Henke was smiling. At least, Henke thought he was smiling, and no one contradicted him.
“Muster for allegiance parade, ten minutes,” Orlov whispered under his breath.
THE TOWN OF VENTERSTAD WAS A CRUCIFORM, THE LONG AXIS
running along a length of the road and the short axis extending on either side toward the fields. Alerted by two dogs, its citizens peering out windows saw eighty-eight teams set themselves on the rooftops for unobstructed fire and gp machine guns align at the north and east arms as the first of Jankowskie’s sections began filtering in.
Venterstad was Jankowskie’s third village for the day, and he was not inclined to Christian forbearance. Before his men began rousting the inhabitants with brief and courteous explanations,
Two of Wojcek’s helicopters cracked the sound barrier at an altitude of thirty meters then alighted at the far end of the village.
Wojcek’s choppers were not troop-carrying aircraft by any stretch of the imagination; a 30mm gun mounted in a chin turret like a dragonfly’s labium, semirecessed hard-points for ordnance, and a narrow stinger tail made this apparent at a glance. Nevertheless, they could carry four persons easily if not comfortably in catwalk seats located on either side of the engine. Wojcek’s disgorged a tiny, disconcerted group of technicians from civil and a slightly larger mound of equipment to process identity cards. Kokovtsov’s discharged a team of Reinikka’s engineers.
Jankowskie’s men knew the drill. As the search teams moved the locals out to have their fingerprints scanned, Reinikka’s engineers began examining walls, floors, and ceilings for characteristic traces of weapons and explosives. Out in the street, Jankowskie’s platoon sergeant, Peresypkin, stood controlling the supporting weapons, fidgeting as the piles of contraband began to grow.
Peresypkin, “Pertsovka,” was almost as annoyed as Jankowskie. In the previous village, they’d spent the better part of two hours tearing up cement where the density meter had picked out a cavity. Instead of explosives, the cavity had turned out to he stuffed with the corpse of somebody’s missing wife, slightly the worse for wear. That had made a stink, and it had been still another hour to get things straightened up after that.
His attention was diverted by the approach of a solid civilian in a straw hat with a weathered face and a young woman clinging desperately to his wrist. The man brushed aside one of the Border policemen who were along. The light transport aircraft the platoon had ridden in on were sitting in a field, and Peresypkin had a shrewd idea who owned it.
The girl—Daniela Kotze was her name—ended up talking. Her father was too mad, but that was what the terrified little sublieutenant from civil had a box of money for. His Imperial Majesty’s military government made enough from indirect taxes to spread incidental losses equitably. Peresypkin made sure the man got his.
Kotze was attractive. He told her so, which didn’t stop him from making a note of her number.
Tuesday(3)
VERESHCHAGIN GLANCED DOWN AT HIS WRIST MOUNT. HE closed his eyes, waiting for a knock. If Saki Bukanov had a single flaw, it was the precision that made the intendance officer’s actions unerringly predictable.
A few moments later. Bukanov knocked respectfully. A perplexed look was evident on his face. Vereshchagin guided him to a chair.
“Sir, there is a problem.”
“What might that be?” Vereshchagin asked innocently.
“Sir, we are only authorized ten recruits over strength. We have seventeen.”
Vereshchagin tapped his chin thoughtfully. “By the time Paul finishes, we will not. Please pay the extras out of the flower fund and bring me the authorization to sign. ”
Bukanov assumed the expression of a bishop who has just seen the Pope spit in the baptismal font. Vereschagin took him gently by the arm.
“We have been doing this for ages. Thirty-eight is actually a very small draft for Paul to work with. Please see if you can find him a few more in the next few days.”
His task completed, Vereschagin sailed off majestically before Bukanov had an opportunity to develop his expression further. Matti Haijalo trapped him outside the door.
“Is that the morning traffic, Matti?”
Haijalo smiled. “Message from Colonel Lynch,” he commenced, flipping through another of the innumerable computergenerated flimsies. “Logistics section on the staff is questioning our vehicle requisitions.”
“What did we take, twenty-seven?”
“We did. I’ll grease that over. Staff stole more vehicles than that.”
