There were adventures with robbers, an ogre or two, a wardrobe, a lion, and a witch. Three times, the giant told Momotaro to grow tall. With the cock on his head, Momotaro stood in turn on top of the donkey, the dog and the donkey, and finally on the both of them and the cat as well, before an unwilling Marhaus came forth. Momotaro hit him in the center of the forehead with a peach stone of gold coughed up by the cock and cut away his head with the enchanted sword Gram. Leaving the cat and the cock, the dog and the donkey to govern the land, Momotaro sailed back to the king with the giant’s treasure.
When it ended, Bruwer had said, “The poor giant. ”
EARLY MORNING WAS YEVTUSHENKO’S LEAST FAVORITE TIME FOR a stealthy assault. It offered advantage only in being unexpected.
Getting to the window had been the hard part. Even with covering noise unwittingly provided by the horde of media types on hand, it had taken Yevtushenko nearly an hour to negotiate the final fifty meters. Crouched under the sill on his back he stared at the ugly little pistol in his hand as he let his ears do his thinking.
Holding aloft a pebble in his free hand, he jerked it twenty meters, where it bounced away with a sharp sound. When he saw the reflection in the glass over his head, he reached up and discharged the energy weapon soundlessly into the mere’s face four times at a range of seven centimeters through the unbroken glass.
“Recon point two. Break. Thomas, let’s go,” he whispered in a soft, bored voice. Then he broke the connection and exhaled, noiselessly and deeply.
Reaching up with a suction cup, he attached it to the window which he slashed free of its frame with his cutting bar. Placing the window aside, he entered and used the cutting bar in his hand to make certain the mere corpse on the floor stayed a corpse. Thomas and two other shadows made their appearance out of the semidarkness. The four of them paused by the door to the room and tested it gently, as a second and a third of Yevtushenko’s teams made their own stealthy approach.
Thomas was the best shot in the battalion, as Lev Yevtushenko was the worst. His task was the sentinel atop the school’s atrium. He stopped by the door. Yevtushenko moved silendy past him toward the end of the south corridor, the knife in his hand lightly poised to throw or thrust. The mere at the end of the south corridor continued to stare out the window into the dimming light, peering outward.
Crouched by the wall, Thomas watched him, conscious of the submachine gun in his hands, the two meres, and of little else. He concentrated on the submachine gun, to do anything in his power to make the few seconds pass quickly.
Behind the cylindrical silencer, the submachine gun was a simple blow-back weapon up through the breach. Behind the breach, the weapon came up over the wrist and ended in an elaborate buffer arrangement butted up against the crook of the firer’s arm.
It was not intended to be shoulder-fired. Overengineered and somewhat delicate, it was popular with rear echelon troops; Life Guards officers had particularly favored it. On Cyclade they’d left enough lying around for Lev and his Forty Thieves that Koryagin had two on hand for every serial number authorized. It was not a bad weapon. Still, Thomas figured the Ordinance Procurement Commission had let the contract on a particularly busy day, in one of those deals that usually involved somebody’s brother-in-law.
Out of the comer of one eye, he tracked Yevtushenko’s progress. The other never left his assigned target. As the corridor sentry watched the camera crews cavort on the lawn, Yevtushenko covered the last two meters in a quick bound, and his left arm tightened.
The knife punched twice into the right kidney and spleen and then glided across the man’s throat. Yevtushenko ushered the mere and his weapon tenderly to the floor.
Thomas then ripped three quick bursts that flattened the mere in the atrium against the wall. The other three team members relaxed their weapons slightly. The second team passed them to cover the top level. The third team headed for the second level, pausing momentarily to practice fitting keys to the locks in the empty ground-level classrooms.
He smiled slightly as Yevtushenko sat down heavily and allowed his eyes to close. The next phase was for the third team and the supporting weapons. Zerebtsov, the corporal commanding the third team, slapped him lightly on the shoulder as he went by.
As Zerebtsov mounted the stairs, he spoke crisply into his wrist mount. “Battalion point two. Break. Zerebtsov. Phase two complete. Fire, three minutes. Fire on my signal.”
