Riding the Red Horse

by Christopher Nuttall

  Soviet strategy had painful consequences for her allies and clients. The USSR was far more of a “frenemy” than a true friend to China from 1917 to 1991; the Soviets feared China but needed to use her against more powerful enemies. The USSR sought to bring about a Japanese invasion of China after 1931, and then to prolong the conflict after 1937. Similarly, Stalin brought China and America to blows in 1950, and prolonged the war after it began. The USSR provided North Korea, North Vietnam, and Iraq with weapons and political support to launch their respective wars of aggression, but tailored Soviet aid to ensure that none of them won a rapid, decisive victory. Hanoi was the only Soviet Cold War client to achieve total victory, and did so at a high price: over a million casualties after sixteen years of war.

  Russia’s use of the stratagem discussed herein did not end with the Cold War. In Asia, Russia promoted Chinese confrontation with America, and sold the Chinese the missiles, ships, submarines, and aircraft needed to fight American air and naval forces in the Pacific. Moreover, after 1995, Moscow used a pro-Russian faction within OPEC (Iran, Iraq, Libya, Saudi Arabia, and Venezuela) to raise the price of oil. To counter this, Bush gave halfhearted support to a Venezuelan coup attempt, persuaded Libya’s Muammar Gaddafi to switch sides, and invaded Iraq. The occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan sought to put pressure on Iran, but like the similar Soviet pincer move in the 1980s, this failed. America suffered relatively few military casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan compared to Korea or Vietnam, but the occupations were extremely costly financially. In 2010, the War on Terror already cost 55 percent more in constant dollars than ten years of fighting in Vietnam.[18] Russia and China clearly benefited from this prolonged drain of American resources and attention, which among other things delayed the acquisition of the military systems needed to deter or fight them. They sent weapons to the insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan, and outsourced support for the insurgency to Russia’s clients Iran and Syria. The Iranians did much less to support the insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan than they could have; they did not even provide the advanced munitions that they gave to Hezbollah in Lebanon.[19] This kept the situation “serious but not hopeless” – and the Americans remained in place. Neither Iran nor Syria had any interest in keeping a large American military force just across their borders; only Russia and China could have convinced them to do so. At the time of this writing, the question of using American ground combat troops in Iraq and Syria remains open, and if so, Russia and China will continue to watch the American tiger fight.

  Editor's Introduction to:

  THE GENERAL'S GUARD

  by Brad Torgersen

  Brad Torgersen’s debut novel, The Chaplain’s War, was released by Baen Books in October, 2014. It is Brad’s first published novel, but he’s no stranger to writing science fiction, having two anthologies in print, Lights in the Deep and Racers in the Night, both published by Wordfire Press. Brad’s also twice won Analog magazine’s “AnLab” reader’s choice award, a Writers of the Future Award, and in 2012, he was a triple-crown nominee for the Hugo, Nebula, and Campbell awards.

  Brad works full time in Health Care and he is also a Chief Warrant Officer in the US Army Reserve. That, plus his devotion to his faith, goes a long way toward explaining some of the expertise and perspective he brings to his subject when writing fiction. He’s also, like your intrepid editors, a charter member and Legionary First Class in the Evil Legion of Evil, a super-secret society devoted to such heinous activities as committing thoughtcrime, writing crimethink, and laughing at the preposterous pretensions of the modern Social Justice Warrior. Some of us in the ELoE like to tease Brad about being our token liberal. In some sense, he is, but he represents the better, truer aspect of liberalism, now mostly lost to the of mindless modern progressivism of the shrieking harpies, glittery hoo-haas, and those immortalized by the inimitable Kate Paulk as Tempests in B Cups.

  With Brad’s present offering, “The General’s Guard”, the casual reader might be tempted to dismiss it as just another “anything boy can do girl can do better” propaganda piece, written in placative submission to the tripartite goddess of modern feminism: Hysteria the Relentless, Outrage the Untiring, and Unreason, handmaiden of PMS. That would be both a mistake and a misreading. Look for the 90-pound superwaifu in this story; you will search in vain. She may be off getting a pedicure somewhere else, but she’s not in this story. And as for the woman warrior who can best Conan, Elric, and the Dorsai with one hand tied behind her back, she too fails to make an appearance.