“Good enough. What else.”
“Message from Colonel Lynch. Someone remembered that Chiharu Yoshida didn’t have his General Maintenance Manuals updated.”
“Please don’t say it, Matti. Do I need to see any of the others?”
“No,” Haijalo replied, glancing at the last.
“Thank you, Matti. Please, say nothing more. I know.” He looked up. “I have been directed to report to his office in three hours time. I must see to the flight.”
* * *
ON ONE WALL OF COLONEL LYNCH’S OFFICE, A GOLF CLUB HUNG in a place of honor, as a sword might have done in an earlier century. The hand-tooled leather binding was obviously of more recent vintage than the metal shaft. It was a mute reminder that Colonel Lynch’s stylized pursuit of excellence was inherited.
An interview between Colonel Lynch and a subordinate was tedious, Vereshchagin reflected. At least the carpet was soft.
Lynch came to the point rapidly. “Vereshchagin, this is unacceptable! Am I to understand this Captain Sanmartin of yours carried out an execution on the basis of some allegation without any sort of official inquiry?”
“Colonel Lynch, I am not certain what you may or may not understand. I have rendered my report. The matter is closed,” Vereshchagin replied carefully.
The Boer communities collectively possessed an almost pathological fear of rape dating to the Bantu Wars and perhaps beyond. Sanmartin had acted with the diligence Vereshchagin expected. The issue was whether the incident could be made into an excuse for a court of inquiry. Like any man risen to rank through staff duty, Lynch affected to perceive a distinction between minutia and trivia.
“Vereshchagin, explain yourself!”
“Colonel Lynch, I have reduced the incident to writing. I will not have my officers subjected to harassment under any guise. I will not have my unit tampered with under any pretext. The matter is closed.”
A troublesome tic developed on the side of Lynch’s face. He moderated his voice. “Perhaps you are too close to the matter to adequately assess it.”
“Colonel Lynch, if you wish to inquire into the conduct of my battalion generally, I suggest that you find a more plausible excuse. The matter is closed.”
Vereshchagin did not invest in insubordination lightly. Lynch left the cup where it lay. He began pacing back and forth. “These reports you’re sending to me are rubbish!” he remarked inconsequentially.
No question was asked. Vereshchagin made no reply.
“I will have Captain Dong get to the bottom of these things!” Lynch said finally, slamming his palms down on the polished teakwood desk.
“Please ensure that Dong remains away from my battalion area,” Vereshchagin requested mildly.
“Why do you say this?” Lynch asked suspiciously.
Vereshchagin smiled a wintery smile. “My battalion sergeant is likely to shoot him.”
All the blood drained from Lynch’s florid face. For a moment, Vereshchagin looked beneath the kurago’s mask and saw a tired, frightened man grasping for some semblance of order and discipline. Vereshchagin was not disposed to be generous. The universe begrudged order and discipline most unwillingly.
“Request permission to depart.”
Lynch did not trust himself to speak, nodding instead. Something implacable had settled in his eyes when the mask had settled back into place. Vereshchagin saluted and left without waiting for his salute to be returned, aware that Lynch showed
entirely different facets of his character to persons identifiable as rivals.
That evening, in deference to custom, Vereshchagin held a chair. Surgeon Solchava managed to assume her seat in any case. Eva Moore, who enjoyed her role of benevolent despot, had placed the two of them at the long end of the table she had liberated for the occasion.
“Anton Aleksandrovich Vereshchagin,” he said by way of introduction. “I believe we have met.”
“Natasha Alevtinovna Solchava. We have. You danced in my wardroom.”
Vereshchagin twinkled and shook his head. “Mikhail will lose the knee,” he stated quietly.
“Your man Remmar? Perhaps. There is very little left to save.”
“I suppose we will have to make a turret gunner of him. ”
Solchava blinked in surprise. “With a prosthetic?”
Vereshchagin smiled mischievously. “A man named Bader once fought with two. I mention this so that it will not come quite so much as a shock when we ask you to certify him as fit for duty.”
“I had not realized he was quite so special.”
