By Force of Arms (17 page)

IshimotoSix wondered the same thing. How would his government want him to respond? But more importantly how should he respond? Because this was one of those moments, the kind he had once dreamed of, when a single person could make a difference. If he had the courage. Whatever he said, whatever he did, would be hard if not impossible for the Hegemony to retract.

The politician looked at Maylo, saw the question in her eyes, and got to his feet. Like DomaSa, he decided to ignore Senator Omo. The almost perfect silence was permission to speak. “The Sheen are on the way … It will take every bit of our strength to stop them. The Hegemony will place its forces under a unified command for the duration of the crises. What happens after that will be subject to negotiation.”

Stroke and counterstroke! Every single one of them understood the qualification. It gave Six a way out, an escape hatch, should his superiors take issue with the decision. Not immediately—but down the line. It was a smart, gutsy move.

President Nankool released his harness, stood, and started to applaud. The rest of the senate did likewise, or, in the case of those who lacked hands, made an assortment of celebratory noises.

ChienChu felt a sudden surge of hope. He looked from DomaSa to IshimotoSix. Both were close enough to hear. “Thank you—thank you both. We have a chance now, a slim one, but a chance nonetheless.”

The Hudathan offered a humanstyle nod. “My people have a saying . . ‘hope lights the way.’ ”

Arballa had grown from little more than a pinprick of light to a luminous brown ball. The elation that had accompanied Willy’s victory over Captain Boone had faded to be replaced by a growing sense of concern. What had he been thinking anyway? Shooting his mouth off that way… Yes, he needed Molly, but only if he was alive, not spread all over the surface of some godforsaken dirtball.

Pride prevented the smuggler from saying anything, however—which accounted for his silence. Perhaps Boone was playing a game with him, waiting to see if he’d crack, or, and this seemed more likely, the miserable swabbie was off on a coffee break, sipping Java and trading scuttlebutt while he … The voice sounded bored. “Stand by CVL9769. We intend to seize control of your vessel with two, repeat two, tractor beams. You may feel a bump.”

Willy ran his tongue over dry lips. “And if I don’t?”

There was a momentary pause. The woman was amused.

“Then either we did one helluva good job or we missed.”

“And if you miss?”

“Say hello to the Arballazanies for me. I love the computers they make.”

Willie could almost hear the swabbies laughing, forced himself to smile, and leaned back in his seat. He’d hold that position all the way to the surface if necessary, to the point when the Molly B drilled her way into the planet’s crust, and the worms came to …

The bump was more of a violent jerk, and Willy’s head flew forward then back. The drive screamed, edged into the red, and shut itself down. “Congratulations,” the voice said cheerfully. “You’re going to live. The first round is on you.”

The commander must try, above all, to establish personal and comradely contact with his men, but without giving away an inch of his authority.

The Rommel Papers

Standard year 1953

Planet Drang, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings

General William Booly climbed the same metal stairs that he had climbed more than twenty years before, opened the naval-style hatch, noticed the fact that the hinges had been heavily greased, and knew why.

The indigs, more commonly referred to as the frogs, owned the lake in which Firebase Victor had been constructed, and loved to take potshots at anyone unfortunate enough to “pull the O,” which was slang for walking endless circles around the metal observation deck. The locals had excellent hearing, which meant that the sound of a squeaky hinge could attract a bullet from a pre-registered sniper’s rifle, about head-high straight through the hatch. How had that lesson been learned? The hard way—from someone who had been dead for a long time.

The legionnaire stepped out onto the metal grating, nodded to a heavily armored private, and knew she was an old hand. Newbies, also known as “frog food,” had a tendency to salute officers and thereby pick them out for the snipers. She smiled and a network of creases exploded away from her bright blue eyes. “Welcome back, sir. The name’s Harris. I hear you’ve been here before.”

Booly nodded. “They sent me here right out of the Academy. Said I’d learn a thing or two.”

“And did you?”

“Hell, no. I was a second lieutenant… and you can’t teach them anything.”

Harris laughed. “Well, you survived, sir, and that’s more than some can say.”

“Yes,” Booly replied soberly, “it sure is.”

The legionnaire continued her rounds as the officer scanned his surroundings. The water had a dark, oily look, mist hovered like ectoplasm, and some unseen thing sent ripples radiating in all directions.

The firebase sat at the exact center of the lake, which seemed like a stupid place to put it unless you were familiar with Drang and its relentless jungles. The water kept the vegetation back and provided a natural firefree zone.

That didn’t stop the indigs from swimming in close, though… They liked to take potshots at the sentries, ambush Trooper IPs as they returned from patrol, and place charges against the tower’s supports. If they got that close—which was a rarity. The firebase was protected by sensor arrays, robotic weapons emplacements, and some pretty sophisticated booby traps.

Something clanged off the metal behind him, and Booly heard the report of a distant gunshot. Harris materialized at his elbow. “It doesn’t pay to stand still, sir. A gunrunner managed to land about two months ago. Sold the frogs some fairly decent hunting rifles. Scopes, infrared, the whole shebang. That shot came from the jungle. The swimmers get in close. Nailed Oki last week. Miserable bastard.”

There was no way to know if the “miserable bastard” was Oki or the sniper who shot him. Booly thanked the trooper and started to walk. His boots clanged on metal. Dark gray clouds merged to produce a spattering of rain. Each drop hit the surface of the lake and gave birth to concentric rings. A lot like recent events. Who would have envisioned a time when Hudathans, Hegemony, and Confederate forces all came under a single command? His.

Not because Booly was best qualified, not in his judgement anyway, but because better men and women had been killed, or, as was the case with officers like Colonel Leon Harco, were rotting in prison.

