“They were unloading machine guns for the volunteer battalions they plan to form, and we may have picked up a half dozen or so by accident.” Vereshchagin’s executive officer made little secret of his view on putting real weapons in the hands of cardboard commandos. “We swapped for two light trucks and an extra fuel lighter to carry it all back.”
Past experience with centralized supply had immunized Vereshchagin to excessive solicitude for the welfare of the supply functionaries Matti had driven to distraction. He asked about replacements, which was uppermost in his mind.
That did bring a smile to Haijalo’s broken face. “We have nineteen of our own from Helsinki, one a sublieutenant, Tikhon Degtyarev’s son. From the replacement pool, I pried another four and a sublieutenant out from under Colonel Lynch’s fingernails, but that’s all we’ll get. Kimura’s taken a fair number of casualties, and Ebyl will need the rest.”
“Did you actually sign for them?” Vereshchagin asked in a resigned tone of voice.
“Why no. It must have slipped my mind. The battalion sergeant has them for the time being. He dragged them off to teach them who the first commander of the battalion was and so forth.
I don’t suppose it will hurt for them to stay on Colonel Lynch’s books for a while.”
Vereshchagin rapped his pipe against his thigh pensively.
“I looked them over thoroughly,” Haijalo continued, using a euphemism for setting aside trash. "Our sister battalion seems to have done a fair job this time.” In the past, their sister battalion, the 2nd Battalion, 35th Imperial Rifles, had not been overly scrupulous in selecting men to send to the stars.
“And Degtyarev the second?”
“He’s fresh as daisies, of course, but he’ll do very well, I think. He’s twice as big as Tikhon, and if he’s half as mean he’ll do very well indeed.” By some fluke in the measurement of time, so far as the battalion was concerned it had only been a few years since the elder Degtyarev had taken his medical retirement.
“How do you wish to divide the spoils?”
“I’ll put Degtyarev and nine to Piotr to bring him up to strength. If Chalker’s cowboys start acting up, he’ll need them. We can give the spare sublieutenant to Raul, and he and Yoshida can split the rest.”
“Agreed. Good enough, but not enough.” Vereshchagin noted his commo personnel eavesdropping shamelessly. “I will ask the admiral if we may recruit a few locals. He will not like it, I think, but he will not forbid it. We can give them to Paul to whip into shape. What about the officer?”
“His file looks promising.”
Vereshchagin wondered how much that had cost. “What did Yuri say?”
“Our esteemed battalion sergeant thinks he’ll shape nicely. See for yourself!” Haijalo looked up through the open cellar door and a slight, coffee-colored sublieutenant dropped through like a cat. “Edmund Muslar. They had him running the replacement pool.”
Vereshchagin walked over and carefully shook hands. “What lies did Matti tell you?”
Muslar smiled, exposing even white teeth. “Sir, I was kidnapped.”
Vereshchagin laughed. “You will do well.”
“I am honored, sir,” Muslar said. “I know that this is a Russian battalion with unexcelled reputation . . .’’He stopped when he saw that Vereshchagin was walking away and followed him back into the partitioned space that served as both office and living quarters.
“This is not a Russian battalion,” Vereshchagin said, closing the door and irreverently conjuring up a vision of pukkas, troikas, and artificial snow. “We recruit from Suomi, the sons and grandsons of refugees from the former RSFSR and native Finns like Matti. Over that kernel is an Imperial glaze. Still more of us are colonials or chance accretions like yourself.”
He maneuvered Muslar into an empty chair like a slender plastic spider. “As for our reputation, it is what they have made it. Our men generally complete a double term of service and take their muster pay to the colony on Esdraelon. The Battalion Association becomes a second home for many of them. We have second generation soldiers from there.”
For many of them, the battalion was a first home. Suomi— Finland—was a poor, cold, overpopulated land with forests dying, still slowly poisoned by the radioactive plague spots at either end of the old Karelian border. Esdraelon might be Suomi reborn some day, but it would not come for free. Although a large measure of the pay and entitlements flowing through the battalion ended up there, Esdraelon was still another ragged colonial world starved for capital.
“Tea?” he inquired politely.