“No,” Vereshchagin said absently, “Mikhail is not special, but he is a soldier, and they are sometimes difficult to come by. ’ ’ Unfamiliar with the other personnel from the medical company, he allowed an awkward silence.
“I see the wine being passed, colonel. Would you care for a glass?” Solchava replied.
“No, thank you. I might mention that I have not been invited to attend in an official capacity. The only colonel present is Lieutenant-Colone! Moore.”
“I stand corrected, Anton. However, Colonel Moore will insist that you try the wine.”
“In that case, a small glass.” He allowed her to pour. The wine was a local product, fruity and very sweet. “Is this your first duty off Earth? ’ ’
“It is.”
“You should enjoy it. As worlds on the edge of nowhere go, this one is rather nice,” he said, and allowed the dinner to pass with his thoughts elsewhere.
As plates were cleared, he saw a glance directed his way from the far end of the table. He turned and made an effort to converse.
“The meal was splendid. Eva surprises me.” “Lieutenant-Colonel Moore is not a strict vegetarian. She does allow fish on occasions. I am sure we are grateful for your presence.”
“And I for yours,” Vereshchagin responded. “What was the fish?”
“The fish? ’ ’ Solchava’s eyes expressed surprise. "It was trout. They raise it.”
“Thankyou.” He bore a curious expression. “One forgets.” “How do you know Colonel Moore,” Solchava asked, studying him cautiously.
“We met on Cyclade,” he commented with a slight smile. “She was the commander of the hospital company, and I had an infantry company. She tells the tale much better than I. In the highlands, the man behind me had the misfortune of straying from the cleared path onto a mine. My kidneys were protected and no further, and when I permitted myself to be flown out, I found it necessary to rest in the stretcher facedown.”
He ruefully fingered his high-collared tunic. He had lost a kilo or two since it had last been worn.
“As I was in a hurry, Eva was kind enough to minister to me. She administered a local anesthesia of moderate effectiveness, took a scan, and set to work with a magnet and tweezers. The insurgents had made do with pins and bits of wire, and the operation took a considerable amount of time. It was, in its own way, a most interesting introduction.”
“I see,” Solchava said, biting her lip.
“She has been known to say that I was pompous until she let out the air. Has she . . . ?”
Solchava shook her head emphatically.
Vereshchagin chuckled. “Eva and I, we do very well. It is sometimes very difficult to retain a sense of humor when you have been in this profession as long as we.” He stopped speaking.
Off-balanced, Solchava fumbled for a topic. “I understand Colonel Lynch was displeased with you,” she said.
“Somewhat.” He looked at her wistfully.
To this, Solchava had no immediate reply. “Will you have coffee?” she asked. “There is no tea, I am afraid.”
“If I must, I must.” He smiled. “I have steeled myself for any sacrifice this evening.”
“White or black?” Solchava asked, bemused.
Vereshchagin shrugged, a gesture curiously out of character. “Black. There is no point in sweetening a bitter cup.” This struck her as a most peculiar statement to make about coffee.
Wednesday(3)
DAWN IS AN ENCOUNTER BETWEEN DAY AND NIGHT. SHE FOUND him when she came down to the mess for an early breakfast, the weariness of a long patrol written into his face and a kind of despair.
“Hello, Hanna.” Sanmartin automatically glanced at his wrist. “I’m waiting for Hans to return. I didn’t expect you. ’ ’ He reached out for his coffee cup.
Bruwer stopped him from spooning salt into it and pursed her lips. “They tell me Hans is escorting a convoy. . . she began. She read his face. “It was a bad patrol.”
“It was a good patrol. Exploring without expecting to get gun-shot every five steps. Even when your legs hurt. ’ ’ He closed his eyes and opened them. When he saw that she didn’t believe him, he told her, “Up by the mines at Mariental, they’re putting in Earth grasses, running sheep, overgrazing.” He added dreamily, “Furry suction cleaners. It’s stupid.”
"I don’t understand. ’ ’
He made an effort to think clearly. ‘‘The ferntrees aren’t wood, they can’t stand drought. Osmotic pressure holds them up. When the water fails, they come down. Where they’ve broken up the forest canopy, the water doesn’t recycle. The plants, the animals, they go away. The sheep are turning what replaced them into waste.” He opened his eyes. “Have you done something to your hair?”
