"Attention, please," Captain Fast said formally. Everyone stood as Falkenberg came in and took his place at the head of the long table.
"Mr. Mess President, is the Regimental Council assembled?"
"Yes, sir," Captain Alana said.
"Thank you. Sergeant Major, has the room been secured? Thank you. I declare this meeting opened. Be seated, please."
Falkenberg looked down the twin rows of familiar faces, senior officers in descending rank to his right, Sergeant Major Calvin at the far end with the senior NCOs. Beatrice Frazer and Laura Bryant were present as representatives for the civilian women. Faces came and went but the basic structure of the Regimental Council hadn't changed since the 42nd CoDominium Line Marines had been disbanded and had chosen to stay together as Falkenberg's Mercenary Legion.
"First item. Congratulations to you all on ending the Free State campaign with so few casualties. Well done. Of course, it was rather an expensive operation, which brings us to our second item. Treasurer's report." Papers rustled as they picked up their printouts. "In the past month we have expended over seven hundred cluster bombs and forty thousand rounds of small-arms ammunition. We used thirty Bearpaw rockets and sixty mortar bombs in the Free State operation alone. All necessary, of course, but we have to replace them. Captain Alana has made substantial economies in routine operations, but I'm afraid that's not enough. Further cutbacks will be necessary. Comments?"
"We can hardly cut back on SAS operations against the rebel planters. Or the air support for them," Ian Frazer said.
"Of course not. I think I speak for us all on that? Thank you. Other suggestions?"
"Pay cuts, sir?" Sergeant Major Calvin asked.
"Possibly. Last resort, of course, but it may come to that."
"Not a good time for that, sir."
Falkenberg smiled grimly. "Sergeant Major, if any of the troops want to desert on Tanith, I wish them well. I expect we can find more recruits here if we have to."
"Sir."
"Next item," Falkenberg said. "We've received a sight draft for one point five million credits as a stand-by retainer from Sparta. It should clear the Tanith banks within the month. If the coming campaign doesn't get too expensive that will ease the economic situation a little."
"Stand-by," Major Savage said. "I gather we needn't rush packing up."
"That's right. The retainer gives them priority on our services for five years, but we'll have to find other work in the meantime."
There was a moment of silence. Beatrice Frazer looked unhappy. "I must say we were all looking forward to permanent homes," she said.
"This doesn't rule out a permanent home for the regiment. It just means we may have to wait longer than we thought. First question: do we accept Sparta's retainer?"
"On what terms?" Centurion Bryant asked.
"First choice on our services, with the usual provisions for letting us finish any active job."
"We certainly can use the money," Catherine Alana said.
"As I see it, turning down this retainer would play hob with our long-term plans," Jeremy Savage said. "I move we allow the colonel full discretion in this matter."
"Second," Sergeant Major Calvin said.
"Discussion?" Falkenberg prompted.
"What's to discuss?" Ian Frazer said.
"Quite a lot, if we refuse this offer," Jeremy Savage said dryly. "Since we won't have the slightest idea where we're going."
"That's what I mean," Frazer said. "Question, Colonel. If we do take the retainer, what are our chances of salvaging the plan?"
"Good, I'd say."
"Thank you, sir."
"Further discussion?" Falkenberg nodded. "There being none, those in favor? Opposed? Thank you. Off the record, I'm going to quibble about the terms, but I'll accept the Spartan retainer.
"Next item. Captain Fast, what offers do we have?"
"There's a prisoners' rebellion on Fulson's World—"
Several officers laughed. Laura Bryant looked horrified. "That's worse than here!" she said.
Falkenberg nodded. "It happens that the offer from Fulson's World is likely to be the most profitable, but I take it Laura speaks for us all?"
Everyone nodded vigorously.
"New Washington," Captain Fast said. "A dissident group wants help breaking loose from Franklin. The Franklin government has brought in Friedlanders and some other mercenary outfits, and has a pretty good army of its own."
"That one's dicey," Major Savage said. "Likely to take time. Good living on New Washington, though. Cool."
A senior battalion commander looked thoughtful. "What have these dissidents got in the way of an army?"
Falkenberg smiled thinly. "Lots of troops. Hardly an army."
Centurion Bryant frowned, then grinned. "Colonel—if they don't have an army, and we do, and we win—"
"The thought had crossed my mind," Falkenberg said. "We might well be the only organized militia on a wealthy—well, relatively wealthy—world."
"No drug trade," Beatrice Frazer said. "We might not be under so much pressure from the Grand Senate. Or Admiral Lermontov. I know you love him, Colonel, but some of us wouldn't mind being free of him."
There were murmurs of approval.
"It would be a while before we could bring in the families," Falkenberg said. "You'd have to make do here."
Beatrice shuddered slightly. "Better here than Fulson's World. Or rattling all around the galaxy."
"We're agreed, then," Falkenberg said. "We'll look further into the New Washington situation. In favor—"
There was a chorus of ayes.
"I see none opposed. Captain Fast."
"Colonel, there are situations in three other places, but no firm offers. Worth discussing now?"