Muslar politely declined.
“In some ways we are much like a family, as unusual as that may seem. The battalion has been on active colonial service for sixteen years continuously, which is forty years relative to Earth. As you might imagine, discipline here is very different than it is back there.”
Muslar made no reply, knowing enough not to speak merely to hear himself talk.
Vereshchagin paused to contemplate Muslar. On Ashcroft there had been the desert to sort out mistakes. He reached over and tossed one of the tiny backported radios to Muslar, who examined it carefully.
“This has been modified. I see a disk mount and two ports,” Muslar exclaimed.
“Quite correct. As you may recall, there is a tiny but powerful computer inside that does little apart from scrambling and unscrambling messages. We use them for quite a bit more. Some of the academy courses are popular with our noncommissioned officers. Men in this battalion can be trusted to do whatever is necessary without a great deal of nonsense. They are, however, unlikely to tolerate a great deal of nonsense from you. Have I said enough?”
“Yes, sir. Quite enough,” Muslarsaid thoughtfully.
“I will be sending you to Captain Sanmartin’s C Company. Please excuse me while I make Raul Sanmartin aware of your existence.” With a word of thanks, Vereshchagin accepted the receiver Timo Haerkoennen handed through the doorway.
As Muslar executed a stiff salute and departed, Haijalo plopped himself in the empty seat with undisguised enthusiasm. “How gently were you planning to break the news to Raul about his new job?”
“I had anticipated that you would provide me with a carrot to offer him first. Do we have a connection? Hello, Raul? How is everything? . . . Yes, I know that you are bored, but I have been working on that. . . . No, there is no reason for you to worry. Excuse me for a second, there is some background interference.” He waved Haijalo to silence.
“First off, you are getting a new sublieutenant. . . . No, you do not have to kill anybody to keep him. His name is Edmund Muslar. Put him in number eleven and put him through the usual. You are also getting five riflemen and two more bodies that Matti scraped from under rocks. . . . The battalion sergeant has them in hand, and I expect that he will release them in a day or two. . . . You are most welcome, Raul. . . . Oh, by the way, Acting Major Rettaglia gave me a call, I believe that you and he knew each other at the academy. ... He spoke very highly of you. . . .”
Vereshchagin looked over at Haijalo, who was beaming with undisguised glee. “We have worked out an arrangement so that you can be the assistant intelligence officer for the brigade. . . . Raul? Are you there? ...”
IT TOOK SANMARTIN APPROXIMATELY SIX MINUTES TO GET
through to brigade intelligence. He would have done it in two had he been able to speak coherently.
“Rhett? Rhett, you slimy, slinking lump!”
“Calm down, Raul. Don’t shout so. You’ll give yourself an ulcer. The connection is very good. I hear you perfectly. I told you you’d make a perfect IO. Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin was very understanding when I explained what an opportunity this was for you,” the voice said on the other end.
“I’ll shoot him. No, first I’ll shoot you. What about my company, you idiot!”
“That’s part of our understanding, you keep your company and double up to learn the business,” Rettaglia answered in a syrupy voice that somehow failed to soothe.
. "Are you trying to tell me I’ve been saddled with two jobs? ’ ’ “I worry about you, Raul. Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin was just telling me how bored you were; he assured me that your exec would help you with everything.”
“Rettaglia, if this is your idea of a joke ...”
“You’ll enjoy every minute. Shimazu will be up with an interpreter the day after tomorrow to set up. Just don’t say your old roommate didn’t do his best for you.”
“Rettaglia, when I get my hands on you ...”
"I have to get moving, Raul. It was fun talking to you. Ciao. ” “Rettaglia! You long-beaked buzzard, I’ll trash your Verdi for this, do you hear me?” Sanmartin shouted into the dead line. He stared at the receiver as if it had bitten him.
“You sound upset,” Hans Coldewe observed with a touching show of concern.
Friday(l)
ONE ROTATION OF THE PLANET WAS A LITTLE MORE THAN JO,OOO
standard seconds, which made for a twenty-hour day. A ten degree axial tilt made for fairly long nights on the southern rim of Akashi Continent. Long nights encourage troop movements. The Iceman’s platoons had taken considerable pains to discourage that sort of thing on several planets. They referred to themselves as “the night shift.”
