Robert Frezza - [Colonial War 01]

by A Small Colonial War (epub)

  Wojcek’s helicopters were the only aircraft available for the time being, the Imperials were spread too thin. Intelligence sources had dried up completely. The laager was forming, and any Boer foolish enough to ask questions would find himself outside, or herself.

  “Frost it all. , . . You all right?”

  “Yeah, Berry. I’m all right.”

  Beregov thought for a minute. “What are we going to do with the ones we picked up?” he asked, thinking of something else.

  “Prisoners? Most of them we’ll ship out to the island for the recruits and the stray artillerymen to keep track of.”

  “The rest?”

  “If the Variag approves, we’ll have Dr. Solchava give them a physical and let them go,” Sanmartin said blandly.

  Beregov sucked in his breath. He gave Sanmartin a hard, sidelong look.

  “I think we need to fly down to Complex,” Sanmartin said.

  THE HOSPITAL WAS LOCATED IN TAN OUTBUILDING. THE TINY

  biochem section was buried in its bowels off in a basement corridor. The chief of section took his siesta between ten and two, not that Sanmartin intended to solicit his permissions. The fat chemist who’d whipped up the skunk oil was a sharp man. However, on the bio side there was only the senior technician and his self-effacing assistant.

  Unfortunately, the little senior technician was so happy to have an audience for his answers that he didn’t seem to want to stop for the questions. Sanmartin looked at Beregov and then broke into a burgeoning monologue.

  “Senior technician. I want to know what kind of biologicals you have. Characteristics, doses, inoculations.”

  The man waved his hand airily and set his smoldering cigar-etto down in the ashtray. “We got all kinds, captain. Anything anybody wants.” He chuckled. “Hey, for most of the stuff we have, one dose is plenty, but listen to me, captain, stop fooling yourself, nobody wants biologicals. If they sent you down to take an inventory, don’t even waste your time. Nobody wants biologicals. They put their hands to their mouths and gasp if you even mention germs. Besides, on a mudball like this, how could you control a plague? Take my word for it, captain ...” The subbasement to which Lieutenant-Colonel Moore had banished the Wizard Warriors was poorly ventilated. The smoke irritated Sanmartin’s sinuses. The senior technician didn’t whine well.

  Originally, Sanmartin had intended to work it through Moore’s adjutant. Beregov had chopped that notion down. Miss Molly’s nickname was “Miss Metal” because she had a heart of gold and a head of lead. Sanmartin was beginning to understand why no one else wanted her job. It struck him forceably that Eva Moore’s contempt for the biochem section nominally under her control had nothing to do with their mission and much to do with the caliber of personnel.

  He counted past ten before he spoke again. “You’ll coordinate with the hospital company on the inoculations. We’ll need at least a thousand within the first seventy-two hours.” “Coordinate? Coordinate! To us, the Nellies won’t even talk much less coordinate. Hey, you wouldn’t need a thousand, you’d need a hundred thousand, one for every civ out there if you want to inoculate them. Me, I’d rather see them rot. But let’s be realistic, captain, whoever sent you down here didn’t know what he was talking about. In seventy-two hours, we’d be crawling along exactly one step ahead of wildfire. If you ask me, it’s a silly question, and you can tell that to whoever sent you, too!” Sanmartin hadn’t asked. He found himself weighing judiciously the man’s presumed competence as a biotech against his demonstrated incompetence as a human being. The hollow drumming of man’s fingers on the polished metal began to echo the pounding in Sanmartin'S head.

  “Now, I don’t want to poke sticks at this Colonel Vereshchagin,” the stubby little man continued, "but if I were in his place, I’d teach these filthy Boers a lesson. Make them pay for what they did! If you ask me, half our problems come from being too kind to civs instead of slapping them hard.”

  Sanmartin looked at Beregov, who was standing in the place of dead Rudi Scheel. Rudi had had even less regard for semicivs than he did for real civilians. Beregov quietly wrapped one large hand around the dancing fingers and squeezed gently once. The little man held them to his breast then examined to see if they were all still there. Then eyes opened wider than his mouth, he looked up at Sanmartin. Sanmartin coughed expectantly.

