advanced through the stunned gun crews. A shotgun loaded with rifled slugs went thumpthumpthumpthump; more muzzle flashes lit the gloomy cavern.

  “Go! Go!”

  Twelve-inch shells went by overhead. Jeffrey Farr huddled behind the stone wall and adjusted the focus screw of the field glasses with his thumb. Crump. Crump.

  This time the huge blossoms of dirt and smoke hid the Land field-gun battery. The ground shook, thudding into his chest and stomach. He grinned and spat saliva the color of the reddish gray dirt as secondary explosions showed in glints of orange fire through the dust cloud raised by the huge naval shells.

  “That one was spot-on,” he said. To the men with the portable wireless set behind him: “Tell them to pour it on!”

  The man on the bicycle generator pumped harder—batteries big enough to be useful were too heavy for a field set. The operator clicked the keys, and Jeffrey turned to the officer beside him.

  “It’s going to be a while before they can advance through that.”

  The first salvo whirred by overhead, four shells together, a battleship broadside. The shallow rocky valley ahead of them began to come apart under the hammer of the guns.

  “Damned right, General,” the regimental commander said.

  “So you’ll have time. Fall back to that ridge a half-mile south of us and do a hasty dig-in; when they advance, call in fire on this position. Next leap backward after that, you’ll be under observation from the water and the cruisers and destroyers can give you immediate support.”

  “Will do, General.”

  A fighting retreat was one of the most difficult maneuvers to execute, and the weather looked bad. On the other hand, if you had to retreat, it did help to have this much mobile artillery sitting behind you ready to offer aid and comfort.

  The air stank of turned earth and the sharp acrid smell of TNT from the bursting charges of the shells. Jeffrey inhaled deeply. After Corona, the Union, the Sierra, it smelled quite pleasant.

  “Sir. Message from the Fifth Mountain HQ. Enemy gun positions secured, and preparing to blow in pla—”

  The noise that came from the south was loud even by the standards of a very noisy day, complete with battleship broadsides. The plateau above the Land fortress wasn’t visible from here, but the mushroom-shaped cloud that climbed up over the horizon was. He felt the blast twice, once through the soles of his feet, and the second time through the air.

  Jeffrey whistled. “Must have had quite a bit of ammunition stored,” he said.

  The rearguard commander nodded soberly. “Glad of that,” he said. “Now we can bug out with a clear conscience. We surprised them, but they’re starting to get their heads wired back to their arses. I wouldn’t care to do this withdrawal under air attack and with them pushing hard, particularly if they bring up armor.”

  “They’re doing their best. They’d have it here in force if the partisans hadn’t cut the area off.”

  There weren’t any bodies floating in the water on the beachhead anymore. They’d had time to police it, and put together the emergency floating jetties. Prisoners were going on board—all Protégés, of course, and not many of them; the fort had been pummeled all too well. You never took Chosen prisoners, not unless they were too badly wounded to suicide. The medics had a field hospital set up, and they were transferring wounded men lashed to stretchers and unconscious with morphine to a landing barge.

  That was the frightening thing. The swell was heavy enough to make the barge rise a good three feet, steel squealing against steel as it rubbed on the pontoons. Further out there were whitecaps, and the southern horizon had disappeared behind thunderheads where lightning flickered like artillery. The barges beached on the shingle were pitching and groaning as the beginning of a rolling surf caught at them.

  Oh, shit. That did not look good. Not good at all. He certainly didn’t envy men trying to climb boarding nets up a ship’s side in this, especially if it got worse. Particularly tired men, exhausted from a hard day’s marching and fighting. Tired men made mistakes.

  probability of inc
reased storm activity now approaches unity, Center said.

  How truly good. A pity you couldn’t have predicted it at more than a fifteen percent probability yesterday. He paused in the silent conversation. Plus or minus three percent, of course.

  A commander has to take the weather as it comes, Raj said. Make it work for you.

  and an artificial intelligence, however advanced, cannot predict weather patterns without a network of sensors, Center said. There was an almost . . . tart overtone to the heavy, ponderous solidity of the mental communication. there have been neither satellite sensors nor data updates on this planet for 1200 standard years.

