Steel Gauntlet (43 page)

“I was hiding behind him, actually,” Viola said, “nowhere else to go.”

“You know,” Captain Conorado said contemplatively, “you should get something out of this besides satisfaction, Hard Rocks. I know where there’s a Bomac 36 V starship nobody’s got a claim on anymore. Interested?”

Hard Rocks was silent for a moment. “Well, Skipper, a 36 V is a bit out of my class, but thanks very much for the offer. You know, if you’re in the mood to give things away, how about one of these helmets you boys wear?”

Captain Conorado laughed and clapped Viola on his shoulder. “Done!”

“Captain,” Wellington-Humphreys said, rising from the litter where the surgeon had been working on her, “since you’re giving away rewards, these two Marines of yours saved my life down there. I’ll see to it that the President knows about it, but until then I have an ‘interim’ award for them.” With that, she walked over to each man, hugged him tightly and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thing about kisses, ma’am?” MacIlargie said. “You get one, and right away you want another.”
CHAPTER 33

Fleet Admiral Wilber Wimbush, despite his faults as an officer and a man, was a traditionalist who believed in the value of military ceremony. He was the only commander in the Confederation naval forces who maintained a special unit of bandsmen for banging and tootling on real musical instruments at every official occasion he hosted. The formal surrender of Diamunde’s military forces lent itself perfectly to this indulgence. It would be, in fact, the grandest and most ostentatious ritual the admiral had ever held. His long-suffering staff planned every aspect down to the smallest detail, and Wimbush personally, after long and careful consideration, selected the most suitable marches and airs for the bandsmen to play. A weary wag on his staff had remarked to a colleague that if the admiral had planned his Diamundean campaign half so carefully, the war would’ve been over in twenty-four hours.

Admiral Wimbush selected the 34th FIST as the guard of honor for the ceremony. He did this not in recognition of its fine combat record, but just to make them stand in the hot sun all day. Privately, he blamed them for letting Ambassador Wellington-Humphreys get kidnapped. So far he had not been able to foist any of the blame for that off on the Marines, but he’d tried. The fact that the Marines had then gone in and rescued her did not help his case. The kidnapping—and frankly, the spectacular rescue—had only added to the admiral’s embarrassment over the army’s failure to reinforce the Marines on the planethead at Oppalia, and his less than perfect performance as Fleet commander. So far it appeared that the army had taken the fall for that fiasco.

General Aguinaldo, as acting ground-force commander, was to receive the formal surrender. His appointment to Assistant Commandant, the Confederation Marine Corps’ second highest position, had just been announced, to the great annoyance of the Fleet commander. Aguinaldo had been nominated for the gold nova of his new rank before deployment to Diamunde. Evidently, his conduct during the fighting had not diminished his standing on the promotion list, further galling evidence to Wimbush that the Marines, at least, were going to come out of this with their fighting reputation unscathed.

The admiral, accompanied by Ambassador Wellington-Humphreys, the civilian appointees of the new government—who would be announced afterward—and the army commanders, would occupy a raised platform at the surrender site. The Ambassador and the military commanders would sign the actual surrender document, while the dignitaries witnessed the signing. The ceremony was to take place just a few kilometers outside New Kimberly, on a flat plain that could accommodate the thousands of civilian and military onlookers that were expected. Not only would St. Cyr’s remaining forces surrender, marking the formal end of hostilities, but Ambassador Wellington-Humphreys would present the new coalition government of Diamunde, thereby abolishing in an instant the monopoly the Hefestus Conglomerate and Tubalcain Enterprises had had on the planet’s economy for years, and removing the main reason for the internecine conflicts that had threatened the planet’s peace and stability for generations.

Best of all, from Admiral Wimbush’s point of view, now that the war on Diamunde was ending on such a high note of success for his forces, when the naval representative to the Combined Chiefs of Staff retired—any day now, according to Fleet scuttlebutt—his chances of being appointed to fill that vacancy would be excellent.

The day of the ceremony dawned hot and still. It was dead summer in that part of Diamunde, and the thousands of people gathered on Surrender Plain, as it was already being called, perspired in the sun as they waited anxiously for the ceremony to begin. Video units had been set up so those not close enough to see the ceremonies might watch them on the huge vidscreens strategically placed throughout the vast crowd.

