“If,” Daniel agreed. “It may interest you to know that there were a number of heavily-encrypted transmissions from New Copenhagen to somewhere in the Mountains. This started a few days after the Communist leadership was sentenced to death and hung…how is the planet taking that, by the way?”
“Surprisingly well,” I confirmed. He probably knew already. There were a handful of small riots in some industrial areas, but overall the Communists blotted their copybook pretty well without help. There are some parties who are saying that they should have been sentenced to hard labour without the possibility of parole, but they’re very much in the minority. The general mood on the streets seems to be that the bastards got exactly what they deserved.
“As for the smaller fry, the vast majority of them will be spending ten-twenty years helping to rebuild,” I continued. “They’re going to be at hard labour for most of their lives, but in the end they should be safe and allowed to return to civilian society. A handful have been offered the chance to settle the other continents and see if they survive, so others may follow them. There was a minority opinion that said that they should all be exiled to a Communist planet, but the costs and logistics put a stop to that pretty quickly.”
“I’m not surprised,” Daniel said. The costs of transporting a few thousand men and women to another planet were astronomical. There was no point in doing it for convicted criminals, even if they probably deserved the reception they would find. “But I digress. There were encrypted transmissions and…well, we couldn’t decode them.”
That was a surprise. By law, every planetary encryption system had to have a backdoor built into the system to allow Fleet Intelligence to read their mail. It was about as popular as a dose of the clap and there were plenty of covert groups willing and able to produce encryption software without a backdoor – or at least not a Fleet backdoor. Fleet Intelligence could still decrypt messages, but it wasn’t easy and it sometimes took longer than they had. Whoever owned the system was risking Fleet’s anger, for what?
“You couldn’t get any idea of what they said?” I asked. There were times when it was easy to learn quite a bit about what was being said, even without the code being broken, but this obviously wasn’t one of them. “You don’t even know who owns the transmitters?”
“We suspect the Mountain Men, which adds fuel to the speculation that the Freedom League is involved,” Daniel said. “However, one of my subordinates pointed out that we might have already cracked the message, without knowing that we had cracked the message. If they used a pre-arranged code…”
I nodded. A simple substitution cipher could be a nightmare to crack without knowing the book they were using as the base for the cipher. It wasn't as if we were short of possible candidates. The Freedom League might not be involved at all and only our own paranoia was convincing us they were there, but if they were, the Mountain Men would be the best allies they could hope to find.
“There’s still no grounds for intervening, but be careful,” Daniel concluded. “If the shit hits the fan completely, we might have to cut you out of the orbital images without warning.”
“Understood,” I said. I’d been out on a limb before. It didn’t make any difference if it were the UNPF or Fleet who were standing behind me, holding a saw, ready to cut off the limb and send me crashing to the ground. “Have you considered levelling with the Captain and explaining the truth?”
“Captain Price-Jones is a very by-the-book person,” Daniel reminded me. “His first response would be to brig the lot of us for usurping his command, followed by ordering your men into barracks and sending to Unity for instructions. The lid would be blown completely off the Legion and far too many people would learn the Legion’s real purpose.”
I scowled. “How the hell can they complain?” I demanded. I didn’t mean to shout at him, but the stress was getting to me. “We’re trying to stabilise a hundred worlds that would otherwise tear themselves apart!”
“It’s a question of who is actually in command,” Daniel reminded me. “If they feel that Fleet is turning into another UN, only one that is actually competent, they’ll start worrying about who’s next, or what we might have in mind for the long term. So we work in the shadows, and deny everything if someone gets a hint of what we’re doing, and know that no one will ever thank us for it.”
He grinned. “If the game were easy, anyone could play.”
“Hah,” I said, sourly. “Tomorrow, I have to speak to a load of young officer-candidates on military duty and what it actually means. How could I tell them about this?”
“You don’t,” Daniel said. “You just keep it to yourself until the time is right.”
“Never, in other words,” I concluded. “I just hope that you can sleep at night.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
How does one explain to young officer-candidates that lives, the lives of their men, the lives of their loved ones, the lives, even, of their entire country may rest upon their shoulders? Perhaps the best answer is to tell them the truth, evading nothing, and allowing them to see the price of their new rank and the responsibilities that come with it.
