To be a general it is sufficient to pay well, command well, and hang well.
—Sir Ralph Hopton circa 1689
The discipline enforced by firing squad or pistol is inferior to that accepted, self-imposed discipline which characterizes good soldiers. Regulations designed to keep dull-witted conscripts together on the shoulder-to-shoulder battlefields of the blackpowder era are inappropriate in an age when weapons and tactics demand dispersion on the battlefield, and when the initiative may be more important than blind obedience. In the last analysis fighting spirit centres on the morale of the individual soldier and the small group of comrades with whom he fights.
—John Keegan and Richard Holmes; Soldiers
If I learned nothing else from war, it taught me the falseness of the belief that wealth, material resources, and industrial genius are the real sources of a nation's military power. These things are but the stage setting: those who manage them but the stage crew.
The play's the thing. Finally, every action large or small is decided by what happens there on the line where men take the final chance of life or death. And so in the final and greatest reality, that national strength lies only in the hearts and spirits of men.—S.L.A. Marshall
Stora Mine: Mining settlement in the southern foothills of the Kupros Mountains (q.v.), north of Lake Alexander in the Upper Valley section of the Eurotas river, on the planet Sparta (q.v.). The initial CoDominium University survey of Sparta indicated that the eroded volcano later christened Storaberg contained unusual concentrations of metallic ores. Researchers hypothesized that during the original uplift process which produced the Kupros Mountains, a "plug" of freakishly mineral-rich magma was extruded through a fissure. Over time, the rapid erosive forces produced by Sparta's 1.22 G stripped away the covering of softer rock, exposing the core and depositing alluvial metal deposits extensively in the area. The rock of northern slopes of the mountain contains up to 8% copper, 6% lead, 2% silver and significant quantities of platinum, palladium and thorium group metals; locally higher concentrations are studded through the mass of the mountain and nearby deposits of "ruddle" hematite have iron contents of up to 83%. Exploratory mining began during the period of CoDominium administration and full-scale exploitation commenced with the chartering of Stora Mines Inc. in 2041. Both open-pit and shaft mining is carried on; facilities include a geothermal power plant, smelters and concentration plants, the 215-kilometer electrified railway to Lake Alexander, and miscellaneous support, maintenance and repair industries.
Description: The settlement of Stora Mine lies on an eroded peneplane at the northeastern edge of Storaberg Mt. Built-up areas are largely confined to "ribbon" developments along the valleys of the northeast-southwest tending ridges. The central town is laid out on a grid basis, forming an H surrounding two public squares, and includes a business district, public buildings and the railroad station. Total population (2090) is 27,253, including many temporary workers housed in company barracks. Climate is severe, roughly analogous to northeastern Minnesota or southern Siberia; the longer seasons make this a loose comparison, however. The silt-filled basins and rocky hills of the piedmont zone running down to the lakeshore have been extensively developed to supply the mining labor force and enjoy more moderate temperatures . . .
There is a semi-facetious classification of officers long familiar to many of the military fraternity. It does credit to the understanding of its unknown originator as well as to his sense of humor. Its lightly sketched implications when further explored and a little amplified approached conclusions that are not so humorous. Using the terms "brilliant," "energetic," "stupid," and "lazy" and applying them to a selected group of people of whom the stupidest and laziest may still be well above the average of brilliance and energy in the general community, a scale for measurement of certain aspects of individual military potential may be constructed. . . .
The Class Four officer we must study diligently, to devise the means of identifying him in, and eliminating him from, the military services. The combination of stupidity and energy is the formula of ambition other than a laudable kind. The ambition generated is too often entirely personal and totally unconcerned with any elements contributing to the general welfare that are not also an occasion of individual preferment . . . Morally courageous he is not, since this quality is all too often incompatible with personal ambition. Given experience, he may be to a degree learned. He may be cautions, crafty, cunning, and is seldom lacking in decisiveness, but he can never be wise, just, loyal, or completely honest. All too often he achieves a personally successful military career. Energetic stupidity, once invested with authority and allowed to accumulate experience, can do a convincing imitation of a hard-driving professional soldier . . .—Joseph Maxwell Cameron,
The Anatomy of Military Merit
Winter still lay heavy on the southern slopes of the Kupros Mountains. The dawn was bright but hard, and the cold wind sighed mournfully through the branches of the dark pines and leafless birch-trees. These mountains were not as high as the Drakons; the quick erosion of a heavy-gravity world had scoured them down, although the peaks were still glacier-crowned fangs four thousand meters high. The lower slopes were a wilderness of canyon and gully badland, tumbled boulders larger than houses, rushing torrents and new forests just gaining a foothold amid the shattered granite and volcanic scree.
Skida Thibodeau sat looking thoughtfully down the long slope toward the foothills; Lake Alexander was invisible beyond. Cloud-shadow moved across the huge chaotic landscape, and the young sun tinged the snowdrifts with pink. An orderly handed her a cup of coffee, and she chewed on a ration bar, a leather of fruits and nuts. It was cold enough to make the hairs in her nostrils stick together when she inhaled, but snow might begin to melt by midafternoon; weather turned quickly this time of year in the Upper Valley.
