Robert Frezza - [Colonial War 01]

by A Small Colonial War (epub)

  “What happened to Horvendile?”

  “You are he only in a manner, as the shadow of a shade,” Coldewe hinted darkly.

  Sanmartin shook his head from side to side.

  “I observe little complaint when Letsukov sings Boris Godunov in the showers,” Coldewe observed coldly. “You yourself remit leisured hours on slugs and bugs.”

  Sanmartin dropped this unprofitable line of discussion. “Hans, if you’re really bored, why don’t you come learn something about intelligence?”

  “Nay, Guiron. Shimazu has a class of two souls. The triangle isosceles is the most unstable of figures,” Coldewe replied firmly. “You shall face the unquenched wrath of Ettarre La Beale alone and unchampioned.”

  "Of all the lunatics . . . You were normal when we got you, ’ ’ Sanmartin lamented.

  “A mere bud, I flowered. Truly, Sidvrar Vafudir himself, or someone, guided the Variag’s hand when our two destinies were paired,” Coldewe replied. He added reflexively, “That is the cream of the jest.”

  “There you are!” said the voice of Hanna Bruwer.

  “You are discovered!” said Hans.

  “You knew it wasn’t loaded!” said Hanna.

  Kasha tapped her temple, again. Tomi, the other cook, nodded in solemn agreement.

  * * *

  THE FILLED, ORNATE ROOM WAS STICKY, SILENT BUT FOR AN-drassy. With a convert’s zeal, Andrassy had turned a five-minute speech into twenty, detailing Newcombe’s crimes for the edification of the multitude. Tactfully, he failed to mention other names, which made it convenient for others to overlook his own. After Andrassy finished, the rest of the jackals would tear at the corpse.

  Caught up in the dock, Newcombe looked disheveled, even wild. Hunsley pursed his full lips. The last three months had not been kind to “President” Newcombe.

  Kirk Hunsley almost regretted using Andrassy for the final twist of the knife, but Newcombe’s erstwhile protege was exceedingly contrite and too slippery for words. Using Andrassy to strip Newcombe of his presidency and his council seat would serve to nail the son of a she-ass as well as the mother.

  In leisured moments, Hunsley freely admitted to himself that Newcombe could have been eased aside a month ago. Although Hunsley had needed the time to solidify his position, he could not deny taking a certain pleasure in seeing Newcombe sway this way and that.

  However, every good thing must give way to something better. Hunsley had worked hard to clear away loose threads for Admiral Lee, who had no desire to bind the mouths of the kine that milled his grain, and Director Tuge had advanced an exceedingly generous line of credit. When Newcombe’s forfeited properties came onto a depressed market, there was no reason why Hunsley might not discreetly fill his cheeks. Indeed, with Admiral Lee’s tacit approval, there was no reason why Kirk Hunsley couldn’t enjoy a council seat in his own right. And if Janine Joh somehow managed to stumble, perhaps the council president might someday be more than a figurehead.

  In the flush of the moment, he almost felt sorry for Newcombe. Newcombe had tried so hard. Unfortunately Admiral Lee preferred useful tools.

  He caught Newcombe’s eye and smiled sweetly. As stupid as he was, Newcombe should know who guided the thrust. Yes, Newcombe knew. Hunsley could see knowledge burning in his face.

  Then Newcombe did something that surprised Hunsley. He stepped away from his seat and came close. Hunsley leaned forward to hear what it was he had to say. Instead, Newcombe pulled out an antique handgun. He fired it at Hunsley’s chest six times at very close range. Hunsley felt hammers break his ribs.

  He slipped to the floor slowly, each instant lasting a lifetime.

  It seemed to rise to meet him. As he lay, he touched his white shirt being stained crimson by the blood. “It’s ruined,” he thought aloud.

  AT COMPLEX, THE DUTY SURGEON, SOLCHAVA, PULLED THE

  sheet over Hunsley’s face.

  Solchava then returned her attention to Mikhail Remmar’s damaged knee. Dissatisfied with her initial scan, Solchava shifted angles and resectioned, searching her screen for the incomplete burgundy that would mark a break. Knitting damaged and destroyed nerves was a delicate task, inexplicable in its successes and failures.

