Honor of the Legion

by Leo Champion

  “Colonel Arlene Lavasseur thinks there’s going to be a relief force of a strength the horde can successfully ambush, which has drawn most of the nomads away from the fortress. Not just away from the place, but out of radio contact. A day’s ride away.

  “Governor Evanston knows I’m making the request with something in mind. She and her staff are political; they’re not stupid. So I gave her an obvious angle – of course she thinks I’m going to take command of the force. I haven’t even bothered to try.”

  Nobody said anything for a few moments.

  “So if the task force is your three-card monte table for everyone,” Munoz said skeptically, “then where’s the counterfeit money?”

  There came a knock at the door.

  “Sir,” came Broder’s voice, “two civilians are here for you.”

  “Send them in,” Doom said before anyone could stop him.

  Faden and Cedeno lowered their guns discreetly to their sides as the door opened, two civilian men coming in. One of them was tall, thin, and somewhere in his thirties; the other was short and stocky with messy grey hair, aged perhaps fifty, with an unlit stogie in the corner of his mouth. Both wore black leather bomber jackets.

  “Major, Captain, Sergeant-Major, meet Chip and Glass,” Doom gestured. “They’re pilots.”

  He was fairly sure that Chip at least had noticed the guns that Faden and Cedeno had lowered but not put away. If either man had, it didn’t show as they stepped into the room.

  “Are you guys CIA?” Ramos asked. Broder was closing the door behind them.

  “Freelancers,” said Chip, the tall thin one.

  “For – what? What’s the real plan?” Ramos asked. “What have you been distracting everyone from?”

  Doom shrugged.

  “Simple. Task force has lured the horde away from the fort and out of radio contact. There is, however, an investment force remaining, which we can assume will have stingers. Their purpose is to keep the defenders from breaking out.

  “When the horde is far enough away, at about this time tomorrow night, Chip and Glass take the plane I’ve chartered for them to East Vasimir, to pick up Delta Company and the battalion engineers. I’ve arranged for them to have parachutes. The plane hire, incidentally, was paid for with the money the Department so kindly paid me for the battalion’s codes.

  “Delta and the engineers make a high-altitude assault drop around Kandin-dak and neutralize the horde’s investment force, which is spread out around the fort and can easily be defeated in detail. Its way cleared, our chartered plane lands to evacuate everyone. This time thirty-six hours from now, the Kandin-dak garrison will be safe, gentlemen.”

  Faden and Cedeno both looked at Ramos, who thought for a moment.

  “Thirty-six hours, huh. OK, sir. But we will be watching you.”

  “Dismissed, people,” Doom told everyone. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it; there’ll be enough action tomorrow night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  With half an hour until midnight, the Colonial Department offices in the Administrative Zone were quiet and mostly empty. Their farms of cubicles were dark, with only occasional refracted monitor glows indicating late-night workers.

  One of those workers was Communications Specialist III Heather Rawley-Cranston, a middle-aged woman in a pantsuit. She’d spent two of every three years since college offworld, in similar offices in similar enclaves across the US colonial empire, slowly working her way up the ranks of the Federal bureaucracy. Right now her title was Communications Protocol Manager, responsible for security and proper formatting of everything the Colonial Department released to the public.

  The file on her desk now was a list of gubernatorial orders from the period of six o’clock yesterday evening through five fifty-nine this evening. Most of the items – with a handful of specific redactions, you could tell where they’d been by the line spacing – were public record, meaning they could be accessed in full by anyone with a Freedom Of Information Act request. That would have to go through Washington on Earth, of course.

  Some items, though, were not just public record but for public announcement through the Federal Administrative Bulletin (Dinqing). It was Rawley-Cranston’s job to identify those, clean them up, and collate them into tomorrow morning’s bulletin lists. The line-item now in front of her, Gubernatorial Order DQ215-809, looked like one.

  Governor Evanston’s office had approved it at about half past six on Tuesday evening, narrowly missing yesterday’s cutoff. The subject line was ‘Interim Appointment, LTC Richard Doom (FL), acting command FL Battalion 1/4/4’.