"Get us more information on them first, I think," Falkenberg said. "We don't want to pin all our hopes on New Washington. All agree? Thank you. Next item. Mrs. Frazer."
"The school equipment is breaking down in the heat and wet," she said. "About half our veedisk readers are on the fritz, and we're only keeping the rest together by overworking the technicians. When you take the hardware into the field, everything comes apart."
"That sounds like the right place to put part of the Spartans' retainer," Falkenberg said. "Ladies and gentlemen? Discussion?"
"How much are we talking about?" Jesus Alana asked. "Oerlikon has a new smart rocket out. Coded laser target designators. Countermeasures aren't going to be cheap. And we might want some of the offensive munitions. They're damned expensive, but they could be the edge against that Friedland armor in New Washington. And we'll certainly need new chaff shells."
"It would be nice if the children could read," Captain Catherine Alana said. "Sixteen thousand credits would buy milspec readers for the school. Then we could stop worrying about them."
"They'd make a difference," Beatrice Frazer agreed. "Of course if it's a choice between making do and winning the next campaign there's no choice at all. Classes have been taught with paper and chalkboards, and even less."
"Sixteen thousand. It's not that much," Centurion Tamago said. "I move we appropriate it for the readers." He grinned. "With luck we'll get much more than that out of this operation against the planters."
Falkenberg frowned slightly. Loot was an unpleasant subject, and chancy as well. He never let it enter formal discussions. "Is there a second?"
"Second," Catherine Alana said.
"Ayes? Thank you. I believe I hear a majority. Does anyone wish no votes recorded? I hear none. Captain Alana, you will consult with Mrs. Frazer and order the necessary equipment, not to exceed sixteen thousand credits' worth. Next item?"
"Thank you, Amos." Falkenberg looked down the long table. "That concludes the agenda. Are there any other items to bring before the Council? There being none, do I hear a motion to adjourn? Thank you. Those in favor. Thank you. This meeting is adjourned." He stood and strode out of the meeting chamber.
"Attention," Amos Fast said. All stood until Falkenberg had left the room. The Adjutant looked at his watch. "There will be a staff meeting in ten minutes. Thank you. Dismissed."
The meeting dissolved in babble. "Jesus, Sergeant Major," Centurion Bryant said. "Fulson's World? We ain't never going to be that broke."
"I sure hope not, Alf."
Catherine Alana and Beatrice Frazer went out together, deep in a discussion of brand names and shipping schedules. Ian Frazer took Jesus Alana by the elbow. "Tell me more about this Oerlikon missile."
"Just saw the write-up in Military Technology," Alana said.
"Eh? Where—"
"I'll show you. Catherine brought it. She had lunch in the wardroom of that CD cruiser that came through here last week. Anyway, the missile looks like something new, not just a reshuffle of the same old stuff."
Orderlies came in to clear the table and bring fresh coffee cups.
"Ten-hut!" Sergeant Major Calvin said as Falkenberg entered and again took his place at the head of the table.
"At ease," he said automatically and sat. There were fewer people around the table. No enlisted personnel except Sergeant Major Calvin. The only woman was First Lieutenant Leigh Swensen, the senior photo interpreter and one of Rottermill's deputies.
Her fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard. The tabletop turned translucent and the crystals below its surface swarmed together to form the map of the areas held by the rebels.
"Jesus, there's a sight I'm sick of," someone muttered.
Major Savage smiled. "Tiresome, isn't it."
Swensen moved the joystick, and military unit symbols appeared on the map: dark and solid for enemy units located with certainty, fading to ghostly outlines for those whose positions were only guessed at. The outlined symbols far outnumbered the solid ones.
"I see Major Barton's lost none of his skills at camouflage," Falkenberg observed.
"Ian's lads are doing their best," Savage said.
A dozen small blue dots crawled across the map. "Captain Frazer's Special Air Services teams," Lieutenant Swensen said. As they watched, three of the dots were replaced by red splotches.
"Christ," Captain Fast muttered. "Battles. Isn't there a better way to locate Barton's gang?"
"Those weren't battles!" Frazer protested.
"Casualties, Captain?" Falkenberg prompted.
"Very light, sir. Three men killed. Seven wounded, all extracted by air. Hardly what anyone would call battles."
"Sorry, Ian," Fast said. He glanced at Falkenberg, then at Captain Rottermill. "Is it fair to say we don't know where most of Barton's troops are, and we've no idea at all where the planters are hiding the borloi?"
Rottermill nodded reluctantly, "You could put it that way. I don't like it, but it's fair."
"Also," Captain Fast continued, "we face unroaded terrain. Worse than unroaded. Swamp and jungle. The only possible transportation is by air, and the enemy has effective infantry carried anti-aircraft missiles. We can smuggle a few troops behind their lines, but effective strikes deep into their territory are impossible."
"Fair summary," Rottermill said. "You can add that their satellite observation security is excellent, and the governor's office leaks like a sieve."
"Suggestions?" Captain Fast asked.
Rottermill shrugged.