  Although personal success had eluded her, Solchava was both technically proficient and single-minded; she accepted that these were interrelated. Goaded by Anton Vereshchagin, she had privately decided that Mikhail Remmar would walk.

  Remmar understood her intensity. If Solchava said so, he would damned well walk. Most especially because Company Sergeant Leonov, the Iceman’s alter ego, disliked excuses including impossibility.

  As Solchava set her results for analysis and methodically began putting instruments away, a messenger arrived with orders to pack.

  She entered Moore’s office with her face full of expression, however hard she attempted to contain it. “Lieutenant-Colonel Moore, I am a surgeon. . . . Please be so kind as to explain why I am going to a battalion,” she asked.

  “Devoucoux spent thirty months with Vereshchagin. He should be rotated out,” Moore said, trotting out reasons. Before he forgets which end of a scalpel is which, she couldn’t help thinking. She added cryptically, “Since Mohammed won’t go to the mountain, we’ll see about moving the mountain.”

  “Did Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin request this in some manner?” Solchava asked harshly.

  “Natasha, the Variag won’t even know Devoucoux is being replaced until you step off the plane.”

  “I find it difficult to believe you have engineered this transfer for this reason.”

  “You’re right, of course, Natasha. Now tell me what you think of Anton.”

  The tall surgeon hesitated, disarmed. “I cannot say. I have seen him only twice, when he danced the Cossack dance in my wardroom and again when you embarrassed him beyond belief.”

  Moore pounced on the criticism the words implied. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” she crowed, her features animated by hidden delight. “Pliers. He had the most pained expression.” Her voice abruptly lost its grating quality; it became almost humble. “Please tell me, Natashenka.”

  Solchava thought for a moment. “He seemed like a very nice man. He seemed distracted, very quiet, very Russian. He dances well.”

  Moore snorted. “Nice is not a quality people usually ascribe to Anton. And his mother was a Karelian Finn. If you can get him drunk enough, he’ll recite the Kalevala.”

  “Cossack dances?” Solchava questioned.

  “Unit tradition. If you want to be on Anton’s good side, find him seven hundred red roses for May Day. You’ll understand.” She laughed to herself gendy.

  “Have you ever seen Higuchi in a kilt and sporran? Something both rare and wonderful is a Japanese field officer commanding a Gurkha battalion dressed as a Highland Scot.”

  Solchava made no reply. Moore saw fit to amplify her remark. “Natashenka, there’s something you need to understand if you’re going to stay. Battalions have personalities. Look at Kimura’s, they couldn’t find water while standing in the sea. Anton’s has been savagely successful for as long as I’ve known them, which is a long, long time.”

  Unconsciously, she touched the strands of her hair. “You know he was relieved on NovySibir during the riots. Well no, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  “No, I had not.”

  “One of His Imperial Majesty’s worst kept secrets. Stupid to send him to NovySibir. Stupider still to expect him to obey orders. Anton’s sins are many, but he won’t sacrifice men to no purpose.” She made a bridge of her hands and let her chin rest on top of it.

  “He didn’t stay fired for long, of course. Ishizu appointed a staff officer who had an accident with a pistol four hours later. Anton’s exec went into Ishizu’s office, shut the door, and told Ishizu the battalion had more pistol ammunition than Ishizu had staff.”

  Vereshchagin’s battalion owed precious little allegiance to Diets and admirals. The battalion fought because Vereshchagin told it to fight.
Moore idly wondered what Lynch would find to say the morning of the day Vereshchagin told it to stop. She allowed her bridge to collapse, laughing as if it were the funniest thing in the world, quietly, until tears coursed down her cheeks.

  Sensing some weakness, Solchava returned adamantly to the attack. “Lieutenant-Colonel Moore ...” she began carefully, as if her voice might chip and shatter.

  Moore straightened her back, once more erect, her eyes dry. She interrupted, grinning, as if she were letting the younger woman into some wondrous secret.

  “You need exposure, Solchava. Besides, I like Anton. I like you. It’s one of my many vices. And we’re going to be here a long time. A long, long time.”

  Solchava began a sentence she never finished.

