CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
Coalition Army Headquarters, Ashburtonville, Ravenette
General Lyons had two reasons to evacuate Ashburtonville to a location remote from the seat of the war. The first was to spare its citizens and the Coalition government from the inevitable harm that would come to them if they remained close to the fighting.
The other reason, and one he came to think more important than the first, was to get the Coalition Congress out of his hair so he could fight the war the way he wanted. He quickly realized he was wrong. The rambunctious, meddling politicians who represented the worlds of the Coalition were not about to give their military commander the free hand he needed to prosecute the war against the Confederation of Human Worlds. Not if they could help it. The Committee on the Conduct of the War bombarded General Lyons with requests to appear before them and answer their questions. He had been able to avoid most of these peremptory summonses with the help of Preston Summers, the President of the Coalition and a Lyons supporter, using the justification that the actual conduct of the war was more important than debating it with a committee.
“I should have evacuated the whole bunch of them to Trinkatat,” he remarked bitterly to an aide. Trinkatat was the most remote world in the Coalition. But inevitably he had to appear.
Gilbert’s Corners, the new seat of government on Ravenette, lay about 150 kilometers south-southwest of Ashburtonville in what had been a farming region. Two hundred years earlier the place had been a mere crossroads with an inn for weary travelers and a general store, both owned by Amos Gilbert, an enterprising businessman who believed in the future of the region. When Amos died, killed in a drunken brawl at the inn, his wife, Jezebel, inherited the properties, and with wisdom and foresight, she encouraged the growth of a small settlement at the crossroads, which in time blossomed into the modest city known as Gilbert’s Corners. Over the years nobody had thought seriously about changing the community’s name to something more cosmopolitan. The people on Ravenette, in fact most of the people in the Coalition, just did not think that way. Calling the place Gilbert’s Corners was good enough for them.
General Lyons had easily obtained the approval of the Coalition Congress to move the government to Gilbert’s Corners. The place was remote enough from the war to offer security for the politicians, and it boasted an urban infrastructure that could support the Coalition’s government, such as it was, and make life comfortable for its members.
“Gen’rel”—Preston Summers’s voice sounded hollow and distant as he spoke to General Lyons over the secure communications net—“you gotta show up this time. I can’t stave these fellas off anymore.” He was referring to the Committee on the Conduct of the War, which Lyons had again refused to appear before.
“Mr. President, we are at a crucial stage of the campaign. I can’t just leave my headquarters here in the hands of a subordinate. That would be military insanity. I can point out to you a dozen examples of how that lost wars in the past. Can’t I get away with submitting a written response?”
“I know, Gen’rel, I know, that’s worked up till now, but this time they mean business and they want you before them in person. I can’t hold this Coalition together without their support in the Congress, that’s the truth, pure and simple. The guys on that committee are key members of their worlds’ delegations. They take themselves very seriously, and they are fully capable of gettin’ into a snit and just backing out, concluding a separate peace with the Confederation, and leaving you and me holdin’ the bag on this war. Believe me, they’re as liable to do something like that as crack a bottle of Old Snort. Keepin’ this Coalition together is a bitch of a job, Gen’rel, when I got all these independent souls tryin’ to tell me how to run this government and each damned one of ’em so sensitive about his ‘honor’ he’d cut his own nose off if he thought he’d been disrespected. You gotta take the chance and come on down here, and you gotta leave today. Davis,” he said, reverting to the general’s first name, “you just have to come.”
Lyons was silent for a moment. “Getting there will be half the fun,” he said sarcastically.
“I know. The Confederation’s got reconnaissance patrols roamin’ all around behind your lines. I read yer reports, even if those fools don’t. Take a powerful escort, Gen’ral, and barrel ass right on down here. You got air cover, don’t you? Air superiority?”
“Sometimes we do and sometimes we don’t.”
“Well, come the safest and fastest way you kin. That’s up to you.”
Both men were well aware that Marine Force Recon teams were active between Ashburtonville and Gilbert’s Corners, in fact had only recently destroyed a battery of mobile antisatellite guns without being detected, apparently operating with impunity behind the lines.
“Ever heard of Admiral Yamamoto?” Lyons asked.