-Army Manual, Heinlein
I had given some careful thought to my personal classroom. It wasn't going to be a perfect school-like room, with desks for the kids and a bigger desk for the teacher, and it wasn’t going to be very informal. I wanted to speak to the kids – the young local officers – as a big brother, not as a commanding officer or as a mercenary. It wasn't going to be easy. No one who had spent years in the military would not be aware of a person’s rank, and their status within the organisation. They would all see me as their temporary commanding officer, and, perhaps, as a mercenary who got paid more than they did. Would they regard themselves as superior? It was quite possible. I hadn’t thought highly of mercenaries when I’d been in the UN’s service.
In the end, I’d settled for a mild information room with a standardised drinks table – no alcohol – and a handful of comfy chairs. I saw their expressions as they filed in and smiled to myself. Whatever they had expected, it wasn't what I’d presented to them and they had to be wondering just what I was doing. I had wanted to put them at their ease, but first, they had to realise that it wasn't a trap, or an attempt to lure them into breaching regulations.
“Come on in,” I said, calmly. “Take a seat, any seat.”
I felt absurdly like an oversized nursery teacher as the young officers took their places and stared at me. They looked ridiculously young for the uniforms they wore, but there had been little choice, but to accept their promotions. Five of them had been promoted by the local authorities themselves, without consulting us, and the remainder had been picked out by my people. They weren’t seasoned yet and I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that some of them would get their men killed. I couldn’t stop that from happening, but at least I could try to warn them of the dangers, and the responsibilities, of their new rank. I also wanted to discuss the role of a proper military organisation and why it existed. I looked at them and wondered, privately, how many of them would actually understand the message.
“Close the door behind you,” I ordered, as the final officer-candidate, a young girl barely out of her teens, came in. “Take a seat and sit down. We have a lot to cover and very little time.” She sat down and eyed me nervously. “The first thing you all have to understand is that there are no ranks in this room. What does that mean?”
“That you’re going to be talking to us as equals?” Captain Jörgen Hellqvist guessed. He, at least, was someone I wasn't so worried about. He’d done well in the recent fighting against the Communists. “Sir, I…”
“No ranks in this room,” I repeated. “There’s a reason for that and we will get to it in time, but for the moment, no ranks in the room.”
Jörgen took a breath. “Understood, sir,” he said. I rolled my eyes, but said nothing; clearly, some habits were hard to break. “What are you going to tell us?”
“On Eart
h, this was known as the Candidate’s Choice,” I said. “There’s a lot of history behind it, which I won’t burden you with, but the basics were that the officer-candidate would be tossed into a situation where he would have to make hard decisions about the lives and careers of his men, the men placed in his hands. It wasn't an entirely fair test because a candidate could be denounced for political incorrectness and perhaps even nationalist thoughts rather than simply being an incompetent asshole, but it forced a young officer to come face to face with the harsh realities of their position. Some refused promotion and returned to the ranks, others preferred to transfer sideways into the supply department and other non-fighting sections of the Peace Force, leaving those who decided to go on to…well, go on.
“On Heinlein, it is referred to as the History and Moral Philosophy class,” I continued. “The candidates are given far harder problems to solve, but they don’t have to worry about pleasing their instructions politically. On the downside, they do have to pass the test to gain promotion, unless they gain a promotion under fire – stepping into dead men’s shoes, as we call it. You’ve all been through the fire far earlier than I expected, and you’ve all done well in drills and training exercises, but you all have one major handicap. What, pray tell, is it?”
“We’re all from this planet?” The girl – Captain Elsa Björkgren – hazarded. “We’re not part of your group of mercenaries?”
“No,” I said, with a half-smile. I had underestimated the resentment some of the locals felt, although it would have amused them to learn that we weren’t paid much more than they were. “Another guess, anyone?”
There was a long pause. “No guess?” I asked, finally. “It’s simple. You’re all very – very – inexperienced. If it had been entirely up to me, I would have sent your units officers culled from my men and used the additional time to bring you up to standard as quickly as I could. That was out of the question; therefore I have little choice, but to trust you with companies of men, knowing that your inexperience might get them killed. Do you understand me now?”
I went on before they could answer. “Tell me something,” I said, calmly. “What is the purpose of an army?”
“To defend the planet?” Jörgen asked. “That’s what we were doing against the Communists, wasn’t it?”
“In a manner of speaking,” I replied. “Anyone else?”
One of the Captains I didn’t know spoke into the silence. “To provide a useful place for those in society who will fight?”
“That sounds like the UN definition,” I commented, dryly. “The UN created an army that was a massive – and largely useless – blunt instrument. The Peace Force was so badly hobbled by their superior officers that it wasn't even remotely capable of keeping the peace. Although the UN would prefer to believe otherwise, most people will fight if they feel that there is no choice, but to fight or die. You might take the other fellow with you, if nothing else.”
