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XII. The S Plan

 

1

Arakal, the next morning, stood on the firing step in the captured Russ blockhouse, and peered east through long-seeing glasses across the frozen river and the snow-capped plain. The sun again today was hidden by dark clouds. But the snow had stopped, and whenever the fitful wind died away, it was possible to seek out the winter-camouflaged Russ tanks.

Behind Arakal, keeping warm by pacing the floor of the narrow concrete-walled room, Slagiron exhaled a cloud of frozen breath, and banged his mittened hands together.

"Any motion?"

The wind swirled fresh clouds of snow across Arakal's field of vision. He lowered the glasses.

"Not from the Russ."

"What about our friends?"

"Koljuberowski's putting some men across the ice where the river bank is low."

"How many?"

"A section."

"What do they have with them?"

"A leech-bomb slinger on skids."

There was a little silence as Slagiron grappled with the question that had already baffled Arakal.

"What," said Slagiron, "do they expect to accomplish?"

Arakal exhaled.

"They seem to be crawling toward the spot where the forwardmost Russ tank was yesterday."

"Ah, where it was yesterday."

Arakal, feeling under pressure to support an ally, even an ally like these allies, strained to find something favorable to say. In the resulting quiet, he could hear the chink of picks and the scrape of shovels as his men labored to improve their bunkers and firing positions.

Slagiron grunted in disgust.

Arakal glanced at a little stud in the thick tube that joined the two halves of his long-seeing glasses, then he stepped down, and handed the glasses to Slagiron.

"See what you think."

Slagiron, his broad build made broader by his thick fur coat, climbed up on the firing step, bent at the slit, and raised the glasses.

Arakal pulled off his leather mittens with their separate trigger finger, pulled off the woolen mittens underneath, and blew into his cupped hands. With stiff fingers, he readjusted the cumbersome straps and belts that held his sword, pistol, ammunition, and the bulky case for the long-seeing glasses.

At the slit, Slagiron growled, "Where did the Russ move that closest tank?"

"Well back, and to your left. Low in front of that lone clump of evergreens."

"Hm . . . If this wind will . . . There . . . I see him . . . Well, now, what have we here?"

There was a gathering pound of approaching hoofbeats and Slagiron's voice became ironical. "Marshal General Catmeat and his Gorilla Guard."

Arakal absently made the correction: "Koljuberowski."

The hoofbeats faded, as the horsemen passed the blockhouse.

"His bomb team," said Slagiron, "is still crawling toward the tank that isn't there. The Russ are taking a few shots at them, so he's coming back . . . Now—what's this?"

The fading hoofbeats seemed to return.

Arakal listened intently. "He's going out again?"

"No . . . this is Parrot and his gang."

"Pierrot," said Arakal absently. "What? Koljuberowski comes in and Pierrot goes out?"

"It's Parrot's turn," said Slagiron. "Next, Slitneck will go out and take a rush at them."

Arakal groped mentally. "Echevik," he said.

"Then finally," growled Slagiron, still bent at the firing slit, "after they've all been beat one at a time, the whole crew will get together around the fire, break out the rotten cheese and wormwood, and invite us over. Stallburger will give a speech." Slagiron's voice suddenly changed tone, like a drill that bites through wood into metal. "Unless, that is, they can find a few more unarmed Russ farmers and their children to—"

Arakal's voice grated. "Stalheim."

Slagiron was silent. Finally, he straightened, and yanked back a large knob at the end of a thick metal rod. At the far end of the slit, under a curving metal plate that served to ward off wet snow and freezing rain, the metal cover shut with a clap. Slagiron glanced at the firing slit's inner door on its dented and rusty slides, thought better of trying to close it, and stepped down. He handed the glasses to Arakal.

Arakal checked the little stud, then slid the glasses into their case.

Slagiron blew into his cupped hands.

"If we've got one man who wants to go any deeper into Russland, I don't know who he is. But the Russ retreat to draw us on, and we advance because the partisans want to attack. And ninety percent of the time, the partisans are frankly worthless."

Before Arakal could reply, there came from outside the muffled challenge of a sentry.

Arakal and Slagiron glanced around.

Through the doorless archway from an adjoining larger room came the sound of the heavy outer door creaking open, to admit wind and a stamping of feet, and then to shut again with a heavy thud. There was an approaching tramp of boots and rattle of metal.

"Nuts," came Casey's voice. "If we went over the ice by day a few at a time, the same thing would happen to us. What do they expect? Why can't they either forget it, or else attack together?"

The voice of Smith, the acting chief technician, was irritable. "Anything with even two heads can't function normally. This so-called army has seven heads."

Beane, whose patience and language capabilities stuck him with the diplomatic jobs, said dryly, "Don't forget Burke-Johnson."

Smith growled. "Right. Eight heads. And all the heads speak different tongues."

As they came in, Casey saw Arakal, and said at once, "Sir, Koljuberowski wants us to back him up in an attack. He claims the Russ have dug in, have no fuel for their tanks, and once we get past them there's nothing from here to Moscow that can stop us."

