“Major Harrigan,” grumfed the general. “Captain Graylock. Captain Matuchek. Let’s get down to business.”
He spread a map out before us. I leaned over and looked at it. Positions were indicated, ours and the enemy’s. They still held the Pacific seaboard from Alaska halfway down through Oregon, though that was considerable improvement from a year ago, when the Battle of the Mississippi had turned the tide.
“Now then,” said Vanbrugh, “I’ll tell you the overall situation. This is a dangerous mission, you don’t have to volunteer, but I want you to know how important it is.”
What I knew, just then, was that I’d been told to volunteer or else. That was the Army, at least in a major war like this, and in principle I couldn’t object. I’d been a reasonably contented Hollywood actor when the Saracen Caliphate attacked us. I wanted to go back to more of the same, but that meant finishing the war.
“You can see we’re driving them back,” said the general, “and the occupied countries are primed and cocked to revolt as soon as they get a fighting chance. The British have been organizing the underground and arming them while readying for a cross-Channel jump. The Russians are set to advance from the north. But we have to give the enemy a decisive blow, break this whole front and roll ’em up. That’ll be the signal. If we succeed, the war will be over this year. Otherwise, it might drag on for another three.”
I knew it. The whole Army knew it. Official word hadn’t been passed yet, but somehow you feel when a big push is impending.
His stumpy finger traced along the map. “The 9th Armored Division is here, the 12th Broomborne here, the 14th Cavalry here, the Salamanders here where we know they’ve concentrated their fire-breathers. The Marines are ready to establish a beachhead and retake Seattle, now that the Navy’s bred enough Krakens. One good goose, and we’ll have ’em running.”
Major Harrigan snuffled into his beard and stared gloomily at a crystal ball. It was clouded and vague; the enemy had been jamming our crystals till they were no use whatsoever, though naturally we’d retaliated. Captain Graylock tapped impatiently on the desk with a perfectly manicured nail. She was so clean and crisp and efficient, I decided I didn’t like her looks after all. Not while I had three days’ beard bristling from my chin.
“But apparently something’s gone wrong, sir,” I ventured.
“Correct, damn it,” said Vanbrugh. “In Trollburg.”
I nodded. The Saracens held that town: a key position, sitting as it did on U.S. Highway 20 and guarding the approach to Salem and Portland.
“I take it we’re supposed to seize Trollburg, sir,” I murmured.
Vanbrugh scowled. “That’s the job for the 45th,” he grunted. “If we muff it, the enemy can sally out against the 9th, cut them off, and throw the whole operation akilter. But now Major Harrigan and Captain Graylock come from the 14th to tell me the Trollburg garrison has an afreet.”
I whistled, and a chill crawled along my spine. The Caliphate had exploited the Powers recklessly-that was one reason why the rest of the Moslem world regarded them as heretics and hated them as much as we did—but I never thought they’d go as far as breaking Solomon’s seal. An afreet getting out of hand could destroy more than anybody cared to estimate.
“I hope they haven’t but one,” I whispered.
“No, they don’t,” said the Graylock woman. Her voice was low and could have been pleasant if it weren’t so brisk. “They’ve been dredging the Red Sea in hopes of finding another Solly bottle, but this seems to be the last one left.”
“Bad enough,” I said. The effort to keep my tone steady helped calm me down. “How’d you find out?”
“We’re with the 14th,” said Graylock unnecessarily. Her Cavalry badge had surprised me, however. Normally, the only recruits the Army can dig up to ride unicorns are pickle-faced schoolteachers and the like.
“I’m simply a liaison officer,” said Major Harrigan in haste. “I go by broomstick myself.” I grinned at that. No American male, unless he’s in holy orders, likes to admit he’s qualified to control a unicorn. He saw me and flushed angrily.
Graylock went on, as if dictating. She kept her tone flat, though little else. “We had the luck to capture a bimbashi in a commando attack. I questioned him.”
“They’re pretty close-mouthed, those noble sons of . . um . . . the desert,” I said. I’d bent the Geneva Convention myself, occasionally, but didn’t relish the idea of breaking it completely-even if the enemy had no such scruples.
“Oh, we practiced no brutality,” said Graylock. “We housed him and fed him very well. But the moment a bite of food was in his throat, I’d turn it into pork. He broke pretty fast, and spilled everything he knew.”
I had to laugh aloud, and Vanbrugh himself chuckled; but she sat perfectly deadpan. Organic-organic transformation, which merely shuffles molecules around without changing atoms, has no radiation hazards but naturally requires a good knowledge of chemistry. That’s the real reason the average dogface hates the technical corps: pure envy of a man who can turn K rations into steak and French fries. The quartermasters have enough trouble conjuring up the rations themselves, without branching into fancy dishes.
“Okay, you learned they have an afreet in Trollburg,” said the general. “What about their strength otherwise?”
“A small division, sir. You can take tie place handily, if that demon can be immobilized,” said Harrigan.
“Yes, I know.” Vanbrugh swiveled his eyes around to me. “Well, Captain, are you game? If you can carry the stunt off, it’ll mean a Silver Star at east-pardon me, a Bronze.”
“Uh—” I paused, fumbling after words. I was more interested in promotion and ultimate discharge, but that might follow too. Nevertheless . . . quite apart from my own neck, there was a practical objection. “Sir, I don’t know a damn thing about the job. I nearly flunked Demonology 1 in college.”
“That’ll be my part,” said Graylock.
“You!” I picked my jaw off the floor again, but couldn’t find anything else to say.
“I was head witch of the Arcane Agency in New York before the war,” she said coldly. Now I knew where she got that personality: the typical big-city career girl. I can’t stand them. “I know as much about handling demons as anyone on this coast. Your task will be to escort me safely to the place and back.”
“Yeah,” I said weakly. “Yeah, that’s all.”
Vanbrugh cleared his throat. He didn’t like sending a woman on such a mission, but time was too short for him to have any choice. “Captain Matuchek is one of the best werewolves in the business,” he complimented me.
Ave, Caesar, morituri to salutant, I thought. No, that isn’t what I mean, but never mind. I can figure out a better phrasing at my leisure after I’m dead.
I wasn’t afraid, exactly. Besides the spell laid on me to prevent that, I had reason to believe my personal chances were no worse than those of any infantryman headed into a firefight. Nor would Vanbrugh sacrifice personnel on a mission he himself considered hopeless. But I did feel less optimistic about the prospects than he.
“I think two adepts can get past their guards,” the general proceeded. “From then on, you’ll have to improvise. If you can put that monster out of action, we attack at noon tomorrow.” Grimly: “If I haven’t got word to that effect by dawn, we’ll have to regroup, start retreating, and save what we can. Okay, here’s a geodetic survey map of the town and approaches—”