Ambassador Wellington-Humphreys, Admiral Wimbush and his party, and the dignitaries, sat silently under the canopy that had been stretched over the high platform where the surrender would be consummated. The terms had been written out on a large sheet of the fine parchment called treaty paper, by a member of Wellington-Humphreys’s staff, who was also an expert calligrapher. The text had been drawn up in the flowery language of the late twentieth century. Old-fashioned styluses stuck out of genuine glass inkwells strategically placed on a felt-covered table, behind which sat the signatories. The Diplomatic Corps had its own distinct but, of course, refined flair for ritual.

From far off toward the Chrystoberyl Mountains came a steady rumbling. The crowds hushed and all eyes turned in that direction. Soon a huge cloud of dust appeared on the horizon, and then the earth beneath their feet began to tremble as the remaining armored battalions of St. Cyr’s forces rolled out of the shimmering haze. All the tanks had their cannons pointed to the rear, the ancient traditional symbol of surrender. Slowly, with ponderous dignity, engines roaring, tracks skreeking in the hot, quiet air, the behemoths ground to a halt in precise ranks only a few yards from where Admiral Wimbush and his delegation sat waiting.

Admiral Wimbush sat flanked by Ambassador Wellington-Humphreys and General Aguinaldo on his right, and the two army Corps commanders on his left. Just behind the Ambassador stood two enlisted Marines—Dean and MacIlargie—at stiff attention, their dress red uniforms brilliant even in the shade of the canopy. Since the dress uniforms they’d been issued for the reception had been ruined, the admiral had paid a local tailor to make the new uniforms for the men, and best of all, they could keep them! That had really galled Wimbush, because he’d never wanted the enlisted men there. When he protested their presence at such an important function, Ambassador Wellington-Humphreys replied, “Admiral, you might not like it, but those two lads are going to be standing right there behind me. None of this would be happening if it hadn’t been for those two infantrymen.” Wimbush backed down instantly. And he paid for the goddamned uniforms out of his own pocket. Damnit, you couldn’t have flag officers in their mess dress sitting out there with two scroungy enlisted men in battle dress—especially those confounded chameleons—bringing up the rear!

A few paces behind their tableau, the provisional government of Diamunde sat, waiting to be announced.

“Hope these guys are serious about giving up,” MacIlargie whispered out of the corner of his mouth to Dean.

Dean tried to ignore a rivulet of perspiration creeping down inside his high stock collar. He twisted his lips in MacIlargie’s direction and whispered, “What I wouldn’t give for an ice cold liter of Reindeer Ale.” MacIlargie smiled. Let’s get this over with, he thought. The Marines were looking forward to returning to Thorsfinni’s World and the long stand-down that awaited them there. For those men who did not get home leave, that would mean a pleasantly reduced training schedule and lots of liberty in New Oslo.

Even Big Barb’s, with all its noise and smoke and spilled beer, seemed attractive to him. God, home, he thought. His heart raced with anticipation. He liked Ambassador Wellington-Humphreys a lot, but the surrender ceremony was all dukshit. He didn’t see any special honor involved in standing up there like an idiot. If he had to be there at all, he’d rather be sweating in ranks with the other men of third platoon.

He thought about home again. If he didn’t get leave this time around, he’d get it next time. Top Myer kept a roster of eligibles and sooner or later his turn would come up. And when I get home leave, he thought with sudden inspiration, I’ll invite good old Deano to come with me, and boy, will we ever tie one on!

He turned his attention to the tanks, all moving up into neat rows. All I need now is some Straight Arrows for good old Eagle’s Cry! he thought.

The tanks, light and heavy, and their support vehicles—fuel tankers, retrievers—sat ominously silent in ranks for several minutes, the crews waiting until the dust clouds generated by their arrival had dissipated.

At a prearranged signal, hatches popped open and the crewmen dismounted. Each crew stood at attention before its vehicle.

A profound silence descended over Surrender Field. It was broken by a tank hatch clanging open.

People standing a kilometer away heard it, and those closer started at the sharp crack of metal upon metal. Slowly, a figure dressed in dirty tanker’s overalls climbed out of the lead vehicle. He jumped lightly to the ground and strode alone and purposefully toward the assembled delegation at the tables. The man was unarmed, but he wore a thick black leather belt about his waist from which flapped an empty side-arm holster; the belt was secured by a rich gold buckle embossed with a spread-eagle device. The highly polished leather belt and its brilliant buckle contrasted sharply with the dirty, oil-stained coveralls the approaching man was wearing over his uniform. On his shoulders glittered four silver stars.