  Jeffrey snorted, obscurely comforted. Command was lonely, but he had an advantage over most men: two entirely objective and vastly knowledgeable advisors and friends. Three, although John wasn’t nearly as objective.

  Thanks, his foster-brother spoke. Jeffrey had a brief glimpse of a forest of larch and plane trees, and a rocky mountain path. Meanwhile I’m running for my life. Be seeing you, bro.

  “Make it work for you,” Jeffrey murmured, looking at the water. “Easier said than done.”

  Among other things, the increasing choppiness was going to degrade the effectiveness of naval gunfire support. Particularly from the lighter vessels . . .

  Decision crystallized. “Message to Admiral Farr,” he said. “I’m speeding up the evacuation schedule.”

  The mission was certainly accomplished. He looked to his left at the remains of the plateau where the Land fortress had stood. The whole southern front of it had slumped forward into the sea, a sloping hill of rubble where the cliffs had been. Parts of it still smouldered.

  “My compliments to the admiral, and could he please send some of the shallow-draft destroyers and torpedo boats alongside the emergency piers.”

  That way the men could load directly; it didn’t matter if the warships were crowded to the gunwales on the way back, since they wouldn’t be fighting. He looked left and right along the long curving beach. More than three hundred barges on the shore, and more waiting out there with the tugs. If loading went on until moonrise, he was going to lose some of them.

  “Well, they can make more than one trip,” he muttered.

  “Message to regimental commanders,” he said. “When they bring their men out of line and prepare for boarding, ditch everything but personal arms. Heavy weapons to be disabled or blown in place.” That would cut the tonnage requirements down considerably. “We’ll expedite loading; following units to—”

  The tide was turning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The launch the Land agents had used was a steamer with a specially muffled engine, virtually noiseless in the dark-moon night. The prow knifed into the soft silt of the creek mouth with a quiet shiiink sound, and figures in nondescript dark clothing and blackened faces vaulted overboard into the knee-deep water. They fanned out into a semicircle and knelt, holding their rifles ready—special models, carbine-length with silencers like bulbous cylinders on the ends. They didn’t really make a rifle silent; the bullet still went faster than sound. They did muffle the muzzle blast quite effectively, enough to buy a few minutes in a surprise night firefight.

  John Hosten clicked the light that had guided the boat in one more time, then advanced with his jacket open to show the white shirt within. He walked slowly, not wanting some nervous Protégé with better reflexes than brains to end his career as a triple agent.

  A dark figure walked towards him. A woman, and a Chosen, the movements were unmistakable. Shortish for the Chosen, square-built . . .

  “Gerta!” he blurted.

  She grinned. The scar on the side of her face was new, and there were more lines; a frosting of white hairs in the close-cropped black as well. She held a silenced pistol down by her side, and waved it in greeting.

  “‘Tag, sibling,” she said in Landisch. “You didn’t tell us about the raid on the fort. Naughty, naughty.”

  “They don’t tell me everything,” John pointed out reasonably. “Operational security was extremely tight on that one.”

  “Caught us sleeping,” Gerta agreed.

  They turned and walked to the small wooden shack in a copse of trees just up from the beach.

  “This area secure?”

  “I own it,” John said. “Officially it’s for the hunting. Good shooting in the marsh here, boar, and duck in season.”

  The Chosen woman nodded. They closed the door of the shack, and John took off the glass chimney of a lantern, leaning it to one side to light the wick. Tar paper made the windows lightproof. Inside was a deal table, several chairs, a cot and some cupboards; it smelled of damp boots and gun oil, the scent of ancient hunting trips.

  “How are things in the Land?” John asked. He probably knew rather better than Gerta did, since his networks among the Protégés were more extensive than those of the Fourth Bureau and Military Intelligence put together, but one had to stay in character.

  “Hectic. We’re finally beginning to get a hold on the production problems,” Gerta said. “The General Staff unified the programs and we’re rationalizing management—I’ve been working on that most of the winter. Just cutting out duplication will double output. Amazing how getting your tits in a tangle will sharpen your mind.”

  “How’s Father?”