"OK," she said after a moment. "Von Reuter, how are the troops?"
"Those in the latest wave from the Dales are now fully rested. The first arrifals are restless." The German-born ex-CD officer had been in charge of keeping the inflow inconspicuous until she arrived. "Some attempted to desert."
"We doan allow no deserters."
"Ja, we know how to deal with those." The German shrugged. "We have done so. But these are not regular soldiers, and we are short of non-commissioned officers. Too many were lost covering our retreat in the Dales."
"Hard fight, but we win in the Dales," Skilly said. "Victory there. Show we can stand up to the Cits."
"I agree. And so we tell the recruits," von Reuter said evenly. "But they were also told they will win soon. They believe this, but one does not learn patience in Welfare Island. The war goes on, for many longer than anything they have ever done in their miserable lives."
"You knew what kind of recruits you were getting," Skilly said. Her voice hardened. "You tell me you know how to make soldiers out of them. You say CoDo's been doing that for fifty years, taking gang-banger homeboys and making them Marines."
"And so we have, Field Prime. But we do not also hide from police while we train CoDominium Marines, ja? When they graduate they parade, people cheer, pretty girls admire uniforms. Not here." He straightened formally. "Field Prime, if you are not satisfied with my performance—"
"You not thinking of quitting on Skilly?" Everyone in the room stiffened, and tension mounted. Then, suddenly, she grinned wolfishly. "You doin' fine. Doan worry so much. Everything goin' just like we want."
The Helots had been moving men and supplies from the Dales to the Kupros in dribs and drabs since the midwinter battles. It was a long way from the Dales, north and east along the foothills. Longer when you had to move in small bodies and take extreme care not to be observed. The Kupros held few people away from the mining settlements, but there were ranches in the hill-and-basin country of the piedmont, and the odd trapper elsewhere.
"You want fighting, we do that, all right. Now listen up, everyone." The dozen or so commanders leaned closer. "Operational plans you all got, so Field Prime will tell you the general stuff again. We not trying to hold what we take, but this be no hit-and-run, either. Two overall objectives: temporary economic damage, maybe some loot, but mainly we demoralize the militia. Then it easier next time."
She dusted her hands, set the cup down on the pine needles and wrapped her arms around her knees. The hard wolfish faces about her were intent. Everything seemed very clear: von Reuter's methodical clock-mind making notes, Two-knife's rock solidness, Niles still with a little of the detached air—not as much, maybe he getting over it; this fight show it one way or the other—the others frowning a little. One of them raised a hand.
"Field Prime, the original planning called for maximum attack on off-world mining equipment. May I ask why that's been changed?" They were all aware of the importance of denying the Royalists foreign exchange to buy weapons systems.
"Because, Hernandez, due to our, ah, consultants, and other things which you got no need to know, the overall schedule been moved up. We be needing CD credits and Friedlander marks someday too. And maybe von Reuter getting them parades he wants sooner than we think."
Predatory grins at that. None of these men intended to live in caves for the rest of their lives.
"OK," Skilly continued. "So you got the schedule of targets, stuff they can replace but not quick. Now, basic, this is a terror raid. Remember, though, it selective terror. We has to show the workers they should be more afraid of us than the Royalists, and the Cits that fighting us is no way to protect their households—just the opposite, that the fact. Useless if they think we kill everyone no matter what they do. Understand me? We want to demoralize, not make cornered rats. Collateral damage in the course of operation be fine; any unauthorized murder, rape, looting or arson, I want punished quick and public and hard. Skilly will hang anyone not understand that.
"So," she went on, after meeting the eyes of each. "Next, we gots to have real careful timing. Troops, they full of beans and think they can lick the world, we convinced them we won the Dales fight. They believe that, doan matter what really happen." And they do fight good. All of them. For a moment she remembered the provisional companies left behind to protect the retreating leadership. No omelets without eggs. Too many eggs that time, but Skilly learn. "Good they got confidence, bad if they be getting the stuffing knocked out. Better we not believe our own propaganda; we still no able to fight the enemy on their own terms. We make them fight on our terms. First—"
"It's a good computer system," the milita staff chief of Stora Mine said; the commander was out with the troops. "Only as good as the input, of course, but it does help us coordinate things on the security side."
"I see." Ace Barton was deliberately noncommittal.
They were a very long way indeed from Sparta City—seven thousand kilometers or more by river, about half that as the crow flew—in an area crucial to the war effort. The windows on one side of this room showed the reason why. The great openpit mine had been operating for fifty years, but it had only just begun to make a mark on the jagged side of the mountain, itself a lone outlier of the Kupros range that stretched across the northern horizon. A semicircular bite had been taken out of its side, stepping up the striated rock in smooth terraces; there were huge diesel-electric trucks at work there now, hauling down the ore blasted free from the face. Another charge went off, and hundreds of tonnes slid slowly down to lie in a rubbled pile. As the dust clouds settled, hundreds of overalled figures swarmed forward with pneumatic hammers, while others waited with scoop-loaders.
The manager—her name was Olafson—nodded when she noticed the direction of his eyes.