Behind and to his left, his partner, “Abdullah” Salchow, was panting inaudibly. The heavy goggles over his mask lent him an unreal appearance. Zerebtsov made a fist and tapped him reassuringly. Salchow bent and pushed his face up against Major Rettaglia’s magic box, maneuvering the fiber under the door of classroom number four with his fingers as Zerebtsov covered him. He jerked his thumb and a forefinger into the air, signifying he saw two meres with a clear shot and no obstacles.
Zerebtsov inserted a janitor’s passkey into the lock and wiped his hand on his trousers as if it were slippery, even through gloves. Turning slightly, he checked the progress of the riflemen doing the same to the door to classroom number three.
The door to the administrative office suddenly swung open. A mere stepped out, letting the door shut behind him as he fumbled with his trousers.
With three quick bursts, Thomas spun him around and dropped him. The mere slumped down with his mouth open and the assault rifle still strapped to his back. Visibly sweating around the edges of his mask, Zerebtsov whispered over the radio, “Zerebtsov. On three. Supporting fires on five. Out,” and heard the echo of his voice as his team and the support team confirmed.
On “one,” Salchow brought himself erect and poised. On “two,” Zerebtsov turned the key and flung himself against the door with a grunt to clear it from Salchow’s field of fire; a popper trickled from his fingers into the room to explode with the first of a dozen blinding flashes and shattering retorts. As Zerebtsov reached three, Salchow took apart the back of one mere’s head and removed the face from a second for the edification of twenty-four school children. Twenty-three more were similarly entertained across the hall. Light machine gun fire blew out the windows in the administrative office for s-mortar rounds to enter and spatter the remaining occupant across the walls on five.
The rest was mopping up.
Zerebtsov paused to rub his sore shoulder and punched Salchow lightly. Apart from a protruding lip and a neck like a camel’s, there was nothing remarkable about Abdullah, but without a few Abdullahs, the battalion wouldn’t have been worth much.
Outside, Albert Beyers, armored with hope and the kind of faith that moves mountains, listened to what was coming in and began dancing a jig with a flustered Timo Haerkoennen. Chi-haru Yoshida was caught by the gunfire in the middle of an interview he did not finish.
RAUL SANMARTIN PULLED THE HEADSET AWAY FROM BRUWER’S temples and took one last call. He listened for a moment in mounting incredulity and then flung the headset down. He announced to no one in particular, "His Excellency, the lord mayor of Pretoria, is on. He wants to know who’s going to pay for the damage.”
The admiral was only mildly displeased. In the Tuesday editorials, the Boer media were only mildly critical. The city of Johannesburg, in the person of its lord mayor, Albert Beyers, made a point of paying for the extra keys.
AWAKENED FROM DEEP SLUMBER AT MIDDAY, VERESHCHAGIN felt rather than heard the slight rap on his door. “Matti?”
“Malinov,” was the reply.
“Come in, Yuri.”
Malinov entered in combat harness, sparing his words. “From Rettaglia. Caverns near Bloemfontein. Major arms cache, munitions depot, maybe.”
The task group intelligence officer paused for channels and ceremony only when he thought it advantageous. He was not prone to overstatement.
“Matti?” Vereshchagin questioned.
“Went to grab Wojcek out of his hammock. Reinikka is on his way to close up the city’s relay switching, and Piotr has the phone system shut down for purport
ed repairs already. He has number one and a ground section on the recon waiting for the transports.”
The battalion’s four light transport aircraft could carry four sections. In a pinch, the four attack helicopters could crowd in one more.
“Shall we try brigade for a heavy transport or two?”
‘‘It would take them at least two hours, ’ ’ Malinov stated care-fiilly.
The light transports would suffice. “How long until contact?” Vereshchagin asked.
“Piotr says one hour twenty.”
“Thank you, Yuri,” Vereshchagin said.
“Matti said to tell you the little kid who caught the ricochet will be okay, ’ ’ Malinov added.
“Thank you again, Yuri,” Vereshchagin replied, and Malinov made his departure.
In choosing twenty thousand families to migrate across the void, the Afrikaners had seemingly selected for intransigence. Vereshchagin was not one to assume that every effect had an obvious cause, but it appeared possible that in at least one case, intransigence had been tempered by something akin to gratitude.