Arakal nodded. "Nothing but snow, wind, frostbite, stragglers, ambushes, rear attacks, and broken supply lines. This is far enough."

Slagiron looked relieved, and blew into his cupped hands.

Arakal glanced at Smith. "Any word from the Fleet?"

Smith nodded. "They're through into the Baltic. And they're up to their necks in Dane and Swede partisans who want the Fleet to take them to Russland by way of Finland."

Arakal nodded moodily. "Let's see. Finland is—"

"Well, you remember, sir, the Baltic Sea is shaped roughly like a curved 'Y'. The lower part of Finland is between the two raised arms of the 'Y'."

Arakal nodded. "And the Fleet is now near the bottom of the curved leg of the Y, which stands on Denmark."

"Yes, sir."

"What does Admiral Bullinger say?"

"He says it's five hundred miles to Finland and five hundred miles back; the Fleet is still battered up from that Russ fort that hung on at the upper end of the Kiel Canal; he doesn't know the coast and neither does anyone else he can talk to without two sets of interpreters; he doesn't like the look of the Baltic if there should be a storm; and moreover he has it on good authority it can ice over solid around Finland."

"He doesn't want to do it?"

"No, sir."

"Then this latest batch of partisans can get to Russland on foot."

"Yes, sir. But the admiral wants to pass it on, for whatever it's worth, if anything, that the partisan chiefs claim they can go in through Finland, hit the Russ by surprise, and make the other half of a pincer with us coming up from the south, and together we can shear off the whole Baltic coast, and maybe the Russ people will join us and revolt."

Arakal exhaled carefully, and glanced at the archway, above and behind Casey's head.

Slagiron growled. "It might have worked. The Russ people might have joined us."

Casey said tonelessly, "Before they evened up the score with those Russ settlers."

Arakal decided he could now trust his voice.

"Signal Bullinger that we may halt here for the winter. Our plans are uncertain. But we aren't going further."

Casey said uneasily, "Who is 'we', sir? Koljuberowski, Echevik and the rest are yelling their heads off that they want to kill Russ."

"If we advance," said Arakal, very reasonably, "what will the Russ do?"

"Retreat, to draw us on." Casey frowned. "From what we got out of those Russ farmers we saved from the partisans, this isn't a bad spot. That is to say, you can at least recognize the weather here as weather. They've evidently got worse places than this for us to advance into."

"Then," said Arakal, "suppose we stay here. Then what?"

"The Russ will attack us. Then, when we counterattack, then they'll retreat."

Arakal nodded. "If Koljuberowski and Stalheim want to 'kill Russ', all they have to do is just stand still and fight."

Casey nodded without conviction. "That's just common sense, sir. That will never convince them."

Smith finished setting down on his pad Arakal's message to Admiral Bullinger, and handed pad and pencil to Arakal.

Arakal read the message, initialed it, handed it back, and glanced at Casey. "From here to the other end of Russland must be five thousand miles. It's snow from one end to the other, and it's cold enough to freeze quicksilver. We had that much on good authority, before we talked to those Russ farmers."

Casey nodded glumly. Slagiron growled his agreement.

Beane said hesitantly, "There's still Koljuberowski, sir. And Echevik. And the rest of the partisans. They hate the Russ. And from the stories they tell, sir, I don't think you can blame them."

Again Arakal didn't trust himself to say anything.

Slagiron spoke with an edge to his voice. "Now the Russ can tell stories."

"Yes, sir," said Beane. "But the point is, if we don't advance, we'll end up quarreling amongst ourselves. Koljuberowski, Echevik, Stalheim, Rindovin, Alazar, and Pierrot have one thing in common. They all want to fight Russ."

Arakal said, "Let them dig in here and they can fight Russ."

"I know it, sir. But they want to fight them going forward."

Arakal shook his head.

"I think we've paid back the debt we owed these partisans for their help. They can go on, if they want. We've gone far enough."

"Then, sir, what do we do next?"

Arakal glanced at Casey.

"Suppose we should just leave? What do you think would happen?"

Casey said, "If we just pull out?"

Arakal nodded.

"I'd think the Russ would retake everything from here to Normandy."

Arakal glanced at Slagiron, who rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"I don't know."

Casey looked surprised. He took off his heavy mittens, and blew on his hands.

"Sir," said Casey, looking at Slagiron, "Pierrot and Koljuberowski and the rest may be brave, but they can't face the Russ army. They aren't equipped for that."

Slagiron looked at him.

"Neither are we equipped for it."

Casey looked startled. "We've beat them before. Here and at home."

"In our own country, yes. At the end of their supply line, not ours. But as for beating them here—This business here isn't as it looks. They're only using part of their strength."

Casey paused, frowning. "There's truth in that. Yet—"

"They retreat to draw us on. They haven't truly put forth their strength except when we dug in."

Arakal said, "The Russ retreat—but it's all calculated."

Reluctantly, Casey nodded.

Slagiron growled, "What puzzles me is how sparing they are lately with ammunition. What they specialize in now is night bombardments. It almost seems as if they just aim to ruin our sleep."

Casey said hesitantly, "Of course, with the uprisings—the confusion—"

"They should have used their strength to end it quick while they had control. Why let us get this far?"