“He in charge of their fleet?” Summers thought Lyons was referring to a Confederation naval officer.
“No, he lived a long time ago. He was a brilliant naval tactician back on Earth in the days when navies fought in the oceans. Well, the enemy broke his code and knew he was flying somewhere so they ambushed him.”
“Oh, Judas’s nuts, Davis, do you really think they might ambush you on the way?” There was genuine concern in Summers’s voice. If the enemy got General Lyons, it would really be all over for the Coalition.
“There’s always that chance. I’m not sure just how secure this comm system we’re using is, Preston, so just tell the committee I’ll be there when I get there and they can damned well sit on their hands until I arrive. Have them send me their agenda so I can be prepared for their questions.” He toggled off the system.
“And how are you going to get down there?” his aide, a colonel from Lannoy named Rene Raggel, asked. Raggel was an experienced infantry officer who’d seen his share of combat. The men from Lannoy were known to be rough characters, but Lyons had picked him as his aide-de-camp because he was a solid, no-nonsense officer who anticipated problems before they became problems.
“How are we going to get down there, Rene. You’re comin’ with me. I dunno.” Lyons leaned back and put his arms behind his head. “Any horses left around here? We’ll dress up as farmers. That way nobody’d ever suspect us.”
Raggel smiled. “They haven’t had horses here in over a hundred years, sir. But you’re right, you don’t want to attract attention either from satellite or aerial observation and certainly not from their ground recon teams. The bastards are all over back there. First, let’s send out sweeps, patrols in random directions to divert their attention and keep their recon teams’ heads down. Let’s dress up as civilians, take a private car, and use the south road. It’s lightly traveled. It’ll take us three, maybe four hours to get to Gilbert’s Corners, but that route does not seem to be under very close surveillance.”
“Took the words right out of my mouth.” Lyons straightened up and fished in a cargo pocket. He took out a Davidoff and stuck it between his teeth. It was an expensive chew, but he’d come to like the cigars ever since Preston Summers had given him a box from his private supply. Lyons seldom lit the cigars, preferring to chew on them. Chewing relaxed him and allowed him to think. Since he cut them down when the ends got too soggy, each cigar would last several days. “I don’t like to smoke,” he said to Raggel, “but you know, it’s funny. Here we are in a combat zone, we could get killed any moment, and I’m worried about the effects of cigar smoke?” He shook his head and laughed. “Well, soon’s the committee’s agenda arrives, get Admiral Porter and my deputy in here and run it by us, and then we’ll get ready for our trip. If they expect me to leave today, they can get screwed. We’ll leave tomorrow at dusk, those assholes like to do their business at night.”
“I can tell you two items on the agenda already, sir.” Lyons nodded that Raggel should continue. “One’s going to be putting that damned Seventh Independent MP Battalion on coast watch between here and Phelps. They’re gonna see that as a prime landing zone for seaborne forces. They’ll want to know why you haven’t reinforced them with troops from the Fourth Division at Phelps. And, those guys in that battalion have been making end runs, complaining about their mission directly to their rep from Lannoy, so be prepared for him to spring that on you.”
“Yep. Continue.”
“And the other will be an explanation why you mounted that seaborne attack against Bataan and why it failed so miserably.” Lyons could tell from Raggel’s tone of voice that he didn’t understand the reasons behind that maneuver himself.
“Bet you’re right, Rene. We’ll see. Okay, then we pull out at dusk tomorrow. Line up a tactical vehicle and be doggone sure the stealth and night vision suites are in perfect working order. I’ll drive the first leg. We’ll wear battle-dress uniform. I don’t mind doing an end run to get to Gilbert’s Corners, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to go in disguise.”
Gilbert’s Corners, Ravenette
Colonel Raggel slowly relaxed his grip on the steering levers. His hands came away wet with perspiration. He had tried not to show it but the drive down to Gilbert’s Corners from Ashburtonville had been the most frightening trip of his life. Every moment he expected either to be ambushed or attacked by enemy aircraft. But they’d made it unscathed. He let out his breath.
“Good driving, Rene.” General Lyons laughed and patted his aide on the shoulder, which was soaked through with sweat. “Little warm for this time of the year, ain’t it, Rene?” He grinned.
