Steel Gauntlet (32 page)

“But sir, he’s in with his staff—”

“I don’t care. Get him. Now.”

The major hesitated only an instant, and then the screen went blank. Outside, the wind had picked up, visibility quickly decreasing. It was going to be a major storm. Good, Namur thought. Just what we need.

While he waited for Colonel Rummel to come up on the net, Namur commanded the onboard computer to plot the most direct course from Oppalia to a coordinate in Rourke’s Hills. The computer gave him two routes based on the difficulty of the terrain and weather conditions that were expected to prevail throughout the area during the next twenty-four hours. It also calculated the probability of detection based on what it knew of the brigade’s available electronic countermeasures suites and the enemy’s surveillance and detection capabilities.

The computer gave Namur two projections: (1) A default displayed every five minutes whenever the computer was in use. At the present rate of combat intensity at the continued fuel and ammunition consumption levels, and presuming there were no more casualties, the brigade could sustain its presence in Oppalia for two more days. (2) Using either route, the brigade could reach the designated coordinates in the hills in two to three hours with zero possibility of being discovered by reconnaissance or surveillance aircraft.

Colonel Rummel came on the screen. “Nase, what is it? Are you under attack?” The colonel looked old and tired and there was a note of alarm in his voice. The fact that he addressed Namur by his first name indicated just how quickly the artificial protocols of a peacetime army evaporated under actual combat conditions. Namur had always liked the old colonel, even though privately he thought he’d have made a better division commander than Rummel. Rummel had started life as a private in an infantry company. Like most shavetails, he’d never forgotten what it was like to be enlisted, so he always tried to take care of his troops. Namur respected him for that. But Rummel was not the kind of commander to buck GHQ on his own authority. “General St. Cyr’s order—”

“Ah, yes, Nase, we’re discussing that right now—”

“Sir, I am withdrawing my unit to Rourke’s Hills,” Namur announced. Colonel Rummel said nothing, but he did not look surprised. “We can hold out here two more days after the storm lifts, providing the Marines don’t attack,” he continued. “Once in the hills, we can refit and fight on. But I am not going to sacrifice my command. I am not throwing any more lives away.” Scithers looked at his commander sharply.

“You know what that means, Colonel?” the division commander asked. “Look,” he continued quickly,

“we’ve just about agreed to do the same thing. Once my staff supports a withdrawal move, I’ll get the other brigade commanders to see it that way. I think we can get Corps to go along, and then army headquarters. Hell, Nase, with all of us in on it, St. Cyr’ll find his hands tied. He can’t execute everyone!”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Namur replied. “But I don’t have time to wait for you to get the others on board. The storm will reach its highest intensity a little after dark. I’m moving then.” He punched a button on his console. “I have just forwarded to you the coordinates of our new position in the hills. I’ll see you there.” With that, Namur broke the connection. He crumpled up St. Cyr’s order and threw it to the floor.

Ignoring the insistent beeping on the communications console, a warning that a high-priority message was coming through—no doubt Rummel trying to reestablish the connection—Namur began contacting his battalion commanders.

It grew very quiet in the command module. Outside, the wind screamed as the storm closed in on Oppalia and the command vehicle, buffeted by the violent gusts, rocked gently back and forth on its suspension.

Scithers, his face bathed in the green light from the driver’s console, grinned. Boy, he knew the old man had balls, but this... This almost made it worthwhile, being in this goddamned army.

“Break off your patrols,” General Aguinaldo ordered when Captain Sprance reported the storm.

“Have them find a place to land.” Then he realized he was talking to an intimidated sailor, and amplified, something he wouldn’t have done with a Marine. “Someplace where there aren’t enemy divisions, and have them establish security patrols.”

He didn’t bother telling Major General Daly to get his aircraft to safety; the Marine would already be doing it. Aguinaldo focused his attention on what to do with the ground forces. The winds and the particulates being blown about would make the artillery next to useless, so the guns had to batten down until the storm abated. On the other hand, the storm could give the Marines and the 10th Light Infantry enough cover to slip right up to the Diamundean positions without being detected—even though the soldiers were wearing urban camouflage uniforms instead of chameleons like his Marines. Get right on top of the tankers, even inside the buildings most of them were hiding in. Possibly capture most of the tanks, instead of killing all of them. It was a tempting thought, but not tempting enough. According to the meteorological reports, Diamundean sandstorms raged at wind speeds of up to 150 kilometers per hour.