"But if they thought there were more coming behind us—"

Slagiron shook his head.

"Whatever anyone else here may think, the Russ know the shape we're in."

Arakal could see in his mind's eye this continent's cities—huge by his own standards, and their system of iron roads. The Russ had been masters of all this, but they retreated. Somewhere here, there was an illogicality, a something that didn't fit. In short, a trap.

As they stood grappling with uncertainties, behind them there was a brief howl of wind, the heavy slam of the outside door, the stamp of feet, and then a voice, somewhat high-pitched, and artificially cheerful, called out:

"What ho, chaps! Arakal, my dear fellow! Are you here?"

Slagiron grunted, glanced up at the slit, and held out his hand. "Just in case—"

Arakal, eyes narrowed, handed him the glasses.

Slagiron climbed on the firing step.

Casey glanced around, and swore under his breath.

Smith grunted, and blew on his hands.

A tall pale figure in furs was suddenly framed in the archway. Slagiron's voice, from where he stood behind Arakal on the firing step, had an ironical tone.

"Hullo, Burke-Johnson."

Burke-Johnson cast a penetrating look at Slagiron.

"Er, how are you, my dear general? Actually, I'm delighted to see you." He glanced around. "But, Arakal. It's to you that I really must speak."

Everyone in the room, save Arakal and Slagiron—who had a concrete wall behind him—contrived somehow to back, side-step, or otherwise ease further away from the newcomer.

Arakal reminded himself that Burke-Johnson, supposedly the emissary from Old Brunswick, this same Burke-Johnson had been detected by Smith's monitoring team in the act of reporting Arakal's movements to the Russ, and reporting them in the Russ tongue. Ever since, they had been feeding Burke-Johnson false information, which he duly reported to the Russ. Yet, unless Burke-Johnson were stupid, which clearly he was not, he had long since realized he was unmasked—a fact which he determinedly ignored.

Arakal coerced his voice into a passable imitation of friendliness.

"What is it, Major?"

Burke-Johnson straightened.

"My dear fellow, I'm really quite dished at the way you've been treating Koljuberowski."

Arakal groped for the meaning of the word "dished."

Beane, the language specialist, cast a fishy look at Burke-Johnson.

There was a screech of metal as Slagiron shoved back the cover at the end of the slit, and turned his back on the proceedings.

Arakal said, very seriously, "What did I do wrong this time?"

Burke-Johnson's gaze slid away, and, eyes averted, he spoke rapidly, with an exaggerated emphasis:

"You Americans have simply got to realize that the people here are not about to trade the Russian yoke for your own. You simply must understand that wars are not won by the outsider telling the chap on the spot what he can and what he cannot do. You must get cracking, dear boy. Kol feels that the Russian front here is simply a hollow shell. And he should know. Smash it, Arakal. Smash it!"

Arakal studied Burke-Johnson's averted gaze, and listened closely to Burke-Johnson's emphatic but somehow empty voice. The effect was of an insincerity so plain that Arakal could not accept even the insincerity as genuine.

Again there was the thud of the heavy outer door.

One of Smith's men came in, cast a wary glance at Burke-Johnson, tugged at Smith's sleeve, and pulled him back out of earshot.

Arakal looked thoughtfully at Burke-Johnson.

"To go straight into Russland from here is a five-thousand-mile hike. They can retreat whenever they feel like it, cut in behind us, starve us, pick us off—and meanwhile we'll have to light fires under our guns to work the actions. That's exactly what the Russ want. Why should we do it?"

Burke-Johnson hesitated. For an instant, the effect of masks behind masks vanished. "What do you propose?"

"Go in through Finland, swing around in an arc, and cut all their communications in succession. We should be able to disjoint them—and we'll be marching south, not north."

Burke-Johnson blinked rapidly. "I don't believe Kol would agree to this, my dear fellow."

Arakal said, "Let Koljuberowski and the rest of the partisans take them from the front, while we hit them from the rear."

"Well, I might pass along the suggestion, I suppose, but—"

Slagiron tossed words over his back from the firing step. "Good idea. Go talk to Clabberjaw, and see what he says. Then let us know."

Burke-Johnson's face showed a brief struggle. Then, his gaze avoiding everyone's eyes, he nodded, and said loudly, "Cheerio, chaps." He turned, and strode out. The outside door shut heavily behind him.

There was a silence, then a dull clap as the cover dropped shut over the firing slit. Slagiron stepped down, and handed Arakal the glasses. "I wonder who really sent him. Does he know?"

"What did you see out there?"

"Snow."

Smith came back in, blowing on his hands, his expression intent and serious. He had a sheaf of thin yellow papers tucked tightly under one arm. He glanced at Arakal, and cleared his throat.

"Sir—"

Arakal, bemusedly considering the puzzle of Burke-Johnson, glanced around.

"What is it, Smith?"

"If what I have here is right, another one of these 'allies' is a Russ spy."

In the quiet, they could hear through the wind the chink and scrape of the picks and shovels outside.

Arakal kept his voice level.

"Who is it this time?"

