“Zen, no!” Max said, his tone aggrieved. “You never hear me saying nothing against the government and none of its officials. That funker just happened to be standing next to me. I never seen him before. He deserved just what he got.”
The speaker went on.
Although he remained to the bitter end, Max’s attention had drifted astray early in the game. In the first ten minutes, the first speaker had covered everything the Nathan Hale Society believed in. The Society stood for the United States of the Americas, particularly those northern states once called the United States, Alaska, and Canada. It was forthrightly opposed to subversives, foreigners, others than Caucasians, atheists, and espionage agents from the Sov-world and the Neut-world.
When the last speaker had called for questions from the audience, there were none. He returned to his place and there was scattered applause, largely from the Minutemen. Max made his way closer to the stand and found that Jerry had been correct. A table had been set up there with a stack of membership blanks. A half a dozen or so applicants were lined up before it. Two Uppers were seated behind, one of them in the uniform of a colonel, the other in mufti.
Max recognized the civilian. It was Baron Balt Haer, brother of Doctor Nadine Haer, Max’s first inclination was to turn and leave, but he decided against it. The Baron wouldn’t recognize him as one of Joe Mauser’s friends.
When his turn came, Max stepped up before the head of the Haer family and came to attention. The other looked up and smiled as encouraging a smile as he was capable of when dealing with his underlings.
He said, “You wish to join the Nathan Hale Society?”
“Yes, sir!” Max said crisply.
“Name, category, rank, and caste status, please.”
“Max Mainz, Category Military, Rank Private, Middle-Lower.”
“Category Military, eh? Good, we don’t get nearly enough applicants from the Category Military.” Balt Haer frowned. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
Max was worried because Balt seemed to have an uncanny memory. He had seen, him only once in the past. He had been in a line before the offices of Vacuum Tube Transport when they had been recruiting for their fracas with Continental Hovercraft to be held on the Catskill Military Reservation. Max had gotten into a scrap with three larger men who were trying to take his place in the line. Joe Mauser had come to his rescue, and the fight was on in earnest until Balt Haer, a colonel at the time, had come up and put an end to it. It had been the beginning of Haer’s run-in with Joe Mauser, who was then a captain. But it was unbelievable that he would remember Max.
Max said, “Yes, sir. I fought on your side in that there fracas with Continental Hovercraft.”
“Oh, yes,” Haer looked vague. “It must have been there. Glad to have you with us, Mainz. Just sign this paper here and give us your identification number, so that we can check out your Category Security dossier. Then come to headquarters Saturday night and well finish processing you. Since you’re Category Military, you’ll probably want to join the Minutemen.”
“Yes, sir,” Max said sincerely. “If there’s any dill I want to be in on it.”
“Good man!” Balt Haer handed over a stylo and while Max was signing up, said, “Next.”
That business about the checking of his dossier set Max back a bit. Theoretically, nobody except proper government officals were in a position to examine a citizen’s Category Security dossier. And the Nathan Hale Society, while proclaiming its ultra-patriotism, was by no means connected with the government, and certainly not with Category Security. He wondered what might be in his dossier that could arouse the suspicions of Baron Balt Haer. He had no way of finding out. Citizens of the United States of the Americas were not given access to their secretly compiled Security dossiers.
Chapter Eleven
Joe Mauser was having one of his not uncommon nightmares. Nadine Haer, as a doctor herself, had suggested that he take the problem to a psychiatrist, but thus far he hadn’t been able to bring himself to it. He was prejudiced against psychiatrists and was against admitting that psychiatry was necessary in his case. Others might be drivel-happy, as the expression went these days, but not Joe Mauser.
The dream was about a full divisional magnitude fracas that had been fought on the same Catskill Military Reservation that many years later was to prove his Waterloo. It was between Lockheed-Cessna and Douglas-Boeing and the issue had been some huge government contract. Joe had never gotten a very clear picture of what they were fighting about. That wasn’t his interest. He was a mercenary and his interests were first, staying alive, second, projecting himself well enough that it would lead to, ideally, a bounce in caste from High-Lower to at least Low-Middle, and, three, that his side, Lockheed-Cessna, would win so that he would get not only the three shares of Variable Basic that were coming to him, win or lose, but a bonus as well. They almost always gave you a bonus if your side won.
