Into the Hinterlands-ARC

by David Drake; John Lambshead

  He saw nothing. He was completely alone, no Riders, no frames, nothing.

  Blinking to restore his sight, he phased fully into the Continuum. Frames flashed by in all directions, chasing a handful of beasts. The enthusiastic militiamen kept getting in each other’s way. No sooner did a frame line up for a shot than it had to veer away to avoid colliding with an eager compatriot trying for the same target.

  The Riders scattered and ran their beats out from the Militia like shrapnel from an explosion. Allenson blipped his fields with the recall signal, to stop his command scattered itself all over the Hinterland where it could be ambushed in ones and twos. The Militia had, he felt, done handsomely.

  * * *

  News spread fast of their victory. The company were heroes and they loved it, strutting into the mess for celebration drinks as if they had won the war single handed, instead of a minor skirmish. They cheered Allenson, they cheered Hawthorn, they cheered themselves and they started drunken fights. Morale was high.

  Allenson left Hawthorn to oversee the celebrations and returned to his office to write up a preliminary report for the Governor. Such a document had to be a masterly exercise in deception. Blatant lies were dangerous and to be avoided, but the full truth was equally unwelcome. The truth would focus on failures, the inability to stop the Rider raids and the way the Militia had been panicked by a handful of Riders. Truth was unpalatable, involving blood pouring down the legs of a militiamen and a girl peppered with laser bursts, hair alight—a corpse dancing in flames.

  Fontenoy did not need the truth. He needed a glorious victory to show the Council and the people of the ’Stream. So Allenson would give him a glorious victory, something that made ’Streamers feel good about themselves—something that would bolster support for the Militia.

  He strung together a tale of daring-do, highlighted by first and third point of view virtuals created from edited data capture. The highlight was an external view of Allenson pursued by the two Riders and rescued by Hawthorn. The voice commentary described a trooper luring the enemy into a cunning trap set by Major Hawthorn, as he now was. The laser burst split the beast into shattered crystal spears, releasing energy in white-blue pulses and electrical discharges. A red circle outlined the falling Rider. The clip would be on near continuous loop on the news reels, if Allenson was any judge. There was no need to mention that the “trooper” was fleeing for his life or that he was Inspector General and Colonel of Militia—no need to deviate from the script.

  Fontenoy’s PR people would work it over again before release but Allenson was reasonably pleased with the draft. He sent it off and settled back to write the report that mattered, the one highlighting problems and failings. He was tired but he needed to get his thoughts down while they were fresh, before they became edited by his memory into what he wanted to remember rather than what actually happened. The raid on the Rider camp was not just a political device, but was also a test of doctrine. Such operations were only useful if ruthlessly examined with a mind stripped of illusions. You had to recognize failings before you could begin to fix them.

  His desk beeped. An icon indicated that Fontenoy wanted to speak to him. Allenson keyed the icon and a hologram of Fontenoy popped up.

  “You got my report, then?” Allenson asked.

  “What, oh yes, that,” Fontenoy replied. “But that’s not why I need to speak to you.”

  “No?” Allenson asked, somewhat nettled by the cavalier dismissal of his efforts.

  “The packet boat is in with despatches from Brasilia,” Fontenoy said. “The government has changed. Isolda’s faction is out and Pretten’s is in. Policy on the colonies across the Bight has changed. They are sending out a major expeditionary Force under General Levit to force back the Terrans.”

  “Nice of them to tell us,” Allenson replied. “It would have been even nicer if they had asked our opinion.”

  But by then he was talking to himself. Fontenoy had gone.

  * * *

  Allenson looked around the meeting room. He had arranged the chairs in a circle to indicate that this was intended as a private venue among equals, to encourage a frank exchange of views.

  “Well gentlemen, you have all read my report, the real one that is, not the PR job,” Allenson said.

  “Thanks for putting my face all over the news loops,” Hawthorn replied. “I can’t venture out without being challenged to a fight by the local ruffians.”