"Koljuberowski."

Arakal kept his mouth shut.

Casey turned to stare at Smith, started to speak, but didn't.

Beane's eyes widened. "I can't believe that—"

Slagiron spoke as if the words exploded from him.

"Then think again! Nothing could have hurt us more than what he did!"

Casey looked at Smith, and said tightly, "What about his troops?"

"It's impossible to say."

Slagiron said, "His officers were all with him in it. Some of the men lagged. And, you remember, one wouldn't go along."

Casey exhaled with a hiss.

"I saw it. They threw him in the pit with the settlers."

Arakal said, "We'd better double the guards." He took out his signal whistle and blew two short penetrating blasts.

Slagiron drew out his big automatic of Old Army design.

Beyond the arch, the outside door creaked open.

A low voice was speaking warningly:

". . . eyes wide-open. Otherwise, old Cut-Your-Throat may creep up and sling us in a hole." The guard stepped inside, shut the door, exhaled a cloud of frozen breath, and brought his gun to present arms.

"Sir!"

Casey stared. "What's this, Corporal? You've got a buddy out there."

"Yes, sir. Sergeant doubled us all around, and handed out extra belts."

Slagiron growled, "Good!"

Casey spoke at the same time, so that his voice overlapped with Slagiron's. "Why?"

"Don't trust old Cat-Jabber, sir."

"That business with the Russ farmers?"

"That about put the cap on it, sir."

Arakal said, "The guards are doubled up all around?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. That's all."

The guard stepped back outside.

Arakal turned to Smith, who was holding the yellow sheets of paper. "You're sure of this?"

"As sure as we can be."

Casey said, "I still can't believe it! Koljuberowski—" He paused abruptly.

Slagiron had begun to speak, but stopped at the look on Casey's face.

Arakal said patiently, "Nothing could stiffen Russ resistance the way Koljuberowski did. Not just their army. Their people."

Slagiron nodded. "We're part of the outfit credited with that."

Casey was nodding unhappily as from the closed outside door came the sound of new voices raised in argument.

Slagiron glanced toward the archway.

"Well, well. Speak of the devil. There's Catmeat himself."

Beane said abruptly, "This may not mean anything, sir. But Koljuberowski has a sleevegun."

Arakal's eyes narrowed.

Slagiron nodded. "It's crooked. What else would he use?"

Arakal glanced at Smith, and spoke in a low voice.

"What proof have we Koljuberowski is working for the Russ?"

"Every night since he joined us, at roughly the same time, there's been a—a kind of powerful squawk—on the frequency Burke-Johnson uses for his reports."

Arakal nodded.

Smith said, "The night before last, we recorded this squawk, but still couldn't make anything of it. Several hours ago, one of my men got it slowed down, and it turned into words. It was Koljuberowski, reporting that slaughter of the farmers, and what we planned to do next."

"Koljuberowski's own voice?"

"Yes, sir."

"What you have there is the report on this?"

"Yes, sir." Smith held the yellow sheets out to Arakal.

From outside, they could hear the suddenly loud voice of the guard.

"Sergeant of the Guard! Post One! Armed allies!"

Casey reached inside his coat.

Arakal spoke quietly as he took the yellow sheets from Smith, then absently loosened his sword.

"Keep your guns out of sight. Beane, take a look. If Koljuberowski's there, tell him I'd like to see him, alone. Try not to let anyone else in. But, if they shove past you—Why then, let them come."

Beane went out through the archway.

Slagiron glanced at Casey, then at Arakal.

"When he pushes his way in, why not tell him Casey and I left after Burp-Jaw went out."

Arakal nodded. He was vaguely conscious of Casey and Slagiron going out the archway toward the inner door that led to the ice-coated wreck of the lookout tower. But his attention was momentarily riveted on the yellow sheets.

". . . voice has been identified by every member of the intelligence section as that of the officer known to us as Casimir Patrick Koljuberowski. . . . Speaking the Russ tongue fluently, Koljuberowski first related the events surrounding the massacre, then detailed our plans as at that time communicated to him . . . Koljuberowski then acknowledged receipt of orders already passed to him from the Russ in some way not specified. . . . The translation of Koljuberowski's report follows . . ."

Arakal glanced rapidly over the yellow sheets, then folded them, reached inside his coat, and shoved them well down in a pocket of his woolen shirt. As the voices from the door became suddenly louder, he slid the glasses out of their leather case, and handed them to Smith.

"See what you can see through that slit, why don't you?"

Smith nodded, and, holding the glasses gingerly, stepped up on the firing step.

Some part of Arakal's mind now belatedly succeeded in translating Burp-Jaw to Burke-Johnson. Arakal's attempts to correct such mispronunciations had met with such ill success that he had at last been driven to the conclusion that his men must see something in these allies that he didn't see. Uneasily, Arakal considered now just what this something might be.

From the other room came Beane's voice, raised in argument, the foreign words incomprehensible to Arakal.

At the slit, Smith reported, "Nothing moving that I can see, sir."

From the outside door, the guard called loudly.

"General Ratpack Jolliboozski and three armed guards, sir!"

