Hawthorn popped up and shot five times, aiming at the source of the flash.
“What the Hell was that?” Allenson asked. “I thought they didn’t have any heavy weapons.”
He remembered his insouciant walk across the open ground, and felt like throwing up.
“They don’t exactly,” Hawthorn replied. “The weapon has an incredibly slow rate of fire. I suspect they have to service and recharge it after every shot. Rutchett thinks it is an armor piercing rifle, a light infantry weapon with long range sights.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Allenson said.
“Not surprised, apparently they are obsolete in the Home Worlds and hardly of much value out here. It’s a single shot weapon used to take out light armor. Apparently, it also makes a decent long range sniper rifle.”
“So we are stuffed,” Allenson said.
“Maybe not,” Hawthorn replied, with a shark-like grin. “Two can play at snipers.”
* * *
Marks had dug a pipe into the side of Mansingh’s gun-pit, and carefully excavated the end. Looking through it, Allenson could see a Terran position in the hills, a small clump of trees by some orange bushes. Mansingh had the cannon lowered so it could be pointed down the pipe. The narrow pipe allowed the gun just two or three degrees of traverse.
“Very useful if you can persuade the Terrans to form a narrow column and march towards us exactly on the right bearing,” Allenson said, sarcastically. He was short tempered. A random laserifle round had come depressingly close on his trip from the command bunker. He’d automatically thrown himself down on the mud, an utterly pointless thing to do. So now he was wet, cold and stinking, as well as tired, and wondering whether he was losing his bottle. If Hawthorn had dragged him out to see a pipe then their friendship was about to undergo a degree of strain.
“I noticed something about matey with the sniper rifle,” Hawthorn said. “He’s not very bright. He’s been taught to move after every shot so he does, but he moves to a set sequence along the same fire points, as regular as taxes.”
“And I take it that pipe is pointing at one of his regular fire points,” Allenson said.
“Promotion to colonel hasn’t entirely dulled your wits yet, then?” Hawthorn asked, with a grin.
“No, as it was a field promotion I have not yet had the necessary lobotomy required for commanders,” Allenson replied, recovering his sense of humor.
The friends suddenly remembered that they were not alone. Mansingh and Marks had their heads down making a fine adjustment to the cannon, something that apparently caused a transient attack of deafness.
In a few minutes time, matey will be looking for a new target,” Hawthorn said.
At that point two men dragged in a corpse. Hawthorn inspected it.
“There’s no head,” Hawthorn said.
“You didn’t say it had to have a head,” one of the troopers replied.
“You don’t think that a sniper with long range sights might not notice that his target is missing a head?” Hawthorn asked.
Neither trooper replied, which was sensible of them. Hawthorn did not raise his voice but his tone had acquired a dangerous edge.
“We’ll only get one chance at this. I think we will have to wait until we can get more convincing bait.” Hawthorn shook his head.
“And in the meantime, the sniper will kill more of my men,” Allenson said.
He was really pissed off. Nothing was going right and there seemed to be damn all he could do about it.
“Are you ready to fire, Mister Mansingh?” Allenson asked.
“Yes, sir,” Mansingh replied.
“Then let’s do it,” Allenson said.
Allenson scrambled up onto the pit wall and shook his fist in the general direction of the Terrans. He drew his ion pistol and discharged a series of shots at the distant hills. The pistol had an effective range of twenty meters, assuming you were a crack shot, which he wasn’t, but it did fire spectacularly noticeable rounds.
The hills lit up with sparkles, as the Terrans took pot shots at the madman with their laserifles. He noticed a blue flash from the orange bushes, like he was looking down the beam from a surveyor’s theodolite. Before his fore brain identified it as range-finder, his reptile hind brain threw his body backwards into the pit. He had the impression of a bright orange flash and the crack of ionized air. Then his world was filled with the shriek and pulsing strobe of heavy laser fire. He hit the ground hard on his back, knocking the wind from his chest. A sharp knock on the back of his head heralded concentric closing rings of blackness.