"Bit archaeological, the technique, but it's actually cheaper than sonic crushers and robots," she said cheerfully. "Cheaper than asteroid mining, even, if we watch the costs carefully. This is an unusual formation: copper, silver, thorium and platinum, iron, nickel. Mechanical crushing, then powdering, chemical separation, magnetic; we ship the easier stuff in ingot form down the railway to the lake, south to the Vulcan rapids by barge and then down to Olynthos over the railway around those. Powdered slurry along the same route for the more refractory materials. We run some shaft mines underground as well, and this is the collection point for a lot of independent outfits up in the hills." A scowl. "Or was, before the bandits got so bad."
She indicated the jagged line of the mountains. "We've got a geothermal power station here as well, about 400 MW, so what with one thing and another we've become the second center of the Upper Valley, after Olynthos."
Anselm Barton had been examining the retrieval system; it was like much else on Sparta, a cobbled-together compromise. Bulky locally-made display monitors, rather than the thin-film liquid crystal units made elsewhere, and multiple terminals routed through ordinary laptops into the mainframe unit. That was a featureless cube about three times the size of a briefcase, hooked in turn to a databank about the same size.
"Earth-made?" he asked.
"Earth's systems are overpriced junk," Olafson replied with a snort; her civilian hat was deputy vice-president for operations of Storaberg Mines Inc. "No, from Xanadu. Thirty years old, and still works like a charm." She nodded again at his unspoken question. "Yes, we check for viral infiltration regularly, and we've had your people up on the link too, once a week. That what brings you here?"
"Part of it. We've brought some technicians along with us," Barton said. He was nervous about that. However careful these people were, they were working with old equipment and they were provincials. The Legion's own computers had Read Only Memory programming; efficient for military use, but not flexible enough for a civilian operation. And Murasaki's technoninjas are just too damn good with computers.
"Part of it. What's the rest of it?" she demanded. "You're here with your headquarters groups, Legionnaires at the landing field, and two battalions more on the way. Something's up?"
"Well, not really. Bit of paranoia. Here, show off your system."
"No problem," Olafson said. "Here's how we've managed it. This system's got lots of capacity; we got it cheap, that's why we've got a central unit rather than a dispersed network."
She called up a map of the mine and area. "There are about six thousand people working for the Company, a thousand or so Citizens and long-term employees, the rest casuals. As many again in dependents, service industries and so forth. We've always had a Company police"—Storaberg Mines Inc. was owned by the managers and skilled employees, mostly—"we've expanded to about five hundred men, with Citizen officers and light infantry weapons. Your Captain Alana's people checked them; we spotted half a dozen Helot plants among the recruits, and hanged them to discourage others."
"This perimeter?" Barton asked, drawing a finger along a dotted line.
The whole installation was spread out over kilometers of rough country, patches of housing or machinery sheds in pockets of flat ground separated by forest and rocky hills.
"Well, that's the problem. It's hard enough to get people to live up here anyway, you couldn't at all if you tried to cram them in cheek-to-jowl. We've got first-rate all-weather roads, though." A true rarity on Sparta, outside the capital and some of the larger towns.
"The perimeter guard is sensors and detectors, with blockhouses here"—points sprang out—"manned by the security force and by militia on rotation. If there's an alarm, all the Citizens and the reliable non-Citizens and their families concentrate here, in the Armory, or at assembly-points throughout the settlement, and move to where they're needed. All the real non-combatants, kids and so forth, head for the Armory; it's massive, mostly underground, with a cleared field of fire all around. Not that we expect an attack here, of course, the Helots haven't been within fifty kilometers of us, but we're also the coordinating point for the other mining settlements, and the farmlands and ranches all around the north shore of Lake Alexander. There are more of them than you'd expect, with the mines to feed. There's good land up here, it just doesn't come in big blocks like it does down in the Valley.
"And then," she continued, "we've got the woods all around the mine sown thickly with disguised sonic and visual sensors; anything suspicious is routed directly through here and to the relevant perimeter posts. Minefields all around; multiple-use, they can be set for command detonation or sonic, thermal or vibrational triggers—cost a fortune."
Barton nodded. "Okay. Now let's look at that perimeter."
"Now?"
"No time like the present." He led the way outside the room and down the corridor toward the coffee room. When they got there he ushered her inside despite her surprise, and closed the door behind him. A Legion sergeant had set up equipment on the lunch table.
"Secure, Andy?"
"Yes, sir. There was a bug, but I sort of stepped on it."
"Bug? In here?" Karen Olafson stared at the red-haired headquarters sergeant. "Are you sure?"
"Damn sure. You put it there, right?" The sergeant stared menacingly at her.
"What? General Barton—"
"She's okay, sir," Sergeant Andrew Bielskis said, continuing to study the console he had set up on the table. "That's genuine shock reaction."
"Right. Was there a bug in here, Andy?"
"Not in here, sir. But there's a couple in the corridor, and I'll bet my arse the computer system's been penetrated. Ma'am, if you'd just put your hand on this plate for me. Now the other hand here. Excellent. How's the weather outside? Know any Helots?"
Fury and curiosity were fighting it out on Karen Olafson's face. Curiosity won. "All right, General, what is this?"
Barton got another nod from Sergeant Bielskis. "They're planning something," Ace said. "Something big, from the number of troops they've been infiltrating into this area. Damned near a regiment."