All of which left the officer with little choice but to muddle through. The challenge was enormous. He had what? Weeks? Months at most to deal with the Thraki military bases, fold three vastly different military cultures into one, and mount a credible defense. In the meantime, the Sheen could do as they pleased. Including roll over the Confederacy in less than a month, should they decide to move more aggressively.

That’s why Booly had selected the best officers he could find and tasked them with building the command, communications, and logistics systems necessary to unify such a diverse force. And they were hard at work, doing the sort of things he could have done, would have preferred to do, rather than risk his life on Drang.

But that’s where he was because leadership starts at the top and is built on trust, plus a set of common standards, beliefs, and values. The task, his task, was to select officers from each of the disparate military traditions, assess their strengths, understand their weaknesses, and forge a single blade. A weapon so strong, so sharp, that it would cut the Sheen to pieces. Was he up to the task? Were they up to the task? There was no way to know. All he could do was try.

The officer paused and allowed the rain to hit his face. The rail felt cold beneath his fingers. Something screamed in the jungle … and night swallowed the sky.

The rain stopped just before dawn, and the sun came out of hiding. It rose through a clear blue sky, claimed its place in the heavens, and bathed everything in gold. A layer of mist floated over the surface of the take, jerked in response to the ebb and flow of the early morning breeze, and parted for the flat-bottomed boat.

The scow was constructed of aluminum, was twenty-two feet long, and heavily loaded. General William Booly sat toward the bow, War Commander Wenio MorlaKa occupied the next seat back, General Jonathan Alan Seebo346 shared a seat with Battle Leader Pasar Hebo. Staff Sergeant Mordicai Mondulo commanded the stem. He steered the boat and kept his eyes fixed on the shoreline.

The small electric motor whirred, water rippled away from the bow, and the Jungle waited. The trees were taller now, hosts to a tangled mass of intertwined vegetation that was involved in a nonstop slow-motion working out of complex symbiotic, commensualistic, and predatory relationships. Here was an enemy even more implacable than the frogs—a biomass eager for nourishment. Booly had survived the forest once before, but just barely, and felt something cold trickle into the bottom of his gut.

Mondulo had black skin, wore tattoos on both brawny forearms, and possessed a deep resonant voice. It carried all the way to the bow. “The water looks real nice, don’t it? Well, it ain’t. There’s all kinda critters in there … some of which have mighty sharp teeth. That bein’ the case, don’t stick nothin’ in there you wanta keep.”

None of the officers said anything, and Booty wondered what they were thinking. That he was crazy? That the whole exercise was a joke? Maybe. One thing was for sure however, even if he didn’t manage to get their attention, Drang sure as hell would.

Mondulo killed the motor, allowed the boat to coast, and felt it slide onto the mud bank. None of the occupants noticed the sleek head that surfaced behind them, the yellow eyes, or the ripple left when the creature submerged.

Booly stood, scanned the area ahead, and noticed boot prints in the muck. He eyed the tree line, saw something move, and flicked the safety off his assault rifle. “We have movement in the trees, Sergeant… you make the call.”

“Not bad for an officer,” the noncom said grudgingly.

“There’s an entire squad concealed in the undergrowth along with three T2’s. They secured the area just before daylight. This is the last time we’ll have that kind of support.”

Mondulo nodded towards Booly
s subordinates. “Safe your weapons and deass the boat.. The general gets a word with you, then it’s my turn.”

Booly felt mud suck at the bottom of his boots as he stepped out of the boat and climbed the gently rising bank. He hadn’t carried a full combat load in a long time—too long, judging by how heavy it felt.

The training exercise, if that’s what the evolution could properly be called, was scheduled to last three days. Shorter than he would have liked but all the time that could be spared. No one knew when the Sheen would make their next appearance, and he wanted to be there when they did.

Like the others, Booly carried a waterproof corn set capable of reaching the firebase from any location on Drang, an extensive first aid kit, six days worth of rations, two canteens, a hammock made of superstrong netting, a dozen hand grenades, an assault rifle with a built-in grenade launcher, twenty magazines, each containing thirty rounds, twenty shotgun style 40 mm rounds, his favorite sidearm, two extra clips, a combat knife that hung hilt down from his harness, and numerous odds and ends. No big deal when he was twenty-three—but a pain in the ass now.

MorlaKa looked as if he were underloaded, Seebo wore a self-confident smile, and Hebo, who carried his gear in something that bore a resemblance to a pair of saddlebags, appeared unaffected. The Ramanthian was something of an enigma. What was the insectoid sentient thinking? There was no way to know.

The officer met each set of eyes in turn. “One of my people’s greatest military thinkers, a man by the name of Sun Tzu, wrote a book called the Art of War. It begins:

‘The Art of War is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or ruin.

Hence under no circumstance can it be neglected.’ ”

“Another great warrior, this one Hudathan, wrote, ‘The survival of the Hudathan race cannot be left to chance. Anything that could threaten our people must be destroyed. Such is the warrior’s task.’ A little more preemptive than humans would prefer—but to the point.”

A look of newfound respect had appeared in MorlaKa’s eyes. The words had a sibilant quality. “Those words were written by Mylo NurtonDa in standard year 1703.”

Booly nodded. “Yes. The Life of a Warrior should be mandatory reading for anyone who takes up the profession of arms. And that’s what this is all about.

“We represent different races, come from different military traditions, and share a common enemy. In order to fight that enemy and defend those who depend on us, we must operate from a set of common values. The concepts I’m about to put forth may be consistent with your native culture, or they may not. I don’t care. They are the precepts by which you will lead our troops. Fail to do so at your peril.

“So here they are … First: Strategy and tactics will be formulated and implemented for the greater good. That means what’s good for the Confederacy as a whole. Not Earth, not Alpha001, not Hudatha and not Hive.