Peter Owensford sat in the pleasant cool of the Santiago evening at a scarred table that might have been oak, but wasn't. Captain Ace Barton brought a pitcher of dark red wine and joined him.
"I thought they'd put me in the technical corps," Peter said.
"Speak Mandarin?" Peter looked up in surprise. Barton grinned. "The Republicans hired Xanadu techs. What with the quarantine we don't have much high tech equipment. Plenty of Chinese for what little we've got."
"So I'm infantry."
Barton shrugged. "You fight, Pete. Just like me. They'll give you a company. The ones you brought in, and maybe another hundred recruits. All yours. You'll get Stromand for political officer, too."
Peter grimaced. "What use is he?"
Barton made a show of looking around. "Careful." His grin stayed, but his voice was serious. "Political officers are a lot more popular with the high command than we are. Don't forget that."
"From what I've seen the high command isn't very competent. . . ."
"Jesus," Barton said. "Look, Pete, they can have you shot for talking like that. This isn't a merc outfit under the Mercenary Code, you know. This is a patriotic war, and you'd better not forget it."
Peter stared at the packed clay floor. He'd sat at this table every night for a week now, and he was beginning to understand Barton's cynicism. "There's not enough body armor for my men. The ones I've got. You say they'll give me more men?"
"New group coming in tomorrow. No officer with them. Sure, they'll put 'em with you. Where else? Troops have to be trained."
"Trained!" Peter snorted. "We have enough Nemourlon to make armor for about half the troops, but I'm the only one in the company who knows how to do it. We've got no weapons, no optics, no communications—"
"Yeah, things are tough all over," Barton poured another glass of wine. "What'd you expect in a non-industrial society quarantined by the CD?"
Peter slumped back into the hard wooden chair. "Yeah, I know. But—I can't even train them on what we do have. Whenever I get the men assembled, Stromand starts making speeches."
Barton smiled. "International Brigade Commander Cermak thinks the American troops have lousy morale. Obviously, the way to fix that is to make speeches."
"Their morale is lousy because they don't know how to fight."
"Another of Cermak's solutions to the morale problem is to shoot defeatists," Barton said softly. "I've warned you, kid."
"The only damn thing my men have learned in the last week is how to sing and which red-light houses are safe."
"More'n some do. Have another drink."
"Thanks." Peter nodded in resignation. "That's not bad wine."
"Right. Pretty good, but not good enough to export," Barton said. "Whole goddamn country's that way, you know. Pretty good, but not quite good enough."
The next day they gave Peter Owensford 107 new men fresh from Earth. A week later Peter found Ace Barton at his favorite table in the bistro.
Barton poured a glass of wine as Peter sat down. "You look like you need a drink. I thought you were ordered to stay on nights to train the troops."
Peter drank. "Same story, Ace. Speeches. More speeches. I walked out. It was obvious I wasn't going to have anything to do."
"Risky," Barton said. They sat in silence as Barton looked thoughtful. Finally he spoke. "Ever think you're not needed, Pete?"
"They act that way, but I'm still the only man in the company with any military training."
"So what? The Republic doesn't need your troops. Not the way you think. The main purpose of the volunteers is to see the right party stays in control."
Peter sat stiffly silent. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't react quickly to anything Barton said. "I can't believe that," he said finally. "The volunteers come from everywhere. They're not fighting to help any political party, they're here to set people free."
Barton said nothing. A red toothpick danced across his face, and a sly grin broke across his square features.
"See, you don't even believe it yourself," Peter said.
"Could be. Pete, you ever think how much money they raise back in the States? Money from people who feel guilty about not volunteerin'?"
"No. There's no money here. You've seen that."
"There's money, but it goes to the techs," Barton said. "That at least makes sense. Xanadu isn't sending their sharp boys for nothing, and without them, what's the use of mudcrawlers like us?"
Peter leaned back. "Then we've got pretty good technical support. . . ."
"About as good as the Dons have. Which means neither side has a goddamn thing. Either group gets a real edge that way, the war's over, right? But nobody's going to get past the CD quarantine, so all the Dons and the Republicans can do is kill each other with rifles and knives and grenades. Not very damn many grenades, either."
"We don't even have rifles."
"You'll get them. Meantime, relax. You've told Brigade your men aren't ready to fight. You've asked for weapons and more Nemourlon. You've complained about Stromand. You've done it all. Now shut up before they shoot you for a defeatist. That's an order, Pete."
"Yes, sir."