There were a handful of chuckles. “So,” I said. “One final guess?”
Elsa smiled. “To protect the people?”
“Again, in a manner of speaking,” I said. “I’ll save you the effort of thinking and toss in an answer. An army exists to defend society. Discuss.”
Jörgen frowned. “But that was what I said,” he protested. “I said that an army exists to protect and defend the planet.”
I smiled. “But what planet?” I asked. “Svergie was settled by a small group, then it was a UN-occupied world, and then finally it became independent again. If the Communists had won and created a Communist world, there would have been yet another Svergie society. If someone declared themselves King of the World and somehow managed to make the title stick, they’d have created a fifth society. Which one does the Army exist to defend?”
They chewed on that for a moment. “The answer is fairly simple,” I said. “The army exists to defend society.”
“But that’s what you said,” Elsa said, puzzled. “They’re all societies, so the army…”
She broke off. “The army here exists to defend our society, right?”
“As good an answer as you will probably get, for the moment,” I said, and leaned back in my chair. “Throughout history, force – normally expressed through an army, although some nations used navies instead – has served as the ultimate guarantee of a state’s existence. An army that is incapable, or unwilling, to uphold the state is something that will ensure that the state will not last long. The vast majority of states that…were terminated by the UN had rotted away from the inside a long time before the UN was anything more than a debating shop.
“But even that is an incomplete answer,” I continued, “and we need to look at different types of state to understand the role of their armies. A leader state depends on a single leader and the army may swear personal loyalty to him – or her. A bureaucratic state is run by the bureaucrats and the army may be loyal to them, or to the symbol of state, or it may have no loyalties at all. A democratic state, one where the people choose their own government, generally has the army swearing loyalty to the system, rather than to the current leader.
“On Svergie, you would call that the Constitution. It provides the guidelines for the system that elects and rejects new rulers. It provides the means for the people’s will to be felt and leaders to be exchanged. It even provides the means for change within itself without the need for a violent and bloody revolution. The Communists didn’t step beyond the pale for being Communists, but for their wanton attack on society and their attempt to destroy the glue binding it together. Your oath, the one I wrote with the President’s input, swore loyalty to that Constitution. Was that a wise choice?”
They hesitated, perhaps suspecting a trap. “I think so,” Elsa said, finally. “If we weren’t loyal to the system, we’d be…just another militia.”
“Quite right,” I agreed. “In a leader state, the army enforces the will of the leader. In a bureaucratic state, the army enforces the will of the bureaucrats. In a democratic state, the army upholds the system that keeps it democratic. You – all of you – have sworn to uphold the Constitution to the best of your ability. Would you serve a tyrant?”
“No,” Jörgen said, flatly. “I don’t want to…bully people just because someone tells me I should.”
“But if the orders are legal,” another Captain asked, “should they not be obeyed?”
“If they’re illegal orders,” a third asked, “who is to blame for following them?”
I smiled. “It’s good to see that you are beginning to think,” I said. I pointed a long finger at Jörgen. “Jörgen, I don’t like Elsa. Rape her.”
There was a long chilling silence. “Sir…” Jörgen stammered, finally. “Sir, I can’t do that because…”
His voice trailed off. “The proper response would be ‘sir, that is an illegal order’ and to protect – not to hurt, to protect – Elsa, with deadly force, if necessary,” I said, firmly. “We read out the regulations to you every week now and you should be able to cite them chapter and verse. An order to abuse prisoners is illegal and must not be obeyed.”
I leaned back in my chair. “And let us pretend, for the moment, that you had followed my order,” I continued. “Who would have been to blame?”
“You both would have been,” Elsa said. She sounded uncomfortable and I didn’t blame her. “You would have been to blame for issuing the order in the first place and he would have been to blame for following the order. There’s no defence that allows him to claim that he was only following orders. He knew full well that the orders were utterly illegal and following them would have made him compliant in your crime.”
“Quite right,” I agreed. I held up a hand before anyone else could speak. “You also know that it is illegal to torture prisoners, yet there are exceptions built in for terrorists and insurgents. Why are those exceptions there? What makes them separate from normal soldiers?”
Jörgen looked down at the ground. “The manual says that insurgents forf
eit their protections by operating from within a helpless population,” he said, “but that would mean that…they couldn’t stand up and face us in open battle. We’d wipe them out and go looking for more. What choice do they have?”
Picking Up The Pieces (Martial Law) Page 23
