Louis answered his grin. He was already sitting in the regimental intelligence officer's chair at the table. I wondered why Falkenberg had given that job to Louis. Of the four of us, Louis had paid the least attention to his briefing packet, and he didn't seem cut out for the job.
"Supply and logistics stays with Knowles, of course," Falkenberg said. "I'll keep training myself. Now. I have a proposition for you. The colonel has ordered us to occupy Fort Beersheeba at the earliest feasible moment. If we simply march there with no fighting and without accomplishing much beyond getting there, the governor will negotiate a peace. We will be stationed out in the middle of nowhere, with few duties beyond patrols. Does anyone see any problems with that?"
"Damned dull," Louis Bonneyman said.
"And not just for us. What have you to say, Sergeant Major?"
Ogilvie shook his head. "Don't like it, sir. Might be all right for the recruits, but wouldn't recommend it for the old hands. Especially the ones you took out of the brig. Be a lot of the bug, sir."
The bug. The Foreign Legion called it le cafard, which means the same thing. It had been the biggest single cause of death in the legion, and it was still that among Line marines. Men with nothing to do. Armed men, warriors, bored stiff. They get obsessed with the bug until they commit suicide, or murder, or desert, or plot mutiny. The text-book remedy for le cafard is a rifle and plenty of chances to use it. Combat. Line troops on garrison duty lose more men to cafard than active outfits lose in combat. So my instructors had told us, anyway.
"It will be doubly bad in this case," Falkenberg said. "No regimental pride. No accomplishments to brag about. No battles. I'd like to avoid that."
"How, sir?" Bonneyman asked.
Falkenberg seemed to ignore him. He adjusted the map until the section between the city and Fort Beersheeba filled the screen. "We march up the Jordan," he said. "I suppose it was inevitable that the Church Federation would call the planet's most important river 'Jordan,' wasn't it? We march northwest, and what happens, Mr. Slater?"
I thought about it. "They run, I suppose. I can't think they'll want to fight. We've much better equipment than they have."
"Equipment and men," Falkenberg said. "And a damned frightening reputation. They already know we've landed, and they've asked for negotiations. They've got sources inside the palace. You heard me arrange for a social invitation for five days from now-"
We all laughed. Falkenberg nodded. "Which means that if we march tonight, we'll achieve real surprise. We can catch a number of them unawares and disarm them. What I'd like to do, though, is disarm the lot of them."
I was studying the map, and I thought I saw what he meant. "They'll just about have to retreat right past Fort Beersheeba," I said. "Everything narrows down there-"
"Precisely," Falkenberg said. "If we held the Fort we could disarm everyone coming through. Furthermore, it is our fort, and we've orders to occupy it quickly. I remind you also that we're technically at war with the River Pack."
"Yes, but how do we get there?" I asked. "Also, Captain, if we're holding the bottleneck, the rest of them will fight. They can't retreat."
"Not without losing their weapons," Falkenberg said. "I don't think the colonel would be unhappy if we really pacified that area. Nor do I think the militia would have all that much trouble holding it if we defeated the River Pack and disarmed their survivors."
"But as Hal asked, how do we get there?" Louis demanded.
Falkenberg said, "I mentioned helicopters. Sergeant Major has found enough fuel to keep them flying for a while-"
"Sir, I believe there was something in the briefing kit about losses from the militia arsenal," Deane said. "Specifically including Skyhawk missiles. Choppers wouldn't stand a chance against those."
"Not if anyone with a Skyhawk knew they were coming," Falkenberg agreed. "But why should they expect us? The gear's at the landing dock. Nothing suspicious about a work party going down there tonight. Nothing suspicious about getting the choppers set up and working. I can't believe they expect us to take Beersheeba tonight, not when they've every reason to believe we'll be attending a grand ball in five days."
"Yes, sir," Deane agreed. "But we can't put enough equipment into three choppers! The men who take Beersheeba will be doomed. Nobody can march up that road fast enough to relieve them."