The trucks came back to Tarazona a week later. They carried coffin-shaped boxes full of rifles and bayonets from New Aberdeen, Thurstone's largest city. The rifles were covered with grease, and there wasn't any solvent to clean them with. Most were copies of Remington 2045 model automatics, but there were some Krupps and Skodas. Most of the men didn't know which ammunition fit their rifles.
"Not bad gear." Barton turned one of the rifles over in his hands. "We've had worse."
"But I don't have much training in rifle tactics," Peter said.
Barton shrugged. "No power supplies, no maintenance ships. Damn few mortars and rockets. No fancy munitions. There's no base to support anything more complicated than chemical slug-throwers, Peter. Forget the rest of the crap you learned and remember that."
"Yes, sir."
Whistles blew, and someone shouted from the trucks. "Get your gear and get aboard!"
"What?" Owensford turned to Barton. "Get aboard for where?"
Barton shrugged. "I'd better get back to my area. Maybe they're moving the whole battalion up while we've got the trucks."
They were. Men who had armor put it on, and everyone dressed in combat synthileather. Most had helmets, ugly hemispheric models with a stiff spine over the most vulnerable areas. A few men had lost theirs, and they boarded the trucks without them.
The convoy rolled across the plains and into a greener farm area. After dark the air chilled fast under clear, cloudless sides. The drivers pushed on, driving too fast without lights. Peter sat in the back of the lead truck, his knees clamped tightly together, his teeth unconsciously beating out a rhythm he'd learned years before. No one talked.
At dawn they unloaded in another valley. Trampled crops lay all around them.
"Good land," Private Lunster said. He lifted a clod and crumbled it between his fingers. "Very good land."
Somehow that made Peter feel better. He formed the men into ranks and made sure each knew how to load his weapon. Then he had each of them fire at a crumbling adobe wall. He chose a large target that they couldn't miss. More trucks pulled in and unloaded heavy generators and antitank lasers. When Owensford's men tried to get close to the heavy weapons the gunners shouted them away. The gunners seemed familiar with their equipment, and that was encouraging.
Everyone spoke softly, and when anyone raised his voice it was like a shout. Stromand tried to get the men to sing, but they wouldn't.
"Not long now, eh?" Sergeant Roach said.
"I expect not," Peter told him, but he didn't know, and went off to find the commissary truck. He wanted to be sure the men got a good meal that evening.
Orders to move up came during the night. A guide whispered to Peter to follow him, and they moved out across the unfamiliar land. Somewhere out there were the Dons with their army of peasant conscripts and mercenaries and family retainers. Peter and his company hadn't gone fifty meters before they passed an old tree and someone whispered to them.
"Everything will be fine," Stromand's voice said from the shadows. "All of the enemy are politically immature. Their vaqueros will run away and their peasant conscripts will throw away their weapons. They have no reason to be loyal."
"Why the hell has the war gone on three years?" someone whispered behind Peter.
He waited until they were long past the tree. "Roach, that wasn't smart. Stromand will have you shot for defeatism."
"He'll play hell doing it, lieutenant. You, man, pick up your feet. Want to fall down that gully?"
"Quiet," the guide whispered urgently. They went on through the dark night, down a slope, then up another, past men dug into the hillside. No one spoke.
Peter found himself walking along the remains of a railroad. Most of the ties were gone, and the rails had been taken away. Eventually his guide halted. "Dig in here," he whispered. "Long live freedom."
"No pasaran!" Stromand answered.
"Please be quiet," the guide urged. "We are within earshot of the enemy."
"Ah," Stromand answered. The guide turned away and the political officer began to follow him.
"Where are you going?" Corporal Grant asked in a loud whisper.
"To report to Major Harris," Stromand answered. "The battalion commander ought to know where we are."
"So should we," a voice said.
"Who was that?" Stromand demanded. The only answer was a juicy raspberry.
"That bastard's got no right," a voice said close to Peter.
"Who's there?"
"Rotwasser, sir." Rotwasser was the company runner. The job gave him the nominal rank of monitor but he had no maniple to command. Instead he carried complaints from the men to Owensford.
"I can spare the P.O. better than anyone else," Peter whispered. "I'll need you here, not back at battalion. Now start digging us in."
It was cold on the hillside, but digging kept the men warm. Dawn came slowly and brought no warmth. Peter took out his light-amplifying binoculars and cautiously looked out ahead. The binoculars had been a present from his mother, and were the only good optical equipment in the company.