Gusts could double that. There wasn’t only the sand in the storm, which clogged breath, to worry about—the winds were strong enough to throw about sizable objects, and even men could be carried away. No, he didn’t think his Marines would function very well in the storm, it would subject them to too much hazard. And if his Marines would have trouble functioning in the storm, he damn well knew the 10th Light couldn’t manage either. He turned to Daly and Ott.

“Have your men take cover from the storm.” He added for Ott, “Inside sturdy buildings.” After the fiasco with III Corps, he distrusted the army even more than before.

The storm raged for three days. Long enough for the infantrymen to run out of rations. Fortunately, many had holed up in private homes and fairly well depleted the larders in those homes. A few found themselves in food stores and were able to eat their fill of whatever they wanted. Those unlucky enough to have had access to only the rations they carried were famished by the time the storm abated. No one had to worry about water, though—the waterworks still ran properly.

After three days, the winds abruptly dropped to mild zephyrs. The Marines and soldiers slowly, cautiously, stepped into the clear air. Their ears felt odd, hollow and stuffed at the same time, from the lack of wind-roar. They shook their heads and popped their ears, trying to balance pressure on their eardrums. As long as they didn’t look down at the ten or fifteen centimeters of dirt, dust, and sand still settling on the pavement and piled in drifts against building sides, everything looked sparkling clean. The air itself seemed to glow.

A mechanical clanking and ratcheting spun Dean and Schultz to their right. A metal monster was rolling out of a building fifty meters away.

Dean didn’t hesitate; he glanced to his rear to make sure his backblast area was clear, propped his Straight Arrow on his shoulder, aimed, and killed the monster.

“Wasn’t a tank,” Schultz said laconically.

Dean looked at him quizzically. “Then what was...” He looked at the beast he’d just killed. There was no gun-spouting turret on top of it. There were no observation slits, or visible crew hatches. It had big tires, no treads. Forward of the tires were round tubes half a meter in diameter, pointing down on both the front and sides. A pliable, bubblelike canopy, shredded by fragments from the explosion, filled its upper rear quadrant. As he examined the monster he saw another one bump into its rear, back off, then again bump gently forward.

“What?” Dean asked, not expecting an answer.

“Check it out,” Sergeant Hyakowa said. He had run out of the building just after Dean fired and was standing behind him and Schultz.

Schultz began sloshing through the loose, ankle-deep covering on the pavement. Dean followed. The second monster stopped bumping against the one he’d killed and sat waiting.

“And hurry,” Hyakowa called after them. “We don’t have all day.” Schultz paused at the side of the monster and looked down, then clambered onto it. He found many access hatches, but nothing a man would use to enter a crew compartment. He dropped back to the ground.

Dean edged through the huge doorway while Schultz was examining the monster. The interior of the garage, he guessed it was, was lit, but he didn’t see any people inside. What he did see was a dozen vehicles like the one he killed, all of them rocking gently on their wheels, waiting for whatever signal would set them in motion. Other than their size, nothing about them seemed threatening.

“You killed a street cleaner,” Schultz said when he finished his inspection.

“A what?”

“An automated street cleaner.” Schultz pointed to the bottom side of the dead street cleaner.

Dean saw retracted, circular brushes. “The tubes, they’re suction,” he said softly.

Schultz didn’t reply, it was obvious.

They returned to Hyakowa.

“Automated street cleaners,” Dean reported.

Hyakowa shook his head as if to say, “Of all the dumb things to do...” Dean flushed bright red.

“I guess if they have storms like this very often, automated street cleaners are the best way to deal with it,” Hyakowa said. Then into his radio, “Let’s move it out. We have to get to the tanks and kill them.” If they didn’t move during the storm, he added to himself. He looked through his infras to see that his squad was moving and stepped out himself.

They didn’t find any tanks.

