Robert Frezza - [Colonial War 02] Read online

  Without exception, Imperial soldiers who were not Japanese t ailed the Type 97’s “Cadillacs.” Although built to be almost maintenance-free, Henke’s Cadillac was old.

  Ilis gunner, an ancient superior private named Chomovil, had already finished topping off the liquid propellant reservoir with fresh “fertilizer.” Chomovil whistled sprightly as he methodically continued checking each round of ready 30mm ammunition.

  Henke’s driver, a young Afrikaner from Boksburg named Kudi Gerwig, kicked the Cadillac’s sixth wheel. “But the diagnostics only said rotor three was bad.”

  Henke’s emaciated face contorted momentarily.

  “If four goes up, we can always pull it,” Gerwig continued, blissfully unaware.

  The wind through the open door pulled at the thin wisps of whitening hair on top of Henke’s head. Der Henker—the Hangman—lowered his chin.

  Chornovil, knowing him well, rubbed his finger on the little white gallows insignia painted on the Cadillac’s side for luck and began pulling a pair of replacement rotors.

  The Hangman glanced up at the sky and then at Gerwig. “Young man, you have been a recruit private in this battalion for nearly a year, but you are not a soldier. We will remedy this defect.”

  “Yes, sir!” Gerwig said, startled.

  Monday(309)

  NINE KILOMETERS ABOVE SUID-AFRIKA’S SURFACE, THE COMmander of the Second Imperial Task Group Suid-Afrika, Vice-Admiral Saburu Horii, impassively studied the new planet beneath him from the flying bridge of the Imperial frigate Maya. “Captain Yanagita, attend me,” he said quietly into the ship’s intercom system.

  A few moments later, Horii’s intelligence officer entered nervously.

  “Yanagita, describe for me the principal officers in Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin’s battalion.”

  “Sir?” Yanagita hesitated. Normally Yanagita’s superior, the task group’s political officer and chief of staff, Colonel Sumi, briefed the admiral.

  “Please do so,” Horii said, folding his hands behind his back.

  “Yes, sir. The officer now commanding Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin’s battalion is Major Matti Haijalo. Major Haijalo was bom in Kuusamo in Finland and attended the military academy in Sapporo, graduating eighteenth in his class. He requested colonial duty with the l/35th Imperial Rifles as his initial assignment.”

  “Yes, yes,” Horii said dreamily. “You must learn to concentrate on essentials, Yanagita.”

  “Of course, sir. How stupid of me. His academy record reflects that he ranked second in his class in tactics and was disciplined three times for insubordination. Very little in his career stands out. He assumed command of the l/35th Imperial Rifle Battalion for two days during a campaign to suppress disorder on NovySibir, following a strange incident in which Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin was temporarily relieved of command and his replacement, Lieutenant-Colonel Hiroyuki, accidentally shot himself with a pistol.”

  “Yes. Admiral Ishizu died several years ago so that no one knows the full story anymore, but it is possible that Haijalo pulled the trigger of the pistol that killed Hiroyuki,” Horii responded.

  Yanagita looked at him, wide-eyed.

  “Nothing was done about it. Strange things happen on the colonial fringes of empire, Yanagita. The Ministry of Defense is very far away. Go on.”

  “The commander of Vereshchagin’s A Company is Major Piotr Kolomeitsev. Like Vereshchagin, Kolomeitsev is descended from Russians who took refuge in Finland after the crack-up. He has been wounded in action nine times. It appears that staff officers have nominated him for medals on three separate occasions, but that he has refused to accept them. His political-reliability index is extremely low, and he was ranked last in his class in tactics.”

  “I did not realize that,” Horii reflected. “Kolomeitsev is a brilliant, but very unorthodox tactician, and his low ranking in that subject indicates a degree of stubbornness that I had not anticipated. His nickname is ‘the Iceman.’ ”

  “Why ‘the Iceman,’ sir?”

  Horii grimaced. “When you meet him you will understand.” On a planet called Ashcroft, the natives had sworn that Kolomeitsev had the evil eye and, given his success in making corpses out of people he wanted dead, the notion had much to commend it.

  “He is a very cold and very able man. Observe him carefully, Yanagita.”