The countryside was cut into small, steep-sided ridges and valleys. Allan Roach lay beside Owensford and whistled softly. "We take that ridge in front of us, there's another just like it after that. And another. Nobody's goin' to win this war that way. . . ."
Owensford nodded silently. There were trees in the valley below, oranges and dates imported from Earth mixed in with native fruit trees as if a giant had spilled seeds across the ground. The fire-gutted remains of a whitewashed adobe peasant house stood among the trees.
Zing! Something that might have been a hornet but wasn't buzzed angrily over Peter's head. There was a flat crack from across the valley, then more angry buzzes. Dust puffs sprouted from the earthworks.
"Down!" Peter ordered.
"What are they trying to do, kill us?" Allan Roach shouted. There was a chorus of laughs. "Sir, why didn't they use IR on us in the dark? We should have stood out in this cold—"
Peter shrugged. "Maybe they don't have any. We don't."
The men who'd skimped on their holes dug in deeper, throwing the dirt out onto the ramparts in front of them. They laughed as they worked. It was very poor technique, and Peter worried about artillery, but nothing happened. The enemy was about four hundred meters away, across the valley, stretched out along a ridge identical to the one Peter held. No infantry that ever lived could have taken either ridge by charging across the valley. Both sides were safe until something heavier was brought up.
One large-caliber gun was trained on their position. It fired on anything that moved. There was also a laser, with several mirrors that could be moved about between flashes. The laser itself was safe. So were the mirrors, because the monarchists never fired twice from the same position.
The men shot at the guns and at where they thought the mirror was anyway until Peter ordered them to stop wasting ammunition. It wasn't good for morale to lie there and not fight back, though.
"I bet I can locate that goddamn gun," Corporal Bassinger told Peter. "I got the best eyesight in the company."
Peter mentally called up Bassinger's records. Two ex-wives and an acknowledged child by each. Volunteered after being an insurance man in Brooklyn for years. "You can't spot that thing."
"Sure I can, Lieutenant. Loan me your glasses, I'll spot it sure."
"All right. Be careful. They're shooting at anything they can see."
"I'm careful."
"Let me see, man!" someone shouted. Three men clustered in the trench around Bassinger. "Let us look!" "Don't be a hog, we want to see too." "Comrade, let us look—"
"Get away from here," Bassinger shouted. "You heard the lieutenant, it's dangerous to look over the ramparts."
"What about you?"
"I'm an observer. Besides, I'm careful." He crawled into position and looked out through the little slot he'd cut away in the dirt in front of him. "See, it's safe enough. I think I see—"
Bassinger was thrown back into the trench. The shattered glass fell on top of him, and he had already ceased breathing by the time they heard the shot that hit him in the eye.
That day two men had toes shot off and had to be evacuated.
They lay on a hill for a week. Each night they lost a few more men to minor casualties that could not possibly have been inflicted by the enemy. Then Stromand had two men with foot injuries shot by a squad of military police from staff headquarters.
The injuries ceased, and the men lay sullenly in the trenches until the company was relieved.
They had two days in a small town near the front, then the officers were called to a meeting. The briefing officer had a thick accent, but it was German, not Spanish. The briefing was for the Americans and it was held in English.
"We vill have a full assault. All international volunteers vill move out at once. We vill use infiltration tactics."
"What does that mean?" Captain Barton demanded.
The staff officer looked pained. "Ven you break through their lines, go straight to their technical areas and disrupt them. Ven that is done, the war is over."
"Where are their technical corpsmen?"
"You vill be told after you have broken through their lines."
The rest of the briefing made no more sense to Peter. He walked out with Barton after they were dismissed. "Looked at your section of the line?" Barton asked.
"As much as I can," Peter answered. "Do you have a decent map?"
"No. Old CD orbital photographs, and some sketches. No better than what you have."
"What I did see looks bad," Peter said. "There's an olive grove, then a hollow I can't see into. Is there cover in there?"
"You better patrol and find out."
"You will ask the battalion commander for permission to conduct patrols," a stern voice said from behind them.
"You better watch that habit of walking up on people, Stromand," Barton said. "One of these days somebody's not going to realize it's you." He gave Peter a pained look. "Better ask."
Major Harris told Peter that Brigade had forbidden patrols. Surprise was needed, and patrols might alert the enemy of the coming attack.
As he walked back to his company area, Peter reflected that Harris had been an attorney for the Liberation Party before he volunteered to go to Santiago.
