by Dan Cragg
“But you must’ve had a contingency plan, in case Gilbert’s Corners came under attack, or the battlefront shifted and required the government’s evacuation.”
“Um, no, no, actually, we didn’t,” he said, looking away sharply as he spoke.
Fatimah smiled to herself but kept her pose of youthful innocence. Oh, yes, he was lying. “Well, there’s no one there now, Mr. Cawman. Certainly Mr. Summers is no longer there. Where do you suppose he went?”
Cawman thought that question over for a few moments. He despised Preston Summers, his airs, his highfalutin music, his reputation, everything about the man. Why should he care what became of him? The war was lost anyway, and it was far better that Summers go on trial than Heb Cawman. On the other hand, dammit, Heb Cawman was no sniveling coward who’d betray a man just for a bottle of whiskey and a good smoke. Nosiree! “Well, I’ll tell ya this, Missy, ol’ Preston, he’s gonna soon be far away and deep in the ground, where you cain’t get at him, but that’s all I kin say.”
Fatimah decided it was time to conclude the interview. “Mr. Cawman, you have been a great help to me and I appreciate your cooperative spirit. I’ll see that my superiors know about that, and it will certainly count in your favor. Meanwhile”—she withdrew a bottle of Old Snort and a Davidoff from her case and handed them to Cawman—“I think your help deserves a reward.” She smiled broadly.
“Holy hasenpfeffer hallelujah!” Cawman exclaimed, twisting the cap off the bottle. “When I get outta here I’m gonna marry you, lil’ girl!” He toasted her and took a long swig from the bottle. Fatimah smiled.
“Do you have anything for General Cazombi, Ruth?” Admiral Hoi asked.
Ensign Ruth O’Reilly, also known as Fatimah, smiled. “Yes, sir, I do. I’m pretty sure about two bits of intelligence I got from this Cawman creature. One, what’s left of the Coalition government is planning to be evacuated to a mountain retreat, someplace where there are caves. I think it is most likely in the Cumbers, sir, precisely where I’d expect General Lyons would choose his fallback position if our breakout from Bataan is successful and we divide his army.”
“So that’d mean he’d be fighting his war on two fronts, Billie in front and his own politicians in the rear.”
“Yessir.” She glanced up at the vid screen. Heb Cawman lay on his bunk, a half-finished bottle of bourbon in one hand, a Davidoff between his teeth, keeping time with his free hand to some ludicrous tune he was humming. “I’ll confirm that in the next interview, sir, which I shall commence in about fifteen minutes.”
Admiral Hoi arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Hell, Ruth, he’ll be so drunk by then he won’t even be able to talk!”
Ruth smiled. “Actually, no, sir. That ‘whiskey’ wouldn’t get a kwangduk drunk. He’s just experiencing euphoria at the thought he’s drinking the real stuff. He’s been sober for so long now just the whiff of alcohol is all he needs to get high.”
The admiral laughed. “Well, I hope that cigar is a fake too. Seems a shame to waste a perfectly good Davidoff on a man like that.”
“Sorry, sir, the cigar is genuine. Sir, the second thing. You know we’ve suspected all along that the massacre at Fort Seymour was a setup, that secessionist elements in the Coalition wanted an incident to justify an attack on the fort and an ordinance of secession. Well, I sense that Cawman knows something about that. It’s just something in the way he mentioned the attack on Fort Seymour while emphasizing that he had no responsibility for it. I know that’s a lot to conclude from what was just a nuance, but I have pretty good instincts and I believe I’m onto something here.”
“If that’s true, Ruth, we want to get our hands on the responsible parties. Can you get Cawman to talk?”
“Yes, sir. Within the next hour I’ll have the truth out of him.”
“How’re you gonna do that?” Admiral Hoi was genuinely perplexed at Ensign O’Reilly’s confidence.