General “Bitter Dave” Langenscheidt was commanding Douglas-Boeing, and it was well known among the fracas-buffs that there was a considerable grudge between Bitter Dave and Stonewall Cogswell, who was commanding the right flank of the Lockheed-Cessna forces, and who was to win his Marshal’s baton as a result of this battle. Joe Mauser was fighting under him as an infantry second lieutenant, a shavetail. And so was Jim Hawkins, his comrade-in-arms for many years.
The Category Military Department had given the two corporations permission for a maximum of one month to fight it out. If one side or the other didn’t win in that period of time, the fracas would terminate and a court of senior officers of the Department would rule on who had won, or if it was a draw.
For the first three weeks, Stonewall Cogswell’s brilliant tactics had seen them through to what seemed like certain victory. Langenscheidt’s regiments had been backed up, until finally he set his men to building defensive trenches near the Catskill town of Lake Hill. Or, more correctly, what had once been a small town; it had been shelled into ruin long since.
Through sheer bad luck, the company to which Joe and Jim Hawkins belonged had taken more than their share of the dill. Over and over they had been thrown into the heaviest action. Stonewall Cogswell, knowing full well that they were his most experienced veterans, had used them as storm troops. Thus Joe and Jim knew with certainty that they’d go in again in the morning, when they applied to the general for a one-night pass in nearby Kingston, a city of some twenty-five thousand right on the edge of the military reservation.
It was an unusual request. Passes were seldom granted in the middle of a fracas. However, Jim Hawkins and Joe Mauser had been in almost continuous combat for three weeks and had another week of it to go.
They stood before General Cogswell’s portable military desk in his field headquarters. He was a smallish man, but he had a strikingly strong face and a strong build. His voice was clipped and clear and had a ring of command, suggesting that he had given many an order and fully expected them to be carried out.
He said, “Gentlemen, my apologies for drawing upon you and your lads beyond the call of duty to such an extent over the past weeks. However, we go into the attack at first dawn.”
“Yes, sir,” Jim said.
Cogswell looked from him to Joe, his face a bit testy. He said, “Do you think you can be back with your lads by that time—and sober?”
“Yes, sir,” Joe said.
“I hope so, gentlemen. In view of your gallantry in the past three weeks, I have already made a note to recommend your promotions upon the conclusion of this fracas. I hope you do nothing to alter my thinking. One night pass granted. Notify the major at the desk out front.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” they said in unison, saluting. He was already back at his field maps. He looked infinitely weary. Like Napoleon, it was said that he could get by with two hours sleep a night when involved in a battle.
Outside, passes in hand, they looked at each other jubilantly.
“Old chum-pal,” Jim said happily, “we’re in bus
iness. I need a drink almost as badly as I need to breathe.”
“Second the motion,” Joe said. “Let’s see if we can liberate a couple of horses from some of the cavalry lads.”
They borrowed the horses from two of Jack Alshuler’s junior officers, who were openly envious at their Kingston leave. However, this had been a fracas in which the brunt had been thrown on the infantry, not the horse. And General Alshuler’s Heavy Cavalry had largely spent their time sitting around, or going on scouts. It wouldn’t have done to refuse the loan to two men who had been in the dill in the last days.
They headed for Kingston at a gallop, conscious of every elapsing minute.
Jim said, “First dawn attack, eh? Old Stonewall sounds as though he’s trying to wind it up. I wonder if he figures on a frontal attack.”
“That’s all we need,” Joe said. “But you know Cogswell. He never orders a frontal assault on a strong point, unless the other lads are punch drunk.”