  “I am not surprised,” Destry said. “If you will flirt with their girlfriends?”

  “It’s not my fault women find me attractive,” Hawthorn said, defensively.

  Mansingh choked back a laugh.

  “Your charm makes you tailor-made for the role of the face of the Militia, so I am afraid you will just have to put up with all the female adoration,” Allenson said, with a grin. “Recruitment applications have increased so much that we can pick and choose among the candidates.”

  “The things I do for my country,” Hawthorn said, putting on an expression of noble sufferance.

  Allenson tapped his nails on the edge of the screen to attract attention.

  “Gentlemen, majors, fascinating though Major Hawthorn’s romantic problems are, we must return to the point of the meeting. Our raid was a useful morale-building exercise but it revealed weaknesses in our doctrine. Specifically, we transit in large groups of at least company strength to magnify our impact at the schwerpunkt,” Allenson said.

  “Klotzen nicht kleckern!” Destry said, softly.

  “What?” Allenson asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Strike concentrated, not dispersed,” Destry said. “Sorry, it’s a principle from an from Old Terran general who used the same language. One of the dead ones—Russian, I think, or maybe French.”

  “The problem is that we leave a wake through the Continuum that just screams our location to the enemy. This is not good if the enemy are fast moving bands of Riders. They will mostly see us first and retain the initiative, fighting only at a time and place of their choosing. We can’t win by carrying the fight to the enemy on those terms. We are sacrificing mobility. The truth is that we were lucky on the last raid, and I mean no insult to our Intelligence Section who performed magnificently.

  “None, taken,” Destry said.

  “Regular formations travel in convoy. Battles are set piece and inevitably take place on or around strategic locations so it’s not an issue for Home World armies,” Mansingh said. “But I can see that is not applicable to our situation. The Hinterland is too big and our forces too small.”

  “It is not possible to transit dispersed and concentrate only to fight. Given the haphazard nature of Continuum travel, we could hang about for days waiting for stragglers to show up. Many of them would never arrive, for one reason or another,” Rutchett said, darkly. “It would not increase our mobility.”

  “I concur,” Allenson replied. He had no illusions about the reliability of the average trooper.

  “Sometimes I wonder if this concentration principle is necessarily correct,” Hawthorn said.

  “It is standard, tried and tested military wisdom,” Mansingh said.

  “Hmm, but you know, we got in each other’s way when the Riders counter-attacked. I doubt if there were more than a dozen of them but they created chaos,” Hawthorn said.

  “In practice, we fought as individuals, not as a team,” Allenson said. “That is something that I intended to bring up later, but since the matter of tactics has been raised . . .”

  “Have you ever wondered why Riders tend to work in twelve man groups or thereabouts?” Destry asked, interrupting his colonel.

  Destry appeared to be drifting off subject. Academics like Destry were irritatingly didactic. They did not give their opinion and then justify it if necessary, like any reasonable person. They started with observations and then meandered along the winding lanes of academic discourse until they reached their destination. Allenson would once have shut Destry down but he was inclined to let him
develop his theme. Destry’s intelligence coup was still fresh in his mind.

  “No, enlighten us,” Allenson said, encouragingly.

  Hawthorn shut his eyes. Fortunately, Destry did not notice.

  “It’s basic human biology. When Riders split off from the human population, males hunted in packs of about twelve. Warfare was just an extension of hunting, so the same applied. Warrior bands fought in groups of twelve or less, usually led by a hero.”

  “And how is this relevant to our present situation?” Allenson asked, patiently.

  “As I said, it’s basic human biology as well. Have you noticed how committees only function with twelve people or less? Any bigger and they split into sub groups. Similarly, the minimum sized unit in regular armies is usually a squad of ten. It may be less, but never much more.”

  “That’s true,” Mansingh said. “But surely it’s just for administrative convenience?”

  “All this is very interesting,” Rutchett replied, insincerely, “but I don’t see how this applies to the conditions found in modern warfare.”