“Sir, I’m going to use the oldest trick in the book. I’m going to tell Cawman that another prisoner has put the finger on him. Even now guards are ‘dragging’ one of our men into the brig. Cawman can’t see him, but he’ll hear a lot of shouting and cursing. I’ll simply walk down to his cell and tell him the jig’s up, that he was identified as the mastermind, ‘So if you don’t want to hang, give up the others.’ Believe me, this guy’s a pushover. I’ll have names within the hour. Or I’ll have whatever it is he knows—and he knows something.”
Admiral Hoi shook his head in wonder. “Well, go get him, then.” He chuckled.
CHAPTER THREE
“Company L, now hear this,” Captain Lewis Conorado said into his helmet’s all-hands circuit. “By platoons, assemble in your platoon assembly areas. Bring all weapons and field gear. I say again, assemble in your platoon assembly areas. Bring all weapons and field gear.”
“Oh shit!” Lance Corporal Isadore “Izzy” Godenov, on radio watch, exclaimed. “We’re moving out.”
“Moving out to where?” asked his fire team leader, Corporal Joe Dean.
“How do I know?” Godenov retorted. “All I know is the Skipper just came on the horn with orders to assemble at the platoon areas, and bring weapons and field gear.”
Dean grimaced and strode the few steps to the entrance of the bunker, grabbing his blaster as he went. He leaned out and looked up and down the corridor that ran behind the defensive positions. “Looks like you got it right, Izzy,” he said as he pushed back in and went to his field gear. “I saw some other members of the platoon heading for the assembly area. Now move it—I don’t want to have to explain to Ensign Bass why first squad’s third fire team was the last to show up.” Working by feel, he grabbed and donned his gear. Loaded up, he checked his men, Godenov and PFC John Three McGinty. It felt like they had everything; he had to check by feel because their gear was as chameleoned as their uniforms and he couldn’t see any of it in the dim light inside the bunker. “Let’s go.” He led the way, carrying his helmet in his hand so people could see him. Along the way he rolled up his sleeves to increase his visibility. Godenov and McGinty followed suit.
Third fire team, first squad, wasn’t the last to reach the platoon assembly area; basically, the Marines reached it in order relative to the distance they had to travel. All of them had their helmets and gloves off, most also had their sleeves rolled up.
Ensign Charlie Bass and Staff Sergeant Wang Hyakowa were waiting for the platoon. Ration cartons and water containers were at Hyakowa’s side. The platoon formed up, facing the platoon commander and platoon sergeant. The Marines didn’t stand at attention, but their postures were tense in anticipation of learning the reason for the assembly. They didn’t have to wait long.
“The Supreme Commander,” Bass said with a peculiar emphasis on the title, “has decided to mount a breakout. He wants to break through the Coalition lines facing us, and he wants the break to be in the center of the enemy line—the strongest part of the line. Three guesses who gets to be the point of the spear, and the first two don’t count.” He paused to let groans and curses ripple through the platoon, then continued, “That’s right. Thirty-fourth FIST’s air, and all the artillery will pound the enemy lines before we advance.” He checked the time. “If you listen carefully, you should be able to hear the barrage starting right about now.” The Marines didn’t have to listen carefully; the barrage was heavy and not all that far away—some of the artillery pieces firing were on the ridge top directly above them.
“The battalion will advance in a column of companies on line. The ‘honor’ of being the lead company falls on Company L. Third platoon will have the left flank.” Bass looked at Lance Corporal Schultz. “Don’t worry, Hammer, second squad gets the left of the platoon.”
Schultz always wanted to be in the most dangerous position when the Marines moved, whether that position was the point or an exposed flank. He wasn’t suicidal, he just believed he was the most alert Marine in whatever unit he was in, the most able to spot danger before the enemy had time to
react, the most able to hurt the enemy first. He believed that improved his chances of survival in a firefight and saved the lives of other Marines.
“Staff Sergeant Hyakowa has a day’s rations and water for everybody. Squad leaders, move your people to him in good order, and make sure every one of your Marines has a full ration of food and water. Do it, first squad, second, guns.” Bass stepped out of the way as Sergeant Ratliff led his men to Hyakowa and oversaw their supplying. The Marines had their food and water and were back in formation in less than fifteen minutes.