"Occupy their bloody plantations," one of the senior battalion commanders said. "Start with the close ones and roll them up. There aren't more than a couple of hundred—"
"Sure. And garrison them how?" Rottermill demanded. "Two maniples per farm? Why don't we just wrap up the troops with ribbons and tell Barton to come get them? Christ, Larry—"
"Burn the damn farms! I've got troops ready to do that. The rebels can't stand that, they'll make Barton fight."
"I'm afraid we don't have proper transport to set up the necessary ambuscades," Falkenberg said. "And there are political considerations. I doubt Governor Blaine will let us kill his geese."
"Yeah. So what the hell can we do?"
"Let Ian's lads carry on scouting," Major Savage said.
"I could go out myself," Ian Frazer offered.
"No," Falkenberg said. "This is hardly our favorite kind of campaign, but it's going as well as we can expect. The—opposition—has to hand the merchandise over to Bronson's people. Or someone else, never mind who. All we need do is keep them from delivering it. Major Barton can't operate on credit and he won't fight on promises."
"If we can take the borloi, he won't fight at all," Captain Fast said.
"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Swensen said. "We're trying—
"All my people are trying," Rottermill said.
"So are mine," Ian Frazer said.
Sergeant Taras Hamilton Miscowsky shut down the flame on the nearly buried mini-stove. "Tea time."
The other four members of his SAS team huddled under the basha formed by Miscowsky's poncho. Automatically they cradled the warm tea cups in their hands, even though the fine rain would limit IR scanning ranges to less than a hundred meters. Miscowsky looked at the tangle of vines, tree trunks, exotic flowers, and weirdly shaped leaves. He'd never heard of anything that could detect a hot teacup under this much jungle foliage, but good habits were always worth developing.
The jungle didn't look like anything that ever grew on Earth, but that didn't bother Miscowsky. He'd never been on Earth, and jungles there would have been just as strange as Tanith's. Miscowsky had been recruited from Haven, and his primary training was for mountain operations.
He'd had to learn fast. Everyone did. On Tanith you learned fast or you didn't live long. The insects didn't bother humans much, but there were plenty of big things that did. And fungus never much cared where it grew. He looked at his troops.
Two new faces. I screwed the pooch this time. Kauffman dead, Hwang off to the regenners and fucking just in time, new shave or not that goddamn Fuller can sure fly a chopper. High wind and rain pissing down, and Cloudwalker's chain saw dull as shit, that damn little patch we cleared was too small for the bird to land in . . . Howie lying there next to his leg. Son of a bitch that Fuller kid can fly! And he shouldn't have had to, 'cause I shouldn't have let the Bastards find us. Shit.
It wasn't Cloudwalker's turn to sit guard, but he liked doing it. He took his cup and moved out from under the basha, picking up his rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. As Cloudwalker padded down the trail Miscowksy surveyed the rest of the maniple. One of the new men was Andy Owassee. Miscowsky knew him; he'd been trying to get into the Special Air Service for years. The other—
Miscowsky raised his steel Sierra cup. As he drank he studied the new man's face. Buford Purdy. Mulatto, by the look of him. "Cap'n Frazer doesn't usually send recruits out with SAS patrols," Miscowsky said.
"Hell, Sarge, he lives out here," Owassee said. "Used to, anyway."
"Yeah, I heard that."
There was a long silence. Rain pattered down and dripped off the edges of the basha. Finally Purdy said, "I've got a lot to learn, don't I?"
"Looks that way," Miscowsky said, and set down his cup. "All right. Gimme your poncho." He folded the poncho twice and laid it flat on the ground. Tandon and Owassee moved closer. Miscowsky adjusted the controls on his helmet and the outlines of the area appeared, faint against the mottled green of the poncho. "OK. We're here." He ignored the red splotch that showed where Barton's Bastards had ambushed him. "Sat recon says there's a village over west of us. Twelve klicks. Standard procedure. We go set up to watch, be sure they're not working with Barton—"
"They not," Purdy said.
"Eh? How do you—"
"It's my Uncle Etienne's village," Purdy said.
"No shit?"
"No shit, Sarge."
"So where exactly do you come from, kid?"
"Village about ninety klicks south of here," Purdy said. "On a branch of the slough that goes through Etienne's village. Catfish don't like it this far downstream. Little nessies get them. We bring our catches down five, six times a year to trade for salt-water stuff."
"I will be dipped in shit. Okay, Purdy, what do they talk down in that village?"
"Cooney."
"What's that?"
Purdy cut loose with a string of musical but unintelligible words. He grinned. "It's more like Anglic than you think."
"Has to be more like it than I think," Corporal Tandon muttered.
"You really speak that stuff?" Miscowsky looked skeptical.
"Sure. Grew up with it."
"So how'd you learn real talk?" Tandon asked.
"From my mother. Most of us out here speak some Anglic." He coughed. "Spare some of that hot water, Sarge?"
"Sure." Miscowsky poured the last of the water from the tiny kettle and started dismantling the mini-stove. "Okay, trooper. Looks like we're in your territory. Lead off?"
"Sure, Sarge!" Purdy finished his tea while the others shouldered their packs and struck the basha. Then he moved noiselessly into the thick jungle. In seconds he had disappeared.
"Jesus Christ," Tandon said. "Sarge, that kid's all right."
"Yeah."