Section Sergeant Suslov was a charter member of the night shift. On three worlds, he had alternately frozen or fried. Cleaning his rifle in the gray light of dawn, he felt his mind snap to instant awareness. His hands moved to snap the pieces of his weapon together effortlessly as his mind registered what the radio had to say.
“Hardin. Small group of cowboys, platoon-size maybe. Maybe meres. Don’t know enough to stay off the trails. They’re coming up the red river road to play with the Afrikaners,” the outpost said.
“All right. They’ve been warned,” Suslov replied. He switched off to ring up the mortar team. “One point five zero one. Break. Suslov. Koskela, we have flies on the web. Have a marker to drop onto killing-zone Bryansk.”
“Only a marker? If you like,” Koskela replied.
Lieutenant Jankowskie would be disappointed, Suslov decided. Jankowskie was a good platoon leader, as was anyone who aspired to command one of the Iceman’s platoons for more than a very brief time, but he had categorically refused to believe anyone would be silly enough to cross at the loop in the Vaal where Suslov was.
Heaven knew, the cowboys had been warned. The area between Bloemfontein and Chalkton between the rivers was the heart of the shooting war between the cowboys and the Boers. Major Kolomeitsev had declared it no-man’s-land and given both sides twenty hours to get out.
The Steyndorp Boers had taken the Iceman’s measure. Ian Chalker’s cowboys apparently hadn’t. Instead of helping the Tsai’s bunch tie Kimura in knots, they were coming through to maul the Boers. Kolomeitsev had two of his own rifle platoons and Yevtushenko’s reconnaissance platoon. He couldn’t keep them all out indefinitely, but apparently the Chalkton cowboys had even less patience than good sense.
Sery, Suslov’s general purpose machine gunner, swung his gun to cover the partially cleared area that was killing-zone Bryansk. Suslov tapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t fool around. Just knock them down and keep them there. ’ ’
They waited.
Two men dressed in civs came strolling. After seventeen hours in the swamp, Suslov’s nose twitched. The thin pretense wore thinner when the second man began sweeping with a portable imager. Suslov’s nose twitched again. As hot as it was, even a calibrated thermal imager was worthless on reflective clothing.
The main body appeared in a clump, mercenaries and cowboys mixed. There were perhaps thirty of them, understrength for a platoon. Their clothing looked new. They knew enough to keep a point, but they’d detailed neither flank nor rear security. The first two came across. The remainder on the far shore knelt on one knee, in perfect view.
Suslov rubbed his chin reflexively. That was the trouble with mercs, even the ones who acted like soldiers weren’t. Another few minutes would serve to teach these fancy boys that.
“Onepoint, Akita. Break. Suslov. Sery will initiate,” he said as a few men from the main body reached the near shore.
Suslov took a craftsman’s pride in his work. When the point men approached to forty meters, he finished counting down and impersonally tapped Sery.
The ambush was laid as a Saint Andrew’s cross to place mutually supporting fire on any portion of the curve of the bank. The point team had no chance. As shrill coughing from the light machine guns erupted from either side,, it disintegrated in the deep roar of the fire from Sery’s seven-seven.
From behind Sery came a single round from the 88 and an arching sheaf of projectiles from the s-mortar that exploded among the bunched main body with devastating effect. S-mortars were most effective firing triplets: one short, long for luck, and the third up someone’s trousers.
The fire pinned the survivors where they stood, huddled behind a slight depression a few meters from the river’s edge. Whether they charged the ambush or ran, flanking fire would take them from at least one of the arms. “One point five zero one. Break. Give me the marker,” Suslov called. Obediently, a single 105mm mortar round exploded in a cloud of red smoke.
Suslov squinted at the billowing smoke and juggled numbers on the calculator on his wrist. “Sloppy. If I tell you I want live rounds, bring it in twelve and seven to the right,” he told the mortar before closing the contact.
A few of the cowboys trapped by the river bed returned unaimed rounds at the machine gunners who were stripping the forest ferns ankle high. The rest hugged the earth for security it could not give.