“The Brigadier,” Bass said when they were ready, “has arranged for transportation to take us to our jumping-off point.” He stopped talking and looked over the disembodied heads and arms standing in three ranks in front of him, then roared out, “’TOON, ’ten-hut!” The Marines snapped to attention, and there was a brief clatter of blaster butts clanking to the deck next to the Marines’ right feet.
Bass marched toward Ratliff, with Hyakowa a step to his left and rear. Briskly, with the certainty that came from years of standing and conducting inspections, he went from one Marine to the next and checked each of them. Every one had everything he was supposed to, and the weapons he examined were in proper working order. When he finished with PFC Emilio Delagarza, the assistant gunner in second gun team, the last man in the formation, he returned to his front and center position. He looked pointedly at the three squad leaders and said, “It’s nice to see that the squad leaders conducted their own inspections before their squads got here.” The squad leaders, still at attention, neither looked at him nor changed expression.
“At ease,” Bass ordered. “We don’t have anything else to do before our transportation arrives. So you may as well fall out, but don’t leave the area.” He looked toward the overhead as the thunder of the artillery barrage stopped. “That’s odd,” he murmured. “The barrage was supposed to last two hours. It’s only been”—he looked at Hyakowa.
“About half an hour,” the platoon sergeant said.
“It wasn’t supposed to stop until after we jumped off.”
Hyakowa looked at him blandly, but didn’t say anything. If Charlie Bass didn’t know what was going on, Wang Hyakowa certainly didn’t.
A new sound pierced the air, the scream of Essays nearing the end of the powered dive from orbit. A combat assault landing! Bass looked at the overhead again, as though he could see through the ridge above to the sky. Had the Coalition somehow come up with Essays to make its own assault into the defenses of the Bataan Peninsula? Or had the reinforcements—and the rumored Marine lieutenant general—arrived earlier than expected? He looked at Hyakowa and shrugged. For now, he’d wait patiently. But there was a limit to Charlie Bass’s patience.
Charlie Bass engaged in small talk with Hyakowa for a few minutes, then called the squad leaders up and reviewed known enemy emplacements and tactics with them for a time. Then he got up from where he’d been sitting on the floor of the tunnel and began pacing. After almost an hour of decreasing patience, he put on his helmet to call Captain Conorado. But a call from the company commander was already coming in on the command circuit.
“Three Actual,” Bass said into the circuit, informing Conorado he was there. First platoon’s Ensign Antoni had already reported, and Lieutenant Rokmonov of the assault platoon sounded off right after Bass. Ensign Molina of second platoon was the last platoon commander on the circuit.
“Don’t ask for details,” Conorado said when all four platoon commanders were on, “because I don’t have any. The only word I have, and I stress only word, is ‘Stand down.’ That came direct from Commander van Winkle. He said that was all he knew. I’ll let you know what’s up the minute I have any information to impart. Six Actual out.”
Bass was left with the nearly inaudible hum of a radio on standby in his ears. Slowly, he lifted his helmet and looked around the platoon area.
“Third herd,” he called out, “gather ’round and listen up.” In a moment the Marines were standing in front of him, but in a group rather than a formation. “Don’t ask, I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” he said to the the faces looking at him for information or instructions. “All I know is, the battalion has been ordered to stand down. So go back to your bunkers. I’ll let you know when I know more.”
Questions began pelting him.
“Ensign Bass, is the war over?”
“Has the breakout been postponed?”
“Did the army decide to use its own troops for the spearpoint?”
“Did that lieutenant general show up, was that what the Essays were?”
“Is the Marine general in command now?”
“I said don’t ask!” Bass roared. “I don’t know! Now get back to your damn bunkers.” He turned to Hyakowa with an expression of feigned disbelief.
For his part, Hyakowa held back the grin that was trying to split his face. “You knew they were going to ask, no matter what you said about not knowing anything else.” He looked at the backs of the heads of the Marines returning to their bunkers, then back at Bass. “Now that they’re gone, you can give me the rest of the word.”
“Not you too, Wang!” Bass said in a tone of shocked disbelief.