  “Yes, sir. It appears from Vereshchagin’s last report that he has made Captain Chiharu Yoshida his political officer. Yoshida was formerly the B Company commander. He is from a corporate family.”

  “Yes, I am familiar with the Yoshida family.”

  “He served for two years in the First Lifeguards, after which his request for a colonial assignment was endorsed by Colonel Kanoh.”

  Horii smiled. “Yoshida must have made old Kanoh very annoyed indeed.”

  “He was posted to Admiral Nakamura’s staff and then transferred to Vereshchagin’s battalion during the Ashcroft campaign, where he was wounded in the face. I am surprised that he did not return home.”

  “To what purpose? His career was already over. Continue.” “It appears from Vereshchagin’s last report that he has made Captain Raul Sanmartin battalion executive officer. He seems very young for this. Sanmartin was formerly C Company commander. He served with the Eleventh Imperial Shock Battalion and joined the l/35th Imperial Rifle Battalion on Ashcroft, where he was decorated by Admiral Nakamura.”

  “He is very young. What is special about him?”

  “Very little is apparent. His political-reliability index is also low. One of his prior commanders remarked that he has a passion for zoology and oceanography but lacks propriety.” Yanagita looked up at Horii. “His parents were active ecologists arrested by the Argentinian government for political offenses.” Horii nodded. “Find out more.”

  “Yes, sir. Finally, the D Company commander is Major Paul Henke.”

  “The Hangman,” Horii said without inflection. “I know about the Hangman. Enough. You will find nothing in his record to suggest why he is such a dangerous man.”

  “What is it that you wish me to deduce from this, sir?” Horii stroked his chin. “Until the ties between the l/35th Imperial Rifle Battalion and the 2/35th Imperial Rifle Battalion in Helsinki were severed when the latter battalion was disbanded, Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin’s men maintained an unbroken linkage with the national army of Finland—Suomi, I believe they call it in the local language, a land of woods and snow and Russian refugees.”

  Yanagita dutifully laughed at the admiral’s small joke. “Conditioned by their woods and snows and racial heritage,” Admiral Horii continued, “the Finns have always placed an undue emphasis on individual initiative and unconventional, quasi-guerrilla tactics, and Vereshchagin, despite his Russian name, is no exception. So, Yanagita, tell me. From all that you have read, what is the key fact?”

  Yanagita sucked in his breath and stood at attention. “I do not know, honored Admiral. I am shamed by my lack of comprehension.”

  “You should be. The key fact is that Vereshchagin, Harjalo, Kolomeitsev, and Henke have fought six colonial campaigns— Esdraelon, Odawara, Cyclade, NovySibir, Ashcroft, and Suid-Afrika—and they have survived. They have seen more combat than any similar group of officers in the Imperial Forces. They have never failed to achieve their objectives—which are not necessarily the objectives chosen for them—and they have survived. Do not forget this, Yanagita.”

  “Yes, sir.” Yanagita hesitated. “Sir, did you wish me to discuss Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin?”

  “No, Yanagita. That will not be necessary. I have reviewed Anton Vereshchagin’s career myself. He is nicknamed ‘the Variag,’ which is an archaic word meaning viking. He was also nicknamed Sertorius by Admiral Nakamura after Quintus Sertorius, a rebellious Roman general of non-Roman origin known for his probity.” Horii smiled abruptly. “Please look these up. You are dismissed, Yanagita.”

  A few moments after Yanagita left, the door opened behind Horii and Maya’s
commander cleared his throat. Horii turned expectantly.

  “Honored sir, both the United Steel-Standard planetary director and Imperial Security Colonel Sumi await your convenience.”

  Horii turned away to shield his slight distaste. The USS man, Matsudaira, lacked both patience and propriety. The security man Sumi was immeasurably worse. Regrettably, neither man was under Horii’s command.

  He looked out once again at the world that called itself Suid-Afrika and stroked his wrinkled chin. Suid-Afrika was, he thought to himself, a delicate situation, a most delicate situation.

  Colonel Sumi joined Horii beside the viewscreen. Although the top of Soemu Sumi’s head barely reached his admiral’s shoulder, either of the thick wrists gripping the stanchion was as thick as the calf of Horii’s leg. Sumi wore the gray tabs of a political officer as well as the black stripes down his pants legs that marked him as Imperial Security Police.