  No, Brad’s purpose is different. Don't be misled by what might initially appear to be conventional SF dogma about women in combat, when you read The General’s Guard, think of a name, in American history a very particular and important name. The name in question? Why, it’s Friedrich Wilhelm Ludolf Gerhard Augustin von Steuben.

  THE GENERAL'S GUARD

  by Brad R. Torgersen

  Joonta stood at the position of attention: head facing forward, chin up, arms straight down to her sides and her knees bent just enough to keep her blood moving. Her dark red tunic was sashed tightly at the waist and her knee-length grass-green silk pants were clean and free of holes. It was the closest thing she had to a dress uniform. She’d put it on hastily, the moment the district messenger had informed her of the arrival of a very important visitor.

  Joonta was not alone.

  The mass formation was fifty heads long and five ranks deep, composed of women from every clan in the city-state of Coam. Archers all. Their recurve bows were strung for display only, and the hafts of their small swords—mainly ceremonial, with a differently styled haft for every Coam clan—gleamed dully at their belts. It was hot out, midday, so each woman’s brow beaded with sweat. But no one spoke and no one moved. Their discipline was on full display for the great Syqarian general who presently inspected the lines.

  Erel the officer was legendary: a warrior’s warrior, fit like unto the gods, tall as a pine tree, with the eyes of a bird of prey, and a strategic mind so sharp that it had taken overwhelming numbers to crush the Syqarian tyrant-king’s forces under Erel’s command. Thus bringing both Syqar and its military into the embrace of the polyglot civilization known as the Longstar Combine.

  But Erel the man was short. Shorter than some of the archers he inspected. And his face was drawn and weary, with lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. His hair was going silver, and he walked with a pronounced limp. Unlike other Combine militia officers, Erel did not wear a decorated, polished-steel breastplate. Rather he had on a khaki kilt, with an ash-grey topshirt cut sleeveless at the shoulders. The general’s arms were scarred and lean. Sinew and muscle bulged under his brown skin, but only because there seemed to be no fat on the man. His sandals crunched the gravel as he walked.

  The general’s single badge of office was the sash that Erel wore across his left shoulder. It was bright blue, with the crest of the Longstar Conclave sewn prominently into the fabric: golden-yellow thread tracing out the shape of a dodecahedron, with symbols in the faces representing each of the original city-states to have formed the Combine.

  Joonta followed the general with her eyes as he proceeded quietly up and down the formation. All she’d been told was that the general had come to select a few Coam archers for service in his personal guard. An honor, considering the fact that many of the other city-states mocked Coam’s traditions.

  While the men of Coam labored in the fields, and in the mines, and in the bakeries and smithy shops, Coam’s halest, heartiest women were trained from childhood in the combined art of horse and bow. For three generations, formations of Coam’s pony cavalry had earned a stout reputation among even Coam’s rivals. It therefore spoke well of Erel that he was the first supreme commander to acknowledge Coam’s contribution to the new war effort, by selecting a few Coam women for his private security detail.

  Joonta almost quit breathing when Erel stopped before her.

  “And this one?” Erel said to the older women at his side, his fin
ger pointing at Joonta. The three matrons in Erel’s entourage were the captains of Coam’s forces. A triumvirate forged in battle. Like Erel, they had lines around their eyes and mouths, and silver touched their hair.

  “Joonta,” said the First Captain. “One of our strongest young women. She has fought several times, and distinguished herself in each instance. We were going to make her a lieutenant, but if you would like her instead, we will gladly reassign her to your service.”

  Erel eyed Joonta, without blinking; his head tilted to listen.

  Inside, Joonta thrilled. Lieutenant? This was news indeed. A win-win, if her understanding was right. Whether Erel chose Joonta or not, she was going to be moving up in the world.