* * *
“Colonel, colonel,” a voice said from far away. He tried to ignore it but the voice was irritatingly persistent. He opened his eyes, quickly shutting them again. The light made the back of his head throb.
“You stupid bastard,” Hawthorn said.
“I’m your superior officer,” Allenson said, without opening his eyes. “Kindly treat me with respect.”
“Sorry, you stupid bastard, sir,” Hawthorn said.
“How long was I out?”
“Just seconds.”
“So I’m not badly wounded?” Allenson asked, feeling the urge to check everything was all there.
“You fell on your head,” Hawthorn replied, “so the only damage is to the duckboards.”
He slapped a patch on Allenson’s neck, none too gently, and the throbbing pain disappeared.
“Did we get the sod?” Allenson asked, remembering why they were there.
“Take a look for yourself, sir,” Mansingh replied.
He helped Allenson to his feet. The ceramic pipe was cracked and melted from the cannon’s backwash, but it was still possible to see out with a little care. Parts of the pipe still glowed orange-red.
Black smoke marked the Terran position. Orange bushes burnt fiercely and the trees were stripped of foliage and blackened.
“If we didn’t get him we certainly gave him a brown-trouser scare,” Mansingh said, with deep satisfaction. He patted the cannon as if it were a favorite niece.
* * *
Allenson trudged through the rain, his fleet sliding on the muddy ground. The rain temporarily provided protection from the incessant laserifle barrage but it added to the flooding that had turned trenches into ditches, and bunkers into ponds. Some of the men took the opportunity to get food from the stores and carry it back to their positions. Others just stood in the rain, letting the water run down their bodies. Maybe they were trying to wash of the stink of sewage. Fat chance, the very air was contaminated. Rainwater trickled down his face and under his collar.
He had a hundred casualties, including thirty dead, caused mostly by laserifle hits and accidents. A couple of men had shot themselves, maybe by accident, maybe not. Increasingly, disease took its toll in the unsanitary conditions. They had even had cases of malnutrition where men were too scared to risk the gauntlet of laser fire to get food.
The Expeditionary Force was completely cut off. No messages got through so he had no idea when relief would arrive, or even if it would arrive. The casualty rate haunted him. You could put a trend line on them and predict fairly accurately when he would have too few men to defend the base against a renewed assault. That time was not far off.
He went into the command bunker, waded across it, and flopped on the bed, which was propped up on old ammo boxes to be clear the water. It was still wet, of course. Everything was bloody wet. He lay down. Maybe a sleep would help him see his way out of this mess. He was too exhausted to think right now.
A sandbag shifted in the wall opposite and a stream of water forced its way into the bunker. While he watched, a blackened arm washed through the hole. The torso must be still attached as it blocked the hole, shutting off the flow. Allenson closed his eyes, pleased with the lucky break that meant he did not have to get up and fix the wall. He knew there was something wrong with that reaction but was too tired to work out what.
When he woke up he knew what he had to do.
Interlude
Brasilia
“What?” Marshal Ovaki asked, testily.
His secretary, a pretty girl was a perk of rank, was unconcerned. The Marshal’s bark was far worse than his bite, at least for pretty girls.
“General Brine to see you, sar.”
The marshal grunted, which she took as assent. She showed in a lean man dressed in the uniform of a Brasilian army general.
“Sit down, Petrov,” the Marshal said, jabbing at his desk to close down a file.
“You wanted me, Sam?” the general asked.
“Yes, some Scotch?”
The marshal opened a draw and produced a bottle and two glasses.
“No thanks,” the general said, shuddering slightly.
“A little plum brandy will do fine, Sam,” he added.
“Plum brandy—a nancy-boy’s drink,” Marshal Ovaki said, scornfully.
Nevertheless he drew out a second bottle, and poured a glass for his guest.
“Have you been following the latest crisis on the frontier?” the marshal asked.