"I—how do you know that?"
"Luck. Good and bad luck. The good luck was one of their deserters got to sleeping with a local girl, one night tried to warn her to get away before this week. Bad luck was local intelligence decided not to risk sending it on the wire—"
"Or telling me," Karen said indignantly.
"Yes, ma'am. But it took a week for the report to reach Captain Alana. Since then we've seeded some of Mace's scouts into the area. Something's up, all right. Something big and ugly."
"Oh, God— You said 'this week.'"
"Yep. So. First thing I want you to do is shut things down," Barton said. "Close off all mine operations while we do some security checks. Do it slow, make it look like routine maintenance, but start buttoning up and getting your irreplaceables secured, and I mean start right now. I'm particularly worried about that computer system. You rely on it too much."
"We can't operate without it—"
"Exactly. Andy, I want Jenny and her techs to go over this place and put in manual backups for the security stuff, especially all the control systems. That bloody computer is a point failure threat, and I don't like it. It goes down, we have a hell of a job controlling things."
"Yes, sir. We'll start in the morning—"
"No, Sergeant, you'll start tonight," Ace Barton said. "And we'll just damned well pray it's not too late."
Warrant Officer Jennifer Schramm poured coffee and sprawled in a plastic chair that couldn't have been very comfortable. It was well after midnight.
"You look like you can use a break," Ace Barton said.
"General, that's a fact."
"How much have you got done?"
"About half of it," she said. "I've got manual activation lines for the mine fields. Some bypass communications, but we're running out of optical fiber."
"More coming in tomorrow," Barton said. "What does the computer know you've done?"
"Nothing, sir. Well, it knows we shut down its access to some controls for a while, but as far as it's concerned everything's normal again. What we did, we've jury rigged a manual control console. Throw a couple of big switches and the computer's bypassed, you've got manual control." She sipped coffee. "Frankly, General, I'm amazed at how much they trusted to that damn computer."
"Think it's been penetrated?"
"I know it has been."
Ace frowned. "How do you know?'
"Well, I don't really, but I feel it. Fault logs. They're squeaky clean, General Barton, and I don't like that. It's like something was erased, maybe. Same for access records. Some of them are missing."
"Missing?"
"Yes, sir. Again, it just looked too damn clean so I got Andy to have a talk with a couple of the techs, and of course they were playing war games on the damn computer—and there's no record of it. Like someone wiped the access record files."
"The techs—"
"No, sir. Look, playing games might get them docked an hour's pay at worst, if anyone really gave a damn, but erasing logs, that's a firing offense, and they bloody know it."
Barton touched his communication card. "Wally."
"Honistu here."
"Wally, take a break. Come drink some coffee and put your feet up."
"Well, a little busy, but that sounds right, sir."
Jennifer looked a question.
Barton smiled. "Right. Wally's been with me a long time. My adjutant in Barton's Bulldogs. Way I asked him made it an order."
"You really think they're listening to everything?" Jennifer asked.
Ace shrugged. "This room's secure, don't know about the rest. Tell you this, if the computer's bugged, the control room is. And Andy found a bug in the corridor. It shouldn't have been there, not smart to put one there."
"Too easy to find?"
"Something like that. Not obvious, but not that hard to find either. Almost like maybe it's an early warning? Maybe so when we disable it they know we've found it? I don't know. I can't think the way the rebels do."
Major Honistu came in and closed the door. "I'm damn busy, General. What's up?"
"Sit down, Wally, and let's talk a minute. Jenny doesn't like what she's finding in the computer. More like what she's not finding."
Honistu nodded judicially. "I got the same ugly feeling, General. Add in the intelligence reports, and we got problems."
"Right. What you're doing out there is important, but so is doing a bit of thinking while we have the chance. Let's talk."
Alarms rang in the corridor.
"That'll be it," Ace Barton said. "OK, Wally, get moving. I'll be in central control." He led Warrant Officer Schramm up the corridor while Honistu ran off in the other direction.
Karen Olafson sat at the central console. An alarm wheeped softly, and one screen blinked red. She looked up as Barton came in. "Emergency Network. The Torrey estate is under attack."
The screen showed a man in combat armor thrown on over indoor clothes. Tall, with rather long brown hair and a flamboyant mustache, in his thirties.
"Alan, this is General Barton."
"Barton. Alan Torrey here," he said; he spoke with the accent of an American of the taxpayer class. "I'm definitely under attack, by a company or better. They overran the RSMP post up at the Velysen place, then hit here. We stopped them butt-cold."
A grim smile; Barton decided that he rather liked Citizen Alan Torrey.
"All my people are armed, I won't employ anyone I can't trust. That gives us nearly a hundred guns, and we've been preparing for this. The problem is the Militia reaction-force from Danniels Mill; they came running, and hit an ambush about four kilometers south of here. Had to fight their way off the road and onto a hill; they've taken better than fifty casualties, and they need help bad. I can't do it, we're holding in our bunkers but if we come out their mortars will slaughter us."
A man burst through the door of the operations control center. He was hastily buckling on armor. "General alert, Karen. General, we're sure glad you're here."
"My husband and partner," Karen said.
