Honor of the Legion

by Leo Champion

  “You want the Governor to prepare a rescue column that will never actually leave East Vasimir,” Tribolo said. “Just to clarify.”

  “Correct,” said Doom. “It does not leave the Governor’s Office, of course, that the ‘go’ order will never be given. Until afterwards.”

  “But the column itself will be public knowledge. Or at least available to the enemy if they’re paying attention,” said Tribolo. “They’ll learn about it and – react.”

  “There’s a chance they might deal with the fort first,” Doom admitted. “Push, take casualties – far fewer than they’ve been led to think – and overwhelm the place first so that the relief column won’t find anything to save.”

  “You’re betting the lives of your new men that they’ll turn to deal with the column first,” said Tribolo slowly. “As well as the Army and Air Force contingents.”

  “Do you have another option that will give them even a few days?” Doom asked.

  “And what do you intend to do with the few days this maneuver might win them?” asked Tribolo. “If the task force won’t leave Vasimir, then you want it to cover something else. What?”

  “Anything could happen in the next few days. Meaningful reinforcements could arrive in-system an hour from now. There are Army and Air Force people in the fort, too. Citizens, Tribolo. Voters.”

  “I’m inclined to ask you to refer this through proper channels, Doom.”

  That would kill the idea. ‘Proper channels’ meant asking Vazhao Military District to reassign three urgently-needed companies, when like everyone else they’d been screaming for reinforcements for two weeks now.

  “Very well,” said Doom. “You’ll notice the official request is a matter of public record, and the Governor intentionally tabling it – will also be a matter of public record. When it comes out, it might be interesting to the families of the Air Force medics. And the Army engineers there. They’ll understand it if a rescue couldn’t be executed. New classified intelligence, that I’m not privy to, might come in. I don’t think they’d be so forgiving of a Governor who wasn’t willing to even pretend to try.”

  For a moment or two Tribolo was silent.

  “Military decisions can be classified,” she shot back.

  “And classified stuff leaks all the time,” said Doom. “To sources in, say, Iowa. New Hampshire. South Carolina. New South Wales.”

  It didn’t take her even a moment to see where Doom was going. The early-primary states.

  “It’ll be four years old then, if she even runs,” said Tribolo. “Voters are goldfish.”

  “I’m sure the relatives will have forgotten their losses by then. And the voters will forgive Governor Evanston not even caring enough to pretend, as a – youthful indiscretion?

  Tribolo scowled.

  “I’ll show it to her,” she sighed.

  * * *

  “His plans make sense,” said Lieutenant-Colonel George Seville of the United States Army, currently Governor Evanston’s senior military aide. “All three options are minimally disruptive, in that the troops he’s moving to assemble the relief force, also have valid uses around East Vasimir and route-clearance objectives that can be accomplished while moving them.”

  “Reading between the lines,” Tribolo said, “the plan assumes the Department of Security has sources that we don’t know about but that he, Doom, presumably does. Those sources aren’t identified, of course.”

  Evanston frowned.

  “This office is cleared for everything.”

  “No, Governor; I don’t think he’s told his own superiors about however he expects the Euros to know about these troop movements. Maybe he’s just assuming something will leak at some point, but… that’s a big assumption.”

  “Hiding information from his own superiors. And we’re expected to grant his request why?” Evanston asked wearily. She wanted to table the item immediately, but it had gotten past Leah for a reason.

  Now the chief of staff sighed.

  “Army and Air Force elements there, and a hundred and some Legion troops whose deaths will be noticed,” she said. “We’ve got to at least look as if we’re doing something to prevent it, now the situation has been brought to our attention on what will be the public record.”

  “What does he hope to accomplish by this?” Evanston asked.

  “I think he’s hoping for reinforcements or some kind of a miracle,” said Tribolo. “I’m also pretty sure he has something else up his sleeve.”

  “Supposing a column were prepared according to his requests,” Evanston hypothesized ironically. “What do you think the chance is that Doom will try to assume command of it, fake authorization, and lead them out on the mission they’ve been gearing up for anyway?”

  “Approximately one hundred percent,” said Tribolo with a slight smile.

  “And then the column goes out. executes the mission and takes more losses than it could potentially save,” said Evanston. “Or more, if Doom knows he’s walking into the trap he’s baiting – and walks in anyway hoping to fight his way through. So I assume you’ve got a precaution against that.”

  “Yes,” said Tribolo. “The convoy doesn’t leave East Vasimir without an authorization from you personally. Seville, I assume you have a reliable officer you can spare for a couple of days?”

  “I can send someone, yes.”

  “That officer, and that officer only, is responsible for getting permission from the Governor’s Office, which you’re going to deny. If apparent authorization is given, then it is to be considered fake. Doom is not going to be able to talk the convoy into departing.”

  “That defeats his angle on this,” said Evanston. “But maybe he will get his miracle.”

  “And in any case, in four years it’ll look to the public as though we tried to help,” Tribolo said.

