“Geese. She told me the pigs will be building their nests in trees before we get off this mudball.”
“Gods.” Haijalo shook his head. “If this world were normal, we’d have people eating off our fingers. Another Ashcroft?” “Worse, perhaps. We have yet to finish with the cowboys and their mercenaries, and Admiral Lee is already formulating plans to rework the Boers.”
“It sounds insane.”
“It might be necessary. What do you know of the Afrikaner Bond? The Brothers.”
“Not one thing.”
“Nor had I.”
“A nucleus for guerrilla resistance?”
“Possibly. Rettaglia pulled me aside to discuss covert operations. Before they pull themselves together, he intends to snatch them up.”
“So we’re collecting documentation.”
“Correct. We should move up weapons collection. Tomorrow?”
“Can be accomplished. I’ll be on it tonight. You were expecting me to show, weren’t you?”
“I would have been astonished if you had not.”
Harialo laughed. Vereshchagin smiled. “To tomorrow? One day more on the volcano?”
“Tomorrow!” Haijalo rejoined, touching his glass to Vereshchagin’s.
Wednesday ( 2 )
DANNY MEAGHER SQUEEZED THE JUICES FROM A LUMP OF DELTA mud. They ran like warm blood down the side of his hand.
Meagher was a mere, a real mere, he reflected savagely. Rotting in the mud, he had a bare dozen more to stiffen the three bleeding companies the Imperials were chasing. Mercenaries weren’t cannon fodder, they trained cannon fodder for little dust-ups. For all that Meagher tried to convince his young charges of their own battle worthiness, it bothered him sometimes that the little squirts—and his employers—sometimes thought they were real.
Fools like Whiteman had encouraged that sort of sloppy thinking. Old Tsai had been hotter than a torch with Whiteman at his elbow. The Imps were shooting off1 planet mercenaries after Whiteman’s stupidity at the filthy riverport. Well, Whiteman was gone, dropping his mess in Meagher’s lap. Shooting him was the best thing the damned Imps had done since they’d hit planet.
A squirt had actually asked whether they would avenge him, the sorry sot. Meagher had laughed in his face. By all accounts, it was Kolomeitsev’s company of the Imp 35th Rifle who did him, and those boyos were nasty. Whiteman’s heirs and assigns could have that job. Danny Meagher had problems of his own.
Fortunately, the lot combing the swamps wasn’t Kolomeitsev’s. Kimura’s 64th Imp Rifles were parade ground johnnies, and Meagher had run the filthy sons of Allah.
But the net was closing on Meagher’s employer. Tsai’s trousers were hanging in the breeze, but Danny Meagher had played the game. The old rancher would have a tiny surprise the day he decided to hand over his pet mercenary’s head to buy himself a pardon.
Unfortunately, that wouldn’t go far toward resolving whether Meagher would be bringing his skin off this particular ball of mud. Brooding, Meagher caressed his precious assault rifle.
USS had screwed them, well and truly. They’d hired up meres with the moon and the stars, then they’d lost their nerve and whistled for the Imps. A right bleeding bunch USS were, even in small things.
What the Imps didn’t know is that they’d shot down Chalker’s sons when Kolomeitsev ambushed Whiteman. Meagher grinned mirthlessly. Chalker was hiring all the squirts the other ranchers had let go. The rancher lord wasn’t very bright, but he ought to manage something for himself with half the Imp army combing the delta for Meagher and Tsai. Having Chalker massacre all the Imps and Boers he could lay hands on would be just the diversion Mother Meagher’s little son needed, and if Chalker jumped, some of the other ranchers might jump as well.
Danny Meagher intended a good several innings before he’d be toasting toes in hell, and he was marking himself a little list. There was even a bit of a war to keep idle hands busy.
* * *
IN READING’S TOWN SQUARE, ULRICH OHLROGGE SPAT OVER THE right side of his vehicle. Lieutenant Ohlrogge was not pleased.
He was not pleased at being shunted from a war front on one planet to a war front on another. He was less pleased with his new armored car, which had broken down before it was broken in, or the fair city of Reading, the dump that called itself the capital of the cowboy country. And he was especially not pleased with Colonel Lynch, who was hosting his little soiree in the sun.