“An interesting day,” he murmured.
When Solchava entered, hours later, he was still seated in his spider chair, although he appeared awake, tapping a pipe against his knee. There was a hammock strung in the room and a second chair, but there seemed to be no desk. Another officer, a moonfaced major with high cheekbones, was standing beside him.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin?” she asked timidly.
Vereshchagin gave no sign he had heard. The major held a finger to his lip.
“Matti Haijalo, battalion executive officer,” the officer said quietly by way of introduction. “Anton will be with you momentarily.”
Vereshchagin let his eyes open slowly. “Matti, the cavern Piotr blew was twenty-three kilometers from the town limits of Bloemfontein, was it not? Let us see how predictable the Brothers are. Lay hands on a geological map. Ask the navy to help. It occurs to me that there might be equally large dumps em-placed within twenty-five kilometers of the other cities. I must attend Colonel Lynch’s staff meeting. ’ ’ Haijalo nodded and left.
“Did someone else say something a moment ago?” Vereshchagin asked with the pipe held in his two hands lengthwise in front of his body. “Surgeon Solchava, this is indeed a surprise. What brings you up to Pretoria? Please, be seated. ’ ’ He gestured toward the other chair.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin, I have been ordered to report in place of Dr. Devoucoux,” she said stiffly.
For a moment, there was a faint flicker of movement across Vereshchagin’s eyes.
“Indeed. Welcome. I must say we are quite pleased to have you. I would ask you to excuse me for one second.”
He turned his body slightly and called out the door, “Matti, I must leave for the staff meeting, and there is a personal matter that wants arranging. Call Raul, and ask him if he still has that pipe. I seem to have broken the stem on mine.”
THE STAFF MEETING DID NOT GO WELL. EVA MOORE BIT BACK A sharp comment at the drawn lines in Vereshchagin’s face when he came over to see her before returning. Admiral Lee had been present, and despite the success at the school, the admiral was still in an unusually foul mood. The Hunsley assassination was an auspice that his efforts to control the Suid-Afrikan dynamic would not move to plan.
"How went it? ’ ’ she asked. "I don’t suppose they fired you. ’ ’ “It was a near thing. Eva, heaven preserve me from my friends. My enemies, I will manage.”
“Uwe?”
“Uwe has no sense. He brought up the munitions dump we eliminated just as the admiral finished castigating me for failing to keep Colonel Lynch informed of my operations. It appears that Colonel Lynch neglected to brief the admiral because the admiral tore Colonel Lynch into small pieces.”
“So Lynch is doubly furious with you.”
“At least. He believes Uwe and I arranged it between us. There was also the soap yesterday morning.”
“The soap?”
“Several sacks of soap were transferred from a warehouse to the courtyard in front of Colonel Lynch’s residence in time for the morning rain to simulate the onset of winter. ’ ’
Moore threw back her head joyfully. “Lord of heaven, I thought it was a rumor! And he just stood there while the bubbles crawled up his legs and filled his shoes? Anton, that was priceless. However did you manage it?”
“Soldiers used to the exigencies of combat tend to find garrison tedious,” he rejoined mildly. “Unfortunately, yesterday he also sent Dong to Reading to investigate Hunsley’s murder. You are aware of the pride that Dong takes in his physique? Uwe subsidized a small corps of talented street children and deployed them to strut about like miniature fighting cocks. One of my lieutenants christened them the Baker Street Irregulars.”
He sighed. “Three incidents was excessive.”
“You’d prefer Lynch off-balanced rather than rabid.” Vereshchagin nodded. “Uwe has no sense,” he repeated. He paused momentarily. “If you are waiting for me to raise the question of Surgeon Solchava, I will not.”
Moore laughed even louder, harsh and grating. "Then I won’t either. Here’s something to fortify your tea. You look as though you could use it. It’s been a long day.”
BLOEMFONTEIN WAS A PRETTY TOWN AT DUSK. THE HOUSES were plaster or stucco, colored in pastel hues of every shade.
Section Sergeant Suslov slapped the top of Savichev’s hatch. Savichev slowed to let a few pedestrians cross in front, one of them with an infant walker. Four men could crowd onto the back of a Cadillac comfortably, four men was what each Cadillac had.