  “What was it that you said you wanted, captain?”

  Sanmartin wrinkled his nose again. He picked up the ashtray sitting on top of the stacks of papers and pitched it into the wastebasket together with its malodorous contents. Then he leaned on the desk.

  “I have a few technical questions about your stock in trade. Please give me answers. Immediately, if not a trifle sooner.” Sanmartin needed facts rather than opinion. If an opinion from the senior technician became necessary, it would be Beregov’s pleasure to beat it out of him.

  HANNES VAN DER MERWE TAPPED ON THE WALLS OF HIS CELL.

  A thin coil of fear was wrapped around his stomach. He was more frightened than he had been since he had lost his hat and his machine gun, since the thin spike of the machine cannon on the armored car had gazed in his face and at his upraised arms.

  Dirkie Roussoux had been taken. Van der Merwe had heard a single rifle shot, and nothing. The second one was Magnus from the cell adjoining. He had gone a little after Dirkie, and there had been a second shot.

  Van der Merwe heard a ringing of keys. A short, stocky Imperial with a heavy black mustache pushed open the door and entered the cell. Behind him was another, standing with an assault rifle where he would have a clean shot. The stocky Imp asked fiercely in Afrikaans, “Are you going to make trouble?” Van der Merwe shook his head violently. The man relaxed. “That’s good. I don’t like this either. What’s your name?” “Hannes Mannetjies Van der Merwe. Boksburg,” Van der Merwe answered quickly, still tensed, not wanting to anger him.

  “Resit Aksu. From Antakya on Earth. That is the city of Antiochii. Antioch. You know, Saint Paul?” Van der Merwe knew Saint Paul. Aksu handed him a cigarette and lit it. He sighed. “I am sorry for you, friend.”

  “Why?” Van der Merwe asked, coughing slightly. He didn’t smoke.

  “That bastard Shimazu thinks you’re all saboteurs and assassins.”

  “That is crazy!” Van der Merwe said.

  “So is Shimazu, so watch yourself,” Aksu advised. “This is what we do with saboteurs and assassins. Bang!” He made a pistol out of his fingers and pantomimed firing it.

  “But we’re not!”

  “Don’t tell me. You got a uniform?”

  “None of us have!”

  “No unit, no uniform. Bang!” Aksu shook his head sadly. The other Imperial cleared his throat. Aksu looked at his wrist. “We got to go.”

  They crossed in front of the bunkers. Van der Merwe blinked his eyes at the unexpected sunlight. As they stopped in front of one door, Aksu said, "This is where I leave you, ’ ’ and acknowledged Van der Merwe’s thanks.

  Shimazu was a mild-looking man who greeted Van der Merwe politely. A long ivory-colored rod was stretched across his desk. He put gentle questions, murmuring politely as he listened, pausing only to adjust a machine whose snout was pointed at Van der Merwe’s midsection.

  Suddenly his face altered. He bent to take a reading from the machine. In a single motion he took Van der Merwe up by the shirt and slammed him bodily against the wall.

  “Liar! Atom-bomb murderer!” Shimazu snatched up the rod and pinned Van der Merwe, who had only shaded the truth slightly. “So, you come to plant bombs and tell lies?” He used the rod to cut Van der Merwe’s legs from under him and followed up.

  For tortured minutes, the whisding stick sought out the recesses of Van der Merwe’s body as he cringed and tried to protect his eyes and lips. Occasionally, the rod struck, leaving weals. The words that tumbled from his mouth at the mistake that was being made stayed neither Shimazu’s guttural abuse nor the slashing blows.

  Suddenly, Shimazu stopped, panting
. After a few cautious seconds, Van der Merwe lifted his head a fraction and flung his face aside from a final blow. Shimazu shouted for Aksu.

  Aksu entered and saluted. Shimazu tightened his grip on the stick until his knuckles turned white, and spittle flecked his lips. “Take this one. I will shoot him personally,” he said roughly.

  Aksu saluted. He escorted Van der Merwe around the side of the building until they stopped by a row of freshly covered graves topped by small white crosses. The last one had a name freshly painted on it. There was something like drops of fresh blood by the edge.