Gilbert’s Corners was awash in civilian traffic, even at that late hour, both foot and vehicle. People swarmed everywhere like ants whose nest had been disturbed. But the once sleepy little village was now the seat of the Coalition government, and all the rushing about was just the organized confusion of a multiplanetary government in action.
“I want to pay a courtesy call on the garrison commander, Rene, a Colonel Osper, I think. Can you find his HQ in this mess?” Lyons gestured at the surging traffic.
“But, sir, the committee is waiting—”
“Let them wait. I’m only down here ’cause President Summers asked me to come, otherwise I’d just ignore these nattering nabobs. Come on, let’s go.”
Colonel Osper’s staff was both delighted and panicked when the commanding general suddenly appeared among them. A sharp-eyed sergeant had called everyone to rigid attention at Lyons’s entrance. They were delighted because they were hard at work when he walked through the command-post door in the school building, and staff officers loved to be seen by the brass when working; panicked because they had not expected him. Lyons had not informed the local commander he was coming in case his communications weren’t secure. But there he was, an unlit Davidoff clasped between his teeth.
“Colonel, good to see you.” Lyons stuck out his hand before the colonel even had time to salute. “Everyone at ease, back to work. Come on, give me the twenty-five-credit dog and pony show. I’ve got a meeting to attend and can’t stay very long.”
Colonel Osper, a heavyset, older officer with a fringe of gray hair surrounding his gleaming pate, offered General Lyons and his aide chairs. “Coffee, sir?”
“Don’t mind if I do. We had a long trip down here, Colonel. Tell me what you’ve done to secure this town against enemy attack.”
Colonel Osper called up a schematic overlay on his briefer’s screen. “Sir, Gilbert’s Corners proper covers four square kilometers. Its peacetime population is about eight hundred. That has swelled to eighteen thousand with the entire government now situated here. We’ve had to put up a regular tent city to accommodate all the civilians, but we are building temporary structures—mostly barracks and housing for the government leaders and the officers—here, here, and here.” He pointed to several areas on the screen. “The engineers and technicians have done wonders creating the infrastructure we need here. I have to compliment—”
Lyons raised a hand. “Sorry, Colonel, but cut to the quick. What kind of security do you have set up?”
“Sir, I have a reinforced infantry battalion of 1,265 men as of this morning. Almost all of those men are under arms. I’ve set up a system of aggressive foot patrols, day and night, around the entire town but concentrating on the northeast and the east.” He glanced at Lyons. “Any attack is most likely to come from the sea, so my patrols are concentrated in that direction. The patrols are backed up by quick-reaction forces. The patrolling is supplemented by anti-intrusion devices—infrared scanners, video monitoring of the most likely approach routes, that kind of stuff. But we are not relying totally on technology, sir. It’s men and not machines that’ll attack us here.”
“Good, good. Most of the time that equipment either doesn’t work or can be defeated. How about reinforcements if you come under attack by a really big force?”
“Sir, the Ninth Division has put two regiments at my disposal twelve kilometers to the southeast, at Grenoble’s Shop. If the enemy tries a vertical envelopment or an overland end run on us here, I’m confident we’ll know about it in plenty of time to meet the threat. The Ninth Division has the whole array of heavy weapons at its disposal, and I have a strong network of integrated fire-support weapons if needed.” The colonel pointed to numerous locations on the overlay that indicated fortified weapons positions.
“They won’t come in force, Colonel. They’ll come in small units and their mission will be to penetrate your defenses and disrupt life here at Gilbert’s Corners. Colonel Osper, I can’t overemphasize this: all we need now is for these namby-pamby politicians to get a scare thrown into them and they’ll be screaming for massive reinforcements here to protect their sacred behinds. I can’t have that. I cannot afford to draw off any troops from the front to protect these people. You and the Ninth Division have got to secure this area.” He stood up. “I’ve got to go to that meeting. Pass on my compliments to your officers and men, Colonel. You’re doing a fine job here.”
Outside, Colonel Raggel shook his head. “Are they doing such a fine job, sir?”