CHAPTER 25

Lieutenant Colonel Naseby Namur had not slept a wink the past seventy-two hours; he had had little sleep at all since the invasion at Oppalia. Close to physical exhaustion, he was still thinking clearly, however, and he knew the peremptory summons to Major General St. Cyr’s command bunker, in the hills just outside New Kimberly, meant the end for him, one way or another.

Namur was not sure he would actually be executed. St. Cyr needed good combat commanders too desperately just then to kill them off himself. It was heartening that St. Cyr had ordered him back to New Kimberly “for an interview” instead of dispatching a goon squad to execute him on the spot. But with Major General Marston St. Cyr, one never knew. Everyone in the army was familiar with his disposal of Tubalcain’s board of directors. At the time, St. Cyr’s military followers had been pleased by the executions, seeing the directors as mere feckless civilians with no vision. But those same officers had reason to regret their former nonchalance at St. Cyr’s harsh methods.

From an early age Naseby Namur had been destined for a military career in the Tubalcain armed forces. The company had sent him offworld to an excellent military academy, and for one semester he had actually been an exchange student at the Confederation Military Academy, where he struck up friendships with some of the men now opposing him. He still thought of them as friends. They had their jobs and he had his.

Namur turned into a good soldier and rose quickly in command of Tubalcain troops. Marston St. Cyr noted the young officer’s potential and recruited him into his clandestine armored corps. At first Namur and the other officers St. Cyr had lured into repudiating their oath to Tubalcain Enterprises worshiped him. St. Cyr was a commanding figure with real presence, and he promised the young officers not only promotion, but genuine military glory commanding troops in the armored force he was building.

St. Cyr’s easy victory over the forces of the Hefestus Conglomerate seemed to confirm that he was a military genius. But then little things started to go wrong, details a professional like Namur could not ignore. First was the harsh discipline St. Cyr imposed on his men. Under his command, court-martials were the preferred method of dealing with even small infractions of military discipline. Initiative in disciplinary matters was taken out of the hands of small-unit commanders, and morale among the enlisted men plummeted as a result. St. Cyr instituted a system of spit-and-polish, enforced by court-martial, that also eroded morale in the ranks. Working with armored vehicles, even in garrison, requires infinite attention to logistics and maintenance. The work is heavy, hard, and dirty. But no one was excused from the frequent and elaborate military reviews conducted by St. Cyr’s inspectors, and woe unto the mechanic or gunner discovered with dirt under his fingernails!

And the promised promotions had never come. Under Tubalcain’s board, Namur had been a lieutenant colonel in command of an infantry battalion. Under St. Cyr, who decreed nobody could outrank him as a major general, Namur commanded an armored brigade but was still only a light colonel.

It was not that pay and emoluments meant so much to an officer like Namur, they did not. But what irked him and his comrades in St. Cyr’s officer corps, all of whom were in similarly underrated command positions, was that in other armies he would be a brigadier general and wear the insignia of that rank. So important are the bits of tin and cloth of military rank to the professional soldier that his morale and self-esteem suffer if he is denied these symbols of trust and authority once he thinks he has earned them.

But worst of all was the simple fact that Major General Marston St. Cyr, a genius of corporate strategy, had no concept of military tactics. He blithely ignored the hard-learned lessons of the past: armored forces are only successful if fully integrated with the other arms of infantry, artillery, and air.

Tubalcain’s swift and total victory over the forces of the Hefestus Conglomerate had convinced St. Cyr, over the strenuous objections of his commanders, that he could also destroy the Confederation forces using his armor alone. Thus Namur’s brigade had been denied its full complement of infantry and artillery support, and St. Cyr’s formidable air forces had been destroyed by the Confederation’s air arm before they could be used against the Marines at Oppalia; St. Cyr’s air forces had been dedicated to protecting his capital at New Kimberly.

So now Naseby Namur, who had skillfully fought the Marines at Oppalia and miraculously escaped death in the maelstrom of that fight, was possibly headed for execution by one of St. Cyr’s firing squads far behind the lines. Namur’s only consolation was that his men had fought and died valiantly not for Marston St. Cyr, but for Lieutenant Colonel Naseby Namur. He had told his ranking officer, his second in command by default since all the other officers were dead or wounded, that if he did not return from New Kimberly, he should surrender to the Marines what was left of the brigade at the first opportunity.