  “Start digging,” Aksu said gently. “I would help, but it is forbidden.” He followed Van der Merwe’s dazed eyes to the name on the cross. “Was he a friend of yours?”

  Van der Merwe began to cry.

  “Keep digging, you don’t have much time. You want it nice and deep,” Aksu said gently.

  “He didn’t listen!”

  “I know. He really is a crazy bastard.”

  “But we’re not saboteurs or assassins!” Van der Merwe said desperately.

  “I wish I could help,” Aksu said. “Keep digging,” he added gently.

  “We are not, none of us are! He wouldn’t listen!”

  Sanmartin walked by, accompanied by Beregov, Tomiyama, and a rifleman.

  “Perhaps Captain Sanmartin would help,” Aksu said brightly.

  "If you could convince him, you would save your other friends. ’ ’ He switched to English. “Sir! Sir, come here, please.” Sanmartin returned the salute slowly. “What is it, Aksu?” Desperately, young Van der Merwe tried to explain his predicament in mixed Afrikaans and halting snatches of English. Sanmartin listened skeptically.

  “Is this true, Aksu?” he asked.

  “I believe him, sir. He seems forthright,” Aksu replied. “Company Sergeant Beregov?”

  Beregov rubbed his chin. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check into it,” he answered with doubt in his voice.

  “Tomiyama! Look into the boy’s story. See what he has to say. If he’s telling the truth, I’ll deal with Shimazu. If not. . .” Sanmartin let the sentence trail away ominously. Aksu translated faithfully.

  “Sir!” Tomiyama said, saluting briskly. Sanmartin returned the salute. “You, come with me!” Tomiyama demanded per-emptorially.

  After they disappeared from view, Sanmartin asked Aksu, “Judas Iscariot was a Turk, wasn’t he?”

  “No, honored sir,” Aksu laughed. “If it pleases the honored captain, it was a Greek who betrayed the prophet Jesus!” There was a Turkish proverb to the effect that a man who shakes hands with a Greek should count his fingers.

  The rifleman dutifully gardened, pausing to erect a little white cross with “Hannes Van der Merwe” freshly painted across the top. He stopped and looked at Aksu and then at a bale of straw inconspicuously placed to the side.

  “Rifleman, if you would punctually delay firing for two minutes, our schedule will not be inconvenienced,” Aksu decided. “Honored captain, if you will excuse me, it is necessary for me to look in upon our first clients before attending to the next.”

  Sanmartin nodded curtly. “How much longer will the first ones take?” he asked. The six were representative of fifty more kept in studied ignorance.

  “It will be another hour, possibly slightly more than this, honored captain. If I might suggest, we might switch to the drugs. If the captain pleases, I must go and attend to these matters.” Aksu saluted. Sanmartin returned the salute, and he departed.

  “This intelligence business is hard on the arms,” Sanmartin commented.

  Beregov began rubbing his chin for real. “The doc?”

  Sanmartin made a face. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “The truth?”

  “Enough of it.”

  “Not too much.”

  “If I have to,” Sanmartin promised, “I’ll do the job myself with a rusty spoon.” Beregov nodded and walked away, deep in thought. “I want to see that boy’s soul,” Sanmartin commented to no one in particular. The rifleman sculpting the mound paid him no mind.

  In addition to the would-be warriors they had rounded up in clumps, they had another fifty-some acquired in ones and twos without weapons who could claim more-or-less convincingly that they’d been out for a walk in the country. Releasing Boers who had been captured in arms would have aroused too much suspicion.

  Sanmartin knew enough about the men who’d called out the Hannes Van der Merwes of this world to guess at how they’d react. It was a virtually certainty they’d try to lure released prisoners back into the bush. Not only would this prevent them from spreading tales of defeat and overwhelming Imperial might among the civil population, but the Boer leaders were an un-l rusting lot. They would want to do their own interrogations. What Sanmartin needed to know was what the Van der Merwes thought. And ironically, whether they could be depended upon to lie.

  ‘‘I want to hold his soul in my hand and squeeze it,” he added quietly. He looked over at the rifleman. “That patrol into the Empty Land with number nine, you were there.”