“Which frontier?” the general replied, frowning.
Marshal Ovaki waved a hand vaguely in the direction of one of the walls of his office.
“The colonies across the Bight?”
“Oh those,” the general said. “I did hear that the politicos were winding themselves up into a lather about some imagined slight from Terra.”
“The Terrans are extending into the Hinterland behind our colonies. The armchair generals in The Council have taken fright,” the marshal said. “They have started babbling about strategic encirclement.”
The tone of his voice made it clear what he thought of Council Delegates.
“That’s ridiculous. Only the First Tier colonies across the Bight are of any value, and that’s not much. Colonizing the Hinterland is uneconomic. It will never be important to Brasilia. What has set off the latest panic?”
“Some damned fool of a colonial decided to play chocolate soldiers. The ’Stream Militia managed to shoot a Terran ambassador and then fled in panic when attacked by the Terrans. We have been made to look stupid. It’s now become a matter of face, d’you see?” the marshal asked.
“Yeees,” said the general.
He thought deeply.
“The Terrans have been feeling their oats recently. It might not hurt to give them a kicking and I suppose the Bight colonies are as good a venue as any.”
“There is also a defense spending review due next year. It might not hurt to remind our masters in The Council of the army’s value,” the marshal said. “Two light battalions of regulars should be enough to cow a Terran colonial militia.”
He stabbed at his desk.
“Battalions from the 51st and 12th are available for deployment. Who do we have available as a brigade commander?”
“Chernokovsky’s patrons have been pushing for him to have a field position,” the general suggested.
“Chernokovsky, yes, he’s not a ball of fire but he will be a safe pair of hands. Good idea, we’ll give him the commission.”
The marshal discovered that his glass was empty so he poured another scotch.
“How’s Regina, Petrov?”
“Cutting up a bit rough after those pictures in The Crusader, Sam. I had to buy her a new villa as a peace offering.”
“Cheating on your wife is one thing, Petrov, everybody does that, but there’s all hell to pay when you also get caught cheating on your mistress, and with her sister, too, you dog.”
CHAPTER 20
Homecoming
“Not content with massacring a Terran diplomatic party without warning, not to mention killing the ambassador in the process, you get beaten by the New Terra colonial army, and then you sign this ludicrous formal surrender document. Would that correctly sum up your military career so far?” Fontenoy asked.
“I hardly think that fair comment,” Allenson replied. “You completely ignored our request for reinforcements.”
“Not fair? Did you actually read that document before you signed it?” Fontenoy asked?
“Of course, it seemed generous, considering that they had our Expeditionary Force trapped. They allowed us to withdraw unmolested, with our weapons.” Allenson replied.
“Did you not notice that the preamble on this surrender document states, and I quote—at this point Fontenoy read from his datapad—“the Terran expedition was mounted in response to the murder of their ambassador in unclaimed territory.” He tossed the datapad on the desk. “Unclaimed territory—and you signed it. You effectively admitted that the Brasilian claims in the Hinterland are void.”
Allenson could not think of an answer. He had not considered the implications of that one word “unclaimed” because he was not a diplomat and he was more interested in getting his men out of the trap that he had created for them. He was also exhausted at the time—but that was just an excuse. He would probably have signed anyway, but he should have at least understood what he was signing. Fontenoy had a point.
“Fortunately, you can be easily disowned as a colonial officer exceeding his authority. However, I have also had a most unpleasant meeting with a Representative from the Colonial Office,” Fontenoy said, changing tack. “They are furious at your naiveté in handling the Riders, who were shocked at the way you threw your men’s lives away in a hopeless battle. Don’t you realize, man, that the Rider clans have tiny populations. They could not sustain losses like yours. The Rider clans have switched sides. Your incompetence has cost us our allies. We will face a wave of Rider raids on our outer colonies if war breaks out.”