Temporarily embarrassed by a lack of troops, Admiral Lee had accepted the offer Newcombe made as President pro tem of the Reading Council to assist in putting down the Chalker’s rebellion before it spread to the rest of the upland ranchers. Colonel Lynch was here to muster Newcombe’s four hundred into Imperial service, and from his vantage point as an unwilling honor guard, Ohlrogge was having trouble deciding which of the two was the bigger idiot. Between them, they’d kept Ohlrogge out for an hour while Newcombe’s “soldiers” were diddling themselves.
To Ohlrogge’s right was a section of blacklegs commanded by a lieutenant. A platoon of Kimura’s geeks was lined up to his left, mostly in splints. He spat, to his left.
Kirnura had dropped the geeks to seize the Reading runway. Drops can’t be practiced shipboard. When the shuttle dutifully slowed to stalling speed to bounce them out, they’d come falling out of the sky like sacks of sand, and the runway itself was soft as concrete. Stupid gesture. Ohlrogge had been waiting there three hours for the geeks to show.
He cast a surreptitious glance for Hunsley. Hunsley was a slimy civ, but he was the only thing with brains south of the Vaal, except for Janine Joh, who was the only thing with balls. He didn’t see either. Another one of Newcombe’s uniforms came dancing about, and Ohlrogge used the diversion to steal a glance back at the cowboy barracks.
Newcombe’s cowboys were waving homemade red, blue, and white flags out the windows. Ohlrogge spat, this time to his right.
As it turned out, Newcombe had a democratic army. After holding a democratic meeting, they had struck for better working conditions. They didn’t like the food, saluting, or becoming Imperials, and Ian Chalker was offering double what they were getting. Newcombe democratically spent an hour haranguing them, and they assuredly didn’t like Newcombe. Their officers had “democratically” left the barracks.
After a few hours, Ohlrogge found himself becoming slightly concerned. Against four hundred of Newcombe’s best, there was one Cadillac with a busted engine and a geek platoon— blacklegs didn’t count. Kimura had ordered up a company out from the swamps, but it would be hours before they showed, assuming they found the way. In the meantime, Newcombe’s four hundred were having a wonderful time shooting out windows and singing.
Of greater moment, Ohlrogge was tired of sitting in the sun. After democratically looking around for Colonel Lynch, he turned to his gunner. “Chicken! You remember anyone actually giving us orders?”
The gunner, Hicken, shook his head from side to side solemnly. “I’d remember a thing like that.”
“Just be sure and remember it when Uwe Eybl asks. Put a 90mm smoke through the front door. I want to see those silly flags come jumping out the windows. ’ ’ He heard the whip-crack of the shell almost before he looked up. Ohlrogge decided it was worth his chance for a pension. Afterward, he was never sure whether it was flags or cowboys who came jumping out first.
Newcombe’s cowboys formed up pretty well after all. While they were obviously unfit even to take on Chalker, at least they weren’t on the other side. Hicken won the vehicle pool, correctly wagering that they’d get a medal without getting court-martialed.
THAT NIGHT, IAN CHALKER’S MESSENGERS RETURNED.
Two days before, they had gone forth to swell the muster at Chalkton, calling for riders and captains of war. Ian Chalker had buried his sons, they said. He had dipped his hands in their blood; their blood cried out for blood.
It was truth few were eager to raise hand against the Imperials. Nine and twenty men of Chalker’s own had set out a
nd gone to red ruin with Chalker’s sons. Only Henderson answered the plea.
Grim of face and manner, Chalker took up a bloodstained rag in his withered hand. He had bought up every free man, every unattached mere on the planet. He prepared to lead out his own men and those of his sister’s son. Across the Vaal they would ride, in magnificence, where Kolomeitsev’s platoons awaited.
Thursday(2)
SAVICHEV STUDIED KETLINSKY’S FACE IN THE DIM UGHT AS THE
engineer corporal scratched his head. Other than the delta, the only “hot” sector was between the rivers. If the little engineer’s face was any guide, someone had relit the fire.
Ketlinsky finally shook his head over his instruments. He commented, “We’ve lost the mines at EC 34-4689, the path there.”
Kolomeitsev had nowhere near enough men to cover between the rivers, but mines and sensors come cheaper than men, and Reinikka’s engineers had supervised the sowing of enough to make the entry fee prohibitive. The path in question had deliberately been seeded lightly, and someone was about to find out why.