"Karl Olafson, general co-manager and Major of the 22nd Brotherhood, for my sins. Alan, can you give me a relay?"
"Here."
This time the screen split. "Captain Solarez here, Major Timmins is down." The new figure was crouched in a shallow hole behind a rock, with a wounded communications tech lying beside him and operating the pickup. Small-arms and explosions sounded from the background.
"Report, Captain," the militia Major said.
"I've got thirty dead, sixty wounded and three hundred effectives, that counts the walking wounded. We had to leave most of our heavy weapons with the transport. The enemy have us under visual observation and they're sending us heavy fire, medium mortars, 84 and 105mm recoilless rifles, heavy machine guns. Nothing fancy but they've got plenty of it. We've beaten off one attack already, in company strength."
A map of the militia position came up; squares indicated possible enemy dispositions. The Brotherhood fighters held a dome-shaped rise, as high as anything in the vicinity; the road wound past it, following the low ground up from the shores of the lake. The gap into the sedimentary basin that held the Torrey estate was still two kilometers north and west, but the picture-pickup showed columns of smoke from that direction.
"Major, I can hold here but not forever," the captain went on. "We've no water except the canteens, very little in the way of other supplies, and I'm taking steady losses. Either someone tries to pull us out, or we'll have to fight our way through to the Torreys'. This is obviously bigger than we thought."
"Hold," Karl Olafson said. "We'll come get you."
Ace Barton spoke. "What do you have on hand, Major?" he asked.
"Our security battalion, Brigadier," the miner replied. "There's another Brotherhood reaction-force battalion here, mobilizing now, I'll leave those. We've got a little surprise, a six-gun battery of 155mm gun-howitzers, just up from the von Alderheim plant in Olynthos. And plenty of trucks, we'll take the mine vehicles. Pick up more infantry at the rally-point at Danniels Mill, and mounted scouts to cover our flanks."
Barton picked his words with care; interfering in the local chain of command was not something to be done lightly. "This isn't going to be anything you can handle," he said. "They're risking too much for just a raid. They've got something much bigger in mind. The mine itself, for a guess. You go out there and they'll ambush you just like they did the original relief force."
Major Olafson nodded. "We'll be careful. And counting the second-line people and the perimeter guardposts, that still leaves the equivalent of a complete rifle-regiment here. It's a chance, sir," he said. "But one we've got to take."
Barton signed agreement; that instant concern was a weakness of these friends-and-neighbors militia outfits, as well as a strength.
"Hell," the militia officer went on, "with nearly a thousand men and artillery, I don't think we'll have much trouble chewing up anything they send at us."
Barton had been writing on a pad of engineering paper. He handed that to Olafson. DON'T REPLY TO THIS. THIS ROOM IS BUGGED. GO FIND MAJOR HONISTU AND PAY ATTENTION TO HIM. "I expect you're right," Barton said aloud. He tapped the paper again. "Not much can happen to a force that size. Godspeed, then. Who'll hold operational command here?"
"I was hoping you would, sir."
"Right." Barton wrote quickly. VITAL YOU SEE HONISTU. He watched Olafson leave and turned back to the console. Bad luck. Not enough time to make a real plan. I've got a bad feeling about this one.
"Good," Skida murmured to herself.
Her face-shield was showing the input from a pickup three kilometers south. An armored car led out the gate between two pillboxes, trailed by a huge boxy mine-clearing vehicle. Trucks followed it, 6x6 models crowded with infantry in mottled-white winter camouflage and Nemourlon armor; they towed heavy mortars or two-wheel carts with ammunition and supplies. A string of them, and then two of the big ore trucks. Those pulled cannon, medium jobs with the long barrels turned and clamped over the trails, riding on four-wheeled carriages. More trucks . . .
She turned to the Meijians clustered around their equipment. "This had better work," she grated.
One of them looked up and bowed slightly. "We are downloading into the enemy mainframe even now, Field Prime," he said politely. "There will be too little time for the enemy to react."
As was explained before, went unspoken. The Legion techs were doing random sweeps of the more vital Royal Army machines, of which the Stora Mine was one. No way to leave the pirate taps in for any length of time.
She grunted assent and turned to a display table showing an overview of the mine and town. Too much here depended on the Meijians; too much on the NCLF's secret apparat. Neither the technoninjas nor Croser's people had ever failed her seriously before . . . but this was the first time so large a Helot force had depended on them so totally.
And we not just fighting the hicks. Barton. Barton suspected something. What was he doing here? How much could he know? She tried to remember what she'd been told about Brigadier Barton. Older than Owensford but subordinate, could something be made of that? Bad sign he here. Shouldn't be here. Not now, not when things critical.
Even in the Dales battle there had always been the option of pulling back; they had never been so deeply committed that the enemy could have destroyed them all, although it had been necessary to sacrifice the better part of two battalions to get the leadership cadre out. Now they had to attack, attack an immensely strong defensive position with forces that were barely superior to the Royalists even with the diversion drawing off some of their strength.
No way Skilly can win a straight fight here, she thought. She would need five times the troops and more equipment for that. But if they lost this time, the Movement's edge would be blunted, perhaps forever. The thought of losing the instrument she had worked so long and hard to forge made her stomach feel tight and sour; with an effort of will, she made her hand stop its instinctive desire to rub soothingly. . . . Armor would stop it anyway.