General Lyons paused before getting into the car. “They’re doing the best they can, Rene, but this damned place is a juicy target for the enemy. They’ll hit here, you can bet on it.” He shrugged. “But come on, drive me over to this, this confabulation of meddling idiots, and let’s get the farce over with.”
The Committee on the Conduct of the War, Gilbert’s Corners, Ravenette
The Committee on the Conduct of the War had established itself in the restored tavern that had once served the farmers coming to buy supplies at Gilbert’s Corners. They had set up their hearing in an old taproom. When the weather was damp, the place still smelled of stale beer. For most of the members of the committee—there were eleven of them, one from each world of the Coalition except Ravenette—the lingering odor of stale beer and old wooden floors reminded them of home. The floor, made of native wood more than two hundred years ago, actually creaked when walked across.
“How was yer trip down here, Gen’rel?” Chairman Heb Cawman asked after Lyons had seated himself before the long table at which the committee perched. He was a perpetually angry man from Embata whose florid complexion and bulbous nose matched his evil disposition.
“Tolerable, Mr. Chairman, tolerable.” Actually, it had been terrible. The road had been sabotaged about seventy-five kilometers from Ashburtonville, forcing them to backtrack and go cross-country to avoid the huge crater blocking the way. If anyone in Lyons’s command knew about the sabotage, they hadn’t reported it to headquarters, and that really made the general angry, but he was not about to tell the committee that.
Cawman suddenly fell into a sneezing fit. He bellowed arrr-hummmm like a fighter bomber revving its turbines, reached for a huge handkerchief, and began blowing his nose, hooonnnkkk, so loudly Lyons imagined the floorboards creaking; the committee members sitting to either side of Cawman leaned discreetly away from him. Finally, tears streaming down his face, which had turned brick red with the effort, he gasped, gesturing with the handkerchief, “You come by yerself? I don’t see no horse handlers, Gen’rel.”
“I brought my aide-de-camp, Colonel Raggel,” he hefted a briefcase, “and various reports and graphics that detail the answers to the questions this committee has—”
“I know Rene!” the committee member from Lannoy shouted. “He’s the mos’ constipated man I ever did see! Sips his whiskey like a woman.” Lyons took an instant dislike to the man, who looked as if he’d been dead for ten years but refused to admit it.
Lyons ignored the man. It was obvious he’d already been into his own whiskey supply. “Sir,” Lyons addressed Cawman with an air of gravity and deference he did not feel, “I am ready to answer the committee’s questions.”
“Why ain’t you increased security around here?” the member from Ruspina shouted. “We got only a battalion of infantry and they spend most of their time on their asses in the taverns.”
Lyons felt like responding that his troops were only following the example set by the congressmen on the committee, but he restrained himself. “Sir, those are combat veterans and they are commanded by a fine officer. I did not assign a larger security detail because I cannot afford to diminish my strength at Fort Seymour. The troops assigned here conduct aggressive patrolling supplemented by a considerable array of anti-intrusion devices. No substantial body of enemy troops can get within striking distance of this place without being detected.”
“What about a small body, then?” one of the members asked.
“Yes, enemy reconnaissance elements may already have been in this area, gentlemen. We cannot deny small, well-trained recon detachments access to any area, no matter how well guarded. But their efforts cannot affect the strategic balance of forces in this war, and I hasten to advise you that we have the preponderance of that balance.”
“Jesus!” someone else muttered. “They could come in here in the night and slit all our throats! Why in hell didn’t you and Summers move us to another planet?”
Lyons almost said he wished he had evacuated Congress off-world. “That would’ve made it difficult, no, impossible, for the members of this government to remain in my chain of command. I could not have attended this committee’s meetings,” he added archly.
“I bet that jist broke yer heart, Gen’rel,” Cawman grunted. “Okay, we are now formally in session.” He glanced down the table. “I’ll start the questioning.” He cleared his throat, wiped his dripping nose, took a sip of brown liquid from a glass at his elbow, shuddered, and made a display of shuffling some crystals before popping one into a reader. “You lost a lot of men and equipment on that seaborne attack against this Billie fella and his troops on Pohick Bay. We need to know why.” He glared indignantly at Lyons.