Arakal forced himself to breathe evenly as Koljuberowski, followed by three of his guards with crisscrossed bandoliers over their heavy wool coats, shoved young Beane out of the way, and walked with rolling gait toward Arakal. From somewhere outside, as they approached, came a muffled sound of shots.

Koljuberowski, a large plump man perhaps in his middle thirties, glanced alertly around as he came in. His voice was high-pitched, but his pronunciation was very clear.

"Slagiron? Where is Slagiron?"

Smith shut the firing slit cover with a clap, and stepped down.

Arakal noted the free way Koljuberowski's guards handled their guns as they glanced around.

"Slagiron," said Arakal to Koljuberowski, "left after Burke-Johnson went out."

Koljuberowski cast a last brief glance around, nodded, and smiled.

Smith held out the glasses, and Arakal took them.

Koljuberowski spoke to his guards in a tongue Arakal neither understood nor recognized. Then Koljuberowski banged his mittened hands together, and when his hands separated, the right mitten stayed in his left hand. He seemed to snap his right wrist and forearm.

Arakal, holding the field glasses partly raised, had his right forefinger on the little black stud. He tilted the glasses as he pressed the stud.

The glasses jumped in his hands.

Koljuberowski staggered backward.

Behind Koljuberowski, a grinning guard had just raised his gun toward Smith.

There was a deafening crash and whine.

Koljuberowski's guards jerked and grimaced.

The roar died away.

The guards were partly atop the sprawled Koljuberowski, as, at the outside doorway and the door to the tower, Beane, Slagiron, Casey, and Arakal's two guards lowered their guns.

Arakal bent beside Koljuberowski, then straightened, gripping by the barrel a little silver pistol with no trigger guard, which he held out to Beane.

"Watch out. It's still loaded."

Slagiron bent over Koljuberowski, and methodically undid the thick fur coat. Casey crouched to help.

Arakal glanced at the outside door. The two guards had already gone back to their post.

From the floor, there was a rustle of papers. Slagiron said, "Here's something for you, Beane. Looks like Russ lettering to me."

Arakal peered briefly through his long-seeing glasses, then unscrewed the tube from the thick joint between the two halves of the glasses, and methodically cleaned and reloaded the firing mechanism.

Beane looked up from the papers, and turned to Arakal. "Sir, this is urgent. Shall I read it aloud?"

"Go ahead."

Beane's voice shook slightly as he read:

 

"Operational Plan, Summary:

1) If possible, Arakal is to be induced to pursue deep into our base territory.

2) Once he and his men are beyond reach of help or reinforcements, all partisan groups will leave them. Softening and conversion will be facilitated by climatic conditions in the interior.

3) Alternatively, if Arakal rejects the partisan plan, or if his men refuse to accept it, or if Arakal's invasion force appears for whatever reason to be escaping control, Arakal and all his line officers down to and including the rank of full colonel are to be executed. This may be best accomplished by requesting an audience with Arakal first, and then giving word that Arakal has sent for the others. Immediately following completion of this action, the strike codeword should be transmitted to the Combat Forces S-Control, to simplify concealment of what has been done by attributing it to the heavy attack which will follow.

4) No attempt is to be made in any case to convert or train Arakal, Slagiron, Casey, or present line officers down to and including the rank of full colonel. If the partisan plan is carried out, these officers are to become casualties or prisoners.

5) The technicians, including Smith, are to be converted and trained. If Kotzebuth or Colputt are present, they are to be converted, if possible, and if not, coerced. The chief translator and diplomat, Beane, is to be given special treatment, as he is suitable as our replacement for Arakal, and is of a type amenable to control.

6) In future operations, Arakal's troops are to be drawn as much as possible into cruelty toward our base population. This will be facilitated by accounts of the people's past cruelty toward Arakal's allies, and especially by our clandestine seizing and appropriate treatment of Arakal's stragglers. This must be carried out in circumstances where the actions can only be attributed to the populace. Once the appropriate attitude is established amongst Arakal's troops, it will be necessary merely to approve the attitude as entirely proper.

7) It must be remembered that Arakal and his men represent a special opportunity, that of extending indirect control to the American continent. Attainment of this goal requires great delicacy until Arakal and his men are sufficiently worn down. Even then, training of the survivors must proceed with due allowance for their prejudices. The relationship must remain masked and thoroughly rationalized at all times.

8) Alternatively, it must be remembered, Arakal and his men constitute a special and peculiar danger. Although politically naïve and technologically backward, they possess a temporary advantage resting on five factors:

a) Arakal, although a savage, is a skillful tactician, while his men are energetic warriors.

b) Kotzebuth, Colputt, and the other technicians have created a workable, though largely primitive, technology.

c) Past underestimation of these opponents has resulted in their surprise seizure of the only effective ocean-going fleet remaining on this planet; control of this fleet gives them command of the sea.

d) Possible discoveries of usable technological devices developed before the destruction of the U.S. introduce an element of technological uncertainty. Certain devices have been rumored to exist which could seriously alter the realities of the situation.

e) The populace of the Extended Zone is disaffected. The possibility therefore cannot be eliminated of a miscarrying of the present operation, with serious results. In the extreme, this could defer realization of the extension of our control to the American continent, and even force control of the Extended Zone back to the indirect mode.