It was General Naseby Namur.

As soon as news of St. Cyr’s death reached Namur, he proceeded directly to army headquarters, bypassing his divisional and Corps commanders. He took his brigade, reduced now to the size of a mere battalion, with him. During the cease-fire, before St. Cyr kidnapped the Ambassador, Namur had done his best to restore some morale among his troops. Orders had been issued from army headquarters to refurbish and rearm, in case the negotiations broke down. When it was announced that St. Cyr had kidnapped the Ambassador, all units were ordered to make preparations to resume fighting. But no one gave the actual order to attack because none of the several army commanders dared act on his own, since none wanted to take upon himself the responsibility for restarting the war they had already lost.

The army commander, Brigadier General Newt Lott, was in conference with his staff when Namur broke in.

“Who gave that order to prepare to attack?” Namur demanded without preamble.

“What the hell...?” Lott exclaimed. “Colonel, you’re out of line busting in here like this!”

“Who gave the order?” Namur gritted through clenched teeth. A lieutenant, two sergeants, and a dozen more enlisted men, all armed, crowded in behind their commander.

Lott sputtered, “Well, if you must know, Colonel, they were issued as sealed orders before we began the campaign. Now go back to your unit before I have you court-martialed!” Namur spat on the floor. “General, you are relieved. As of now I command this army, and in a few minutes I’m taking over command of what’s left of Diamunde’s forces. This war is over, and I’m gonna see to it some idiot doesn’t start shooting again. Anyone disagree with that?” The other officers stared in disbelief at Namur.

Namur’s reputation was well-known in the army. Every officer present knew the colonel was quick on the trigger. After a brief moment of hesitation, Lott sighed and nodded his acquiescence. “Colonel,” he said wearily, “what are your orders?”

“Contact all other army commanders and tell them that I am arranging our surrender. Oh, yes, one more thing. I am now General Namur. And General, thanks for your cooperation. You are now Lieutenant General Lott and my deputy.”

Faced with Namur’s determination, the other army commanders quickly caved in and Namur lost no time putting on his new insignia of rank: four silver stars.

As General Namur approached the stairs leading to the platform where the surrender table stood, the band struck up a lively tune. “What is that?” Wellington-Humphreys asked Admiral Wimbush in a low voice.

“It’s called ‘The World Turned Upside Down,’ ma’am. Very ancient,” he whispered, smiling broadly.

“They used it at another surrender ceremony, not as important as this one, though, oh, years and years ago,” he added proudly.

“Well, I guess it is turned upside down, from their standpoint,” she replied.

As the music began, Brigadier Sturgeon shouted, “THIRTY-FOURTH FI-I-IST...!” All down the line his subordinates prepared for the next order: “BATTALIONNNNNN...!

Companeeeeee...! Platoooooon...!”

“A-ten-SHUN!” the brigadier commanded, and the ranks snapped smartly from parade rest to the position of attention.

Slowly, with great dignity, Namur mounted the stairs. The surrender delegation stood as Namur approached to within a few paces of the table, where he saluted Admiral Wimbush. The admiral returned the salute. Namur made a slight bow toward Ambassador Wellington-Humphreys and then slowly, ceremoniously, unbuckled his belt and handed it over to General Aguinaldo. A great cheer arose from the assembled crowd. A soldier brought a chair, and Namur was invited to seat himself before the delegation. Aguinaldo handed the belt to an aide who had rushed up to receive it. Admiral Wimbush offered Namur the surrender document, which Namur read and signed with a flourish. Then each of the delegation signed in turn. Wellington-Humphreys, as the Confederation President’s personal representative, signed last.

“These proceedings,” Wimbush announced ponderously, happily plagiarizing the remarks of a renowned warrior from the distant past, “are now ended.” The crowd burst into wild cheering and dancing. Quietly, Admiral Wimbush, his generals, and Naseby Namur, arose, stepped back from the table, and took up places on the far side of the platform, next to the dignitaries. To that point every move had been carefully choreographed, even Namur’s noisy emergence from his command tank and his dirty uniform, to emphasize the fact that his side had lost.