The Kalifs War l-3

by John Dalmas

  He wondered what the Capital Division was doing. These rebels were not Caps, he knew that from their transports.

  **

  Colonel Vilyamo Parsavamaatu stuck his neck out, literally, made a quick scan, and pulled it in again. Bursts of bullets struck the marble wall outside, several coming through the shot-out window to strike inner walls and ceiling. One of the guardsmen stepped up beside the window and threw out one of their too few grenades. A building entrance was directly below them, and this was one way to discourage a rebel rush on it.

  The rebels effectively controlled the quadrangle, and greatly superior rebel firepower inhibited firing out at them through windows. On top of that, there were rebels a few floors above him, trying to battle their way downward, with all the advantages that elevation gave them.

  Unless the Caps came, came soon enough, the Sreegana would be lost. An hour at most, given the way things were going. It seemed to the colonel that the Kalif was probably already dead, but Alb Jilsomo, the Kalif's deputy, was alive. It was the Guard's responsibility to protect him now.

  Vilyamo considered and decided. Turning, he headed for the door, his aide and his master sergeant close behind. He needed something white, a pillow case maybe.

  He went down the stairs three at a time. On the ground floor, guardsmen stood or knelt at corners back from the entrance, rifles ready to repel any rebel rush. The floor was littered with glass from the entryway, the walls gouged and pocked. "Sergeant!" he shouted at one of the men there. A sergeant turned his face to his commander.

  Vilyamo almost gave his order openly, then thought better of it. Instead he gestured, and the man followed him a little ways down a corridor. "Sergeant," he said quietly, "I presume you know where the trumpeters' locker is." He referred to the ceremonial trumpeters. "I need a man to do something extremely dangerous. A man about the Kalif's size and build, whose face isn't too different from the Kalif's. Do we have anyone like that?"

  "Yessir. Me."

  Vilyamo eyed the man critically. Hardly a look-alike, but maybe as good as he'd find. Size and build were close, and the facial structure wasn't too far off. "All right. Go to the clinic and get your head shaved and bandaged. Bandaged down to the ears, and maybe across one cheek, but not hiding your face. Tell whoever does it that you need to look as much like the Kalif as you reasonably can. And send someone to the trumpeters' locker. Have them bring you the Kalif's trumpeter's red cape."

  He paused then, thinking. The sergeant was poised to run. Somewhere, automatic weapons fire intensified as if a rush was being made. "If someone can find you a pair of white pants like the exarchs wear, or the Kalif, and if they fit anything like decently, put 'em on."

  The sergeant's expression changed as if he just now fully realized what the colonel was getting at.

  "Yessir."

  "Change into them in the clinic, pants and robe, and splash a little blood on them. Shouldn't have any trouble finding blood around there. Put some blood on the bandage, too, but don't overdo it. Then stay in the clinic, out of sight, until I send for you."

  "Yessir."

  "All right, that's it. Get after it!"

  The sergeant took off running. The colonel turned to his aide. "Fareehu," he said, "go back to the command post. Tell Basar he's in operational charge till I say otherwise. I've got a project to handle. Don't tell him what the project is-or what you think it is. Keep your mouth shut about it. Then come to the clinic. I may need you there. Get going!"

  The aide, a captain, left at a trot. The colonel turned, and with his sergeant major, started for the clinic himself. That was the place to find a pillow case.

  ***

  Since the assault battalion had opened the main gate and let in more of the 103rd, its regimental C.O. had taken over direction of the rebel force inside the Sreegana. He'd had his own well-armored command floater fly into the quadrangle. There he'd had it parked with a good view of the Administration Building, the only stronghold left to the Guard, aside from sections of the wall. Obviously the Guard had nothing that could touch him in his floater. If they'd had any anti-armor weapons in their armory, which was doubtful, they hadn't gotten them out after the bombing.

  Around him, the floater's interior smelled like a ship's engine room-like metal and oil. Occasional rounds popped against the command floater's hide, a sound dulled by the laminated armor. He didn't notice. He was watching the array of battle screens in front of him.