9) At all times, therefore, the greatest care is necessary. The clearest picture of the real elements of this situation must be borne in mind, and all romanticism must be avoided.

10) This instruction must be reviewed repeatedly, and followed to the letter. Any questions may be directed to Control on the usual frequency."

 

Beane looked up, his face pale. "That's the end, sir. There's also a separate message. Part of it reads: 'The reports of Burke-Johnson do not conform to Arakal's recent movements. He has, therefore, been unmasked, and his usefulness in this operation is at an end. In the next engagement, he is to feign wounds, and be sent back.'"

Arakal said, "Read the beginning of that first set of papers over again."

Beane read: "1) If possible, Arakal is to be induced to pursue deep into our base territory. 2) Once he and his men are beyond reach of help or reinforcements, all partisan groups will leave them. Softening and conversion will be facilitated by climatic conditions in the interior."

Arakal said, "'All partisan groups.'"

Beane nodded. "Yes, sir."

There was a silence.

Slagiron said, "Exactly what we thought. Only worse. It isn't just the Russ luring us on. The partisans are part of it."

"Is there," said Arakal, "anything to show who sent these orders?"

"The letter 'S' is at the bottom. But I don't know if it corresponds to a signature, or if it means something else?"

Casey said wonderingly, "They're escorting us into the interior of Russland?"

Beane nodded. His voice had an undertone of anger. "And they've already worked out who they think will go along with them afterward."

Arakal said to Slagiron, "We'd better spread the word about these partisans."

Slagiron nodded. "I'll get the corps commanders."

Arakal turned to Beane. "See if there's any word from Colputt."

Beane handed Arakal the papers, and went out, following Slagiron and Casey.

Arakal carefully, point by point, thought over the captured plan. Then he considered what to do. He stamped his feet, and blew on his hands. Who, he asked himself, was "S"? It was the same "S," apparently, that had sent the nurse as a spy. He looked up at the howl of the wind as the door opened.

Slagiron came in, frowning. "Three of Catmeat's partisans tried to jump our guards earlier, and got killed. But now everything seems perfectly normal out there. Damned peculiar."

Casey and Beane came in, and Arakal said, "Any word from Colputt?"

"No, sir," said Beane. "Admiral Bullinger hasn't heard from him, either."

"The last Bullinger heard, Colputt had both platforms loaded?"

"Yes, sir. That was before Bullinger entered the Baltic. The admiral has had his hands full for a while. Colputt may have signaled, and not been picked up."

Arakal nodded, and turned to Slagiron, but just then, beyond the archway, the outside door opened up.

There was a murmur of voices, and the three corps commanders, heavily dressed, with general's stars on their helmets, exhaling frosty breath, strode into the room. Greetings and comments died on their lips at the sight of the bodies. They halted, and raised their right hands in sharp salute.

Behind them, there was a heavy thud as Beane closed the outer door.

Arakal said, "These so-called 'partisans' just tried to kill us. Beane, translate the papers we found on them."

Beane read in a slow clear voice. His words fell into the quiet like small stones dropped in a deep pool. At the end, the generals, their expressions profoundly serious, glanced at Arakal.

Arakal said, "Speaking for myself, I think the slur on our ambassador and technicians is just the Russ estimate of who amongst us is the most reasonable. That far, I think their judgment was not too bad."

The generals glanced at Beane, and smiled.

Arakal said to Beane, "Could we get Burke-Johnson here by himself?"

"I think so, sir. Everything seems normal out there. But what line do I take if these partisans want to know what's going on?"

"Just say I sent you to get Burke-Johnson, and later there may be a meeting of our colonels, but you aren't sure. If they want to know more, that's all you've been told."

Beane nodded, and went out.

Arakal turned to Slagiron.

"Can we handle all these partisans?"

"If we can split them up."

There was a murmur of agreement from the three generals.

"What," said Arakal, "are they actually worth, as fighters?"

Slagiron passed his hand across his chin, and glanced at Casey, who frowned, began to speak, and changed his mind.

The generals remained silent.

Slagiron shook his head. "In the light of what we know about them now, it's anyone's guess."

In the uneasy quiet, Burckhardt said, "We have had a chance to watch them."

Simons said shortly, "They can kill women and babies."

Slagiron was frowning. "Still, to play this part, I think they would have to be well trained."

The last of the three corps commanders, Cesti, said quietly, "They've struck me since they first turned up as being well trained. But a lot of their men have a wooden quality. I think they don't care."

Casey frowned. "Because they're just playing a part?"

Cesti shook his head. "I think it's deeper than that. They'll do as they're told, but their heart isn't in it."

Simons growled, "What do we do with this bastard, Burke-Johnson?"

Arakal said, "We question him."

"I mean, afterward."

Cesti shook his head. "He wasn't there when they had the massacre."

"He wasn't?"

"He cleared out till the mess was over."

"Then," said Simons, frowning, "maybe he isn't what he seems to be. Whatever that may be."