Pretty towns were dangerous. Behind beautiful facades, sometimes houses were thin-walled plaster, sometimes miniature fortresses of steel and concrete that had to be blasted apart, floor by floor, room by room. Then the town wasn’t so pretty.
Having inflicted a fictitious “fire survey” on inhabitants of yet another world, Kolomeitsev had a master map of Bloemfontein and the surrounding communities showing the construction of each edifice and the names of occupants. Still, the thought of taking apart a town the size of Bloemfontein was not one Suslov relished. Patrolling it was bad enough. Light attack commanders were positively paranoid surrounded by tall buildings, and Sergeant Platoon Commander Savichev was one of the worst.
Suslov had brought Sery and his seven-seven machine gun solely to calm his friend’s nerves. Seiy, for one, was enjoying the ride. With the gp mounted into the ringbolt on the armored car’s turret, he had the lightest load and the best seat. He grinned, pointing to the shipsbottle Suslov had hooked to his belt.
Suslov smirked. The polished steel tea urn Savichev had yoked to his engine with liberated copper tubing was a marvel of precision engineering, but Savichev made lousy tea.
In some respects, city runs were a waste of time, but C Company was running some sort of operation in a local tavern they didn’t want disturbed. Since the Imperials were almost popular for the moment, the advantage of acclimating the townspeople to the sight of Imperial armor in the streets at odd intervals far outweighed the risks.
Hardly one blinked as they drove through, which made Sus-lov’s task easier. While some like Yevtushenko worked best in the forest or the desert, reading odors and the flight of what passed for insects, Suslov was at home in a city, interpreting faces and movements, looking for differences in the streets and on the rooftops that he could rarely quantity. Only little things out of place gave men away, eye expressions and the cut of clothing, like a black frock coat.
He vaulted to the pavement suddenly, almost knocking aside one startled woman with an armful of parcels. Locking eyes with the gray-bearded man standing with his arms folded, he heard the sharp click of Sery’s seven-seven locking a round. The Cadillac slowed, training its turret to cover the length of the street.
The gray-bearded man raised both his hands slowly. He dropped his wide-brimmed hat on the ground and opened the heavy coat. A thin smile danced about his lips.
&nb
sp; Heedless of men and women milling about in confusion, Suslov stepped quickly toward him, taking care not to obstruct Sery’s field of fire. Hooking his rifle in the man’s belt, Suslov patted him down, a matter of a few seconds. He found nothing.
Unhooking his rifle, his eyes still locked, Suslov said, “Not this time, old man?” Hendrik Pienaar nodded agreement. Not this time. He bent to pick up his hat from where it lay.
As Suslov regained his handhold on top of Savichev’s Cadillac, Pienaar looked up at him. He nodded again slowly and emphatically. Suslov tipped him a salute. Then he cast a glance over to the guest house where C Company was operating.
Inside the guest house, Fripp and Muslar sat together on a low-backed bench. They were ignored by the other patrons until well after the darkness had fallen. Around them was the Springboks football club, which had ended its league season successfully by defeating the Pretoria-Wes team by the honorable score of six goals to two. Most recent heirs to that ancient and honorable name, they were duly getting stinking drunk.
Fripp hummed an old tune under his breath.
With their guns and drums, and drums and guns, the enemy nearly slew ye,
Me darlin ’ dear, you look so queer,
why, Johnnie, we hardly knew ye.
Fripp had once been recommended for academy. He might have been accepted if his political reliability index had not been lower than mite dung.
He was also obnoxious. In the distant past, it had occurred to Muslar that shared recreational activity was an excellent vehicle for breaking down Boer hostility. He had suggested as much to Major Haijalo, who had said neither yea nor nay. The engineer lieutenant, Reinikka, had dutifully issued challenges, to which the Boer club sides had also said neither yea nor nay.
After a suitable vigil, Haijalo had intimated that shared recreational activity was dead and buried in hell like al-Mansur, the Ever-Victorious. Muslar, wise beyond his years, had taken counsel with Rudi Scheel. Scheel had roped in Fripp.
Robert Frezza - [Colonial War 01] Page 17