  That was a promotion or an appointment – ‘appointment’, it said so right there in the subject line. The battalion, it took her a moment to check, had its permanent assignment to the Administrative Zone of Vazhao, where the Governor had not seen fit to declare as being in state of emergency.

  A military appointment made by the governor, in an area not under state-of-emergency rules, was supposed to go into the Administrative Bulletin. On the other hand, there were security considerations. The rules said that for military appointments, units were not to be designated.

  So after Rawley-Cranston pasted the entry into the bulletin file, she diligently cleaned it up: ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Doom of the Foreign Legion has been appointed an acting battalion commander’.

  She remembered, in passing, that that unit had crossed her desk last night as well; it had gone into this morning’s bulletin that Lieutenant-Colonel Hall had been removed from command of Foreign Legion Battalion 1/4/4 for reasons of death.

  It did, for a moment, cross her mind that anyone who read the Administrative Bulletin on consecutive days would connect the two data points and easily identify the battalion. But you didn’t make GS-9 by questioning the rules that had been established for your job; you got there by obediently following them.

  Rawley-Cranston had followed the process set for this task, so without further thought she moved on down the list of items. Tomorrow morning’s Administrative Bulletin would be finalized at midnight, after all. It would be released at nine thirty on the dot.

  If you wanted to get ahead as a Federal employee, you followed the rules.

  * * *

  Hadfield was doodling lines of red squares and green arrows on his pad in the Delta Company command tent. It was past midnight and Numminen was thinking of going to bed when there came a knock at the entrance. It was Kowalski, tailed by four brown-uniformed men Numminen recognized from the trek, although the Colonial Guardsmen had long ago exchanged their peaked caps for more-practical military helmets that they’d picked up.

  “Come in, Master Sergeant,” said Numminen, not particularly wanting to deal with anything at the moment. He’d been about to crash.

  “Captain,” said Kowalski, “you know Staff Sergeant Ellings and his men.”

  Numminen got up to greet them. Ellings was a Colonial Guard platoon sergeant, senior of the brown-uniformed group with Kowalski. They were, Numminen knew, the leaders of the Colonial Guard who’d been with Delta Company on the trek from the fallen forts. Decent soldiers, especially for CG.

  “Sir, we’re former Legion,” Ellings said. “We were doing our active month a year when the shitstorm hit. We hear there’s other Legion men in danger.”

  “Yes, there are,” said Hadfield.

  “We – my guys and I – want to help. You’re short, you lost men at the forts and on the trek. You need guys. I think we proved ourselves on the walk.”

  “Yes,” said Numminen. He could use men, and it wasn’t like he was going to get organic replacements anytime soon. “How long can we count on you for?”

  “Probably the duration of the emergency, sir,” said Staff Sergeant Ellings. “We’ve reported in to command, but… they haven’t responded. You need men, we’re men. The junior guys will follow us, mostly.”

  Most of the senior enlisted – sergeant and higher – from this Colonial Guard unit were former Legion, Numminen knew. Th
ey’d done their time and lived in an Encouraged Settlement, where their Legion service gave them job priority and housing grants if they served as part-time Colonial Guard cadre.

  “We’ll take you,” he said. “For the time being. You’ll be under my command as though you’re my own troops; Kowalski and I can take care of administrative details if needed.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Ellings.

  “Staff Sergeant,” said Hadfield, “if it came down to having to – would you disobey Army orders to save Legion troops? And would your men?”

  Ellings thought for a moment.

  “Sir, if it came down to it? We came into America as Legion, we’re always going to be Legion. Yes.”

  Huh?, thought Numminen. But he went with it.

  “Thank you, Staff Sergeant. You’ve been leading the two CG squads; consider yourself what you’ve been acting as, as a Delta Company senior sergeant,” he said.

