Mercenary

by George Chetwynd Griffith

  X

  Marshal Stonewall Cogswell directed his old fashioned telescope in thedirection his chief of staff indicated.

  "What is it?" he grunted.

  "It's an airplane, sir."

  "Over a military reservation with a fracas in progress?"

  "Yes, sir." The other put his glasses back on the circling object. "Thenwhat is it, sir? Certainly not a free balloon."

  "Balloons," the marshal snorted, as though to himself. "Legal to use.The Union forces had them toward the end of the Civil War. Butpractically useless in a fracas of movement."

  They were standing before the former resort hotel which housed themarshal's headquarters. Other staff members were streaming from thebuilding, and one of the ever-present Telly reporting crews werehurriedly setting up cameras.

  The marshal turned and barked, "Does anybody know what in Zen thatconfounded thing, circling up there, is?"

  Baron Zwerdling, the aging Category Transport magnate, head ofContinental Hovercraft, hobbled onto the wooden veranda and stared withthe others. "An airplane," he croaked. "Haer's gone too far this time.Too far, too far. This will strip him. Strip him, understand." Then headded, "Why doesn't it make any noise?"

  Lieutenant Colonel Paul Warren stood next to his commanding officer. "Itlooks like a glider, sir."

  Cogswell glowered at him. "A what?"

  "A glider, sir. It's a sport not particularly popular these days."

  "What keeps it up, confound it?"

  Paul Warren looked at him. "The same thing that keeps a hawk up, analbatross, a gull--"

  "A vulture, you mean," Cogswell snarled. He watched it for another longmoment, his face working. He whirled on his chief of artillery. "Jed,can you bring that thing down?"

  The other had been viewing the craft through field binoculars, his faceas shocked as the rest of them. Now he faced his chief, and lowered theglasses, shaking his head. "Not with the artillery of pre-1900. No,sir."

  "What can you do?" Cogswell barked.

  The artillery man was shaking his head. "We could mount some Maxim gunson wagon wheels, or something. Keep him from coming low."

  "He doesn't have to come low," Cogswell growled unhappily. He spun onLieutenant Colonel Warren again. "When were they invented?" He jerkedhis thumb upward. "Those things."

  Warren was twisting his face in memory. "Some time about the turn of thecentury."

  "How long can the things stay up?"

  Warren took in the surrounding mountainous countryside. "Indefinitely,sir. A single pilot, as long as he is physically able to operate. Ifthere are two pilots up there to relieve each other, they could stayuntil food and water ran out."

  "How much weight do they carry?"

  "I'm not sure. One that size, certainly enough for two men and anyequipment they'd need. Say, five hundred pounds."

  Cogswell had his telescope glued to his eyes again, he muttered underhis breath, "Five hundred pounds! They could even unload dynamite overour horses. Stampede them all over the reservation."

  "What's going on?" Baron Zwerdling shrilled. "What's going on MarshalCogswell?"

  Cogswell ignored him. He watched the circling, circling craft for a fullfive minutes, breathing deeply. Then he lowered his glass and swept theassembled officers of his staff with an indignant glare. "Ten Eyck!" hegrunted.

  An infantry colonel came to attention. "Yes, sir."

  Cogswell said heavily, deliberately. "Under a white flag. A dispatch toBaron Haer. My compliments and request for his terms. While you're atit, my compliments also to Captain Joseph Mauser."

  Zwerdling was bug-eyeing him. "Terms!" he rasped.

  The marshal turned to him. "Yes, sir. Face reality. We're in the dill. Isuggest you sue for terms as short of complete capitulation as you canmake them."

  "You call yourself a soldier--!" the transport tycoon began to shrill.

  "Yes, sir," Cogswell snapped. "A soldier, not a butcher of the ladsunder me." He called to the Telly reporter who was getting as much ofthis as he could. "Mr. Soligen, isn't it?"

  * * *

  The reporter scurried forward, flicking signals to his cameramen forproper coverage. "Yes, sir. Freddy Soligen, marshal. Could you tell theTelly fans what this is all about, Marshal Cogswell? Folks, you all knowthe famous marshal. Marshal Stonewall Cogswell, who hasn't lost a fracasin nearly ten years, now commanding the forces of ContinentalHovercraft."

  "I'm losing one now," Cogswell said grimly. "Vacuum Tube Transport haspulled a gimmick out of the hat and things have pickled for us. It willbe debated before the Military Category Department, of course, andundoubtedly the Sov-world military attaches will have things to say. Butas it appears now, the fracas as we have known it, has beenrevolutionized."

  "Revolutionized?" Even the Telly reporter was flabbergasted. "You meanby that thing?" He pointed upward, and the lenses of the camerasfollowed his finger.

  "Yes," Cogswell growled unhappily. "Do all of you need a blueprint? Doyou think I can fight a fracas with that thing dangling above me,throughout the day hours? Do you understand the importance ofreconnaissance in warfare?" His eyes glowered. "Do you think Napoleonwould have lost Waterloo if he'd had the advantage of perfectreconnaissance such as that thing can deliver? Do you think Lee wouldhave lost Gettysburg? Don't be ridiculous." He spun on Baron Zwerdling,who was stuttering his complete confusion.

  "As it stands, Baron Haer knows every troop dispensation I make. All Iknow of his movements are from my cavalry scouts. I repeat, I am nobutcher, sir. I will gladly cross swords with Baron Haer another day,when I, too, have ... what did you call the confounded things, Paul?"

  "Gliders," Lieutenant Colonel Warren said.