“Put them through a level one interrogation,” I ordered, finally. Heinlein’s invention of perfect lie detectors saved a lot of trouble. We wouldn’t have to keep everyone prisoner indefinitely after all. “Separate them out and keep the hardcore in prison. Release the innocent and use the softer Communists to clear the streets, under armed guard. Feel free to shoot them if they try to escape. We might as well get some use out of them.”
“Yes, sir,” Ed said. He grinned, suddenly. “You’ll be happy to know that all of the local troopers accepted the gauntlet rather than spending time in the nick. I’ve scheduled the ceremony for tomorrow morning and promised them that you’d attend.”
“Bastard,” I said, without heat. They’d be relieved. Russell was probably so far beyond furious that he’d strangle one of the troopers, if given half a chance. His tolerance for indiscipline was less than mine. “Very well; I’ll attend. I’d better go see the President.”
“Take a driver and an armoured car,” Ed advised. “The streets are supposed to be clear, but I’m not taking chances with you.”
The city looked, if possible, even worse than it had during the fighting. There were hundreds of damaged and destroyed buildings, the latter little more than towering piles of rubble, and hundreds of dead bodies everywhere. Soldiers, emergency crews and volunteers worked together to clear the bodies away, but the sheer size of the task would keep them going for days. The estimate of how many people had died might be far too low, I realised, and silently cursed the Communists. Their mad plan had killed thousands of people, including some of my men, for nothing. Their control over Pitea might let them force a stalemate…
I shook my head. It wouldn’t; the farmers wouldn’t supply them with food. Given time, they’d probably start raiding the farms, or trying to force the farmers to cooperate. The war was barely underway and we were already looking at disaster. If they stayed penned in the city, they’d still starve and the men with the guns ate first. The innocent hostages — including Muna, if she were still alive — would die. The gunmen would live on human flesh, if they had to, to survive.
The Acting President — Frida — had moved operations again to Progressive Party HQ. It wasn’t a decision I would have supported at the time, but most of the other governmental buildings had been destroyed or damaged in the fighting. Ed, whatever misgivings he’d had, had assigned local units to guard the building and backed them up with a pair of Landshark tanks. Their guns tracked my armoured car as it approached, ready to deal out instant death if we showed them anything suspicious, then relaxed when the soldiers saw me and waved us through. I didn’t relax and jumped out of the car, marching over to the Sergeant in charge.
“Sergeant,” I snapped. He jumped to attention. “Why didn’t you check my ID?”
“But you’re the General,” he protested, stammering in surprise. “I know who you are…”
“I could be someone disguised as the General,” I snapped back. “You check everyone who tries to come into the secured zone, understand?”
He nodded. I waved my ID card under his nose, waited patiently for him to examine it, and then walked into the courtyard. In happier times, children had played here while their parents had directed the Progressive Party towards its electoral victory, but now it was occupied by armed soldiers, who watched me warily as I marched towards the main entrance. The security here was a little tighter, I was relieved to see; the guards checked my ID again and waved me through into the main office. The corridors were covered with propaganda posters, some promising the moon and the stars above, others making slightly more reasonable promises, and I smiled as I entered Frida’s office. She waved the others out as I entered, waving for me to take a seat.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, as soon as the door closed. She looked awful. Her face was paler than ever and her eyes looked tired and worn. I made a mental note to insist that a doctor examined her and perhaps prescribed a sedative, but for the moment I’d just have to watch what she said. A tired mind would make bad decisions. “What’s going on out there?”
I ran through a brief breakdown of the situation and she nodded when I reached the section about Pitea. “We got a message from them after you defeated their forces in this city,” she explained. “Everything was so confused that we didn’t know anything about it until hours after it was received. They’re declaring independence and demanding that we recognise their independence as the People’s Republic of Pitea.”
I smiled, remembering some of the scenarios we’d come up with when we’d started studying the planet’s politics. “We cannot allow it to stand, of course,” she continued, “but they’re hinting that they’ve asked Fleet to… meditate the crisis. Is that actually true?”
“If Fleet hasn’t contacted you to order you to remain in position while someone negotiates a settlement, then no,” I said. “I doubt that Captain Price-Jones will be willing to intervene without permission from Fleet HQ and, in any case, this is definitely an internal affair. Fleet won’t intervene as long as the chaos stays on the planet and no outsiders get caught up in it.”
Frida frowned. “Are you sure?”
“If Fleet wanted the Communists to create their People’s Republic, they would have told you so,” I confirmed. “They’d draw a line and tell you not to cross it. If there’s been no message from them, then they’re not planning to intervene. You could confirm it by speaking to Captain Price-Jones yourself, but I doubt it’s necessary.”
“Thank you,” Frida said, seriously. Her expression tightened slightly. “And the prisoners?”
“We’re going to begin sorting through them as soon as possible,” I said. If she wasn’t going to bring up the incident with the local police, I wouldn’t either. “Once we’ve sorted out the hardcore from the chaff, we can decide — you can decide — what to do with them. I’d recommend hard labour in the mines myself.”
“The miners won’t like that,” Frida said. She grimaced, as if she had just tasted something nasty. “I never realised how much the President carried on his shoulders. I never thought…”
“How is he?” I asked. “The last I heard was last night.”
“He’s stable and in the hospitals under heavy guard,” Frida said. “The doctors think he’ll be up and moving again in six months or so, but they don’t want him stressed or forced to move quickly. The Council — the remains of the Council — voted to put his term on hold until he recovers completely and can resume his duties.”
She shook her head firmly. “Never mind that at the moment,” she said. I had to admire her. I hadn’t realised that she had so much inner strength. I might still wonder at her politics, but perhaps she would shape up into an admirable leader after all. “Can you defeat the Communists?”
“Yes,” I said, seriously. “It’ll take us time to get our forces into position to move, but when we do so, the Communists will be crushed. They may have a whole city, but that merely pins them down and keeps them trapped. We’ll have the city surrounded by light forces by the end of the day” — we could move them via helicopter — “and then they’ll be trapped there until we move in to remove them.”
I wished I were as confident as I sounded. It was going to be a very nasty battle.
Chapter Fourteen
A civilian will say that army discipline is harsh, brutal and callous. This is partly true. Army discipline is required to give soldiers an ingrained respect for authority and to hold position while under heavy fire. An offence committed by a soldier can have disastrous effects further down the line, hence the spectrum of heavy punishments awaiting the offending miscreant. Unlike civilian punishment, once a soldier has been punished, the affair is at an end.