  "Did you see that?" he asked his aide.

  The man knew which that his commander referred to. "Yes, Colonel. Looks like a flag of truce."

  "Manich!" the commander said, "order a cease fire! We've got a flag of truce out there, and I want to see what it's about. Anyone who fires after the command will answer to me with his ass!"

  The assault battalion CO. nodded. "Yes, Colonel!" He wasn't happy with his colonel having taken command of the fighting in the Sreegana-it had started out as his action-but that was life for you.

  The colonel watched while the major gave the order, first on radio, then on the floater's loud hailer. "All right," the colonel said. "Now tell the man with the truce flag that I'm sending someone out to meet him. Tell him that if my man is harmed out there, there'll be no negotiations and no prisoners taken. Everyone we get our hands on will die. The wounded-everyone."

  Again he watched and listened, then looked at his aide. "Captain, take the bullhorn and go halfway to the truce flag. Tell the man waving it to come out. Find out what he wants; terms, I suppose. Tell him you'll conduct him to a parley with me. Go."

  The nervous captain got the bullhorn and went.

  ***

  Vilyamo strode toward the rebel officer, his sergeant major beside him with a pillow case tied to a strip of shelf edging. So far, he told himself, so good. If this went no further than a rejection and possibly captivity, it was still eating up time. Meanwhile, the Caps had to be readying a relief force. At least they'd better be, he thought grimly.

  The rebel mother-curser was waiting beside a shin-high planter. Its colorful bed of blooming leronvaalu seemed untouched by the fighting, about the only thing that was. It occurred to Vilyamo what a beautiful place this had been, with the palace, gardens, trees, ornamental shrubs, and these assholes had wrecked it for no better reason than to seize power.

  It didn't occur to him to feel resentment for the guardsmen killed. That was a professional hazard.

  As he walked up to the rebel, he saw by the man's insignia that he was a captain, and by his blazon that he belonged to the 12th Infantry Division. The motherless bastard even wore dress knee-boots, polished like glass, as if he was on parade instead of an assault. He himself wore an off-duty uniform without even a battle helmet. There was plaster dust in his hair and on his clothes. The attack had caught him at breakfast, like much of the regiment, and unlike most of the survivors, he'd raced for the Admin Building and his emergency command post without first arming himself. The pistol he wore, he'd borrowed from a dead man.

  The captain saluted; he was, after all, outranked. Vilyamo returned the gesture; he had a purpose here that didn't include antagonizing the enemy.

  "Colonel," said the man, "I'm to find out why you want a truce."

  "To end the fighting," Vilyamo answered, then added silently, With you dead, mother-curser.

  The captain nodded. "In that case, I'm to conduct you to Colonel Khriivalarooma."

  Vilyamo's nod was curt. Fawning would buy him nothing, even if he could do it. They walked side by side to the command floater, accompanied each by his truce flag. On the way they passed a rebel soldier lying dead, legs twisted, face partly blown away. Vilyamo felt satisfaction at the sight.

  To enter the command floater, they used the door facing away from the Administration Building. The guard posted there held it open for them. The rebel captain gestured, and the rebel sergeant entered. Vilyamo turned and spoke to his master sergeant. "Sergeant, stay outside. I'll be back out shortly." Then he followed the rebel sergeant in, the
captain entering last. A colonel and a major were inside waiting, along with two captains-the colonel's aide and the battalion E.O. They got to their feet, except for the colonel who remained in his chair to establish proper protocol.

  "You are the commander of the Guard here?" he asked.

  "Correct," Vilyamo answered coldly.

  "And your purpose is an end to the fighting?"

  "The end of the fighting and the freedom of my men."

  The rebel colonel's voice turned curious. "Why have you fought us?" he asked.

  Vilyamo's expression showed his incredulity at the question.

  "The Kalif killed your father, did he not?"

