Savichev’s Cadillac was first in line. A single impact-fused 30mm shell will briefly turn a man into a pretty red flower and shatter a ferntree into lethal fragments; 7.7mm is less dramatic but equally effective. His gunner could discharge the twelve hundred 30mm rounds in the linkless feed system at one round, six rounds, or twelve rounds a second, and the 7.7mm even faster. After four seconds, having run short of better targets, Savichev’s gunner twisted the turret to hose down the dismounted cowboys who had taken shelter on either side of the path.
Skramsted stopped his slick beside the first of the corpses as Savichev’s vehicle finished with the cowboy rear guard. Armed with a continuous-feed s-mortar instead of a seven-seven, Skramsted paused to shower the trees ahead with rounds. Composite shards from the airbursts ripped into the cowboys. The 90mm on the second Cadillac spat thrice to add to the carnage.
As the Cadillacs rode aside two shattered bakkies and plunged ahead into the thin smoke of the bumed-out area, the tiny half section of infantry rolled off the side to engage cowboys cowering to either flank. Dropping second, Orlov whipped an egg grenade into the brush on the right. Necdet Aykac followed and bounced to his feet, shrieking with delight.
Superior Private Aykac had a predilection for hand-to-hand combat. He was expected to enjoy a short and illustrious career. Emptying five shots to drop one man firing a long-barreled handgun, Aykac went for the man beside him with his bayonet.
The cowboy stood, fumbling with his safety. Aykac speared him in the chest, adjusted his weight, and slammed his guide hand on the foresight. The blade eviscerated the cowboy from sternum to groin.
Two other cowboys took to their heels. Orlov fired and missed them both. Crouching, he paused to listen to the sounds of battle moving up the road. With the tail of the column smashed, its middle and head obliterated, survivors were vanishing in the forest to either side. Aykac wiped the blood and intestines from his hands on his trousers and then reached up to wipe his face.
“Even for a Turk, you’re a sick one,” Corporal Oriov commented. He sprinted up the path and knelt. “Tibor, poor kid. Through the head,” he said rolling a body over. “Find his partner before he does something stupid.”
“Poor kid,” Aykac repeated mechanically, trotting toward the occasional sounds of gunfire.
Within minutes, it was over. Savichev stood up in his turret and watched his handful of riflemen drift a short distance into the forest in pursuit until it was clear the cowboys were too disordered or disheartened to reform. He spilled fuel from the Hummingbird and brought it low into the wind, altering the elevation of the flaps and the pitch of the blades until it hovered and touched down. Two men jumped down from his number two vehicle to retrieve it.
Along the trail, a half-grown boy was leaning against the stump of a femtree holding tight a ruined shoulder. Beside him was the luminescent skeleton of a pickup, the plastic of the body melting off in tiny rivulets on to the road. What might have once been an arm hung out the side of the cab. A pall of smoke overlay the forest.
A fair number of cowboys had been in the road when the Cadillacs had come through. Savichev hoped that most of them had been dead. He leaned over to examine a scar on the left side of the turret, where a rocket had scored a glancing hit, then straightened as Orlov walked from one wounded horse to the next.
Savichev shook his head sadly. He loved horses a lot more than he loved people. The horseboys should have had enough sense to stay off the trails. Nothing ever went according to plan, but people who made predictable plans diminished their chance of living long enough to change them. He cupped his hands and bellowed. “Hey! We can’t stay here all day. Light-attack men never felt comfortable halted. Mobility was their chief asset in offense and defense.
A few cowboys were emerging from the forest with their hands held high. “Take the prisoners we’ve already got. Leave me the slicks to pick up a few more,” Orlov shouted.
“Good enough.” Savichev reached into his pockets and pulled out a timed charge, which he tossed to Orlov. “When you get enough weapons, touch them off. Save anything that looks unusual.”
Orlov gave him the thumbs-up. The column of armored cars wheeled in parade order and disappeared.