Jim looked over at him as they rode stirrup to stirrup. “Yeah,” he said sourly, “but this is different, this time. Stonewall Cogswell and Bitter Dave Langenscheidt hate each other’s guts. It’s something you seldom see in Category Military. Mercenaries are philosophical about the way they make their living. One day you’re up against a lad. The next month you might be on the same side he is. In between fracases, we’re a tightly-knit club. If some lad is down on his luck, there’s nobody quicker than a mercenary to chip in, even though a couple of months later they might be shooting at each other. But that’s not the way it is with Cogswell and Langenscheidt. Go into some officer’s club, between fracases, and they can be seen in the same room. The temperature goes up several degrees. Neither looks at each other. Neither leaves. But you can feel it all over the room.”
Joe said, “Can’t we get any more speed out of these plugs? What the hell’s that got to do with tomorrow? Everybody knows they hate each other’s guts.”
“What it’s got to do is this. They’ve fought three times: this is the fourth. They’ve never been on the same side and aren’t ever about to be. The first three times, Stonewall had taken Bitter Dave, in spite of the fact that Langenscheidt is one of the best general officers going. This time, Cogswell really wants to clobber him, really finish him off to the point where Bitter Dave will be considered a has-been. And he sees his chance for a real debacle. He’s only got one week to go. Then the Category Military Department might even call it a draw. Some of those early skirmishes came out with Bitter Dave’s lads looking pretty good. No, you can bet that Old Stonewall isn’t thinking as coolly as usual—and it scares me.”
“Oh, great,” Joe growled. “Just wizard. It’s all we need. After getting through three weeks of this, to get in the dill and cop one tomorrow!”
Jim said, “Same deal as always? If one of us takes a hit the other splits any additional hospital costs, fifty-fifty?”
“Same deal. This Lockheed-Cessna Corporation has a bad reputation for taking care of its casualties. The funkers put up just enough medico money to meet the minimum requirements of the Category Military Department; then you’re on your own, and if you’ve copped a bad one that lays you up for over a month, you pony up.”
They were on the outskirts of Kingston. The town on the Hudson River was the staging area of the Lockheed-Cessna element, as Catskill, some thirty miles to the north and also on the river, was headquarters of the Douglas-Boeing. This late afternoon, the town was jumping. Besides the multitude of uniformed officers and lads connected with the logistics of getting munitions and other supplies into the Military Reservation and to General Cogswell, Kingston was overflowing with fracas buffs. Undoubtedly, during the day they glued themselves to telly sets, but during the night they poured out onto the streets and into the bars, restaurants, and nightclubs.
It was a phenomenon Jim and Joe were thoroughly acquainted with. Immediately before a fracas there was a carnival atmosphere in such towns as Kingston and Catskill. The fracas-buffs turned up en masse to meet and associate with their heroes. It was practically impossible for a mercenary of any rank to buy a drink for himself. And it was practically impossible not to get laid. The fans were ultra-conscious of the fact that these soldiers would soon be in action, battling before the telly lenses, being wounded, or even killed.
The two lieutenants headed for the Hofbrau Bar, their favorite. They had to zigzag down the street, in between the horse-drawn wagons that were hauling supplies of food and ammunition to Stonewall’s division. Internal-combustion trucks were ruled off a military reservation when a fracas was in progress.
They hitched their horses to the rack before the Hofbrau, noting there were only three other animals there. Only a few of Cogswell’s officers were in town, undoubtedly on business for the general.
Jim chortled, “I’m going to start off with a John Brown’s Body.” He walked over to the bar.
Joe climbed up on the stool beside him and said, “You remember what the general said, Back by dawn—and sober.”
“Yeah,” Jim told him with a wicked grin. “I feel like Cinderella. However, look at these.” He held out a hand which contained two pills. “Sober-ups,” he said.
Joe groaned. “They’re worse than the hangover.”
“But sometimes necessary. You get the whole hangover compressed into a few minutes.”
“As though I didn’t know,” Joe said. He ordered the drinks.