  Hearing that, Vilyamo knew he'd succeed in his ploy, would pull it off. "He did, the motherless dog. But what did you expect from us? Bombing our barracks as you did, killing scores of us and disabling more. My men were bound to fight, after that. I was bound to."

  The rebel colonel nodded. "You can guess why we're here, of course."

  "Perhaps. But I need to hear it from you."

  "We want the Kalif. The murderer of your father. We want him dead."

  "That's what I've come about."

  "He's dead?"

  "No. Only injured, and that not seriously."

  "We must, of course, continue to attack until we have him. Dead or alive."

  "I'm prepared to deliver him to you."

  The rebel colonel nodded. "Well then. I'll send men with you. Deliver him to them and we can go home, leave this place."

  "Certain procedures are necessary."

  The rebel colonel scowled. "You're in no position to impose conditions on me."

  "My men are still loyal. It must seem to them that the Kalif is giving himself up, otherwise they'll continue to fight. And the longer they fight, the more time there is for the Capital Division to send a relief force."

  Vilyamo spoke on without giving the rebel commander a chance to object. "His kalifa is dead. He's torn between rage and grief. I'll have my medical officer inject him with a sedative-something that will leave him compliant but allow him to walk. I'm assured that won't be any problem.

  "Also-" He paused. "He must not be killed until he's been removed from the premises. It would be a dishonor to the Guard to have him executed by a hostile force inside the Sreegana."

  The rebel commander considered for only a moment. His orders were to kill the Kalif at the earliest opportunity. Well, promises were made to be broken. Get his hands on the Kalif, get him here inside the floater, and they'd never know if he was killed. "Very well," he said. "You have ten minutes to deliver him to me here."

  "Not here. We'll meet you, he and I, by the planter where the captain met me. It must appear that he's negotiating with you, with you and your command staff. Not that he's being turned over, surrendered."

  The rebel commander's face twitched with annoyance. "You ask a lot, for a man whose position is untenable."

  Vilyamo's face and voice went tired. "Colonel, I'm trying to get the Kalif into your hands before anything goes wrong. I'm a dead man regardless. But the Guard is loyal to him."

  The rebel commander didn't follow the logic, but he bought it. "Very well. In ten minutes, at the planter."

  "I need a bullhorn. I have no way of communicating quickly to my troops."

  The rebel commander's expression was acid; there seemed no end to this man's requests. "Give him the bullhorn," he ordered. Then to Vilyamo, "I'll want it back, along with your Kalif."

  A sergeant handed the bullhorn over. Vilyamo saluted sharply; the rebel colonel's answering salute was insultingly casual. Then, with truce flag and bullhorn, Vilyamo left the floater and started back toward the Admin Building. Around the quadrangle, the guns waited, silent but ready.

  In the command floater, the rebel commander watched him go. At the planter, Vilyamo stopped and raised the bullhorn. "Men!" he called, "in a few minutes the Kalif, with me and my staff, will be coming out to negotiate with the enemy commander and his staff, here by this planter. Meanwhile, there is a state of truce. Do not fire your weapons unless attacked."

  Then he went on to the Admin Building and disappeared inside.

  From there he sent runners with instructions to every part of the building held by guardsmen.

  ***

  In the House of SUMBAA they heard the guns fall silent. Later they heard the bullhorn, but it was too far away to catch the words. The Kalif wondered what was going on.

  ***

  Vilyamo used up all his ten minutes before leaving the Admin Building with his sergeant major, his make-believe Kalif, and three volunteer officers. They were halfway to the planter before the enemy commander appeared with his own little party of officers.

  Vilyamo had expected that. He felt entirely calm.

  The rebel commander's delay was more than a matter of protocol: He'd waited to examine the Kalif and the party of Guard officers on his central screen, using maximum magnification. Only when he was satisfied with what he saw did he get up from his seat and leave with his staff.

  He didn't care for this charade, this pretense of negotiation. He felt uncomfortable with it. And while waiting for the Guard commander to reappear with the Kalif, he'd considered not going out-considered simply ordering his people to shoot down the Kalif and his party as they approached the meeting place.