They were to move out the next morning. The night was long. The men cleaned their weapons and talked in whispers. Some drew meaningless diagrams in the mud of the dugouts. About halfway through the night forty new volunteers joined the company. They had no equipment other than rifles, and they had left the port city only two days before. Most came from Churchill, and because they spoke English and the trucks were coming to this section, they had been sent along.
Major Harris called the officers together at dawn. "The Xanadu techs have managed to acquire some rockets," he told them. "They'll drop them on the Dons before we move out. Owensford, you will move out last. You will shoot any man who hasn't gone before you do."
"That's my job," Stromand protested.
"I want you to lead," Harris said. "The bombardment will come at 0815 hours. Do you all have proper timepieces?"
"No, sir," Peter said. "I've only got a watch that counts Earth time. . . ."
"Hell," Harris muttered. "Okay, Thurstone's hours are 1.08 Earth hours long. You'll have to work it out from that. . . ." He looked confused.
"No problem," Peter assured him.
"Okay, back to your areas."
Zero hour went past with no signals. Another hour passed. Then a Republican brigade to the north began firing, and a few men left their dugouts and moved onto the valley floor.
A ripple of fire and flashing mirrors colored the ridge beyond as the enemy began firing. The Republican troops were cut down, and the few who were not hit scurried back into their shelters.
"Fire support!" Harris shouted. Owensford's squawk box made unintelligible sounds, effectively jammed as were all electronics Peter had seen on Santiago, but he heard the order passed down the line. His company fired at the enemy, and the monarchists fired back.
Within minutes it was clear that the enemy dominated the valley. A few large rockets rose from behind the enemy lines and crashed randomly into the Republican positions. There were more flashes across the sky as the Xanadu technicians backtracked the enemy rockets and returned counterfire. Eventually the shooting stopped for lack of targets.
It was 1100 by Peter's watch when a series of explosions lit the lip of the monarchist ramparts. Another wave of rockets fell among the enemy, and the Republicans to the north began to charge forward.
"Ready to move out!" Peter shouted. He waited for orders.
There was nearly a minute of silence. No more rockets fell on the enemy. Then the ridge opposite rippled with fire again, and the Republicans began to go down or scramble back to their positions.
The alert tone sounded on Peter's squawk box and he lifted it to his ear. Amazingly, he could hear intelligible speech. Someone at headquarters was speaking to Major Harris.
"The Republicans have already advanced half a kilometer. They are being slaughtered because you have not moved your precious Americans in support."
"Bullshit!" Harris's voice had no tones in the tiny speaker. "The Republicans are already back in their dugouts. The attack has failed."
"It has not failed. You must show what high morale can do. Your men are all volunteers. Many Republicans are conscripts. Set an example for them."
"But I tell you the attack has failed."
"Major Harris, if your men have not moved out in five minutes I will send the military police to arrest you as a traitor."
The box went back to random squeals and growls; then the whistles blew and orders were passed down the line. "Move out."
Peter went from dugout to dugout. "Up and at them. Jarvis, if you don't get out of there I'll shoot you. You three, get going." He saw that Allan Roach was doing the same thing.
When they reached the end of the line, Roach grinned at Peter. "We're all that's left, now what?"
"Now we move out, too." They crawled forward, past the lip of the hollow that had sheltered them. Ten meters beyond that they saw Major Harris lying very still.
"Captain Barton's in command of the battalion," Peter said.
"Wonder if he knows it? I'll take the left side, sir, and keep 'em going, shall I?"
"Yes." Now he was more alone than ever. He went on through the olive groves, finding men and keeping them moving ahead of him. There was very little fire from the enemy. They advanced fifty meters, a hundred, and reached the slope down into the hollow beyond. It was an old vineyard. The stumps of the vines reached out of the ground like old women's hands.
They were well into the hollow when the Dons fired.
Four of the newcomers from Churchill were just ahead of Owensford. When the volley lashed their hollow they hit the dirt in perfect formation. Peter crawled forward to compliment them on how well they'd learned the training-book exercises. All four were dead.
He was thirty meters into the hollow. In front of him was a network of red stripes woven through the air a meter above the ground. He'd seen it at the Point: an interlocking network of crossfire guided by laser beams. Theoretically the Xanadu technicians should be able to locate the mirrors, or even the power plants, but the network hung there motionless.
Some of the men didn't know what it was and charged into it. After a while there was a little wall of dead men and boys at its edge. No one could advance. Snipers began to pick off any of the still figures that tried to move. Peter lay there, wondering if any of the other companies were making progress. Most of his men tried to find shelter behind the bodies of dead comrades. One by one his troops died as they lay there in the open, in the bright sunshine of a dying vineyard.