  “Tired. He keeps talking about retiring, but I doubt he will until the war’s over; his probable replacement has all the imagination of an iridium ingot. The dangerous type—energetic, conscientious, and stupid. Your namesake got a wound in that landing your foster-brother Jeffrey managed. First-rate piece of work, by the way. I’d send my congratulations, if it were appropriate.”

  John nodded. “Johan’s not too bad, I hope?”

  “Oh, no, nothing serious. Fractured femur, in a cast for a couple of months. Erika’s just passed the Test and is going out for pilot training. . . . I’d like to gossip more, but we’re pressed for time.”

  John reached into one of the cabinets and took out several folders, putting the kerosene lamp in the center of the table. Gerta swung her knapsack around and took out her camera, screwing on the flash attachment and setting out a row of magnesium bulbs.

  “The first one’s the report on the amphibious assault,” he said.

  “Jeffrey’s masterpiece. I nearly killed him during it, you know—sheer chance. I was there on inspection, bugged out when it started, and nearly ran him down.”

  “That was you? He told me about it, but he wasn’t sure.”

  “Mm-hmmm,” Gerta said in agreement. The camera began flashing as she methodically photographed each page and diagram.

  “Pity I missed. He’s far too able to live; he should have been born among the Chosen. Ah, fifteen percent losses. Excellent work, we estimated half again that. The Gut’s been pure misery for us every since, we can barely run a train within reach of the coast. Should get better now that we’ll be producing more fighters and ground-attack aircraft and wasting less on Porschmidt’s damned toys.”

  “Here’s the specs on the multi-engined tank. They’re still working on it.”

  “Glad to see we’re not the only ones who waste time and money,” Gerta answered. “Our model can do as much as three, even four miles between breakdowns now. Of course, if it did go further there isn’t a bridge in the world that could hold it.”

  The last folder was bulky, an accordion-pleated box of brown cardboard stamped TOP SECRET and bound with blue tape.

  “That’s a duplicate,” John said. “I got a copy because my firms are involved with special equipment for it and because of my intelligence connections.”

  “They let you make a copy?” Gerta asked, looking up at him suspiciously. “That’s pretty sloppy, even for Santies.”

  “They didn’t let me,” John said. “I’ve got an electrostatic copying machine in my office. It’s a new design, sort of like an instant photograph. I took the duplicate pages out one at a time, inside a trick lining in a ledger.”

 
; Gerta nodded grudgingly. “Odd paper,” she said, opening the first set.

  “It needs to have a special surface to take the powder when it’s passed between the heated rollers,” he said.

  “I see Jeffrey’s been bumped to corps commander,” she said, and whistled. “Twenty-five divisions. Now that’s what I call a strike force, and too mobile by half. We were hoping they’d try to bull through the confrontation line.”

  “They might have, except for Jeffrey,” John said. And me, and Raj and Center through us.

  Gerta’s fingers froze on the papers. “Ahh,” she said. “The Rio Arena?”

  “It worked for you, so they think it’ll work for them,” John said. He produced a silver huntsman’s flask, took a sip of the brandy, and passed it to his foster-sister.

  She sipped in her turn, not taking her eyes off the document.

  “Want to cut us off in the southern lobe, do they?” she said. “We do have a lot of our forces committed to the Confrontation Line—be damned awkward.”

  “It’s to be combined with a general offensive there,” John said. “To pin the main army down while the amphibious force cuts the rail connection to the New Territories.”

  “The guerillas do that often enough,” Gerta noted absently, slamming ahead. “General uprising . . . ya, it makes sense. It’s even good staff work. Meticulous. They’re learning.”

  John sat back and silently lit a cigarette. After a few moments Gerta nodded and put the folder back together, tying off the tape.

  “Damn,” she said mildly. “This will be a distraction.”

  “Distraction?” John said.

  “We’ve been pushing for more emphasis on air and sea,” she said absently. “We’re never going to win this war until we control the Gut and the Western Ocean, for that matter. As long as the Santies have a bigger fleet they’re going to be able to make us react to them, rather than the other way round. Ah, well, needs must when the demons drive.”

  She stood and shook his hand, her own as hard and calloused as his. “Keep up the good work,” she said.