  “Is she your best?” Erel asked the three captains.

  “She is among our best,” said the Third Captain. “She’s got a quick mind, to match her quick reflexes. What’s more, she’s got patience under pressure. Not easy to find among women her age.”

  “Indeed,” Erel said, his eyes never leaving Joonta. “Very well then, walk with me, Joonta.”

  Joonta felt her heart skip a beat. She swallowed quickly and then stepped forward, falling in deferentially behind the captains as they trailed behind the general.

  Up and down the ranks they proceeded, with Erel asking occasional questions here and there. To Joonta’s surprise, he chose no more women from among her experienced peers. She watched their eyes narrow in confusion or angry puzzlement as Erel passed them up. Joonta could only give her comrades the slightest shrug—to indicate that she didn’t know what was going on, any more than they did.

  At last, the general came to the end of the formation. The final archer was both short and plump. Ordinarily, the smaller archers were in the front ranks, but this one had been intentionally hidden in the very back, where she couldn’t be easily seen.

  “This one doesn’t seem big enough to string her bow,” Erel said, “much less achieve sufficient pull to do damage with her hits.”

  The Second Captain sighed.

  “She is Nateel, and her clan dispatched her despite our protests. It is customary in Coam for each clan to contribute archers of their own choosing. But you are correct, Nateel is . . . problematic.”

  Joonta could see the hot protest in Nateel’s eyes. The runty woman had endured ridicule ever since her arrival three weeks prior. Even among her own clan she was regarded as something of a waste. How or why she’d been chosen to serve, was a mystery no one seemed capable of solving.

  “Nateel, walk with me,” Erel said, motioning with his hand.

  A quiet rustle of surprise ran up and down the ranks.

  Nateel stood in place, her mouth open and her eyes blinking.

  “Sir,” said the First Captain, clearing her throat, “I can assure you that there are other archers among us far better suited to your—“

  “You heard the order,” Erel said calmly, his eyes on Nateel the same way they’d been on Joonta a few minutes before. “Walk with me.”

  Nateel stepped forward and fell in behind Joonta as Erel made a wide U-shaped path around the formation, coming back to its front.

  “General, sir,” the Third Captain protested, “if it’s our finest that you seek, then we have a dozen such women, all of them Joonta’s equal. Surely you will want one of them?”

  “I came to Coam, as I have come to each of the city-states: to find two willing troops who will serve the Combine as my guard. Now, if Joonta and Nateel do not wish for the position—”

  “I wish it!” Joonta and Nateel both exclaimed in unison.

  Erel raised an eyebrow, along with a slight smile.

  “There, I think that more or less settles it, don’t you?”

  The three captains demurred without further protest, though it was clear from the expressions on their faces that they disagreed strongly with Erel’s second choice.

  “We leave immediately,” Erel said. “Have Joonta and Nateel fetch their kit and their animals, and join my caravan. There’s no time to lose.”

  Before Joonta could run off to gather her few possessions from her tent, the Second Captain grabbed Joonta by the arm and pulled Joonta aside.

  “Do not let the weakling embarrass us,” the Second Captain whispered fiercely. “You do not need to be reminded of what this means for our people. For all of us.”

  Joonta nodded her head vigorously, and bowed at the waist: to show respect, as well as understanding of the order.

  But inside, she could not grasp how she would carry it out. Because Nateel seemed hopeless.

  #

  They were half a day’s hard travel into the mountain paths before Nateel mustered the temerity to speak to Joonta as a peer. The smaller woman nudged her pony up beside Joonta’s: close enough for them to speak quietly, just the two of them.

  “I know what the captains think of me,” Nateel said.

  Joonta didn’t respond, at first. She kept her eyes on the canyon proper. Not everyone in the caravan was on horseback. Including Erel himself, who marched at the head of the column. Now that they were out on the road, the general’s limp didn’t seem nearly as bad. Perhaps the old wound merely needed to be loosened up? Erel was setting the pace; different again from most Combine general officers, who’d have stuck to the middle or the rear.