Falkenberg's voice was conversational. He looked up at the ceiling, "I did mention Skyhooks, didn't I? Two of them. Lifting capacity in this gravity and atmosphere, six metric tons each. That's 45 men with full rations and ammunition. Gentlemen, by dawn we could have 90 combat marines in position at Fort Beersheeba, and the rest of the 501st marching to their relief. Are you game?"
CHAPTER 5
It was cold down by the docks. A chill wind had blown in just after sundown, and despite the heat earlier in the day I was shivering. Maybe, I thought, it isn't the cold.
The night sky was clear, with what seemed like millions of stars. I could recognize most of the constellations, and that seemed strange. It reminded me that although we were so far from Earth that a man who began walking in the time of the dinosaurs wouldn't have got here yet, it was still an insignificant distance within the universe. That made me feel small and I didn't like it.
The troops were turned out in work fatigues. Our combat clothing and armor were still tucked away in the packs we were loading onto the Skyhook platforms. We worked under bright lights, and anyone watching would never have known we were anything but a work party. Falkenberg was sure that at least one pair of night glasses was trained on us from the bluff above.
The Skyhook platforms were light aluminum affairs, just a flat plate eight meters on a side with a meter-high railing around the perimeter. We stowed packs onto them. We also piled on other objects: light machine guns, recoilless cannon, mortars, and boxes of shells and grenades. Some of the boxes had false labels on them, stencilled on by troops working inside the warehouse, so that watchers would see what looked like office supplies and spare clothing going aboard.
A truck came down from the fort and went into the warehouse. It seemed to be empty, but it carried rifles for 90 men. The rifles went into bags and were stowed on the Skyhooks.
Arrarat has only one moon, smaller than Earth's and closer. It was a bloody crescent sinking into the highlands to the west, and it didn't give much light. It would be gone in an hour. I wandered over to where Deane was supervising the work on the helicopters.
"Sure you have those things put together right?" I asked him.
"Nothing to it."
"Yeah. I hope not. It's going to be hard to find those landing areas."
"You'll be all right." He wasn't really listening to me. He had two communications specialists working on the navigation computers, and he kept glaring at the squiggles on their scopes. "That's good," he said. "Now feed in the test problem."
When I left to go find Falkenberg, Deane didn't notice I'd gone. Captain Falkenberg was inside the warehouse. "We've about got the gear loaded, sir."
"Good. Come have some coffee." One of the mess sergeants had set up the makings for coffee in one corner of the big high-bay building. There was also a map table, and Sergeant Major Ogilvie had a communications center set up there. Falkenberg poured two cups of coffee and handed one to me. "Nervous?" he asked me.
"Some."
"You can still call it off. No discredit. I'll tell the others there were technical problems. We'll still march in the morning."
"I'll be all right, sir."
He looked at me over the lip of his coffee cup. "I expect you will. I don't like sending you into this, but there's no other way we can do it."
"Yes, sir," I said.
"You'll be all right. You've got steady troopers."
"Yes, sir." I didn't know any of the men, of course. They were only names and service records, not even that, just a statistical summary of service records, a tape spewed out by the personnel computer. Thirty had been let out of the brig for voluntary service in Ar
rarat. Another 20 were recruits. The rest were Line marines, long-service volunteers.
Falkenberg used the controls to project a map of the area around Beersheeba onto the map table. "Expect you've got this memorized," he said.
"Pretty well, sir."
He leaned over the table and looked at the fort, then at the line of hills north of it. "You've some margin for error, I think. I'll have to leave to you the final decision on using the chopper in the actual assault. You can risk one helicopter. Not both. I must have one helicopter back, even if that costs you the mission. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir." I could feel a sharp ball in my guts, and I didn't like it. I hoped it wouldn't show.
"Getting on for time," Falkenberg said. "You'll need all the time you can get. We could wait a day to get better prepared, but I think surprise is your best edge."