Forty kilometers to the north and east, Chiharu Yoshida was already loading sections of Kiritinitis’s platoon aboard three of the battalion’s four light transport aircraft to effect mop-up. The commander of B Company had picked up a mouthful of alloy teeth and a scar on either cheek from a projectile weapon on Ashcroft. He’d refused to let Devoucoux remove the scars. Captain Yoshida was capable, as it is said, of “driving nails into a stone wall with his head.” His troops called him “Tingrin” behind his back and allegedly found it strange the shot had caught him with his mouth closed.
Most of the survivors of Chalker’s men escaped his net. Although nearly a quarter of the cowboy force would straggle out of the forest in ones and twos over the next few days, few of them would have the stomach for more fighting. Ian Chalker’s body was never found. Kolomeitsev correctly concluded he would have no further trouble from the cowboy side of no-man’s land and decreed a time for mourning. It was left to Fripp and DeKe de Kantzow, of C for Chiba fame, to pronounce a fitting epitaph.
“That man, Chalker,” Fripp said conversationally as details filtered in, “bringing cows to the Cattle Raid of Cooley.”
De Kantzow, honing his bayonet, yawned elaborately. “Filthy DeKe!” Fripp jabbed a finger at his erstwhile Boswell. “You’re holding an anachronism! An obsolescent oddity! An emancipated penis for a castrated capon with staff epaulets to fondle as he whistles martial airs!”
“Frosty straight?” de Kantzow queried.
Vereshchagin discouraged profanity. Filthy DeKe, who was somewhat aberrant even for the Variag’s hardened collection of misfits, found this a trial and a hardship in light of his inability to string three words together without at least one descriptive adjective, adverb, or noun. By arrangement with Raul Sanmartin, he worked six punishment hours on the first day of every month to atone for blasphemies of the previous thirty.
Fripp waved his hand dramatically. “Verily! Hospital reports show that not a tenth of a percent of battle wounds are caused by the bayonet.”
The Variag’s men, the Finns in particular, equipped themselves with an astonishing variety of edged and pointed weapons. Mizoguchi in B Company carried the two swords, the
Hangman’s exec Willem Schwinge a short axe, and Karaev of No. 9 a battered black umbrella.
“Maybe,” de Kantzow conceded calmly, judiciously eyeing his edge. “But if you’re close enough to use the frosting thing, the froster’s not going to a hospital.” He gave the straight blade a few more strokes. “This’ll do it for the frosting cowboys. What’s it the frosty Japanese say, Frippie? Three strikes and you’re out?”
“Assuredly,” Fripp said. “Then they say, ‘Next batter.’ ”
Friday(2)
HAERKOENNEN RAPPED ON VERESHCHAGIN’S DOOR SOFTLY.
“Message traffic.”
Vereshchagin nodded from his familiar spider chair. Haijalo was seated on the floor cleaning his weapon. “What do we have, Timo?” he asked.
“Message from Colonel Lynch. He wants a copy of our battalion roster.”
“Dong?” Vereshchagin questioned.
“More likely the political officer, Gamliel,” Haijalo reflected.
“Pass it to the battalion sergeant. Ask him if he would be so kind as to fake something up,” Vereshchagin directed.
Haerkoennen nodded and pulled out another flimsy. “Message from Colonel Lynch. He wants to know why our medics aren’t wearing cross armbands.”
“He noticed that?” Haijalo inquired.
“The cakes used the cross and crescent for a bull’s-eye. The medics we have left tend to shoot first. Should I mention this?” Haerkoennen asked.
“No, I have an aversion to casting truth before staff. A thought is coming to me. Matti, who do we have certified as medics?
” Vereshchagin asked thoughtfully.
“Damn all. Vincente for sure. I’d have to ask the battalion sergeant. Gods, Anton, you know as well as I do how long it’s been since we’ve been anywhere near a certification course. As for the replacement system, hah! I still think you should have shot Pritcher four years ago. Selling drugs is like selling weapons.” Haijalo looked down the barrel as if sighting in a multitude of Pritchers.
Vereshchagin tapped his pipe against the side of his leg for a moment. Recognizing this, both Haijalo and Haerkoennen held silent. Vereshchagin opened his eyes.
“Matti, we are authorized one medic per rifle platoon on our table of organization. We have two certified, I think. Count them carefully and request seven more.”