  “Mostly, it doesn’t,” Destry admitted, “but there are circumstances where you find the old patterns work. Weapons may have changed, but people are the same. Do you know anything about early aerial warfare?”

  “Go on,” Allenson replied, starting to see where Destry was going with his argument.

  “There were two types of machines,” Destry said, slipping into lecture mode. “Large slow ones carried explosive devices to drop on cities. They would huddle together in convoys for protection from the small fast fighting machines that were designed to destroy them. The bombing machines would be escorted by their own fighters. Fighting machines faced the same issues as us. Attacking one at a time was hopeless, as the defending machines could concentrate their firepower.”

  “Defeat in detail,” Allenson said, softly.

  “What?” Destry asked.

  “Nothing, carry on,” Allenson replied.

  “Well, doctrine would have them attack en masse but it took too long for these primitive machines to take off and assemble in the air. Also a large mass of machines was visible for many kilometers, giving the defenders warning, and they tended to get in each other’s way,” Destry said.

  “So what was the solution?” Mansingh asked, clearly intrigued.

  “They operated in groups of twelve. The warriors lived and fought together maximizing team building. They also had an internal team structure. The twelve were broken down into “flights” of four, which were then broken down into elements of two. One flight would protect the other two from enemy warriors so they could concentrate on the bombing machines. Similarly, in an element of two, one attacked and the other protected his rear. Twelve turned out to be the optimum compromise between firepower, stealth and low visibility—and team building.”

  “I like it,” Hawthorn said, in excitement. “I can see this working.”

  “Yeees,” Rutchett agreed, “But our command structure might get in the way. Not all our NCOs and officers would necessarily function well as team and flight leaders. We can’t just dismiss or demote them as it would cause chaos and be disastrous for morale.”

  “That’s not a problem,” Allenson said. “Combat team leaders will be outside the normal chain of command that applies on the ground. They will be a new rank applicable only to Continuum combat.”

  “Funnily enough, the ancients used the same solution,” Destry said.

  “Whatever works,” Allenson said. “Well, gentlemen, we have a great deal of work ahead of us.”

  * * *

  “That’s not fair!” Allenson said, jabbing the air for emphasis.

  Fontenoy winced and looked alarmed.

  General Levit merely raised an eyebrow. She was a petite, slim woman who looked about thirty but was probably older. Her uniform, a combat suit of the Brasilian regular army, was exquisitely tailored but otherwise entirely standard in design—standard for a general, that is. She spoke softly, so that you had to strain to hear her. This tended to cause people to concentrate on her words more effectively than if she had yelled. In short, she was a woman who oozed gravitas.

  “Colonel Allenson, that’s no way to speak to . . .”

  “What’s not fair, Colonel?” Levit asked, interrupting Fontenoy as if he had not spoken.

  “Using Perseverance as the main base and jumping off point for the expedition into the Hinterland. It will give their economy an enormous boost.”

  “And why is that unfair?” Levit asked, puzzled.

  “It’s unfair because the ’Stream that has borne the brunt of the fighting up to now. It is not fair that Perseverance should reap the benefits,” Allenson replied.

  “Our base has to be somewhere,” Levit said reasonably. “It hardly matters exactly where as far as the Government is concerned. You are all Brasilian colonies, are you not?”

  “Quite so,” Fontenoy said, nodding to show his agreement.

  Levit and Allenson ignored him. Allenson realized that Levit genuinely could not see why he favored the ’Stream. The colonies were interchangeable from her perspective. He had to find an argument that would engage her intellect.

  “Manzanita has certain advantages compared to Perseverance,” Allenson said.

  He listed them on his fingers.

  “First, Chernokovsky built a base on Manzanita as an assembly and jumping off point for his expedition. It would be less effort to reopen it than start again somewhere else. Second, I take it you will need a trackway for your vehicles. Again, Chernokovsky’s expedition built one for much of the way to Larissa. Third, Manzanita has experience of supplying a regular army expedition, unlike Perseverance. Finally, the ’Stream Militia is the largest and most combat experienced military force this side of the Bight, and is specifically trained for Hinterland combat. You will want to take us along and we operate from our base here on Manzanita. For all these reasons, Manzanita is a better jumping off point than Perseverance.”