  “Very well. Give me the authorizations to sign off. Evanston, go with Plan B.” Evanston didn’t remember the differences between the plans, if there were any. B was just the one that seemed in the middle of the three.

  “Those units do not leave the Vasimir Pass, however. Under any circumstances.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Senior Sergeant Alonzo,” Captain Diodorus asked that man, “are you good with only a couple of men to mind the shop?”

  “That should be fine, sir.”

  Other men in the S-4 offices were packing up computers and essential equipment. Orders had come over the official network ten minutes ago, directing HQ Company to board a flight to Templeton “in support of Operation Desert Savior.”

  Diodorus hadn’t had to look up Templeton; it had become a major logistics hub for a dozen secure areas including East Vasimir, which was only a couple of hundred miles to its north. And that meant Operation Desert Savior – you could tell a politician had come up with that name – was definitely related to Bravo Company. Troops were being moved.

  “Sir, chopper’s coming back,” said a junior man to Diodorus.

  Damaskinos Diodorus adjusted the laptop slung over his arm and joined the last of the Supply men headed for the helicopter that would take them to Vazhao’s Military Zone, where there were airstrips.

  * * *

  Faden sat in the back of a crowded C-175 transport aircraft, thundering north toward Templeton with the rest of Headquarters Company and Charlie Company. The plane was configured for cargo, which meant the men were crowded shoulder-to-shoulder like livestock in a cargo area that hadn’t been designed for this many people in the first place.

  A string of orders had come through; Headquarters and Charlie Companies reassigned to Templeton, which would put them in range of East Vasimir. Doom had gotten all the authorizations from the governor, although overall command would belong to a Lieutenant-Colonel Gillivray coming from the operations staff of Thirty-First Division’s East Vasimir headquarters.

  Doom had confidently predicted seven thousand nomads would move to face the relief force, on ground the nomads would consider favorable
to themselves. Being gathered for Operation Desert Savior were Delta Company, two companies of Army mechanized infantry in their personnel carriers, two companies – twenty vehicles each – of M30 Wolfhound light armored combat vehicles, and 1/4/4’s combat engineers platoon.

  They were coming from around the East Vasimir area, drawn from places their loss would be minimal. For instance, two of the Wolfhound companies had been deployed on crowd control around Templeton. Charlie Company was being flown in to replace them in that role, allowing the armored cars to move to East Vasimir – they’d take a day to get there – and take part in the rescue mission.

  The battalion commander had gone out of his way to minimize the overall-operations impact of his plan, but Faden wasn’t sure it would be enough. The heaviest the force would have were armored cars, but hadn’t there been some heavy armor around East Vasimir?

  Something to look into. There was no such thing as a plan that couldn’t be improved.

  As the C-175 cruised three miles above the burning Chongdin Empire, Faden started to look up what he could from his phone.

  * * *

  “Operation Desert Savior, is it?” Lavasseur asked with a thin smile.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ve got communications intercepts – they’ve moved battalion headquarters and a line company to Templeton. The line company is taking over from two cavalry companies. Those guys are being moved for a reason.

  “Another company, the one already at East Vasimir, has orders to prepare to mount up with the battalion engineers, who will be arriving from Templeton. All in support of an upcoming operation they’re calling Desert Savior. I think we can guess where those armored cars are going, ma’am.”

  “What do our eyes on the ground in Vasimir have?”

  The Department of course had assets around the ancient fortified city; in fact, there was a safe house inside. There were also watchers on the mountains overlooking the area, with powerful binoculars and satellite connections.

  “Something’s been prepared-for; fuel is being set aside. And we’ve got an indication that an unknown lieutenant-colonel has been temporarily reassigned from Thirty-First Division staff.”

  That would make sense if it were a Legion-Army joint command, thought Lavasseur. Americans preferred giving Army officers command over Legion troops than the other way.

  She growled. The force was going to be a distraction, since if it moved fast enough it just might arrive before Axhar was ready to attack. The horde would have to deal with it first, but the Department been planning on that since hearing it had been a possibility.

  Destroying the relief column wasn’t just going to be icing on the cake; it was going to be a bigger and better cake in its own right. Not just the one company would be wiped out, but a substantially larger force than that. It would, under review, more than completely justify the personal attention she as operations director was giving this matter.

  “Tell von Kallweit to have the horde begin trickling away,” she directed. “The investment force can increase their activity, and the horde can leave their tents and pack animals there.”

  A minor problem was that most of the horde was going to be out of radio contact again, once they’d ventured about thirty or thirty-five miles from the blown Station Nineteen and into the effective range of other jammers. She wouldn’t be able to communicate with von Kallweit except by messenger from the Kandin-dak area.

  On the other hand, the same factors were putting the relief force out of radio contact for most of its trip, unable to call for support. American chivalry – Europe had a more collectivist and utilitarian attitude on these situations – was going to get a lot more of them killed racing to the rescue.

  Avenging Andre by wiping out Kandin-dak was personal. Destroying the relief force would be pure business. She was looking forward to both.