Vereshchagin tapped his leg a few more times. Haijalo waited for the thought to finish itself.
“Please delay on that for a few days. I would not care to be with Eva when the document arrives on her desk.” Vereshchagin discovered the pipe in his hand and replaced it in a pocket.
Haerkoennen nodded and pulled out yet another flimsy. “One more. Message from Colonel Lynch. He wants to know why C Company patrols haven’t been carrying flak launchers.”
“Is that Dong’s style? Please say something snide.”
“This is ridiculous, Anton,” Haijalo observed. “How many high performance aircraft do they think the locals have? We’re going to have to do something. Raul’s little stunt kept the flower boys quiet for a couple days, but we’re beginning to get two and three of these things every morning. Look at the time Higuchi’s companies spend shuffling paper. It’s a toss-up whether Colonel Lynch or the Boers is going to be a bigger problem.”
Vereshchagin nodded, pulling out his pipe. He walked away lost in thought.
Haerkoennen looked at Harjalo and shrugged. “One more. The admiral congratulated us on our weapons collection.”
Harjalo burst out laughing.
The admiral had sent his blacklegs up to speed up weapons collection. In Johannesburg, Albert Beyers had turned white as milk when the Variag broke the news. Even on the fringes of settled space, Imperial security police had an unwholesome reputation. Raul Sanmartin’s interpreter had done yeoman work getting him to cooperate.
After Battalion Sergeant Malinov had a heart-to-heart talk with a blackleg platoon sergeant, Sanmartin’s officers had gone along with the search parties to avoid any excessive zeal on their part. They picked up three hundred forty-seven weapons without incident, and the collection had set the tone for the other towns.
Senior Communications Seigeant Haerkoennen wrinkled his nose and left.
A few moments later, Haijalo heard another soft rap at the door. Looking up, he saw Edmund Muslar.
Muslar had made himself very popular around the headquar-lers in the space of a few days, assisting Bukanov. His nickname was “Midnight.”
“Door’s open,” Harjalo observed, squeezing over.
‘.‘Sir, I wish to speak with Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin,” Muslar said hesitantly. “I do not think I should be sent to one of the line companies. I believe that under prevailing conditions, it would be better if I remained in this headquarters, sir.”
Haijalo glued the rifle barrel to his eye. “Why?” he asked. “I believe that it would be detrimental to our relations with the local populace, sir.”
“Oh,” was Haijalo’s reply. He ran another lubricated patch through the bore and held the barrel up to the light. “Edmund, dig yourself a rock and chat with me,” he said, running a dry patch through to sop up any remaining fluid. He collapsed his cleaning rod. "Higuchi’s and Kimura’s last saw action with Noah and the Flood. Eybl’s have been at it so long they don’t really care who they shoot anymore. Modesty forbids me from characterizing this battalion, but someone obviously went to a great deal of trouble to yoke mustangs and cart-horses to the same plow.”
Muslar smiled, flashing teeth. “It was determined that consistent with available assets, care would be taken to avoid inflaming local prejudices.”
“I thought it was something silly like that.”
“When I boarded, I was understandably concerned when Captain Dong decided that I would not be assigned to a battalion because of my skin coloring. I am gratified not to be relegated to administering the replacement pool. However, I understand Captain Dong’s reasoning and do not wish to be a liability.” Haijalo made a noise in his throat that might have been a chuckle. Raul Sanmartin had gotten the information secondhand from Bruwer that after one look at Kimura’s Baluchis, the Afrikaners were saying, “better Kosake than Keffers,’’ better Cossacks than Kaffirs.
“Edmund, I wish I were as young,” he said.
Muslar exhibited puzzlement. “I am not certain I understand you, sir.”
Haijalo laughed softly. “Never you mind, Edmund. How did you get orders?”
“I received orders two days before lift, sir. I suspect they were rushed.”
“Edmund, I would like to point out a few truths before you try your line of reasoning on the Variag.” Haijalo snapped his bolt assembly home with a click.
“First, Dong is a cretin. If you go around quoting Dong, you’ll be back in that replacement pool so fast your eyes will spin in their sockets.