Late in the afternoon it began to rain: first a few drops, then harder, finally a storm that cut off all visibility. The men who could crawl made their way back to their dugouts. There were no orders for a retreat.
Peter found small groups of men and sent them out to bring back the wounded. It was hard to get men to go back into the hollow, even in the driving rainstorm, and he had to go with them or they would vanish in the mud and gloom. Eventually there were no more wounded to find.
The scene in the trenches was a shambled hell of bloody mud. Men fell into the dugouts and lay where they fell, too tired and scared to move. Some of the wounded died there in the mud, and others fell on top of them, trampling the bodies down and out of sight because no one had the strength to move them. For several hours Peter was the only officer in the battalion. The company was his, and the men were calling him "Captain."
In mid afternoon Stromand came into the trenches carrying a bundle.
Incredibly, Allan Roach was unhurt. The huge wrestler stood in Stromand's path. "What is that?" he demanded.
"For morale." Stromand showed papers.
Roach didn't move. "While we were out there you were off printing leaflets?"
"I had orders," Stromand said. He backed nervously away from the big sergeant. His hand rested on a pistol butt.
"Roach," Peter said calmly. "Help me with the wounded, please."
Roach stood in indecision. Finally he turned to Peter. "Yes, sir."
At dawn Peter had eighty effectives to hold the lines. The Dons would have had no trouble taking his position, but they were strangely quiet. Peter went from dugout to dugout trying to get a count of his men. Two hundred wounded sent to rear areas.
He could count one-hundred-thirteen dead. That left ninety-four vanished. Died, deserted, ground into the mud; he didn't know.
There hadn't been any general attack. The international volunteer commander had thought that even without it, this would be a splendid opportunity to show what morale could do. It had done that, all right.
The Republican command was frantic. The war was stalemated, which meant the superior forces of the Dons were slowly grinding the Republicans down.
In desperation they sent a large group to the stable front in the south. The previous attack had been planned to the last detail; this one was to depend entirely on surprise. Peter's remnants were reinforced with pieces of other outfits and fresh volunteers, and sent against the enemy.
The objective was an agricultural center called Zaragoza, a small town set among olive groves and vineyards. Peter's column moved through the groves to the edge of town.
Surprise was complete, and the battle was short. A flurry of firing, quick advances, and the enemy retreated. Communications were sporadic, but it looked as if Peter's group had advanced farther than any other. They were the spearhead of freedom in the south.
They marched in to cheering crowds. His army looked like scarecrows, but women held their children up to see their liberators. It made it all worthwhile: the stupidity of the generals, the heat and mud and cold and dirt and lice—all of it forgotten in their victory.
More troops came in behind them, but Peter's company camped at the edge of their town. The next day the army would advance again; if the war could be made fluid, fought in quick battles of fast-moving men, it might yet be won. Certainly, Peter thought, certainly the people of Santiago were waiting for them. They'd have support from the population. How long could the Dons hold?
Just before dark they heard shots in the town.
He brought his duty squad on the run, dashing through the dusty streets, past the pockmarked adobe walls to the town square. The military police were there.
"Never saw such pretty soldiers," Allan Roach said.
Peter nodded.
"Captain, where do you think they got those shiny boots? And the new rifles? Seems we never have good equipment for the troops, but the police always have more than enough. . . ."
A small group of bodies lay like broken dolls at the foot of the churchyard wall. The priest, the mayor, and three young men. "Monarchists. Carlists," someone whispered. Some of the townspeople spat on the bodies.
An old man was crouched beside one of the dead. He cradled the youthful head in his hands, and blood poured through his fingers. He looked at Peter with dull eyes. "Why are you here?" he asked. "Are there not richer worlds for you to conquer?"
Peter turned away without answering. He could think of nothing to say.
"Captain!"
Peter woke to Allan Roach's urgent whisper.
"Cap'n, there's something moving down by the stream. Not the Dons. Mister Stromand's with 'em, about five men. Officers, I think, from headquarters."
Peter sat upright. He hadn't seen Stromand since the disastrous attack three hundred kilometers to the north. The man wouldn't have lasted five minutes in combat among his former comrades. "Anyone else know?"
"Albers, nobody else. He called me."
"Let's go find out what they want. Quietly, Allan." They walked silently in the hot night. What were staff officers doing in his company area, near the vanguard of the advancing Republican forces? And why hadn't they called him?
