“Hey, when I came here the only thing I had on my mind was my hair,” he said. “Draw me a medium/regular and I’ll worry about my field kit later.”
“Roger that,” said Hammer, ending the discussion. His glance toward Huber was shrouded by layers of concerns that had nothing to do with the man on the bed. “You’ll report to Operations as soon as you can, Lieutenant, and Major Pritchard’ll bring you up to speed.”
Hammer started out of the room. Pritchard put a hand on the Colonel’s shoulder and said, “Sir? You might tell him about Ander.”
Hammer looked from his Operations Officer to Huber. “Yeah,” he said, “I might do that. Lieutenant, the UC government ordered General Ander’s arrest after his failure to execute their lawful orders. While he was in a cell pending his hearing before the Bonding Authority representative, he committed suicide.”
Huber frowned, trying to take in the information. “The UC arrested him?” he said. “Sir, how in hell did they do that? Ander’s Legion may not be the best outfit on the planet, but the UC doesn’t have anything more than a few forest guards with carbines.”
“I suggested they deputize a platoon of the White Mice for the job,” Hammer said. “I believe Major Steuben chose to lead the team himself.”
“Ah,” said Huber. He didn’t say, “Why would Ander kill himself?” because obviously Ander hadn’t killed himself. Huber’d turned down a chance to serve in the White Mice, the Regiment’s field police and enforcers; but he understood why they existed, and this was one of the times he was glad they existed.
“Right,” he said. “Ah …thank you, sir, though I hadn’t been going to ask. I know we’re in a complicated situation here on Plattner’s World.”
“You just think you know,” said Pritchard over his shoulder as he followed the Colonel out of the room. “After a day in Operations, Lieutenant, you’ll know bloody well.”
Like every other line soldier throughout history, Arne Huber had cursed because his superiors expected him to follow orders without having a clue as to what was really going on. Transferred now to the operations staff, he found himself in a situation he liked even less: he knew the Big Picture, and the reality was much worse than he’d believed when he had only a platoon to worry about.
Even more frustrating, there was nothing he could do to change the situation. It was like trying to push spaghetti uphill.
Huber cut the present connection, watching the image of a dark-skinned officer in a rainbow turban shrink down to a bead and vanish. Colonel Sipaji swore that his troops were already in position outside Jonesburg, save for the few support units which were still en route from the spaceport at Rhodesville. Jonesburg’s own spaceport had been closed because of the danger from Solace energy weapons. Like all the ports in the United Cities, it was only a dirigible landing field which small starships could use with care.
Sipaji commanded the Sons of Mangala, a battalion-sized infantry unit, not very mobile but potentially useful when dug in at the right place. Satellite imagery showed that not only were they not in Jonesburg, they were halted only two kilometers outside Rhodesville. The visuals were good enough that with a modicum of enhancement Huber had been able to see the cluster of officers outside the trailer that served as Colonel Sipaji’s Tactical Operations Center. They were sitting on camp stools with their legs crossed, drinking from teacups.
And that knowledge didn’t make the least bit of difference, because Colonel Sipaji was going to stick to his lie with the bland assurance of a man who knows what the truth ought to be and isn’t affected by consensus reality. Sipaji wasn’t a coward and if his battalion ever got into position it would be a very cost-effective way of protecting the northern approaches to Jonesburg; but it wasn’t going to get there before Solace forces had closed the route from Rhodesville. Intent was reality to Sipaji, and he truly intended to go to Jonesburg …soon.
Huber stood. He was at one of a dozen consoles under a peaked roof of extruded plastic whose trusses were supported by posts along each of the long sides. This annex to the Regimental Operations Center was located in the parking lot of the Bureau of Public Works for the City of Benjamin, the administrative capital of the United Cities.
The portable toilet within the chain-link fencing hadn’t been emptied in too long, which was pretty much the way life had been going for Huber during the week since he got out of the infirmary. He turned, then swayed and had to catch himself by the back of the console’s seat. He’d been planning to go inside the wood-frame Bureau HQ itself, but now he wasn’t sure that he’d bother.
“Lieutenant Huber,” said the officer who’d come down the aisle behind him. “Take a break. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day and I mean it.”
Huber jumped in surprise. He’d been so lost in his frustration that he hadn’t seen the section chief, Captain Dillard, coming toward him. Dillard was a spare man with one eye, one arm, and a uniform whose creases you could shave with. Huber respected the man, but he didn’t imagine the captain had been anyone he could’ve warmed to even before the blast of a directional mine had ended Dillard’s career as a line officer.
“Sir,” said Huber, “I can’t get the Sons of Mangala to move. I thought if I took an aircar to where they’re camped, maybe—”
“Get out of here, Lieutenant,” Dillard said in the tone he’d have used to a whining child. “If you went to see Colonel Sipaji, his troops still wouldn’t move. I don’t care to risk the chance that you’d shoot him. That’d cause an incident with the Bonding Authority and delay the deployment even longer. Get a meal, get some sleep, and don’t return before ten hundred hours tomorrow.”
“But—”
“I mean it!” Dillard snapped. “Get out of here or you’ll leave under escort!”
“Yessir,” Huber muttered. He was angry—at the order, at Sipaji, and at himself for behaving like a little boy on the verge of a tantrum.
The troopers at the occupied consoles pretended to be lost in their work. Three of the eight were on the disabled list like Huber; the remainder had been culled from other rear-echelon slots to fill the present need to coordinate the mercenary fragments of the UC forces. Text and graphics were more efficient ways to transfer data to the other units, but face-to-face contact had a better chance of getting a result on the other end of the line of communication.
Huber gurgled a laugh, surprising Captain Dillard more than the snarl he’d probably expected. Huber’s stomach was fluttery—he did need food—and if he was letting anger run him like that, he needed rest besides.
“Captain,” he said, “it looks to me like we’re hosed on this one. The UC’s hosed, I mean, so we ought to advise ’em to make peace with Solace on whatever terms they can get. Solace has columns moving on Simpliche and Jonesburg both. We can—the Regiment can—block either one, I guess, but I don’t see any way Solace won’t capture one place or the other unless the units we’re operating with get their act together. And when the core cities of the UC start to fall—it’s over, the rest of the Outer States’ll cut off their financing, and then everybody goes home. Which we may as well do right now, hadn’t we?”
“That’s not my decision, Lieutenant,” Dillard said impatiently, “nor yours either. Get some food and rest, report at ten hundred hours.”
He made a brusque gesture with his hand. So far as Huber had been able to tell during his week’s contact with Captain Dillard, the man genuinely didn’t care whether or not what he was doing had any purpose. Maybe to Dillard, nothing had purpose …which wasn’t a bad attitude for a professional soldier. Anyway, it didn’t keep Dillard from being efficient at his present job.
Huber walked out of the lot and stumped up the stairs to the back of the HQ building. His quarters were in a barracks within the Central Repair compound in the warehouse district. It was walled and guarded by a platoon of combat cars, making security less of a problem than it would’ve been elsewhere in the city. There’d be an aircar driven by a contract employee, a UC citizen, in front of the Bureau HQ, or if there wasn’t the receptionist in the entranceway would call one.