  “You should keep your eyes alert for danger,” Joonta said. “If you were a better student, you would know this. The general is depending on us to spot a threat while we can combat it at distance.”

  “I know our role,” Nateel said, “and I know the captains told you not to let me make fools out of both of us.”

  “Are they wrong?” Joonta said.

  “Yes,” Nateel said, her tone hard.

  “I’ve not watched you fight yet,” Joonta said, “but from what I’ve seen of you during training, you’re a vulnerability, not an asset.”

  Quite suddenly, an alarm cry went out from the center of the caravan.

  Erel spun on a heel, his sword instantly drawn.

  From out of the trees on the mountainside, a small horde of rough-looking men sprang down onto the wagons.

  “To me, my guard!” Erel shouted, and then he was running towards the danger.

  Joonta whirled her pony about and kept after him, her bow in her right hand. She’d been afraid this might happen. The mountain paths between Coam and the nearest city-state were seldom patrolled. Wild people—wearing the skins of animals—were known to occasionally savage unwary travelers.

  The general crashed in amongst the club-wielding barbarians, his sword slashing deftly.

  Joonta’s pony skidded to a halt and she nocked an arrow, looking for a clean shot.

  There was none.

  An arrow whistled past—shooting high over the scrum of screaming barbarians and intermixed caravan staff.

  Joonta jerked her head around, glaring at Nateel.

  “Fool!” Joonta spat. “You can’t see who you’re aiming at! Do you want to injure or kill one of our own?”

  Nateel’s eyes were wide with panic, her hands trembling on a second nocked arrow.

  “We’ll have to use our speed, to get on their flanks!” Joonta yelled. Then she was clenching her pony’s reins as she sent it pelting around the side of the scrum. Shouts and yells and curses filled the air of the canyon as metal clashed with wood. When Joonta had a clear look at one of the wild men, she loosed an arrow, sinking him to the ground with blood pouring from his neck.

  As battles went, it was quick. When the men of the mountains finally understood that they faced militia instead of merchants, they dropped their crude clubs and fled back the way they’d come, howling and barking in their crude language. Little more than cave dwellers.

  Joonta counted six dead, none of them belonging to the caravan. Though a few friendlies had been bruised and bloodied.

  She followed Erel as he walked up and down the length of the caravan, urging those who could march to get back on their feet and keep moving. Three who could not walk wer
e loaded into the wagons.

  Erel’s sword was covered in dark blood. He paused at the body of one fallen marauder to wipe his blade on the dead man’s deerskin tunic.

  “We must make haste,” he said. “There could be others waiting for us. This may have only been a delaying action.”

  “Sir,” Joonta said, “I’m surprised we took this road to begin with. Surely my captains warned you of the danger?”

  “That they did,” Erel said.

  “Then why—?”

  “No time for a discussion, Joonta. Take Nateel with you and scout ahead a thousand paces. If you see or hear anything further, report back.”

  “Nateel won’t—” Joonta said, exasperation leaking around the edges of her disciplined tone.

  “Do as I command, Coamian,” Erel said, cutting her off. His hand clapped both Joonta and Nateel on their knees as he walked between the ponies.

  Soon, the women were trotting cautiously ahead of the caravan. Now, more than ever, the general needed Joonta’s eyes. She kept her back straight as she sat in the saddle, her head slowly swiveling. Nateel mimicked her senior as best as she could, but her back was too hunched for Joonta’s taste. No pride in that one, Joonta thought. And it showed.

  As the afternoon wore on, and the shadows in the canyon got longer, they passed an ancient ruin. One of only three known to Coam’s cartographers. Joonta had expected it—as landmarks went, it was hard to miss—but seeing it in person for the first time was an experience. The ruin was huge. Like the bones of a terrifically gigantic beast, now collapsed onto its side. Rusted metal beams stuck out of the ruin at odd angles. When fully erect, it could have been taller than any modern building Joonta had ever seen. Now it was a heap.