Muravyov’s No. 15 light attack was to the west, Savichev’s No. 16 to the east. No. 15 was out of position. No. 16 was not.
Studying his map, Savichev quickly concluded that the cowboys were heading toward the Red River Road. Two of his slicks were best left on the picket line. A third could trail the cowboys without any great difficulty, the fourth could head them off. Savichev placed his finger on a stream crossing.
‘‘Get the little bird up,” he told the two men on his amphibian curtly. He turned to Ketlinsky. “Men or vehicles?”
The little engineer thought for a moment. “From the pickup, I’d guess they ran cattle. After that, who knows? Could be horses or horsemen. Could be a lot of them,” he added quietly.
“We’ll be back,” Savichev shouted down from the top of his Cadillac as he pounded on the hatch to awaken his driver.
“Watch yourself, Sergeant Platoon Commander, I’d hate to have to break in a new man,” Ketlinsky said.
Savichev made a rude gesture Ketlinsky could not see. He lurched in his seat as his driver gunned the engine into life and negotiated one of the larger chuckholes in the road. Three more armored cars followed in single file, with a half section of Kolomeitsev’s No. 3 platoon clinging uncomfortably to the handholds. Counterattack, sudden and savage, is the heart to a mobile defense. No. 16 platoon was small in numbers, but a military unit is measured by its capacity to generate violence.
Savichev put his finger on the map overlay and began to tap it softly as the vehicle built up speed. The mortar would go to firing-point Ista, he decided. Tliming to his gunner he said, “Como, you take the Hummingbird for now.” His gunner looked at the map and nodded, reaching across to take the controls.
Savichev keyed his headset to alert the mortar, the slicks, Kolomeitsev, and No. 15, and to vector in a Sparrow. The Iceman had left for No. 15’s sector three hours ago; he was out of position as well.
The Iceman left Savichev to devise his own tactics.
Ten minutes later, a succinct message came in from a prowling slick. “Skramsted. There are horse shits and candy wrappers all the way up path Chiba seven. We are following. Out.”
Savichev set the map aside. Chiba seven meant the stream crossing. Kolpakchi’s slick would be the trigger.
“Sixteen point seven. Savichev. Kolpakchi, get yourself to the crossing marked five. We will ambush with support from thirteen two, you will initiate. Repeat back what I just said. . .
Kolpakchi did. When he stopped his driver, the stream crossing was the center of a sunlit amphitheater, flanked by high, narrow walls of jade-green moss and lichen that choked off the streambed in both directions. Where the path crossed, the right-hand bank was broken down into a gentle grade. A small spit of land from the southern side projected out gradually into the water, where it broadened into a mat of round stones in the shallows. On the other side, a line of sunshine overhead marked where the path broke up the trees.
Touched by the serenity, he paused for a few seconds before switching on his radio. “Sixteen point one. Break. Kolpakchi. We’re in position.”
Minutes passed. Savichev slowed his column to avoid running into contact. The cowboys hadn’t moved off into the forest. There were tire tracks from at least two dozen bakkies, and the bakkies couldn’t. There was precious little room on path Chiba seven. He thumbed the radio for the net the Sparrow was working from.
“Aviation point six. Break. Savichev here. Where are they?”
“I’m drifting over the column now,” the pilot responded. With two forward stabilizers sprouting from the fuselage like an extra pair of wings and the eight curving scimitar blades of the prop, a Sparrow looked more like a translucent butterfly than a military aircraft. "The center is about three tenths of a kilometer from your stream crossing. Gods! Lots of cowboys. Too bloody many. Looks like half the cowboys in the bloody jungle.”
Savichev grunted, immediately slowing the little Hummingbird under his control. What he had wasn’t enough. He grabbed the radio.
“Big Brothers. Break. Savichev. Linear mission Gifu Oita five one seven, down the axis,” he said into his wrist mount. He repeated it twice, hoping that the relay wouldn’t foul it up.
Far overhead, corvette Exeter acknowledged. The computer-assisted optics of the warship could plot fire to within twenty centimeters on a clear day. Exeter was little more than a manned fusion bottle with stacked, layered mirrors to turn bottled hell into lasered light. Ian Chalker had chosen to move on a day without dust and precipitation.