I nodded. We'd been through all this before. Was he talking because he was nervous too? Or to keep me talking so I wouldn't brood?
"You may get a commendation out of this."
"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather have a guarantee that you'll show up on time." I grinned when I said it, to show I didn't mean it, but I did. Why the hell wasn't he leading this assault? The whole damned idea was his, and so was the battle plan. It was his show, and he wasn't going. I didn't want to think about the reasons. I had to depend on him to bail me out, and I couldn't even let myself think the word "coward."
"Time to load up," Falkenberg said.
I nodded and drained the coffee cup. It tasted good. I wondered if that would be the last coffee I'd ever drink. It was certain that some of us wouldn't be coming back.
Falkenberg clapped his hand on my shoulder. "You'll give them a hell of a shock, Hal. Let's get on with it."
"Right." But I sure wish you were coming with me.
I found Centurion Lieberman. We'd spent several hours together since Falkenberg's briefing, and I was sure I could trust him. Lieberman was about Falkenberg's height, built somewhere between wiry and skinny. He was about 45, and there were scars on his neck. The scars ran down under his tunic. He'd had a lot of regeneration therapy in his time.
His campaign ribbons made two neat rows on his undress blues. From his folder I knew he was entitled to another row he didn't bother to wear.
"Load 'em up," I told him.
"Sir." He spoke in a quiet voice, but it carried through the warehouse. "First and second platoons A Company, take positions on the Skyhook platforms."
The men piled in on top of the gear. It was crowded on the platforms. I got in with one group, and Lieberman boarded the other platform. I'd rather have been up in the helicopter, flying it or sitting next to the pilot, but I thought I was needed down here. Louis Bonneyman was flying my chopper. Sergeant Doty of Headquarters Platoon had the other.
"Bags in position," Gunner-Centurion Pniff said. "Stand ready to inflate number one." He walked around the platform looking critically at the lines that led to the amorphous shape next to the platform. "Looks good. Inflate number one."
There was a loud hiss, and a great ghostly bag formed.
It began to rise until it was above my platform. The plastic gleamed in the artificial light streaming from inside the warehouse. The bag billowed up until it was huge above us, and still it grew as the compressed helium poured out of the inflating cylinders. It looked bigger than the warehouse before Pniff was satisfied. "Good," he said. "Belay! Stand by to inflate number two."
"Jeez," one of the recruits said. "We going up in this balloon? Man, we don't have parachutes! We can't go up in a balloon!"
Some of the others began to chatter. "Sergeant Ardwain," I said.
"Sir!"
I didn't say anything else. Ardwain cursed and crawled over to the recruits. "No chutes means we don't have to jump," he said. "Now shut up."
Number two Skyhook was growing huge. It looked even larger than our own, because I could see all of it, and all I could see of the bag above us was this bloated thing filling the sky above me. The choppers started up, and after a moment they lifted. One rose directly above us. The other went to hover above the other Skyhook. The chopper looked dwarfed next to that huge bag.
The choppers settled onto the bags. Up on top the helicopter crews were floundering around on the billowing stuff to make certain the fastenings were set right. I could hear their reports in my helmet phones. Finally they had it all right.
"Everything ready aboard?" Falkenberg asked me. His voice was unemotional in the phones. I could see him standing by the warehouse doors, and I waved. "All correct, sir," I said.
"Good. Send number one along, Gunner."
"Sir!" Pniff said. "Ground crews stand by. Let go number one.
The troops outside were grinning at us as they cut loose the tethers holding the balloons. Nothing happened, of course; the idea behind Skyhook is to provide almost neutral buoyancy, so that the lift from the gasbags just balances the weight of the load. The helicopters provide all the motive power.
The chopper engines rose in pitch, and we lifted off. A gust of wind caught us and we swayed badly as we lifted. Some of the troops cursed, and their non-coms glared at them. Then we were above the harbor, rising to the level of the city bluff, then even higher. We moved northward toward the fort, staying high above the city until we got to Garrison's north edge, then dipping low at the fortress wall.