  * * *

  Staff Sergeant Lucas Clark of the Thirty-First ‘Iron Hammer’ Division growled as he watched the blueshirts. They should have been heading out to relieve good Army troops, but instead they’d been reassigned to something called ‘Desert Savior’.

  Given the recent rumor that some of the Legion troops who’d been in the wastelands were still holding on, it didn’t take a star-drive scientist – or a sergeant first class, which Clark missed being – to guess what they were going to be doing.

  These particular ones, apparently, were the individuals who’d started the fight that had gotten hellfire rained down on the entire Second Battalion. Nobody had been relieved, but it might have been a close thing.

  The owners of the rifles – not just the six that had actually been stolen, but the two the thief couldn’t carry – had faced fines, reduction in rank and brig time. Clark, who’d given those men permission to join the fight, had been busted down a pay grade and fined a month’s pay; he’d been told he was lucky not to lose both rockers.

  He’d never had much more use for Legion troops than most of the Army; they were expendable trash, after all, useless for anything but the dirty work Army was too good for. But after inspectorate-general hellfire had rained on all of Alpha Company due to the fight, and the entire battalion’s reassignment from comfortable Vazhao… after all that, Clark really didn’t like them.

  “Hope we’re not going to be pulled to support them, Serg— uh, Staff Sergeant,” said Lieutenant Connor. She was a good kid, in Clark’s opinion, and the incident had put a letter of reprimand in her file. She appreciated Legion misbehavior about as much as her platoon did.

  “No ma’am,” said Clark. He’d be pissed if they had to mount up for that. Wasting their time – and risking good lives – for the chance of rescuing troops whose whole purpose was to die? But it did look like this Operation Desert Savior was being set up. “I hope to hell not.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Kalchenko looked up from his rifle and saw that Croft had been watching.

  “Got him, I think—sir?”

  Croft had seen him make the shot, and yes – one of the aggressively circling nomads had fallen. Moving target four hundred and fifty yards away.

  “Good shot,” Croft said.

  “Is it just me,” said Corporal Hernandez, “or are there less of them?”

  “Not just you, Hernandez,” said Croft.

  A couple of hours ago, the nomads – who’d always kept a number of themselves circling at the limits of rifle range – had tripled in activity, to where Croft had ordered everyone to full alert in anticipation of a final attack. Men and women had rushed to the walls, but the nomads hadn’t moved closer – just gotten noisier and more active.

  He’d stood the fort down after a while, since nothing had developed and nothing seemed to be developing. But in groups, going in different directions, the nomads were slowly moving away.

  They didn’t want him to notice – they didn’t, he assumed, want him telling Battalion that the relief force was probably going to be ambushed; Battalion presumably expected that because they’d underplayed the estimated nomad strength for a reason – and the increased harassment was almost certainly meant to distract from that.

  He kept going along the walls, past a couple of Black Gangers – with M-25s, there were more rifles than men in Hubris right now – who made salute-gestures toward him. Croft nodded back to them, always wary of snipers.

  “Sir,” said Pantaleo, “any word on the relief force?”

  “No, Corporal. Next satellite coverage isn’t until tonight.”

  “Think they’ll get here in time, sir?”

  Croft had decided the men didn’t need to know that Battalion thought they were being listened to; it would have been too easy for someone to accidentally let something slip over the radio network. But everything else, he’d told Signals and the platoon leaders to be upfront about. The men were dying under his command; he owed them all the honesty he could give them.

  “Probably,” he said. “They know what they’re facing and cavalry can move fast if they have to.”

  The sun was s
tarting to set on the west side of the fort, overlooking the runway. The nomads were digging from that direction too but hadn’t reached the runway yet. That ran six hundred feet of hard-packed dirt north to south, starting halfway to the ruined city but ending under the walls.

  Digging, digging, digging their zig-zagged trenches, in between sniping from them.

  “Help is coming, guys,” he told the Weapons Platoon guys on duty, who’d turned to greet him. They were toting their M-10 submachineguns, their personal defense weapons, because every last grenade, mortar round and .30 or .50 bullet had been expended.

  The submachineguns had a little more ammo left than the rifles, but that was about a hundred and twenty rounds a man as opposed to seventy-five or so.

  They could take us if even a small number of them attacked, he thought. It wasn’t news, but now there were communications and hope, the idea was scarier than it had been.

  All they had to do was hang on for a few more days, though.

  A relief force was coming. The battalion commander had promised it. Relief was coming.

  Right?

  * * *

  As night fell, von Kallweit made ready to join the horde that had been steadily gathering a half hour’s ride to the west.

  Reports had come in all day about the developing task force, so he had a fairly good idea of what he had to deal with. There’d even been information as to the routes they were planning; both options had multiple good ambush locations.

  The relief force would obviously be anticipating trouble of some kind, but they wouldn’t be anticipating ten thousand nomads on their own ground.

  So far, there’d been no indication from the fortress – through the telescopes and directional microphones aimed at the place, and listening to their communications – to the effect that they’d noticed bands and tribes quietly moving away.