Niles gave her a grin and a thumbs-up; he looked better now that combat was near and there was no time to brood. That was another anxiety, she had serious doubts whether the Englishman had thought through the implications of her orders.
He toughen up a lot, she thought. Now we see if it enough.
Where's Fatima, Eddie?"
The mechanic jerked at the voice and rolled his trolley out from under the truck. The sirens were still wailing across the maintenance compound parking-lot.
"Ah, she's sick," he said, looking up and wiping his hands on an oily rag. "I came down to see the vehicle park was ready."
Christ, I hope I didn't hit her too hard, he thought. She was a good boss, and no more a Citizen than he was. Had been the one to get him the assistant maintenance chief's job, too. But you didn't retire from the Movement, and when it gave you the word you obeyed. Or died, and your family with you, wherever you tried to hide.
Christ, how did I ever get into this? Shit, shit, shit. I don't want to kill anybody. Not even the Cits, hell the ones here haven't been so bad—
The man in militia uniform looked around; fifteen 4x4s, another ten 6x6s. Stora Mine was lavishly equipped with mechanical transport by Spartan standards, since you couldn't haul ore by horse-drawn wagon; even with the mobile Brotherhood force gone, there were still scores of trucks and vans in the settlement, a fair number of private cars as well. The emergency plan called for his two ready companies to billet here, able to reinforce anywhere in the sprawling complex.
"They OK?" the Citizen-soldier said, jerking his head toward the transports.
"Sure, sir. Ticking over normal, but I just wanted to check. You know what's happening?"
"Goddam rebels've attacked a ranch, the boss took some people out to put them down," the militiaman said.
More militia were coming up, and at a wave from the commander began loading prepositioned packs of weapons and equipment on the trucks.
"Nothing wrong here?" the mechanic asked; a man with a wife and a new baby had a right to sound worried.
Why did I listen to that bastard Sverdropov? First it had been little things, turning a blind eye to a crate on a run down to the lake, passing messages, just more union work Sverdropov said, and he'd been sore-headed back then after the last outfit he was with broke a strike with scabs. The Movement had gotten him his first job here . . . Then bigger things, and when he baulked they threatened to turn him in, then it was hanging offenses and he had to keep going.
"Nah, just playing safe," the militiaman said; he looked worried, but not very. "You'd better get to your shelter station, but thanks for checking, Eddie. Give my regards to Mary."
"No problem, sir," the mechanic said, zipping the equipment bag and walking toward the office with a friendly wave to the nearest troops. Sweat trickled down his ribs from his armpits despite the cold, as the left-over bombs clinked in the duffle.
Legion Corporal (Headquarters Adjutant Staff) Perry Blackbird was in his last enlistment before retirement. He'd been too old to go with the Legion to New Washington. In fact he was plenty old enough to rate a desk job at headquarters, but Andy Bielskis had asked him to come along on this job. "Got a feeling on this one, Perry. Can use your nose," Bielskis had said.
And Andy had the best nose in the Legion. Perry had watched Andy grow up in the Legion. He and Andy's father had been sergeants together. Of course that was back in Blackbird's drinking days, when he went up to sergeant and back down to PFC with seasonal regularity. Now with his seniority he was paid as much as a sergeant, and he didn't have any command responsibilities, which was the way he liked it. What with Jeanine married to a farmer and Clara dead these five years, he lived alone and he'd been getting crustier and more set in his ways. "Do me good to get out," he'd told Andy. "Hell, somebody's got to watch out for you."
And there was something wrong here. Perry Blackbird wasn't sure what, but things didn't feel right. Maybe it's I know Major Barton is worried sick, and Andy ain't too happy. His instructions were to nose around, see how these militia carried out procedure, watch for anything suspicious, see what he could improve.
Now he watched as the mechanic went into the office. Then he turned to the militia sergeant. "Is that standard, a civilian mechanic workin' your motor pool?"
"Well, sure, this is a mine, not everyone is militia. Eddie's a sorehead sometimes, but he's all right." The Citizen sergeant's voice had an edge to it. Plainly he didn't think they needed any outsiders to tell them how to operate.
"Standard procedure during an alert is nobody's alone with a truck he ain't going to ride in," Blackbird said. "Don't you do that here?"
"Well, sure, but who the hell follows procedure all the time? Never get anything done that way."
"You like this Eddie?"
"He's all right."
"Trust him, do you? With the lives of your troops?"
"Sure—what are you getting at?"
"Why isn't he militia?"
"I don't know, never asked. What the hell do you think you're getting at?"
"Nothing, Sarge, nothing at all. But I sure am glad it ain't me getting into one of them trucks. Have fun, Sarge." He touched his comm card. "Andy, I'm going into the maintenance office, I may need help. Send me a couple MPs, and maybe you better come a-running."
He left the militiaman staring at his back.
"Captain Mace," Barton said.
The Scout commander looked up from the plotting board. The Legion techs had set up their own battle tech system in the computer center that doubled as militia HQ. "Sir."