  “I’ve told Anton much the same,” Moore continued impersonally. “Devoucoux has a very good kit up there, all you’ll need are personal effects. Pick up a copy of your orders from Molly and hop a lift tomorrow. There’s one oral amendment: memorize every word out of Anton’s mouth when he finds out you’ve replaced Devoucoux. I’d pay money to see him goggle-eyed.”

  She paused, and the side of her mouth twisted sharply. “I have fifty daughters in this battalion, and you’re the only one I can provide for, when things fall apart. And I expect they will.”

  Tuesday (11)

  IF VERESHCHAGIN WAS THE HEAD OF THE BATTALION, A DUBIOUS analogy, Malinov was its heart. Sipping tea in the early dawn with his battalion sergeant was a ritual that Vereshchagin could not forgo; osmosis was often the only way to extract information from him. Hearing a rap on the door, Vereshchagin raised one eyebrow. The interruption was not precedented.

  Entering, Timo Haerkoennen hissed a terse summary before going to find Haijalo and Yevtushenko. Vereshchagin narrowed his eyes, carefully lowering his glass. Malinov’s expression was unreadable.

  “Do you know where this school is? Go there. Keep Yoshida under control and begin organizing the civilians. I wish to get hold of Raul and Rettaglia,” Vereshchagin enunciated swiftly and clearly. Malinov nodded and rose, his face still unreadable.

  MOMENTS LATER, IN JOHANNESBURG, SHIMAZU ASKED, “JUF-frou Bruwer, is this perhaps your coat?” even though it was the only such item within the confines of the perimeter.

  This fact was not one Bruwer was prepared to deny. She accepted the light overjacket.

  “Please come with me. A helicopter is approaching from Pretoria, and it is necessary that you and I board it in company with Captain Sanmartin. I have been informed that a group of mercenaries has seized a primary school in order to hold the staff and students as hostages. It is necessary to prevent the indignation of the local inhabitants from interfering with the conduct of operations. You at one time were a member of the faculty there. Your assistance will be required.”

  Numbly, Bruwer allowed herself to be steered to the landing pad in front of the C Company bunker.

  HARJALO SPIED YEVTUSHENKO SPREAD OUT IN THE CORNER AS he entered. “What’s the problem, Anton? Fire, flood, or foes?” “The latter. Stray mercenaries formerly belonging to Chalker have taken over the Louis Trigardt primary school. They hold forty-seven children and eight staff hostage. They have been out in the forest starving. Their sources of information are not good. They wish passage out and some ridiculous amount of money. Apart from the warships and Shokaku, there is nothing in orbit, and I am told that it is a very long walk to Earth.”

  “Is this connected with the assassination down in cowboy country?”

  “Doubtful. I will need you to take charge of negotiations.” “You’ll stay and square the admiral before Colonel Lynch gets involved?”

  Vereshchagin nodded.

  “Who’s manning the barricades?”

  “Chiharu is moving Per Kiritinitis’s platoon in place. Yuri will be on site. Use Chiharu as you see fit and keep your eye on him. He wants to go in sword in hand. I had the devil’s time dissuading him.”

  “Literally?”

  “I expect the order I gave to be obeyed.”

  “So you told Yuri to shoot him if he can’t keep his trousers buttoned, and you’re telling me the same. Who’s massaging the bruised Boer egos? They must be panicking.”

  “They are, and Yuri is attending to it for the moment.” “Gods, that’s smothering a fire in benzine. Drag Raul down,

  he can be appallingly smooth when he puts his mind to it. It must come from associating with Coldewe.”

  “He is on his way. Shimazu and Bruwer as well. Bruwer is familiar with the school.”

  “I’m on my way. How?”

  “Thomas is waiting for you outside. Bukanov threw together what you will need. Negotiate.”

  “I bore them to tears.” As Haijalo turned toward the door where Thomas and a Sparrow were waiting, Raul Sanmartin almost ran him down.

  “Raul, you have been briefed?” Vereshchagin inquired. Sanmartin nodded.

  Vereshchagin turned his attention to Yevtushenko, huddled in the comer over a building diagram and oblivious to the conversation that had taken place over his head. Unhurriedly, Yevtushenko looked up and outlined a plan based on Malinov’s assessment of the ground.

  Vereshchagin listened patiently. “One thought,” he said, “I dislike our inability to see what is occurring inside the classrooms. Do either of you have suggestions?”