Casey glanced at Arakal. "Sir, possibly when Johnson comes in, we should be spread out a little more?"

Arakal nodded agreeably, and, glancing calculatingly around at the archway, the walls of the room, and each other, they all spread out.

As if on signal, the outer door opened, to admit the howl of the wind, a sound of footsteps, the heavy thud of the door, then an agonized voice.

"Oh, God—" came Burke-Johnson's voice, and then he cut himself off.

Arakal, watching alertly, saw the Old Brunswick major halt, astonished relief washing across his face as he glanced from the heap on the floor to Arakal and Slagiron.

Abruptly, Burke-Johnson came forward, his right forefinger to his lips. He knelt by the bodies, and working with a sort of frenzied silent concentration, he jerked the boots form Koljuberowski, glanced at both of them intently, dropped one, held the other in his hand, and forced the blade of a small pocket knife in where the outer layer of the sole appeared slightly separated from the boot with a faint popping sound. He twisted the sole sharply, whirled it around and around, pivoting it on the heel, and then the heel and sole were in one of his hands, and in the other was the rest of the boot, with a wide glinting threaded cylinder where the heel had been.

As Arakal and his generals looked on blankly, Burke-Johnson held the boot upside-down, so that they could see, nested inside the open-ended cylinder in the heel, a maze of fine wires and what looked like bright-colored beads.

Carefully, Burke-Johnson reached in with the knife blade, and cut something inside the cylinder.

Then, quickly, he checked the boots of Koljuberowski's guards, pulled off one, and did with it as he had done with the first boot. He examined the butts of the guards' guns, and Koljuberowski's holster, then stood and carefully looked around at the walls of the room. He glanced alertly at the floor, then looked up intently at the ceiling, to study a small round depression. He drew a large shiny revolver with a ring at the bottom of the grip, and aimed carefully at the ceiling.

There was a deafening bang, a shower of particles, and a little canister fell onto the floor, one side torn apart in a shambles of tiny broken bits and pieces.

Burke-Johnson knelt by the bodies, felt of them rapidly, and then straightened. He cleared his throat.

"Those—" he nodded at the boot heels and the little canister "—are transmitters. Everything you say in their range is heard elsewhere, until they are broken, as they are now." He glanced at the bodies of Koljuberowski and one of his guards. "There lie respectively the second and first in command of the Reception Group."

Arakal glanced from Koljuberowski to the guard, frowning. Burke-Johnson gave a little laugh.

"The corporal of Kol's guard was in effect the actual commander. Kol was merely the acting military commander. All of these organized partisan groups are tools of 'S'—'S' for 'Security'. Those tanks across the river are Ground Force operated—but their commander is watched by and can be overruled by the attached representative of 'S'. 'S' sees all, hears all, knows all, and commands nearly all—at least in theory."

Arakal looked at Burke-Johnson.

"And you?"

The major's eyes glinted. "I am nothing. I've done them a certain amount of damage, and I may do them a good deal more before I'm through. There have been others like me before, and there will be others again, after they get me. In occasional moments of lightheartedness, I think of myself as 'Triple-S'."

Arakal watched Burke-Johnson intently.

Burke-Johnson looked him in the eye, and smiled. It was an easy and contagious smile, free of care.

"'S', you see, is 'Security'. 'Triple-S' stands for 'Spontaneous Sabotage of Security'. Such trifling little matters as an adjustment of Pierrot's orders regarding Normandy."

Arakal blinked. "Is there an organization?"

Burke-Johnson smiled, and glanced around.

"I've said more than I should have, already. Incidentally, don't trust anything I or anyone else over here tells you. 'S' makes a specialty of spreading false information. Work everything out for yourself. You can't trust anyone else. And you can't always trust yourself."

"All these so-called partisans are Russ?"

Burke-Johnson looked startled.

"They're 'S', not Russian."

"What's the difference?"

"'S' is an organization that provides security. 'S' is for spying, sabotage, and secret control of people and governments. 'S' is the control apparatus."

Arakal frowned. "But 'S' isn't Russ?"

"The highest levels presumably are mostly Russian. But 'S' is an organization which extends through all Europe and parts of Asia. Obviously, to function, it must include those of the races ruled by it."

"And those uprisings when we landed?"

"You were greeted with genuine delight by the populace. 'S' itself simply stayed underground and notified the Reception Group."

"The 'partisans'?"

"Exactly."

"Why weren't we warned?"

"By whom?"

"By the people."

"Who knew?"

Arakal stared at Burke-Johnson.

Burke-Johnson looked at him earnestly.

"False information is a specialty of 'S'. For a year or more, these so-called 'partisans' have been known to be sabotaging selected Russian installations. It was all done for perfectly false reasons—but the damage itself was real. The populace truly believed that the partisans were backed by the U.S."

"Backed by what?"

"The U.S." Burke-Johnson shook his head. "I find it impossible to remember that the U.S. is no more. As much as anyone else, I suppose, I'm a victim of false information."

Arakal groped for the meaning of the faintly familiar expression. "You mean, America?"