Barton typed at his own console. "HAVE THEY FOUND THE BUGS IN HERE?"
"TWO."
"THINK THATS ALL?"
"NEGATIVE."
Aloud he said, "How long would it take to string landlines of our own between the perimeter bunkers, HQ, and the main interior points?"
"About a day, using all the men, sir," Mace said.
"I think we should get on that as soon as this fracas is over," Barton said.
"Sir."
Christ I'm no goddam actor. "FIND THOSE DAMN BUGS!!!" he typed. "Meantime, collect our spare communicators, and send one to the commander's bunkers. And the power and communications buildings."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Barton turned to the screens. The local militia had mobilized with smooth efficiency, fanning out to their duty posts. Second-line Brotherhood personnel were seeing the families and children to the Armory; an immensely strong position, dug into solid rock and surrounded by pillboxes. And I don't like this one damned bit.
"Get me the relief column."
Karl Olafson's face showed, looking up from the tail of a truck set up as a command post. From somewhere outside the field of vision came an unmistakable booooom, heavy artillery in action.
"Report, Major."
"Light resistance on the way here, sir. Mines, and snipers, a lot of them with Peltast rifles"—which had considerable antivehicle capacity—"we lost the armored car, and the mine-clearing vehicle is damaged. We had to stop and deploy several times, but we've pushed through to within firing range of the trapped reaction force, and with them to observe we're shooting the rebels out of their positions."
"Are you in ground contact?"
"I think so, at least, my forward patrols are running into them. Infantry screens."
"Resistance?"
"They're giving a stiff fight and then pulling back. Laying mines as they go." The militia officer grimaced, and the mercenary nodded. That was something of a Helot trademark. "But they don't have time to set complete nets, or equipment for air-delivered stuff."
Odd, Barton thought. The enemy had repeatedly shown they did have some capacity in that field. Not an unlimited one, but this was a fairly important action. Certainly the largest battle in the Upper Valley so far. One of the few where the Helots had operated in battalion strength.
"And they're keeping their mortars on the reaction force position, mostly."
More understandable. Causing maximum Citizen casualties seemed to be a strategic aim of the enemy high command, and the pinned-down force was a concentrated, sitting target. And I still don't like it. "All right, Major, carry on, but keep me in the loop."
"Yes, sir. I expect to break up the enemy concentration within the next few hours, and pursue their elements as they split up and withdraw."
Barton leaned back in the chair. That ought to be that, he thought. The screens showed orderly activity, the last of the children going down the elevators at the armory . . .
His Legion console screen lit. "SERGEANT BIELSKIS REPORTS REACTION FORCE VEHICLES MAY BE SABOTAGED. POSSIBLY BOMBS ABOARD. IT IS CONFIRMED THAT BOMBS WERE PLACED IN MOBILE RESERVE VEHICLES."
"Jesus Christ," Barton said.
"Sir?" Olafson said.
"Major, this computer's showing something odd. I've got a terrain plot. You see that secondary road off to your left there?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Dismount your men and go investigate it."
"Sir?"
"Now, Major. Go take a look yourself."
"General, that will delay us—"
"Major, indulge me. It won't take five minutes. I don't quite know what this thing is trying to tell me, and I'd rather have you go in strength. Now get moving, please. And stay on line with me."
Olafson reacted to the tone of command. "Yes, sir. Captain, dismount the unit, please—"
Dear God, let them get out of those trucks and I'll buy the biggest damned Easter candle— Bloody Hell. That perimeter monitor's repeating, I saw those rabbits move exactly the same way last time I looked. His hand reached for a button. It was 1045, exactly.
"OK, shut it down, just leave the pumps working," the foreman said. "We'll pop that rockface when the alert's off."
He had half-turned when the prybar struck him behind the ear. Then he was staring at the wet stone of the tunnel floor; there was time for a moment of surprise before something hit the back of his head. The last sound he heard was crumpling bone.
"Come on, we gotta get everything in place before 1050!" the man who had struck him hissed. The six men in hard hats and overalls began taking bricks of plastique from their carryalls. Two of them began shoving extra loads of dynamite down the holes bored into the glistening black stone of the stope-face.
"Pumps, transformers and the conveyor," the man continued, looking nervously back over his shoulder at the long tunnel that led towards the cage of the mine's shaft-elevator.
"Won't nobody notice the body?" one of the workers asked.
"No way, when we pop her they'll be boiling mud all through here." He glanced at his watch. "Come on, we've only got five minutes!"
"Here, you, what're you doing there?" the power-plant supervisor asked. "This isn't your workstation."
The turbine room was quiet, except for the ever-present humming of the rotors, but that was more felt than heard. He was the only one of the supervisory staff here, most of the rest were in the militia . . .
The overalled figure at the steam inlet rose and turned. Consciously the supervisor felt only surprise; drilled reflex made him draw his sidearm as he saw the man pull a machine-pistol from his carryall. Brotherhood training brought it up two-handed, crack-crack-crack and the worker was spinning away with red blotches on his clothing. Hands came around the turbine housing behind the muzzle of another submachine gun, and the supervisor dropped flat as 10mm bullets slapped through the air where his chest had been, whined off metal.