“Good job. Savichev out,” Savichev said. He grunted again as he looked through the eyes of the little Hummingbird at the cowboys spread out below. “Gods! Andrei, please be in position,” he whispered. “Thirteen point two. Break. Savichev. Guns, we got lots of company. Give me sixteen shells for luck when I’m ready.”
“Bushchin here. Acknowledged. Out,” was the answer from the mortar.
Savichev took a deep breath to clear his mind. “Sixteen point seven. Break. Savichev. Kolpakchi, are you sure you’re where you’re supposed to be? If the cowboys slip through, we haven’t got an ambush closer than Steyndorp. The bird says they’re right on top of you, and the horse dung is fresh.”
Kolpakchi’s reply was emphatic. “We’re in position. I went up this trail twice, day before yesterday, and I still see ruts.” Before Savichev registered the thought, Kolpakchi opened up an A for Akita line to all of No. 16. “Kolpakchi here. There’s a bunch of cows coming up the road.”
“Akita. Break. Savichev here. Hit them, guns!”
“Shot. Bushchin out.”
A signal to GrafSpee had enabled the mortar carrier to fix its position to within ten centimeters, firing off a map that was only eight days old. The big, rifled 160mms on the school buses were the battalion’s heaviest firepower.
The first warning the cowboys received was the booming crash of a 160mm round blowing down femtrees in a series of concentric rings. Horses and bawling catde bolted away into the jungle in terror. The screaming of wounded horses and the noise of the big shell panicked mounts the shrapnel missed.
Seeing through the Hummingbird’s eyes, Savichev called out, “Shift left four and you’re right on the first bend south of the stream, guns! Shift left four and walk them down!”
Corrected by a hair, the second round blew a crater a half-ineter deep directly on the path, expanding a geyser of flesh and mud. Fourteen more rounds followed in quick succession. The second and last groups of four shells were napalm airbursts that exploded almost simultaneously. They dropped thick, suffocating sheets of fire over the men and animals lucky enough to be directly underneath and hideously burned the ones on the fringes.
Kolpakchi knew the routine well. The seven-seven on his slick was a gyrostabilized extension of his seat and moved with his body. As soon as the noise of the big gun ceased, from the far back he broke the almost silence by directing unaimed machine gun fire down the road.
The surviving cowboys in front responded by opening up with eveiy weapon. Inexperienced soldiers fire high; their return fire raked the treetops. Unfortunately, the comforting noise served only to blind the cowboys to the real danger.
“Big Brothers. Break. Savichev. Fire linear mission Gifu Oita five one seven, down the axis, two minutes worth,” Savichev said, signaling Exeter.
A quarter of a kilometer of the road erupted in a moving sheet of flame as all four warships in the sky dipped low into the upper atmosphere and fired in a series of incredibly rapid pulses. The whine of touched-off rifle ammunition, punctuated by the deeper sound of grenades and other ammunition exploding, turned the day into a Chinese New Year.
After their first quick pass, Exeter and her comrades backtracked, dusting the sides of the road thoroughly with chicken-seed, two-gram composite particles that absorbed fusion and kinetic energy during their passage and released it on impact. In hissing implosions the particles struck. Much of the screaming stopped. Within the ten-meter kill zone, fires were spreading.
Savichev didn’t stay to watch. He was already moving before the light show dosed. Timing himself, he moved his Cadillacs up to strike just after the 160mms and the warships had turned most of Chalker’s column into hamburger. They roared in, hit the tail end hard.
A Cadillac gunner has four video screens to give him 120 degrees of arc from side to side, with an idiot switch to shift from sight to thermal/infrared; leaning forward or back raises or lowers the field. Under his left foot are three pedals to spin the turret left or right and brake it. Under his right, another set focuses aiming circles. His right hand rides the joystick for the big gun, either a 90mm gun or a 30mm automatic cannon. His left controls the 7.7mm gatling. His right index finger controls ammunition type on the 90mm and rate of fire on the 30mm. Firing buttons are under his thumbs.
Exceedingly agile, in theory the Cadillacs were too lightly armored, although a fine network of hard-alloy wire over vulnerable angles gave them additional protection at minimal cost in weight. In practice, with good crews, people seldom stayed around long enough to test the theory.
Robert Frezza - [Colonial War 01] Page 9