  He extended a hand, which Ellings shook. Then Numminen shook the hands of the other senior CG enlisted men; the lowest-ranking of the four was a corporal. They’d been acting team and squad leaders, integrated fairly well into D Company after the two-week trek.

  “Good to have you guys on board,” he said. “Get some sleep. We’ve got an operation coming up and I won’t lie – your guys proved yourself on the march and I’m happy to have you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ellings and the other men saluted and, after a moment with Kowalski, left.

  Numminen turned to Hadfield.

  “Senior Lieutenant, that was a very specific question you asked them about disobeying Army orders.”

  Hadfield didn’t look down.

  “Yes sir, it was.”

  “Would you mind telling me just what the hell exactly you’re thinking of?”

  The company XO hesitated for a moment, then said:

  “In related, the company should be at one-hour notice to go, as of tomorrow morning.”

  “Why?” Numminen asked. “Desert Savior isn’t scheduled to go until the day after tomorrow.”

  Doodling more arrays of green arrows on his pad, Hadfield replied:

  “Trust me, sir.”

  “No,” said Numminen. “I’m not going to trust you. Operation Desert Savior doesn’t begin for another thirty-six hours. We won’t be leaving the wire until then, this area is safe – why do you want a one-hour alert?”

  Hadfield glanced at the entrance to the tent, then seemed to make a decision.

  “OK. I was going to brief you, sir, on the real plan tomorrow morning. With Kowalski, Jester, the lieutenants and the platoon sergeants. Colonel Doom says Desert Savior is never going to get a green light and it was never meant to. It’s simply a trick to draw the main horde away from Hubris and communications.”

  “Go on,” said Numminen warily.

  “Colonel’s paranoid, which is why the men themselves aren’t going to know until they board the plane. But he’s arranging a plane to come in tomorrow evening, and those parachutes” – Hadfield gestured with his head toward the supply tent they’d been put into for now – “didn’t arrive by accident. Tomorrow evening we and the engineers take off, make an assault drop after sundown, destroy the investment force so the plane can land, and get Bravo out.”

  “And if the communications are compromised, how do we know when to execute?”

  Hadfield tapped the personal phone on his belt.

  “Codword Mayfield, sir. It means an hour’s notice.”

  “Colonel really is a sneaky son of a bitch, isn’t he?”

  Senior Lieutenant Hadfield smiled.

  “You don’t even know all of it, sir.”

  * * *

  Nine thirty in the morning Vazhao time was one thirty in the morning Binwin, but the Department never fully slept. In a quiet monitoring room, a Jewish woman with the rank of junior analyst reviewed the latest data, a routine daily appointments bulletin.

  Techno beats played in her headphones as she cross-referenced it, noting hundred-percent probability that Richard Doom had been the officer appointed to command Foreign Legion Battalion 1/4/4.

  A dynamic AI flag let her know that 1/4/4 was a subject of interest from the high-ups, so she marked it up and added a case identifier to the file. The information that Doom was the battalion’s new commander would be forwarded to Colonel Lavasseur when she woke up.

  * * *

  It was a couple of hours past midday at the Templeton base, although planes operated twenty-four hours at the centrally-located logistical hub. Doom sat in his office with Faden looking over his shoulder at the laptop, watching time-lapsed satellite photos of the nomad horde breaking up into ambush positions about a hundred miles west of Kandin-dak.

  It wasn’t real-time – this had happened hours ago – but it was confirmation that what Doom had planned for was happening.

  “So now what do we do?” Faden asked. “Go in? The men are ready, sir.”

  “Charter plane had a minor mechanical issue,” said Doom, “so it’s not here yet. I don’t want to make the drop in daylight, anyway. Do you want to land in broad daylight on a thousand snipers?”

  “Hell no, sir. Not if it can be avoided.”

  “And if the plane just sat around here, someone would grab it from us. So that’s fine. At seven thirty, after dark, we take off, go to East Vasimir to pick up Delta and the engineers , head over the mountains and hit them around eleven.”

  “I just hope nothing goes wrong, sir.”