  Unfortunately, in addition to being the expedition’s political officer, Sumi was also its chief of staff, in what Horii considered to be yet another ill-advised concession by the Ministry of Defense to the Ministry of Security. Presumably, this was due to the current shortage of “suitable” line officers in the appropriate grades; Horii was skeptical.

  “We should just open fire,” Sumi growled.

  Horii saw Maya's commander stiffen. “We should open fire on friendly cities occupied by Imperials troops? How strange,” (he admiral said, politely baiting the security police colonel.

  “The rebels here should have felt the sword. I have read Vereshchagin’s report. He and his men are either cowards or traitors,” Sumi said with a calculated effrontery, not bothering to look at his superior in rank.

  Had Sumi been under Admiral Horii’s command, rather than a watchdog placed to oversee his actions, Horii would have had him disciplined on the spot. Instead he stroked his chin. “It is indeed fortunate that I give orders here.”

  “For now,” Sumi agreed blandly.

  Maya’s commander jerked his head away and left them as they watched the first shuttles land troops at the raw, new spaceport that Anton Vereshchagin had built west of the city of Pretoria. Horii reflected that he would have to make it subtly apparent to Maya’s commander that it was imprudent to make his dislike for Imperial Security so obvious. “The planet did present a difficult tactical problem,” he commented. “Recall that Admiral Lee lost four warships and two battalions, as well as his own life.”

  “The Korean admiral drank too much soju,” Sumi grunted. “That is why we do not make Koreans admirals anymore.” The USS man, Daisuke Matsudaira, joined them, wearing a gray suit and a narrow, pinstriped tie. “Admiral Horii, Colonel Sumi,” he said, executing a slight bow which the two of them returned. He moved his face up close to the viewscreen. “A most excellent landing, I am sure. I myself am most anxious to arrive on the planet and begin redeeming matters for my company. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “It is difficult to say, although I am sure that Lieutenant-Colonel Vereshchagin’s precipitous decision to execute your predecessor for treason has left corporate matters in some disarray,” Horii said blandly, disgusted by the man’s lack of manners. “I will, of course, allow you to shuttle down as soon as affairs are propitious for your arrival.”

  When Anton Vereshchagin symbolically broke the back of the Afrikaner rebellion by executing Matsudaira’s predecessor for assisting the rebels, it won him few friends on Earth. Nevertheless, Horii quite understood the impulse.

  Matsudaira glanced at him with ill-concealed hatred.

  How lacking in propriety, Horii thought to himself placidly.

  Sumi grunted.

  STANDING BESIDE THE RUNWAY, ACTING MAJOR RAUL SANMARTIN

  watched as Horii’s newly arrived soldiers poured out of their shuttles and formed up into rigidly disciplined parade ranks. Horii’s leading elements were tough Manchurians, tall and stocky in crisp, new fatigues, part of a three-battalion regiment. Mentally, Sanmartin compared them to the worn and faded uniforms of the honor platoon he had brought from C Company.

  Captain Hans Coidewe, C Company’s commander, had been Sanmartin’s executive officer when Sanmartin was C Company commander. Coidewe whispered, “Those big Chinese boys look sharp.”

  Sanmartin nodded. “I understand there’s also a crack Japanese light attack battalion and a battalion of the Imperial Guard in orbit waiting to come down.”

  “Trouble,” Coidewe said. Troops from the Imperial homeland almost always meant trouble.

  They didn’t waste troops like that on the colonial fringes unless someone was especially annoyed. Vereshchagin’s soldiers had served continuously in colonial campaigns for twenty-six subjective years, which amounted to nearly a half century in time elapsed on Earth. His officers had few illusions, and Raul Sanmartin had fewer illusions left than most.

  Before Vereshchagin had taken the reins of power, USS had owned the planet and tried to rule it ruthlessly. Shooting the USS planetary director, more than any other single act, had convinced the Afrikaners that Vereshchagin meant a fresh start. USS had just returned in the persons of these troops, and Sanmartin was convinced that the biE for peace had just fallen due.

  “Shall we do it?” Coidewe whispered.

  Sanmartin nodded.

  Coidewe made a quick gesture behind his back, and the battalion bagpipe band launched into the stirring strains of “The

  Whistling Pig,” which was the battalion’s favorite drinking song.