  The rifleman nodded as he continued to shape the little mound with an artist’s eye, remembering the dry, empty days.

  “Do you remember? Vijer got shot through the scrotum while he was passing water? Oh, how we laughed! We called him ‘Deadeye Dick.’ ”

  The rifleman laughed, remembering. That had been on the nineteenth day. Two of the cakes they’d been trailing had committed suicide the day before.

  Sanmartin looked in the direction of Reading. “It gives you a different perspective,” he said.

  The rifleman nodded solemnly. He finished his ministrations and fired a round into the straw.

  Wednesday(13)

  KEKKONEN SAT WITH HIS BACK TO THE PARAPET, AMUSING HIM-

  se!f playing ripple solitaire with cards that could be read from either side. Resting his fingers lightly on the triggers of his gp, Sery yawned. Kalle K. was good for two more hands.

  As a medium-sized truck approached from Bloemfontein, Sery locked the first round from the roll into the breech with a speed bom of long practice and watched languidly. His eyes narrowed as the vehicle picked up speed. He rocked and jerked the safety.

  The vehicle didn’t brake at the barrier. It crashed through, ignoring fire from the sentinel. As it slowed for the first of the dragon’s teeth, Sery saw the fixed expression on the driver’s face and ripped the cab with a long, sustained burst from his seven seven.

  The truck exploded with a dull roar. Kekkonen clung to the parapet, clutching a second, unneeded pouch in his hand. He whispered softly, “Jumalan kiitos!

  Sery absently cleared the weapon and let it rest on its tripod, the barrel pointed skyward. Kekkonen’s discarded cards came fluttering down one by one onto their heads. The blackened chassis of the truck lay between the first and second of the dragon’s teeth.

  That morning, the power from the ocean tap was turned off

  except for three hours each day for cooking.

  Bruwer shut the door behind her, her slight hesitation affording Vereshchagin an opportunity for reflection. Her delicate features showed shock and abrasion in equal measure.

  A passed pawn, Matti Haijalo had called her, a tiny, inconsequential pivot among thrones and powers. Pawns were seldom predictable. Nevertheless, one made use of the tools at hand.

  Vereshchagin ran through his mind every scrap of information Raul Sanmartin had let slip over the months, slapping his borrowed pipe against the palm of his hand gently. She liked gaily colored flowers, he recalled inconsequentially, on a planet that as yet had none. As she let her hand drop from the lever that worked the door, he stood and courteously motioned her into the twin of his worn spider chair.

  “Good day, Juffrou Bruwer,” he said, standing to take her hand politely.

  Bruwer stammered out some form of greeting in return. She seated herself, and he examined her through soft, brown eyes. Her skin was very fair; the bone structure of her body was unusually fine fo
r an Afrikaner. Vereshchagin observed a fresh bruise, very small, on the skin of her left arm a few centimeters below the elbow.

  He said carefully, “I express my regret over the death of your stepbrother. He was scarcely old enough.”

  She stared. After another slight hesitation, she made small words of thanks.

  “Please do not thank me. I am insufficiently aware of your feelings to extend either sympathy or pity, and I see no reason to demean your intelligence by pretending that I do. Still, in cutting a tree, I spare a small prayer for the spirit I extinguish.

  I do no less for a man. ”

  He paused to see if she had any inclination to share her thoughts, then said, “Tell me about yourself,” settling himself patiently.

  “What do you wish to know?” she countered.

  “Your hopes, your fears, your dreams. Whatever it is about you that you would like me to know. I find that I need to see you as a person.”

  She sat very still, very stiff, with her hands folded in her lap like an errant schoolgirl “What hopes should I have?” she asked pointedly. “My fears, they are profound. For dreams, I have ashes.”

  “And of Johannesburg?” he inquired gently.

  “I looked out my window as the shells came in. Katrina wished me to hide, but I stayed where I could see. I felt very helpless, very angry. Afterward, I went out into the streets. Is this what you wish me to say? Cicatrix manet. ’ ’

  “I wish you to say what you wish to say, and I believe you are aware of this. And scars heal, or at least we pretend that they do,” he added, acknowledging her adage. “It appears you have been much in the company of Raul.”