“I screwed up, gentlemen.” That frank and completely unexpected admission froze the committee members into a dead silence; they stared back at Lyons blankly, completely at a loss for words—for a change. Lyons continued, “That was a totally ill-advised attack, and I regret I let myself be persuaded by the incomplete intelligence available to me beforehand and let it go ahead. The chances for success seemed valid at the time.” He shrugged. “But unknown to us, the area had recently been reinforced by Confederation Marines, who put considerable backbone into General Billie’s defenses in that sector. If they had not been present, we would’ve broken through.”
“Um,” Cawman muttered, glancing again at his colleagues. This kind of forthright response was not expected. It wasn’t appreciated either. Cawman did not like anyone getting the upper hand on him. “Now, we move on to the defense of the coast between Phelps and Ashburtonville. Gen’rel, you got only an MP battalion—”
“The Seventh Independent MPs!” the representative from Lannoy shouted, half rising out of his seat. “They are sturdy fellows, tough customers!”
“Ah, thank you, thank you.” Cawman motioned for the man to sit back down. “We appreciate that those boys are tough, but, Gen’rel, no mere battalion of military police could stop a serious seaborne invasion along that coastline. An’ once the enemy got a foothold there, he’d be behind you. What in the hell were you thinking when you put such a small force in there?”
“Gentlemen,” Lyons addressed the entire committee, “that is a very rugged stretch of coast. The cliffs there approach in some places one hundred meters in height. The area where the Seventh MPs have been assigned can be reinforced quickly by elements of the Fourth Division at Phelps, and should an attack along that coast develop into a forced landing of troops in strength, I can and will divert major forces from the siege of Fort Seymour to repel it. Besides, that battalion is heavily armed.” If they haven’t traded their weapons away for whiskey, he wanted to add, but did not.
“Th’ hell you kin!” someone shouted.
Cawman called for order. “This is a deliberatin’ body,” he intoned, “an’ the members will maintain their decor while it is in session.” He took another sip from his glass, which Lyons judged to be whiskey. The room was redolent with the aroma of fine sour-mash bourbon. But it was clear to Lyons that Cawman agreed with the comment.
“I can and I will,” Lyons responded firmly. “We are at a crucial moment in the campaign, gentlemen. I am about to squeeze General Billie’s nuts in a vise.” He chided himself for falling into vulgar language, but he realized the only way to get through to these men was by coming down to their level and using language they could understand.
“Those MPs,” J. Bubs Ignaughton, the representative from Lannoy, interjected, “they been communicatin’ with me, an’ they ain’t happy, Gen’rel, with that assignment you gave ’em. They say they should be guarding POWs, not walking up and down on the seashore. What you got to say to that?”
It was getting late and Lyons was beginning to lose his patience with the committee, but he restrained himself. “Congressman, processing and guarding prisoners of war is a mission assigned to military police, I grant you that, but so is security. The POWs we have interned at Cogglesville are being guarded by a reserve MP battalion from Mylex. In coordination with General Sneed, the Fourth Division commander, I determined that the best mission for the Seventh MPs was guarding that beach. Besides, they do have a prisoner of war compound.”
“Gen’rel, that is the purest bull-shit I ever heard,” Ignaughton interrupted. “They got themsevs a few pris’ners, but that ain’t no proper POW camp there.” The man had a narrow, heavily lined face that terminated in a wispy white beard; his blue eyes were watery orbs that kept blinking as if he was allergic to something in the air, and from where Lyons was sitting, he could clearly see the man’s filthy hands, nails yellow and chipped, fingers flexing in rage like a blackbird’s claws grasping for carrion.
That was it for General Davis Lyons. “Sir, with respect, the Seventh Independent Military Police Battalion is the most useless collection of downright criminals ever to disgrace a military uniform. If I had my way, I’d take every one of them, put them behind the barbed wire at Cogglesville, and let the POWs go. Those POWs are real soldiers; your MPs belong with the slimies, crawling around in the gutter. Since I can’t send them back to the latrine where they came from, I put them on the coast where they can be a trip wire if the enemy invades there, where they can play a useful military role for a change, maybe actually get shot at for once, and where once and for all they can get what they deserve.”