  The melody—if massed bagpipes can be said to play melody—caught the Manchurians by surprise. “I love that little look of fear in their eyes when the pipes go off,” Coldewe said contentedly.

  The remaining Manchurians were slow in arriving, and Sanmartin stole a glance at his wrist mount. Coldewe whispered out of the comer of his mouth, “Isn’t this your night to go home for dinner?”

  Sanmartin grinned foolishly. His wife, Hanna, the lady speaker of Suid-Afrika’s assembly, had a hellish temper when he was late. He had missed one of their infrequent meals together five years ago when an Afrikaner farmboy had planted two rounds in his thigh, and since then she tended to worry.

  VERESHCHAGIN WATCHED AS THE ROOM FILLED. MATTI HARJALO

  and Lieutenant-Colonel Uwe Ebyl came with their key officers, and President Albert Beyers brought eight of his “stoep friends” who could speak for everyone on the planet whose opinion mattered. Last to appear was Eva Moore, a bridge of sorts between the two worlds. Three years ago, Moore had resigned her lieutenant-colonel’s commission when Vereshchagin sent her Fifteenth Support Battalion back to Earth, accepting a job as administrator of Pretoria’s hospital, which she ran for her patients’ benefit with wit and an absolutely iron hand.

  Beyers opened the meeting formally. “We understand that a new Imperial task group has arrived, Anton,” he said in his accented English. “What does this mean to us?”

  “Yes. Who will they shoot?” Christos Claassen, head of the opposition Reformed Nationalist party, asked with mock humor. Coming from him, the question was particularly apt. A banker and former member of the semisecret Afrikaner Bond, Claassen had played a leading role in the abortive Afrikaner rebellion. Although Claassen had had nothing to do with the nuclear blasts that had destroyed the spaceport, two cowboy towns, and three Imperial warships in orbit, his name figured prominently on the Geloftsdag proclamation of independence, and his position as a vocal leader of the opposition party made him even more vulnerable.

  Beyers smiled and patted Claassen’s wrist. In two elections, he and Claassen had slung enough mud at each other to build adobe houses; privately they were the closest of friends. Only

  Claassen’s inherent good sense kept the demagogues in his Reformed National party from staking out uncompromisingly radical postures.

  “Who will they shoot? That remains to be seen,” Vereshchagin told the group, quite seriously. He nodded, and Matti Harjalo spoke.

  “We’ve chatted with the task group, and it’s a big one, no mi
stake—the biggest I’ve ever seen. They have a three-battalion regiment of Manchurians, a battalion of the Imperial Guard, a Japanese light attack battalion, heaven knows how much artillery and aircraft, and a frigate and three corvettes. The new commander is Vice-Admiral Saburu Horii, and he came here loaded to hunt bear,” Haijalo commented, using a quaint expression he had picked up on one colonial world or another. His lip curled. “They also brought along two companies of blacklegs. Maybe we could bribe one company to shoot the other.”

  Blacklegs—Imperial Security Police—were openly despised by soldiers and civilians alike for their brutality and venality.

  Prinsloo Adriaan Smith, the Lord Mayor of Pretoria, asked an obvious question. “Matti, what do they want with so many soldiers?” Blond and extraordinarily thin, Smith invariably wore the same rumpled suit. A former journalist, he had never quite lost the habit of asking awkward questions.

  “I don’t know,” Haijalo confessed. “Maybe paint ail of the rocks white. I can think of other answers, but I don’t like any of them.”

  Major Piotr Kolomeitsev, commander of Harjalo’s A Company, looked at Vereshchagin, who nodded. The Iceman’s pale eyes glittered. “I will say what everyone here already suspects. Either the Imperial Government did not believe our original report that we had the rebellion controlled, or they wish to impose a much greater degree of control over this planet and its inhabitants. USS may be greedy enough to desire this.”

  Kolomeitsev rarely bothered to conceal his contempt for the Imperial Government and its policies. He had achieved his present rank before the Imperial Government had begun measuring the political-reliability index of its officers, and he was prone to joke that his index was so low that he would not be eligible for promotion in any of his next six incarnations.

  Vereshchagin turned to his political officer. “Chiharu, can you add to this?”