  * * *

  Arlene Lavasseur woke, sitting sharply up in bed, when a special tone came. The clock said 2:27 am, and only a few people had the code that would trigger that particular tone. With trained practice she cleared her head, blinking hard a few times, as she reached for the phone.

  “Lavasseur,” she said a little irritably. There would be a good reason for this, of course.

  “Bujold here, ma’am. Woke for a moment to check for developments – it’s morning in Vazhao and there might have been. Ma’am, there’s been a major one.”

  Lavasseur got out of bed. Her apartment was minimally but elegantly furnished, a sensor in the floor turning soft lights on as she stood up.

  “What?”

  “We’ve identified Gambler Six Actual, ma’am. Verified it. Might be a game-changer.”

  “Who?”

  “Richard Doom.”

  Slow motion became fast. Doom was known to the Department – oh, was he known.

  “Have my car ready in five minutes,” she said as she began to get dressed.

  “It’s already on the way, ma’am.”

  “And get into the office yourself.”

  “I’m already on the way, ma’am.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Lavasseur was sipping from a cup of espresso in her office as she reviewed the analyst’s notation and confirmation.

  Richard Doom as the battalion commander – shifted things. Dramatically.

  It had been terribly convenient that 1/4/4’s communications codes had been slipped to the Department at exactly the right time. Source EAP-14 had been proven legitimate and verified, but she’d played that sort of game herself…

  “Mark EAP-14 as compromised,” she told Bujold. “May or may not be intentionally so, but I want everything they’ve ever given us to be cross-checked.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Already put in a recommendation for that; confirming it now.”

  “Good man. This changes everything, you realize. We were meant to hear about that relief force. I know Doom; he slipped us those codes for a reason, because he was playing for an audience. The relief force is no more than a distraction, since he wanted us to know about it. Odds are it’ll never leave East Vasimir.”

  A pity, that. It would have been nice to annihilate a reinforced battalion.

  “A distraction for what, ma’am?” Bujold asked.

  “Don’t know, Major. We don’t know. But it’s succeeded, to an extent. The main horde is a hundred miles from Kandin-dak and out of radio
contact. We need to call them back now. Get me Team Nine.”

  A minute later:

  “Second Lieutenant Hecht, madam Colonel.”

  “Hecht,” said Lavasseur, “new intelligence has come in. The relief column was a distraction; it’s probably never going to be sent. von Kallweit said you have riders going to him every hour, on the hour. Don’t send a special one – Doom is going to be monitoring things like we are, and the fort will report anything unusual. I do not, repeat do not, Second Lieutenant, want him to know we are onto him. But the next hourly rider is to tell Axhar and von Kallweit to bring the horde back. They are to attack and destroy Kandin-dak the second they return.”

  “Yes ma’am,” said Hecht. “But I planned for something like this. I’ve got a couple of riders and a radio man east of here, at the limit of unjammed radio range. In case of an emergency like this. I can contact them, madam Colonel, without the fort noticing unscheduled riders. And they’re thirty miles – hours – closer to the horde than we are.”

  Lavasseur nodded approvingly.

  “Was this your plan, Hecht?”

  “Yes ma’am. It seemed logical.”

  “Good planning, First Lieutenant,” she said.

  “Ma’am? I was commissioned less than a year ago.”

  “Good planning, First Lieutenant.”

  She put the phone down.

  “Doom is going to be watching the horde, of course, ma’am,” Bujold said. “They’ve put a satellite rotation over the area. He’ll know when they’ve reassembled and are heading back. And it’ll take the horde hours to get there.”

  “Yes, Major. When he sees the horde leave the ambush site, he’s going to realize we’re onto him. Whatever he’s got in mind, he’s going to have to pull it off then. If he hasn’t started it already.

  “It’s almost certainly going to happen out of East Vasimir. While the horde comes back – it’ll take a few hours for them to arrive and ten minutes for them to destroy Kandin-dak when they get there – I want all our assets around Vasimir to be put on full alert for any unusual activity.”