“One point A for Akita. Break. Vladimir, Martti, everyone, that’s enough!” Suslov shouted, slapping Sery on the back. A silence drifted over the disturbed forest as the last of the red smoke played out.
Suslov cupped his hands. “Okay, cowboys, give up!”
One man dropped his weapon and stood, to be shot down by another. Hesitandy, rifle shots punctuated the silence. Suslov slapped Sery, and immediately the machine gun fire resumed in earnest. He punched Sery lightly. “I’ve forgotten. Did the Iceman say he particularly wanted prisoners?” His loader shook his head from side to side and continued to guide the linked rounds.
“One point five zero one. Break. Give me one, wait five, then dump it,” Suslov told the mortar crew. Almost immediately, a single round spun overhead to explode almost on top of the cowboys. Five seconds passed. Suslov made no correction, then two and ten more rained down, high explosive and white phosphorus fused for near-surface bursts at precise two second intervals from the short-barreled 105mm mortar.
Before the last round dropped, the shrieking of the wounded stopped. Suslov tapped Sery and spoke distinctly into his mount, “Hold up! That should do it.”
The rifles and the light machine gunners darted forward from either flank one by one. Suslov nodded to Sery and moved off crabwise. Sery, a faint golden down on his pallid cheeks, watched for movement until the first of the leaping riflemen strayed across his line of fire. Then he cleared his weapon and looked at his loader.
“Amateurs,” Sery said, blinking his young-old eyes.
One of the riflemen got close enough to see into the little depression. Abruptly, he turned his head and vomited.
There were half a dozen prisoners after all, but four of them were so badly wounded that Suslov called in one of the big tilt-props to get them out. Sery walked over uncertainly. “They look so stiff. Shouldn’t we bury them or something?”
Suslov looked at the curious, buzzing “insects” and spat. He thought for a moment and shook his head. “We’ll tell the cowboys where they are. Or the river will rise and save them the trouble.” He spat again.
The hum of alcohol engines contrasted with the buzzing. A stubby, four-wheel utility vehicle climbed up over the goat path that passed for the Red River Road to halt behind a fern-topped mound. The long mortar tube stuck out over the downward-sloping hood. With the baseplate and ammo
stowed in the center, the two men sat facing each other in back gave it a gap-toothed silhouette. It was followed by a second loaded with ammunition.
Suslov grinned. "You packed it in quick. If I’d put in another mission?”
“Told you to find another mortar,” burly Koskela shouted back, his face split wide.
“Need help,” Suslov shouted as the first rays of golden sunlight appeared. He jerked his head toward the cowboys his men were slinging into hammocks, a thin, telescopic pole resting beside each of them.
Koskela shrugged. Burdened with their submachine guns, he and two of his men hopped out.
The mortar platoons were invariably split. One of the short tubes was normally attached to each platoon, although the Iceman had instead given a mortar to each of Jankowskie’s three sections in prepared ambush positions. A fourth tube was with
I he company headquarters in Bloemfontein under the direction dI' the sergeant platoon commander.
The short fellows could dump a fairly massive amount of steel :i limited distance with superb accuracy. Beside the shallow Vaal, Suslov watched Koskela appraise his work critically. Mortarmen had a variety of rounds to choose from. Each gun layer had a preference, as “WP”—white phosphorus—Koskela had his.
With a grunt, Koskela went to the river’s edge and filled his hat with water. He walked back and poured it over the leg of one of the twitching cowboys so that a fingernail-sized chunk of I he white phosphorus wouldn’t bum its way out the other side. Almost before he finished, Suslov heard the drone of engines and stood up straight.
The stubby tilt-rotor drifted in and slid to the right to spill lift with a fast, practiced ease. The four rotors, mounted front and back on either wing, seemed to overlap as they moved from horizontal to vertical. Suslov held his arms over his head and crossed them to guide the big bird down. The ramp between the tall, twin booms opened out even before the wheels touched. With a gentle hand, the pilot kept the rotors spinning without lifting free.
Robert Frezza - [Colonial War 01] Page 6