Jesus God, that'll blow the steam pipe! he thought, returning fire, looking at the brick of plastic explosive. The whole floor would be flooded with superheated water from the boreholes that slanted down into the magma.
More bullets, and feet were moving off on the floor somewhere.
Two of them, he thought, snapping a new magazine into the pistol and scuttling backward. The pulse hammered in his ear, but there was no time to be dazed. Got to report.
There was five meters of open space between the turbine he was using as cover and the control room. The supervisor took a deep breath and leapt, rolling the last two meters. Lead flicked pits from the concrete at his back, and shattered through the windows as he sprawled through the door of the control room and slammed the metal portal behind him. Glass starred and shifted above him as he crawled to the communicator console and reached up from below; fragments cascaded over him when he reached it, as one of the attackers put another clip through the windows. He shielded his face with his gun arm and keyed the unit.
"Mine Central, Power house One, rebel attack, rebel attack!"
"I am sorry, your call cannot be completed as sent. Please indicate your call direction and try again."
"God damn you!" Panic button. The Legion guys had put in a panic button. It was just over there. His legs didn't want to work, but he could still drag himself across the floor to the desk, reach up and slap the button.
Alarms hooted. Somewhere off in the distance he heard shouts.
"Move, damn you!"
"God damn it, there wasn't 'sposed to be any mother fucking alarms," someone shouted. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"
"Hey you, shithead, get your ass back here—"
"Fuck off."
"Who's there? Sergeant, what the hell, get the Old Man! There's rebels in here. Officer of the Guard! Powerhouse!"
There were shots, and more people shouting, and it all faded away.
It was a thousand meters of rocky open field from the bunker's lip to the beginning of the woods. Brotherhood Lieutenant Hargroves squinted through the IR scanner and frowned in puzzlement.
"Brother Private Diego, you sure the audio sensors don't pick up anything? I got stuff moving around out there. What's on the visuals?"
"Nothing, sir. Birds, deer . . . big herd of deer. Sound and sight."
"Yeah, that might be it, but I'm not counting on it. Anything from the patrol?"
"Regular check-in blips, sir."
"Get me Central."
He picked up the microphone. "Central, this is Lieutenant Hargroves. I've got some funny readings on my direct view sensors but they don't match with the stuff through you. Could you check it? And I'd like to send out another patrol."
"Report acknowledged," a voice said. Captain Olafson, right enough, the militiaman thought.
"Yes, ma'am, but can I send out the patrol?"
"I'm sure you can handle it, Lieutenant?"
He frowned, uncertain. "But the patrol, ma'am?"
"I have full confidence in you, Lieutenant. Remember to maintain radio communications silence under all circumstances." A click.
Bullshit. There's something damned wrong here. "Hell—get me the Captain."
"No answer, sir. It's ringing through but nobody's picking it up."
"The hell you say!" Nobody answering in the company command bunker? "Fire up the radar! Get the damned lights on!"
"Sir, standing orders—"
"Do it, Diego! Everybody, stand to your guns. Markham, get on the minefield circuit."
"Shit! Sir, multiple metal contacts within three thousand meters. Multiple!"
He keyed the helmet radio. "Captain, are you there?"
"Hargroves, what the hell are you doing calling me on the hailing frequency again?"
"Captain, I didn't— Sir, the landlink's down and I've got radar traces—"
"Down? You reported in on it not five minutes ago!"
The desperate voice of the communications tech broke in. "Sir, we're being targeted, designator lasers and—"
Something blinked out of the sky at them behind a trail of fire. There was an explosion on the roof of the bunker that threw them all to the floor, loud enough to jar the senses.
"Radar's gone, radar's gone!"
Hargroves leapt up and to the observation slit. Men were coming out of the woods. Rocket trails slammed down out of the sky to his left and right, and more from positions among the trees. The bunker shook under repeated impacts, and he could hear screaming in the background.
"Open—"
Another streak of fire. He had time to drop down and wrap his arms around his head, before there was a slamming impact and a violet light loud enough to show through his clenched eyelids. Powdered concrete made him choke and gag, while savage heat washed across the backs of his hands. Blast bounced him back and forth in the right-angle of wall and floor. When he opened his eyes a single tear-blurred glance showed that there was nobody else alive in this chamber. He staggered erect, head and shoulders out of the gaping semicircle that something had bitten through the observation slit of the bunker, and keyed the helmet radio again.
"Perimeter six, under rocket attack! Answer me, somebody, please, they're through the wire—"
A high-pitched jamming squeal drove into his eardrums. Armed men were swarming out of the woods; a long blade of flame showed as a recoiless rifle fired, and the bunker shook again. None of the gatlings was firing. Bangalore torpedoes erupted beneath the coils of razor wire, and the enemy poured through as the earth was still falling back. They came running, screaming.
Hargroves slapped the audio intake of his helmet to zero, leaving the mike open as he wiped at the blood running down from his nose. "Minefields inoperative," he shouted, bringing up his rifle. Aim low. Fire. One down. "Perimeter five and four not supporting." A saw-edged brrrrrrt. brrrrrt. came from his left, then ceased. "Correction, five still maintaining fire. Enemy is in at least battalion strength. The mine fields are inoperative. I have no reaction for—"