Burke-Johnson nodded. "You see, 'S' is shrewd. They permit old motion pictures showing U.S. troops in action. Their own forces, once they've been on the American continent, are kept out of Europe. They occasionally report 'negotiations with the U.S.' The idea put across is that the U.S. could free Europe, but has made a deal, and won't. This is more demoralizing than to reveal that the U.S. has been destroyed."

There was a silence, and Slagiron glanced questioningly at Arakal. Arakal nodded, and Slagiron turned to Burke-Johnson. "What would happen if we were to bring reinforcements, punch into Russ territory through Finland, and swing south and east?"

"Land in Finland by sea? Then enter Russia?"

"Yes."

"If you weren't frozen, drowned, or sunk in mud to your elbows, you might end up the latest victims of the American nuclear counterattack. I've heard it said that certain tracts of that territory are uninhabitable."

Arakal's voice was faintly husky.

"That is where the Old O'Cracys struck back?"

Burke-Johnson looked momentarily blank. "The—Of course, 'the O'Cracys'. The Western Democracies." He hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, that is one place where the O'Cracys hit back. Hard."

There was a silence in the room. Burke-Johnson looked around.

Broad Slagiron, his lips a severe line, stood unmoving, his face twisted with emotion.

Casey's eyes glistened.

Against the wall, Cesti stood motionless, his fists clenched.

Beside Cesti, profane Simons stood straight, smiling, tears running down both cheeks.

Burke-Johnson hesitated, cleared his throat, and spoke carefully.

"The main thing is, don't attack deeper into Russia. It's all a trap."

There was a silence that stretched out, then a sound in the room as of a faint sigh.

Arakal's officers were all smiling, and looking with grudging approval at the major.

Arakal said, "We have our plans, but invading thousands of miles of snow and ice that the O'Cracys never owned is no part of them. Now, tell us—why were you so obviously a fake?"

"Why, of course, to make you suspicious. I hoped if you became suspicious of me, you'd become suspicious of the lot of us."

Arakal smiled. "Well, it helped. And what do you suggest we do now?"

"Slip away as soon as possible, and take to your ships. You can't win here until you beat S. And you can't beat S. They will only falsify your actions to the populace, and profit by your efforts. Their control here is subterranean, and it is too all-inclusive to overcome. It has to be riddled first from within. Leave that to me. If I last long enough, who knows?"

Arakal shook his head.

"We came here to free Old Brunswick and Old Kebeck. We aim to do it."

Burke-Johnson's expression showed an internal struggle. " 'Old Brunswick'—oh, yes, the U.K.—Britain. And 'Old Kebeck', of course, is France. Well, you have freed them, as much as you can. But you can't fight S. It's like a fog or a mist, Arakal. Your strength here is purely military, and is limited by what you can transport in your captured ships. You have no really secure base here—nothing reliably solid to fall back on. The 'Russ', as you call them, are not crude swaggering overlords, who can be met on the field of battle, overthrown and ended. Their influence is pervasive, and exercised covertly, through S. You can't fight with the weapons in your possession. Your steel is sharp, you see, but it can't cut the mist."

Arakal, frowning, thought a moment. "Has most of the damage in Europe from the war with the O'Cracys been repaired?"

Burke-Johnson blinked.

"In Western Europe?"

"Yes."

"From all the reports I've read, little physical damage was actually done. The Soviet penetration was primarily a political and later an economic penetration by—excuse me for the repetition—the establishment of the apparatus of S throughout Europe."

Slagiron leaned forward.

"Then the cities we see, and the iron roads—they were all here before the war?"

"Why, of course."

Arakal took a deep careful breath. He spoke dryly.

"They are well kept up."

Burke-Johnson glanced from Arakal to Slagiron and back again.

"You're saying something. But I don't follow."

"With such resources as the Russ have here, why haven't they long since overcome us?"

"But the resources here are needed for the people here. How are they to attack you with the cities and railroads on this continent?"

Arakal started to say something, but caught himself. Instead, he said, "Perhaps your idea of slipping away from here is not so bad, after all. If we can do it."

Burke-Johnson looked relieved. "We must try to keep S occupied. If you withdraw now, they will expect future attacks from you, and will have to prepare to meet them. I should think the most effective strategy would be one of repeated widely separated threats and pinpricks. That would give us—the opponents of S—the opportunity to do a good deal of damage."

Arakal nodded. "We'll see how soon we can leave." He glanced at Beane. "Read that Russ comment, in the papers we found on Koljuberowski, to the effect that Major Burke-Johnson had been exposed, and should be withdrawn."

Beane read aloud from the yellow sheets.

Burke-Johnson nodded.

"Interesting. Now—If you can leave before S sends down new orders, you will have an advantage."

Arakal nodded. "We'll try. Good luck."

"Good luck."

When the major had gone out, Arakal glanced at his officers.

"The sooner we're far from here, the better."

Slagiron said grimly, "Speaking for myself, I can't wait to get out of this place."

Casey was apologetic. "Excuse me, sir, but how is this different from defeat?"

Arakal said, "Let them follow us too closely, and they'll find out the difference."

 

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