  Then his radio reported that floaters had appeared over the Anan Hills, which had to mean the Caps were finally moving. And it seemed to him that, orders notwithstanding, it would be very useful, when the Caps arrived, to have the Kalif in his hands alive, as a hostage if one was needed.

  He turned. "Let's go," he said.

  ***

  Free for the moment of rebel gunfire, guardsmen, rifles in hand, peered from the windows of the Administration Building. They knew what they were seeing, unreal though it seemed, and they had their instructions. They'd even found targets as the rebel troops relaxed their cover discipline. The difficult part was to keep their eyes on those targets, instead of watching the charade taking shape in the quadrangle. As the two parties approached the planter, pistols appeared in the hands of Vilyamo and his men, and they shot down the rebel commander and his party. That served as a signal, and the guardsmen at the windows opened fire on their own targets. Only after a long, shocked moment did rebel fire erupt, shooting Colonel Vilyamo Parsavamaatu and his party to bloody rags.

  That done, it seemed to the rebel troops that they'd killed the Kalif. Surely now the fighting would stop and the Guard would surrender.

  But only the truce was over. Meanwhile, time had been gained, and within the Sreegana, at least for the moment, the rebels had no one in charge. Inside the command floater, only a captain, a sublieutenant, and some noncoms remained.

  Fifty-seven

  The weather was cooperating. Although it was still the major rainy season, as yet the day had brought neither rain nor threat of it. A complete light infantry battalion, with equipment and supplies, had been loaded onto troop carriers. In the armored command floater, Major Tagurt Meksorli sat beside the battalion commander, as the division commander's personal observer and liaison. Two of the division's three gunship squadrons would support the battalion, and they lifted first, to form an escort formation. Then the troop carriers lifted by company.

  When they were all in the air and in formation, they flew eastward, moving fast, and in a few minutes had crossed the Anan Hills. The screens arrayed in front of Meksorli all showed the same thing-the city close ahead. Suburbs passed beneath them, and in the middle distance, smoke arose from the Sreegana.

  And something else: rebel gunships coming toward them, a squadron at least. He got on the radio to the CO. One flight of his own gunships were out ahead. He'd soon see his first air battle; indeed the first air battle any of them had seen. His own force seemed to have an advantage in numbers, but they were constrained by the need to cover the troop carriers.

  They clashed less than a minute later, the troop carriers continuing more slowly now. T
he Sreegana was only about two miles away when the command floater shook from a hit. They were beginning to take ground fire; the rebels had forces along the Avenue of The Prophet. As Meksorli let the division commander know, he felt the floater surge upward and saw the troop carriers follow suit.

  Within minutes an armored unit would be on the way, but on the surface and much more slowly. And the rebels had no doubt anticipated that, with defensive positions to slow it further and give it losses, stop it if they could.

  The report was that the rebels were from 1st Corps, at Fashtar, 2,100 miles north, but there were conflicting reports as to how large the force was. Apparently quite large, if they had units this far from the Sreegana.

  ***

  General Songhidalarsa's command floater was parked at 17,000 feet elevation, twenty miles east of the Sreegana. It was considerably larger than the floater Meksorli rode, and extravagantly furnished. Just now his screen array included one with a map of the Ananporu District; he'd been watching the progress and engagement of the Caps relief force, as reported by brigade G-2.

  Songhidalarsa had been parked somewhat farther east. Then brigade command had reported the occupation of the War Ministry; and regimental command, by code, the impending surrender of the Kalif. With that he'd started toward Ananporu to announce his dictatorship. But apparently regimental command had been tricked and killed, with the status of the Kalif uncertain. And by then, despite the capture of the Imperial General Staff's offices, the Caps had had a relief force on the way. So he'd held off.

  It still seemed probable that the Kalif lay dead somewhere. The palace was fire-gutted, and his body could well lie somewhere inside, charred and undiscovered.