Hyakowa could no longer restrain himself and burst out with a belly laugh.
“Corporal Dean, what do you think is happening?” PFC John Three McGinty asked his fire team leader on the way back to their bunker.
Dean shook his head. “All I know for sure is, the ritual sacrifice of a Marine FIST has been called off—at least for now.”
McGinty swallowed. “What do you mean, ritual sacrifice?”
Lance Corporal Godenov snorted and asked, “Can I hit him?”
“No, you can’t hit him. That’s my job.” Dean reached out and smacked Godenov on the back of his head.
“Hey, what’d you hit me for?” Godenov squawked, rubbing the back of his head.
“For not knowing that only the fire team leader gets to smack the new guy upside the head for asking dumb questions.” Dean smacked the back of McGinty’s head. “All right,” he said before McGinty could object, “now that the head smacking is done with, I’ll answer your dumb question.
“General Billie wants a frontal assault to break through the middle of the Coalition lines. He knows that whoever goes first will get chewed up, maybe totally wiped out. He also knows his soldiers can’t do it, so he wants us to go and get killed to weaken the enemy line enough for his soldiers to finish the job. That’s what I meant by ritual sacrifice. Understand?”
“He couldn’t want that!” McGinty gasped.
Dean smacked him upside his head again. “Billie’s a doggie. Doggies don’t like Marines. Billie particularly doesn’t like Marines. You better believe he’d want to get us wiped out.”
Corporal Doyle was visibly shaking when he and his men reached their bunker. PFC Lasha Summers had seen his fire team leader like that before, and he understood that it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Nonetheless, he found it unnerving, so he went directly to the bunker’s aperture and stared out over Pohick Bay rather than glance at the corporal, who looked like he was about to throw up, or loose his sphincter, or do something else unpleasant and probably malodorous.
PFC Lary Smedley, on the other hand, was entirely too new to third platoon and Corporal Doyle to know anything other than that his fire team leader looked frightened enough to shit himself, which put him in an similar frame of mind and digestive distress.
Fortunately for the state of Smedley’s intestinal urges, Sergeant Kerr had noticed Doyle’s trembling while on his way back to the squad’s section, and followed third fire team to its bunker entrance where he caught Doyle’s eye. Kerr crooked a finger at Doyle, and backed into the corridor.
“Y-Yes, Sergeant K-Kerr,” Doyle stammered when he joined the squad leader.
“Let’s keep this quiet, just between you and me,” Kerr said quietly, almost a whisper.
Doyle nodded rapidly and sucked on his lower lip.
Doyle nodded again, and found his voice. “Y-Yes, I know you th-think I’m good with the n-new men.”
Kerr shook his head. “I don’t think, I know. I’ve seen you with them. But right now you’re scaring them.”
Doyle blinked. “Sc-Scaring them?”
“Look at your arms.”
Doyle lifted an arm and looked at it. It was trembling. He raised the other and looked at it as well. “I l-look like I c-can’t hold my blaster,” he mumbled.
Kerr nodded. “Your men see that and it scares them. Especially Smedley. He hasn’t been with us long enough to know you. And Doyle,” he put a hand on Doyle’s shoulder, “when Ensign Bass told us what we were going to do, I knew the general was sending us out to get killed. I just about shat myself.”
Doyle started shaking more. “I-I know. That sc-scared me half to d-death.” Then the last thing Kerr said clicked and he looked at him. “Y-You were scared? It didn’t sh-show.”
“That’s right, it didn’t show. Every man in the platoon was probably just as scared as I was, as you were.” He looked toward Doyle’s bunker, where two not very experienced Marines were waiting, and probably wondering why their squad leader had taken their fire team leader away. “Except maybe for the men who’re new enough they don’t know.
“The men who are experienced enough to not show their fear are the Marines who will do their best. But when a leader shows his fear, it’s contagious. Get hold of yourself, don’t let it show. When a good leader doesn’t show fear, his men think they have to live up to his standard. You’re a good leader. Now get hold of yourself. All right?”