Anyone watching from the harbor area would think we'd just ferried a lot of supplies up onto the bluff. They might wonder about carrying men as well, but we could be sure they wouldn't suspect we were doing anything but ferrying them.
We dropped low over the fields north of the city, and continued moving. Then we rose again, gaining altitude until we were at 3300 meters.
The men looked at me nervously. They watched the city lights dwindle behind us.
"All right," I said. It was strange how quiet it was. The choppers were ultra-quiet, and what little noise they made was shielded by the gasbag above us. The railings cut off most of the wind, “I want every man to get his combat helmet on."
There was some confused rooting around as the men found their own packs and got their helmets swapped around. We'd been cautioned not to shift weight on the platforms, and nobody wanted to make any sudden moves.
I switched my command set to lowest power so it couldn't be intercepted more than a kilometer away. We were over three klicks high, so I wasn't much worried that anyone was listening. "By now you've figured that we aren't going straight back to the fort," I said.
There were laughs from the recruits. The older hands looked bored.
"We've got a combat mission," I said. "We're going about 250 klicks west of the city. When we get there, we take a former CD fort, dig in and wait for the rest of the battalion to march out and bring us home."
A couple of troopers perked up at that. I heard one tell his buddy, "Sure beats hell out of marching 250 klicks."
"You'll get to march, though," I said. "The plan is to land about eight klicks from the fort and march overland to take it by surprise, I doubt anyone is expecting us."
"Christian Johnny strikes again," someone muttered. I couldn't see who had said that.
"Sir?" A corporal asked. I recognized him: Roff, the man who'd been riding the seasick recruit in the landing boat.
"Yes, Corporal Roff?"
"Question, sir."
"Ask it."
"How long will we be there, Lieutenant?"
"Until Captain Falkenberg comes for us," I replied.
"Aye aye, sir."
There weren't any other questions. I thought that was strange. They must want to know more. Some of you will get killed tonight, I thought. Why don't you want to know more about it?
They were more interested in the balloon. Now that it didn't look as if it would fall, they wanted to look out over the edge. I had the non-coms rotate the men so everyone got a chance.
I'd had my look over the edge, and I didn't like it. Below the level of the railing it wasn't so
bad, but looking down was horrible. Besides, there wasn't really anything to see, except a few lights, way down below, and far behind us a dark shape that sometimes blotted out stars: Number two, about a klick away.
"Would the lieutenant care for coffee?" a voice asked. "I have brought the flask."
I looked up to see Hartz with my thermos and a mess hall cup. I'd seen him get aboard with his communications gear, but I'd forgotten him after that. "Thanks, I'll have some," I said.
It was about half brandy. I nearly choked. Hartz didn't even crack a smile.
We took a roundabout way so that we wouldn't pass over any of the river encampments. The route led far north of the river, then angled southwest to our landing zone. I turned to look over the edge again and hoped that Deane had managed to tune up the navigation computers properly, because there wasn't anything to navigate by down there. Once in a while an orange yellow light flickered, probably from a farmhouse, possibly an outlaw encampment, but otherwise the hills looked the same.
This has got to be the dumbest stunt in military history, I marvelled, but I didn't really believe it. The Line marines had a long reputation for going into battle in newly formed outfits with strange officers. Even so, I doubted if any expedition had ever had so little going for it. A newlie commander, men who'd never served together, and a captain who'd planned the mission but wouldn't go on it. I told myself the time to object had been back in the briefing. It was a bit late now.
I looked at my watch. Another hour flying time. "Sergeant Ardwain."
"Sir."
"Get them out of those work clothes and into combat leathers and armor. Weapons check after everyone's dressed." Dressed to kill, I thought, but didn't say it. It was an old joke, never funny to begin with. I wondered who thought of it first. Possibly some trooper outside the walls of Troy.
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