“Second, we’ve got about twenty soldiers we recruited on Ashcroft that make you look like a snowflake. The people here are not going to like us all that very much, so we don’t much intend to spend time pandering to their prejudices.
“Third and last, if you go in and tell die Variag what you just told me, he is going to politely and quietly clean you out up one side, down the other, and around the back until he runs out of breath. Comprehend?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And stop saying ‘sir.’ The children are in bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Haijalo finished reassembling the bolt. “Edmund, you either have ingrained reflexes or a very bad memory. My name’s Matti. Family? Brothers? Sisters?”
“One of each—Matti. A brother and a half sister actually.” “A corporation family?”
“We are middle level in a Mitsubishi supply subsidiary. That is where my brother is.”
“So you’re the younger son in a one-position family. So tell me where we start with the Boers.”
“Without experience, it is very difficult for me to properly form an opinion. However, I think that we ought to try to gain their confidence. ”
“We’ll have to shoot at them just to gain their attention. Suggestions?”
"I will consider the problem, sir. I am certain that something will occur to me.”
“It had better,” Haijalo said only half-humorously. “All right, run along. Some day you’re going to have to explain to me about this prejudice business.”
Muslar smiled broadly. “I am not sure that I can, sir. "You could perhaps ask some of the Boers to explain, they would be much better qualified than I.”
BECAUSE OF THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT, SENIOR SERGEANT Shimazu checked the street address with great care. He then rapped respectfully on the front door.
Citizen Jannie Theron padded to the door and opened it, grumbling loudly. He found himself stunned and bundled into a restraining sack. He never heard his wife calling him back to bed.
Awake in the same city, Senior Censor Ssu was momentarily irresolute, something he despised in himself and others. He allowed his hand to pause over the receiver.
The function of an Imperial Censorate has not altered appreciably since the days of die First Emperor and the Roman Caesars: to maintain public morality, to reward virtue, and to punish iniquity in a manner consistent with the survival of the state.
On Suid-Afrika, overseeing print media was not difficult. Although printed broadsides would circulate, papers enjoying advertising revenue had already found the firm but gentle hand of the Imperial censorship unavoidable. The penalties for evasion were draconian, as Ssu had politely explained. Most of the publishers had understood. A few had not; only nine papers were
permitted editions this week. Broadcast media presented more difficulty, but Ssu had himself written the programs to gauge Afrikaans content and connotation. None of this explained the feeling in Ssu’s belly.
Die Afrikaner had wanted to run a less than subtle editorial espousing the principle that it was immoral for Afrikaner to buy from non-Afrikaner. The author, Dominee W. K. Strijdom, had argued, unsuccessfully, that the opinion expressed was purely theological.
The Afrikaners were a difficult people; in response to the statement that white was white, they could argue that white was black or at least gray, and further discussion encouraged the elaboration, “You must understand the Afrikaner in the national-political context. ...” But something in Strijdom was different.
Ssu punched out Rettaglia’s number. The senior censor had served in his arcane field for thirty-one of his forty-nine years; uncorrupted by puling modesty, he placed trust in his intuition.
Something in Strijdom’s soul frightened him very badly.
“so THIS IS 1NTELL,” SANMARTIN COMMENTED, WALKING
across the runway beside Rettaglia. “I’m not so sure I like the
hours.”
Rettaglia smiled, his uniform precise. "It’s easier to pull frogs from the pond with a flashlight. Less fuss. You’ll be back in Jo’burg by morning, a little wiser. What did you think of Die Koffiehuis?”
“Bland.”
“Raul, you couldn’t touch a piece of beef like that in Tokyo for a week’s pay!” Rettaglia said in a hurt tone of voice. He flipped a pack of cigarettes, which Sanmartin plucked neatly out of the air.
“What’s this?”
“Change.”
“I don’t smoke.” Sanmartin examined the pack.
“As cigarettes, I’m told they’re pretty awful. However, the people had to use something when USS started monkeying with the currency and the currency went to hell.”
Robert Frezza - [Colonial War 01] Page 10