"And they'll be coming," Savage finished for her. "They'll want to relieve the Doak's Ferry fortress before we can get it under close siege. At least that was John Christian's plan, and he's usually right." Glenda Ruth used her binoculars to examine the road. There was nothing out there-yet.
"This colonel of yours. What's in this for him? Nobody gets rich on what we can pay."
"I should think you'd be glad enough we're here," Jeremy said.
"Oh, I'm glad all right. In two hundred and forty hours Falkenberg's isolated every Confederate garrison west of the Temblors. The capital city forces are the only army left to fight-you've almost liberated the planet in one campaign."
"Luck," Jeremy Savage murmured. "Lots of it, all good."
"Heh." Glenda Ruth was contemptuous. "I don't believe that, no more do you. Sure, with the Confederates scattered out on occupation duty anybody who could get troops to move fast enough could cut the Feddies up before they got into big enough formations to resist. The fact is, Major, nobody believed that could be done except on maps. Not with real troops-and he did it. That's genius, not luck."
Savage shrugged. "I wouldn't dispute that."
"No more would I. Now answer this. Just what is a real military genius doing commanding mercenaries on a jerkwater agricultural planet? A man like that should be Lieutenant General of the CoDominium."
"The CD isn't interested in military genius, Miss Horton. The Grand Senate wants obedience, not competence."
"Maybe. I hadn't heard Lermontov was a fool and they made him Grand Admiral. O.K., the CoDominium had no use for Falkenberg. But why Washington, Major? With that Regiment you could take nearly anyplace but Sparta, and give the Brotherhoods a run for it there." She swept the horizon with the binoculars, and Savage could not see her eyes.
The girl disturbed him. No other Free State official questioned the good fortune of hiring Falkenberg. "The Regimental council voted to come here because we were sick of Tanith, Miss Horton."
"Yeah. Look, I better get some rest if we've got a fight coming-and we do. Look just at the horizon on the left side of the road." As she turned away Centurion Bryant's communicator buzzed. The outposts had spotted the scout elements of an armored force.
Glenda Ruth walked carefully to her bunker. Born on New Washington, she was used to the planet's forty-hour rotation period, and the forced march hadn't been as hard on her as some others, but lack of sleep made her almost intoxicated even so. She acknowledged the greeting of her bunker guards-her ranchers didn't use military formalities like salutes-and stumbled in side to wrap herself in a thin blanket without undressing.
Falkenberg. Bannister had no right to offer a regiment of mercenaries permanent settlement. There was no way to control a military force like that without keeping a large standing army, and that cure was worse than the disease. Without Falkenberg the revolution was doomed, but what could they do with him?
There was no one to consult. Her father was the only man she'd ever respected. Before he was killed he'd tried to tell her that winning the war was only a thin part of the problem. There were countries on Earth that had gone through fifty revolutions before they were lucky enough to have a tyrant gain control and stop them.
As she fell asleep the thought she'd tried to avoid poured past her guard. What if we can't get better than what we had? In her dreams Falkenberg's hard features formed in swirling mist. He was wearing military uniform and sat at a desk, Sergeant Major Calvin at his side. "These can live. Kill those. Send these to the mines," Falkenberg ordered.
The big sergeant moved tiny figures which looked like model soldiers, but they weren't all troops. One was her father. Another was a group of ranchers. And they weren't models at all. They were real people reduced to miniatures whose screams could barely be heard as the .toneless voice continued to pronounce their dooms…
Brigadier Wilfred von Mellenthin waited impatiently for his scouts to report. He had insisted that the Confederacy immediately send his armor west on the report that Astoria had fallen, but the General Staff waited for more information. It was, they said, too big a risk to send the Confederacy's best forces blindly into what might be a trap.
Now the General Staff was convinced that they faced only one regiment of mercenaries, and that must have taken heavy casualties in storming Astoria. Von Mellenthin shrugged. Someone was holding the Gap, and he had plenty of respect for the New Washington ranchers. Give them rugged terrain and they could put up a good fight.
The scouts reported well-dug-in infantry, far more of it than von Mellenthin had expected. That damned Falkenberg-the man had an uncanny ability to move troops. He turned to the chief of staff. "Horst, do you think he has heavy guns here already?"
Oberst Carnap shrugged. "Weiss nicht, Brigadier. Every hour gives Falkenberg time to dig in at the Gap, and we have lost many hours."
"Not Falkenberg," Mellenthin corrected. "He is now investing the fortress at Doak's Ferry. We have reports from the Commandant there." He studied the displays on the command table of his caravan. They changed constantly as the scouts sent in reports and staff officers interpreted them.
"We go through," he said in sudden decision, "with everything. Boot them, don't spatter them."
"Jawohl." Carnap spoke quietly into his communicator. "It is my duty to point out the risk, Brigadier. We will take heavy losses if they have brought up artillery."
"I know." Mellenthin regarded the maps again. "But if we fail to get through now, we may never relieve the fortress. Half the war is lost if Doak's Ferry is taken. Better casualties immediately than a long war."
He led the attack himself. His armor brushed aside the infantry screens, his tanks and their supporting infantry cooperating perfectly to pin down and root out the opposition. They moved swiftly forward to cut the enemy into disconnected fragments for the following Covenanters to mop up. Mellenthin was chewing up the blocking force piecemeal as his brigade rushed deeper into the Gap.
The sweating tankers approached the irregular ridge at the very top of the pass. Suddenly a fury of small arms and mortar fire swept across them. The tanks moved on, but the infantry scrambled for cover. Armor and infantry became separated-and at that moment his tanks reached the minefields. Brigadier von Mellenthin began to get a case of nerves.
Logic told him the minefields couldn't be either wide or dense, and if he punched through he would reach the soft headquarters areas of his enemy. Once there his tanks would make short work of the headquarters and depots, the Covenanter infantry would secure the pass, and his Brigade could charge across the open fields beyond.
But-if the defenders had better transport than the General Staff believed, and thus had thousands of mines, he was dooming his armor. Meanwhile his, supporting infantry was pinned and taking casualties.
"Send scouting forces," Oberst Carnap urged.
Mellenthin considered it for a moment. Compromises in war are often worse than either course of action, inviting defeat in detail. He had only moments to reach a decision. "We go forward."
They reached the narrowest part of the Gap. His force bunched together and his drivers, up to now avoiding terrain features which might be registered by artillery, had to approach conspicuous landmarks. Von Mellenthin gritted his teeth.
The artillery was perfectly delivered. The Brigade had less than a quarter minute warning as their radars picked up the incoming projectiles, then the shells exploded among his tanks, brushing away the last of the covering infantry.