  Levit smiled, “I think, I can see where this is going. But first, to answer your points, Chernokovsky’s base is far too small for my force. I have heavy siege equipment. Also, building a new base will keep my troops occupied while the battlegroup is assembling. There is no port big enough this side of the Bight for the Navy transports to land the battlegroup in one go and, trust me on this, you do not want large numbers of idle troops wandering around your colonies, gentlemen.”

  “God no!” Fontenoy said, shaking his head.

  “I doubt that Chernokovsky’s trackway now goes very far into the Hinterland. Has anyone checked? No? Well, I am confident that the Terrans have decommissioned it not far out from the ’Stream. I would, in their place. The army’s experience of using Manzanita as a supply base is one of the primary reasons for moving the center of operations to Perseverance. The army had great difficulty finding supply vehicles and spares in the ’Stream, because it lacks an industrial base. Perseverance has at least a degree of manufacturing capability.”

  Allenson opened his mouth to reply but Levit held up a hand to show she had not finished.

  “Finally, there is the matter of morale. Squadies are superstitious, gentlemen, and they know that Chernokovsky’s expedition was a bloody disaster. It will give them no confidence to repeat the process.”

  She smiled at Allenson. “I think I know what the real problem is here. All you young officers are the same, glory hunters to a man. You probably realize that my battlegroup is far more combat capable in the Continuum than Chernokovsky’s light infantry.”

  She wagged her finger at Allenson.

  “You are afraid that I will leave your Militia behind. On the contrary, I think it would be useful for your men to gain experience alongside a proper combined-arms force of regular troops. Don’t worry. I will allow you to come with us so you are in at the kill.”

  Allenson was speechless. Sometimes, he thought he was the only one with any vision for the future of the ’Stream. Fontenoy was clearly relieved
that the army was just transiting through Port Clearwater to dump heat and refuel. He just wanted a quiet life and the arrival of a major military force was nothing but a threat to the established order. Allenson suspected that most of the ruling families of the ’Stream would agree with him. It was hardly in their interests to upset the status quo, even for the greater good.

  Nevertheless, it was galling to think that all his efforts would merely go to benefit Perseverance. Once the Terrans were evicted, the trackway would act as a magnet for economic exploitation. Colonies not on the trackway, like the ’Stream, would become backwaters. Well, there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe, he was being too parochial? Maybe he should start thinking of the Brasilian colonies across the Bight as a unitary whole? Ah well, a problem for another day. He had a war to fight.

  “Very well, General Levit, we shall move the militia temporarily to Perseverance. My men are trained to function as light cavalry. I suggest that we move outside the trackway in independent companies to scout and screen your regulars. I must warn you that the Terrans will know where you are at all times. It is impossible to stop Rider scouts detecting something as large and slow as an army building a road.”

  “You use your troops as you see fit, Colonel. Don’t worry about us. I will be delighted if the Terrans attack my battlegroup.” She smiled. “Unfortunately, I doubt they are that stupid.”

  * * *

  Levit offered the Militia a ride in a transport to Perseverance but Allenson declined. Running along the edge of the Bight in squadron-sized attack formations was good practice. The squadrons assembled into company and then regiment strength each night to rest. By the time they reached Perseverance, the ’Stream Militia could re-assemble a company at a distant rendezvous about as slickly as the vagaries of the Continuum would allow.

  He made it a competition. The last company to arrive at a rendezvous had to do all the dirty jobs, like digging out the latrines. The troops christened the losing company “Tail End Tossers”, and they were subject to barracking that drove home the message that it’s good to be a winner. As far as possible, the Militia lived off the land while in transit by hunting, preserving the minimal rations that could be carried on one-man frames.