J. Bubs Ignaughton jerked bolt upright in his chair and squawked like a blackbird with its tail in a trap.
Chairman Cawman gasped in genuine horror at what Lyons had just said and was about to slam a fist down on the table preparatory to delivering a devastating rebuke when the unmistakable hissing and cracking of small-arms fire commenced from outside in the direction of the newly constructed barracks, quickly rising to a deafening crescendo. The muzzle flashes reflected brilliantly off the windows. From outside the taproom men shouted and heavy footfalls pounded throughout the building. Cawman’s eyes bulged in terror and his face turned paper-white; the members of the committee sat, their mouths open, frozen in fear.
Lyons grinned and said laconically, “Mr. Chairman, we are, apparently, under attack.” Calmly he retrieved his briefcase and stood up. “I presume this session is now closed? Gentlemen”—he bowed before the congressmen—“you are now experiencing firsthand what my soldiers face every day. I hope it helps you understand what war is all about.” He looked at Cawman directly but included all the committee members in what he said next: “If you ever again presume to call me before this congregation of fools to question my decisions as a military commander, or if any of you on this committee dare to recommend to your home-world governments withdrawal from this war, I will have real military police arrest you and see that you are publicly castrated. Good night.” He stuck a Davidoff in a corner of his mouth, made another mock bow, and walked out.
On the Streets of Gilbert’s Corners
Chaos reigned in the streets outside the tavern. Colonel Raggel met General Lyons as he came through the door. “Sir, you’ve got to get over to Colonel Osper’s CP, you’ll be safe there!”
“Listen.” General Lyons held up his hand. “Rene, this is not a major assault. Can you hear that? It’s infantry weapons, an assault gun or two, blasters, no artillery, no air. Hell, this has all the hallmarks of a Force Recon mission! They got here using those damned hoppers, I bet. No, this is only a raid. It’s concentrated in the northeast part of the town. I’m not going into Osper’s CP. He’s got his hands full without any VIPs hanging around.”
A civilian, eyes bulging, ran up to them. “What should I do?” the man screamed.
“Bend over, grab your ankles, and kiss your ass good-bye,” General Lyons answered. The man stared at him in uncomprehending horror, then ran off down the street screaming something about “everyone’s dying!”
Raggel shook his head. “You shouldn’t upset civilians like that, sir,” he chuckled.
“Fuck him. I am entirely fed up with civilians.” Lyons thought of his own dead son and all the men under his command who had already died in the war. He was secretly delighted the government at Gilbert’s Corners was under attack.
“What if they know you’re here, sir?” Colonel Raggel’s voice was tense with anxiety, not for himself but for his commander. “Why else would they raid down here?”
“No, I doubt they know I’m here, Rene,” Lyons responded, but in the back of his mind he remembered his earlier offhand remark about the ambush of Admiral Yamamoto. “This”—he nodded at the confusion all around them—“is just too big and too juicy a target for the enemy to ignore. As soon as they’ve put the fear of Beelzebub into everyone, they’ll withdraw to their rally point and be evacuated. Colonel Osper and his boys can deal with this situation. Come on, let’s get into the car. I’m not fighting, I’m not hiding, I’m just getting my ass out of Dodge.”
Once inside the landcar, Raggel called up a map of the area on his display screen. “Give me 1:24,000,” General Lyons asked. “Okay, most of the fighting seems to be concentrated around this barracks complex to the northeast, so we ain’t going that way. The Ninth Division is at Grenoble’s Shop, right? That’s down this road here. There’s sure to be an ambush laid along that road to stop reinforcements. So, looks like this road here, that leads in a south-southwesterly direction, is the route we’re taking to get out of here. I’m not going this way”—he pointed to the west—“because I bet their rally point is in that direction. Now let’s see where this road of mine goes.” He toggled to the next map quadrant. “See? It connects eventually with another road that leads back in the direction of Ashburtonville and”—he increased the scale to 1:50,000—“aha! connects with the road we took to get here in the first place!” He slapped Colonel Raggel on the shoulder. “Let’s get rolling!”
It proved to be one of the longest rides of General Davis Lyons’s life, but they met no one the entire way back to Ashburtonville.