Joe and Jim looked about. There were three of their fellow Lockheed-Cessna officers in a booth, but Joe and Jim recognized none of them. Undoubtedly, they were in logistics, not infantry. Otherwise, the room was full of civilians, some of whom already looked as though they were drenched. They’d probably been drinking all day while stationed in front of their telly screens.
A girl came over to Joe’s right, another to Jim’s left.
The girl near Joe, a plumpish, kittenish-looking blonde, whose name he was later to forget in short order, said, “Can I buy you a drink, Joe Mauser?”
Joe looked at her questioningly.
She said, “I’ve been watching you all week. I’ve been here a week now. It’s the most exciting fracas I’ve ever seen. It’s wizard. You’ve been in the dill a dozen times.”
Meanwhile, Jim was having a conversation with his vivacious brunette, an Italian girl by the looks of her, and quite small.
The drinks had arrived and the bartender put them down and then looked at the two girls and then at Joe and Jim.
“They’re with us,” Jim said.
“They’re with anybody,” the bartender said in negation. “Anybody in a uniform.” He walked off.
Joe said to his blonde, “I’ll buy you one.”
“Oh, no, it’s on me,” she said quickly. “I want to be able to tell my friends that I bought a drink for Lieutenant Joe Mauser.”
She had a glass already in her hand, and she climbed up on the stool next to Joe. “In fact,” she said, “I’d like to be able to tell them that I got drenched with Joe Mauser.”
Joe looked at Jim Hawkins and said, “Do we want company on this binge of ours?” He should have known better than to ask. Jim Hawkins was one of the horniest men he’d ever met.
Jim didn’t even return the look. He kept his eyes on his brunette and said, “I don’t know about you, but I just fell in love. Love at first sight, they call it.”
His girl giggled.
Joe sent his eyes down to the bartender and called to him, “Four more John Brown’s Bodies.”
The bartender shrugged resignation and began assembling the multi-ingredients for the drinks.
They left the Hofbrau Bar and went to the Continental Room for the floorshow. Then they left the Continental and went to the Woodstock Bar with its pseudo-artistic atmosphere. The real Woodstock, the former art colony up in the foothills of Mt. Overlook, was now a burnt-out victim of the fracases. Joe and Jim had ridden through it on the way down from the Lake Hill area where the action was being joined.
Jim said, “Drinking lik
e this is too expensive. We should get a bottle and go off to ourselves.”
His vivacious brunette said quickly. “We have a room, Lieutenant Jim.”
“A room?”
Joe’s blonde said hurriedly, “We reserved it six months in advance, as soon as we heard that this fracas was scheduled. We had to pay triple rates—but it has two beds.” These were the ones who would give practically anything to hold Joe or Jim, or any other mercenary, in their arms the night before they were to see them in the dill the following day. To see them either kill others, preferably in profusion… or to die themselves. Yes, these two fracas-buffs were typical.
But Joe and Jim were already so far gone that having sex in beds side by side meant nothing to them. Down through the ages, the niceties had meant little to warriors who knew that on the morrow they would very possibly cop the last one. Who worries about anything—including VD—when in the morning you would very possibly cop the last one?
Joe said, at one point, after a bout, “Hey, Jim. Watch the time. We’ve got to be back before dawn.”
Jim was resting, too, smoking a cigarette, and letting the ashes drop to the floor beside him. “I’m watching it,” he said. He reached down and picked up the glass he had on the floor too. How he kept from dropping ashes into his drink was a mystery, since he was as drenched as Joe.
The brunette said sleepily, sex-satiated, “What happens tomorrow?”
Even in his alcoholic condition, Joe tightened. He said, “Nothing.” Espionage was not unknown when rival corporations were in a fracas.
His blonde said, “How come you two infantry officers got a pass, right in the middle of everything?”
Jim had also been alerted. He said, “We’ve got a special in with Stonewall Cogswell. He loves Nothing exciting is going on, so he gave us some time off.”
The brunette giggled. “It’s always fun to have some inside information,” she said. “Then you have something to watch for on the telly the next day.”
The Fracas Factor Page 10