They followed the small group down the nearly dry creek bed to the town wall. When their quarry halted, they stole closer until they could hear.
"About here," Stromand's bookish voice said. "This will be perfect."
"How long do we have?" Peter recognized the German accent of the staff officer who'd briefed them. The next voice was even more of a shock.
"Two hours. Enough time, but we must go quickly." It was Brigadier Cermak, second in command of the volunteer forces. "It is set?"
"Yes."
"Hold it." Peter stepped out from the shadows. He covered the small group with his rifle. Allan Roach moved quickly away from him so that he also threatened them. "Identify yourselves."
"You know who we are, Owensford," Stromand snapped.
"Yes. What are you doing here?"
"That is none of your business, Captain," Cermak answered. "I order you to return to your company area and say nothing about seeing us."
"In a minute. Major, if you continue moving your hand toward your pistol, Sergeant Roach will cut you in half. Allan, I'm going to have a look at what they were carrying. Cover me."
"Right."
"You can't!" The German staff officer moved toward Peter.
Owensford reacted automatically. His rifle swung in an uppercut that caught the German under the chin. The man fell with a strangled cry and lay still. Everyone stood frozen.
"Interestin', Captain," Allan Roach said. "I think they're more scared of bein' heard by our side than by the enemy."
Peter squatted over the device they'd set by the wall. "A bomb of some kind, from the timers—Jesus!"
"What is it, Cap'n?"
"A fission bomb," Peter said slowly. "They were going to leave a fission bomb here. To detonate in two hours, did you say?" he asked conversationally. His thoughts whirled, but he could find no explanation; and he was very surprised at how calm he felt. "Why?"
No one answered.
"Why blow up the only advancing force in the Republican army?" Peter asked wonderingly. "They can't be traitors. The Dons wouldn't have these on a platter—but—Stromand, is there a new CD warship in orbit here? New fleet forces to stop this war?"
More silence.
"What does it mean?" Allan Roach asked. His rifle was steady, and there was an edge to his voice. "Why use an atom bomb on their own men?"
"The ban," Peter said. "One thing the CD does enforce. No nukes." He was hardly aware that he spoke aloud. "The CD inspectors will see the spearhead of the Republican army destroyed by nukes, and think the Dons did it. They're the only ones who could benefit from it. So the CD cleans up the Carlists, and these bastards end up in charge when the fleet pulls out. That's it, isn't it? Cermak? Stromand?"
"Of course," Stromand said. "You fool, come with us, then. Leave the weapons in place. We're sorry we didn't think we could trust you with the plan, but it was just too important . . . it means winning the war."
"At what price?"
"A low price. A battalion of soldiers and one village. More are killed every week. A comparatively bloodless victory."
Allan Roach spat viciously. "If that's freedom, I don't want it. You ask any of them?" He waved toward the village.
Peter remembered the cheering crowds. He stooped down to the weapon and examined it closely. "Any secret to disarming this? If there is, you're standing as close to it as I am."
"Wait," Stromand shouted. "Don't touch it, leave it, come with us. You'll be promoted, you'll be a hero of the movement—"
"Disarm it or I'll have a try," Peter said. He retrieved his rifle and waited.
After a moment Stromand bent down to the bomb. It was no larger than a small suitcase. He took a key from his pocket and inserted it, then turned dials. "It is safe now."
"I'll have another look," Peter said. He bent over the weapon. Yes, a large iron bar had been moved through the center of the device, and the fissionables couldn't come together. As he examined it there was a flurry of activity behind him.
"Hold it!" Roach commanded. He raised his rifle, but Political Officer Stromand had already vanished into the darkness. "I'll go after him, Cap'n." They could hear thrashing among the olive trees nearby.
"No. You'd never catch him. Not without making a big stir. And if this story gets out, the whole Republican cause is finished."
"You are growing more intelligent," Cermak said. "Why not let us carry out our plan now?"
"I'll be damned," Peter said. "Get out of here, Cermak. Take your staff carrion with you. And if you send the military police after me or Sergeant Roach, you can be damned sure this story—and the bomb—will get to the CD inspectors. Don't think I can't arrange it."
Cermak shook his head. "You are making a mistake—"
"The mistake is lettin' you go," Roach said. "Why don't I shoot him? Or cut his throat?"
"There'd be no point in it," Peter said. "If Cermak doesn't stop him, Stromand will be back with the MPs. No, let them go."