  A light brightened in Sanmartin’s eyes as he realized why he had been asked to be present. “How about an optical fiber shoved under the door?”

  “Could work,” Yevtushenko said slowly, “but we don’t have one, at least one that would do the job. ”

  “Rhett does.”

  “Quite possible,” Vereshchagin agreed. “He undoubtedly has a few doors for you to practice upon. Will an hour be sufficient? Raul, I need you and Juffrou Bruwer to help Timo in communications. ’ ’ He watched Yevtushenko and Sanmartin disappear in different directions.

  Three hours later, Vereshchagin wais back on the radio, “How does it go, Matti?”

  As far as Haijalo was concerned, it had been a very long three hours, and from the sound of Vereshchagin’s voice, it had been an even longer period of time for him.

  “Not well, but not poorly. The man I’m talking to is a professional. He knows the game’s up, but he’ll play it to the end. He’s holding out for passage, but I think he’ll settle for not having a bullet in the back of the neck,” Haijalo replied.

  “The roof?”

  “We can’t land on the slant. Yuri’s right, there simply isn’t an acceptable way for us to preposition people there. ”

  The Afrikaners preferred their public buildings like castles with the surrounding land manicured. There was no cover and no dead ground worth mentioning. The meres had picked their target well.

  “Tactical?”

  “Lev dropped the sensors himself, Ketlinsky is interpreting. Ten mercs all together, with two more possible but unlikely. From the noise, my friend on the radio is in the administrative office with one other. Hostages are split between adjoining classrooms marked four and three on your plat. My friend on the radio made a point of assuring me they’re closeted with men wearing enough explosives to blow them all to another life if we try anything. I see no reason to disbelieve him. The other meres are scattered about. We’ve confirmed four locations with visual sightings. Do you want me to run them down?”

  “Not necessary. Can you conclude unconditionally? The admiral is unwilling to offer terms.”

  Harjalo couldn’t tell whether Vereshchagin sounded tired or merely disgusted. “Six hours, maybe.”

  “Is that a definite maybe?”

  Harjalo briefly considered the personality of his opposite number. “No,” he admitted.

  “It is just as well. The admiral strongly prefers a military solution, and we have a deadline of two hours. What does Lev say?”

  Harjalo glanced over at Yevtushenko and held up two fingers. 'Yevtushenko nodded gravely. “Lev thinks he can do it,” Harjalo replied.

  “I am on my way,” Ver
eshchagin said as he broke the connection.

  He stopped to check in on the com room.

  For about the tenth time since the first call came in, Sanmartin was thanking the creator of the universe for Ssu the censor. Suspension of live coverage had kept the situation within tolerable limits. With Shimazu to manipulate the media, Bruwer handled distraught parents, leaving Sanmartin to field the occasional concerned personage.

  One such was His Excellency, the lord mayor of Pretoria. As Vereshchagin watched fascinated, it seeped into Sanmartin’s conscious that His Excellency knew just enough English to be offensive. The board belonged to Timo Haerkoennen, and Sanmartin made a sweeping chopping motion for Timo to cut the volume while he contemplated turning His Excellency over to the Hangman, of whom His Excellency was justly terrified.

  Haerkoennen stopped trying to rub life into Bruwer’s whitened hands and reached over to adjust his dials. The situation was toughest on Bruwer, who knew the children and the staff and even some of the parents.

  Vereshchagin spoke for the first time. “Timo, I have asked Mayor Beyers down. When he appears, please have him assist. ’ ’ Then he left.

  Sanmartin waited until Bruwer closed the circuit she was on, then grabbed an arm and held on grimly. He thought back to that first week, remembered sitting on the mats spinning out to all who would listen one of those wildly implausible, mixed-together tales the people of the Islands love so well, the story of Momotaro, the Peach Boy. Bruwer had been in one comer, very silent.

  The daughter of a king found a boy child in a peach floating in a wondrous chest among the reeds, once upon a time. Lifting him, she kissed him thrice and called him Momotaro.

  Pharaoh the king had a mortal enemy, the frost giant Marhaus who laid truage on him for seven years and seven. Accompanied by a cat and a cock, a dog and a donkey, Momotaro sailed off in his chest.