“No,” she told him, and filled the space by saying, “I am sorry, I never thought about it carefully. I supposed plants and animals here were very much like ones on Earth.”
He opened his eyes. “Some ways,” he conceded. “Convergent evolution. You don’t have coral and stony sponges build your reefs, but reefs are reefs. What works on Earth works here. Overgrazing sheep doesn’t.”
“It hurts you,” she said.
Teaching small children had given Bruwer a directness that Sanmartin found reassuring in contrast to the evasions of other civs. He opened his eyes, balancing the hot cup of coffee on his knees, and looked for words. “The mines are the worst. They’re tearing up the mountain and sucking it dry. The ore grades out at two and half a percent niobium. The rest goes into slag heaps and tailings ponds.”
He absently found her hand on his shoulder and took it into one of his own. “The mine effluents blow off the surface of the ponds. Everything stripped, kilometer after kilometer.”
He tried to make his mind work. “The worst of it is the silence, ’ ’ he said. "Just the sounds of blowing dust and water. ’ ’ “I think that people try to fit themselves into patterns they understand,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding.
He closed his eyes. “We also went past what’s left of New Zion, the Incorporated Successor Church of the New Zion, where the Bothaville kommando anointed them with alcohol in a steel shed and tossed in a torch.”
She caught him gently by the wrist and held on, knowing it was when he was nearest exhaustion that his pretense at cynicism wore thinnest. “Raul, please go sleep,” she told him gently. “I will tell Hans.”
Behind the partition, Kasha contrived to look away.
COLDEWE’S CONVOY HAD LEFT BOKSBURG ON SCHEDULE. RIDING the seat beside him, Uborevich shook his head. “Cat-A security for metal,” he wondered aloud as he attempted—true to his infantry calling—to squeeze a little more effort from the vehicle’s air conditioner.
"I suppose this is better than working for a living, ’ ’ Coldewe answered dejectedly. He looked out the window to watch the ammonia plant slide by, replacing fields sown in grain amaranths and pervasive sugarcane.<
br />
By combining hydrogen gas and nitrogen in the presence of a catalyst, the plant had produced immense quantities of anhydrous ammonia for the farmers prior to L-day, most of which was wasted by the leaching rains. Because it is almost as easy to turn anhydrous ammonia into nitric acid as it is to turn it into fertilizer—nitric acid being the base material for any number of wonderful explosives—it would likely be a warm day on the back side of the moon before the place reopened.
“How far are they behind us do you think?” he asked.
Uborevich thought for a second. “Iwo kilometers. Even two and a half.”
On the other side of the road, euphorbia was being grown to the horizon for hydrocarbons that went into synthetics and plastics. Fuel petroleum in quantity was still years away; although ethyl alcohol only produces about seven-tenths the kilocalories per gram that benzene does, double-burned it was efficient enough.
Normally, even in Vereshchagin’s battalion, Coldewe would have been back with the convoy instead of on point. With Okladnikov along, however, Coldewe’s presence, while doubtless reassuring to Director Tuge, was also unnecessary.
“Three would be better. Can you move this thing faster?”
“If you like speed, let me requisition next time,” Uborevich suggested. Coldewe ignored the comment.
After a few minutes, Uborevich—once again true to his infantry calling—began recounting the story of his adventures in Johannesburg. As audiences had been quick to observe, the tale had grown in improbability with each retelling.
“We’ve got to move a bakkie off,” Coldewe interrupted, spotting a white pickup on the road ahead. “Go on, you’re almost to the point where she comes out with the rose between her teeth.”
Uborevich remained strangely silent for some reason. His preoccupation reflected in his driving.
“Watch the road,” Coldewe remarked as their vehicle bounced along the shoulder. “And stop staring like that. It’s rude. ’ ’ He took a better look. “We’ll split this up, ’ ’ he directed. “You watch the road, and I’ll stare.”
Robert Frezza - [Colonial War 01] Page 13