Allenson noted that Fontenoy had suddenly become an expert on Rider society—after his briefing from the Colonial Office. Pity he had not thought to explore that avenue before despatching the Expeditionary Force. He did not voice the comment because he, himself, had made the same error.
“If you have lost confidence in my judgement then I must offer my resignation,” said Allenson, who had listened to enough complaints from someone who had never been further into the Hinterland than the nearest hunting lodge.
“Accepted,” Fontenoy snapped. “It will save me from firing you for exceeding your orders by starting a border dispute with Terra.”
“I did what you ordered me to,” Allenson said, hotly. “You instructed me to expel the Terrans by any means necessary.”
“You have that in writing?” Fontenoy asked, rhetorically.
Allenson was speechless at the man’s duplicity. Something unpleasant must have showed in Allenson’s expression because Fontenoy stepped back in alarm.
“I am not suggesting that you are untruthful,” Fontenoy said, hurriedly, “but my recollection of our conversation is at variance with your own. Possibly there was a miscommunication between us.”
Allenson had little choice but to leave the matter there, short of calling Fontenoy a liar, which would simply sound like sour grapes from a sacked official. He scrawled a one line resignation and left Fontenoy’s office before he lost his temper.
* * *
The Plaza outside the Assembly Building was thronged with people. They surged forward as Allenson appeared, faces contorted, yelling and shouting. He grabbed the handle of his pistol under his jacket but did not draw it. What was the point of killing a few plebs. It wouldn’t change anything. He looked around for a way of escape but they were all round him. The crowd called his name and laid rough hands on him. A woman with faded purple hair screamed in his face. He almost gagged on the smell of cheap booze. He thought he was about to be strung up.
A small voice at the back of his mind noted that this was an ignominious full stop to a short and less than glorious military career. He relaxed. It would be undignified to struggle. What was the point?
They hoisted him shoulder high. He could see Lictors on the edge of the crowd trying to force their way through but they were hopelessly outnumbered. The mob paraded across the Plaza chanting Imperator, an old Brasilian salute fr
om the commoners for a conquering general. The plebs honored him for his failed expedition. This was almost more embarrassing than being lynched.
The crowd started on a circuit, numbers growing all the time. Most were drunk and reeling. A woman in a blue dress tilted her head back to drink from a bottle. She overbalanced and fell, setting off a domino effect. People were trampled. It was only a question of time before there was a disaster. He yelled for them to stop but his voice was drowned in the roar of the crowd. He looked around desperately, thoughts racing.
A face, in the sea of faces, was familiar—what was the man’s name? Jezzom, that was it, Sergeant Jezzom. Now he looked, he recognized other people. Some were still wearing uniforms. Members of the Expeditionary Force were in the crowd.
“Sergeant Jezzom, can you organize an escort and get me out of here?” Allenson asked, cupping his hands and shouting to be heard over the cries of the mob.
Jezzom gave a thumbs up and issued orders. Soldiers surrounded Allenson. They hauled him down and shoved the crowd away. Forming a phalanx, they pushed their way through to a taxi$rame rank in a side alley.
“Thank you, Jezzom, take your men for a drink on me,” Allenson said, thrusting a handful of sovereigns into the sergeant’s hand.
“Thank you, sir,” The sergeant saluted, looking pleased, as well he might. Allenson had given him the equivalent of a month’s pay.
“Where to guv?” asked the taxi driver.
“Anywhere—up—away,” Allenson said.
The taxi part-phased and rose, moving rapidly across the city. Allenson gave the driver his hotel. However, after a few moments thought he changed his mind and directed the driver to a private address. Somewhere he could get some quiet reflection and intelligent advice.
* * *
“Are you sure it was wise to resign, Allen?” Trina asked, pouring the tea. “I can see the advantage to Fontenoy. He can pass all blame onto you and avoid a black mark on his career, but what of your own reputation?”
Allenson sighed. His promise to his dying brother had taken on something of a sacred vow and he had fallen at the first fence. He imagined Linsye’s scorn at the news.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 29