"Is the Variag dipping powder?"

  "I'll mention your concerns to Admiral Lee. That's where this one originated. Take a section out of number ten and ren­dezvous at Boksburg thirteen hours Wednesday.''

  Coldewe wrinkled his nose.

  "And last, the admiral has officially accepted our assessment of the area as pacified."

  "Ha! It took him long enough. Which means when?" Col­dewe said rubbing his hands together.

  "Friday. The shuttle's going to dump off six one-ton pallets: ammo, rations, wire, matting. Redzup's coming up to handle the joystick himself.''

  Paradropping was a cheap and effective means of resupply. A skilled operator could bring a load within meters of a mark without even cracking the breakaway plastic that absorbed the shock of impact. Redzup had been pulling pallets from the sky as long as anyone could remember, having handled in excess of two hundred live drops and uncounted thousands of computer simulations.

  "It's still a stupid regulation." Coldewe stopped rubbing his hands. "We don't get bulk supply until we demonstrate we don't need it."

  "It would be a little embarrassing to have one of the happy natives put a rocket into fifty cases of mortar rounds."

  "In the middle of the perimeter. Agreed. Now, is that all for overnight message traffic?"

  "All right, go ahead."

  "What's between you and Bruwer?"

  Sanmartin looked down at the flimsies uncomfortably. "I don't know, Hans. We were up late, so I took her down for breakfast at a reasonable hour for a change."

  "Everything fell through to the substrata?"

  "Number ten was in there. Little tin gods, Hans, she stopped, she turned white, she pointed to Isaac, and she asked me, 'You let them eat with people?' Then she said something about Ban- tus which could have come straight out of that thing about the Mad Hatter's Tea Party which you have a habit of quoting sotto voce on ceremonial occasions. What's a Bantu?"

  Isaac Wanjau was the biggest, blackest man Coldewe knew. "That must have been one of the things they covered while you were dozing through Political Theory," Coldewe said agree­ably. "What then?"

  "When Isaac turned and waved, she went up the steps two at a time. Well, I followed her."

  "Of course."

  "When I got up there, all she could say was, 'He was right there! He waved at me! The big, black one!' Waving her arms.''

  Isaac was a former cake from Ashcroft. Sanmartin had jumped him two grades for time spent shooting at Imperials.

  "And then?"

  "Well, after ten minutes of that, I finally lost my temper and told her that Isaac was worth about ten mop-headed civilians on any scale of relative values."

  "Tactful."

  "And she quit. She said, 'I never wanted to be part of this precious battalion of yours.' So I said, 'Quit!' I don't know what I did wrong."

  "She's packing her things to leave," Coldewe told him, fold­ing his arms.

  Bruwer was still getting over one disastrous love affair she refused to talk about, a feet known to everyone except Sanmar­tin, who had clearly spent too much time with slugs and bugs in his youth.

  "Does Shimazu know?" Sanmartin asked uncomfortably.

  "Shimazu knows everything about everything. Rudi said she was crying," Coldewe added unnecessarily. "If she goes we'll be short an interpreter. Also, think of Retiaglia's feelings."

  "He doesn't have any. Damn it, Hans! Has she been on the same planet with the rest of us?"

  "That's ninety percent of the problem. Don't shout."

  "I'm not shouting!"

  Coldewe examined him with exaggerated compassion. "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "Well, apologize to her!"

  "Hans, she's wrong!" Sanmartin found himself shouting.

  "You're shouting. Of course she is. That's an even better reason for apologizing.''

  "Hans, you're not making sense. Besides, all I've done since I met the woman is apologize."

  "Consider it good practice."

  "Hans?!"

  "Raul, you're shouting. How much do you know about women?"

  "Damn all. How do you think I got this job?"

  "Sometimes I wonder."

  "Hans, just forget it. Anyway, I've got to go running with number ten in fifteen minutes.''

  "Raul, you're pretty well done with the fimbriatid mono­graph, and you definitely need a new hobby. Look, we've got ten minutes to rehearse before we go meet Rudi, who is having the same conversation with Hanna, undoubtedly with more suc­cess."

  "All right, Hans. I'll try." Sanmartin sighed, wondering how his exec could make the dumbest ideas sound plausible..

  Fifteen minutes later, Coldewe, relapsing in the mess with

  No. 10, saw his company commander saunter in. With a polite smile, Coldewe turned to Wanjau, who was big, black, and shaking his head in disbelief. Coldewe accepted his custard with a polite comment on the evils of gambling and assumed an unusually angelic look as Sanmartin slung his weapon and mounted a chair.

  No. 10 quieted expectantly.

  "I am told the seventh day is a day of rest, and last Sunday, some of you commenced by resting through His Excellency the chaplain's sermon." His remarks were greeted by a scattering of polite laughter.

  His Excellency, Superior Private Erixon of No. 11 platoon, was a Lutheran lay deacon, a pleasant, towheaded man who found the call to arms not incompatible with his calling to God or vice versa. He was deeply wounded by the callousness of his compatriots.

  "In order to permit all of you to rest up for tomorrow's ser­mon, we will run short route number two today." Turning to Gavrilov, the sergeant platoon commander of No. 10, he said, "My turn to lead. Four columns." Gavrilov nodded. Sanmartin hopped off his chair and headed for the door.

  A few groans percolated upward along with laughter. Short route number two crossed two dongas and went up one side of a towering kopje and down the other.

  As he came out, he saw Bruwer at her window. She waved. He took his rifle up in his left hand and waved back just as No. 10 came pouring out to form up.

  In four columns, Platoon No. 10 moved out at a quick pace behind their mortified company commander. Carrying weapons and full gear, they ran through the streets of Johannesburg and out into the rain.

  Monday(3)

  scheel's body blocked the sunshine in front of his door.

  "Company for you," he announced gently.

  Seated behind a desk borrowed for the occasion, Sanmartin sighed and looked up. "Last one, Rudi?" he asked in a de­spairing tone.

  Rudi Scheel shook his head. Sanmartin sighed again. "Father or husband, this time."

  "Father. A dominee named Snyman, Louis Pretorius."

  "The name sounds familiar, I think Rhett mentioned it. Well, as the Variag is fond of pointing out, an infantry battalion is an inherently unnatural arrangement. How many does that make?"

  "Four this week. Ours are making up for lost time."

  "Just so. I suppose the Boers are afraid of miscegenation. In nine months, the population of this town would double if hold­ing hands were all it took. It may do that anyway; ours seem more appreciative than the local males. If this keeps up, we'll have sections volunteering to man checkpoints."

  "The honeymoon will be over soon enough."

  "All too true. Does this dominee have any English?"

  "Not a word. Bruwer will escort him up."

  "That will seriously restrict what I can say. I wish I could do what the Iceman does."

  Scheel laughed and attempted to mimic Kolomeitsev's even baritone voice. "Good afternoon to you. I have been informed that you have come to discuss your daughter's relationship with Superior Private Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov. Superior Private Ivanov requires authorization in order to marry. He has not been so authorized. Company Sergeant Leonov? How many years has Superior Private Ivanov? Four years, one hundred seventy days? In two years, one hundred ninety-five days he will be free to consider the notion. I will not attend the ceremony. If you will excuse me, I have duties to which I must attend."

  Sanmartin laughed. "The Hangman's worse, though. He has them out in two minutes, and they actually thank him for it."

  "This one will take longer. It's not the daughter, it's the son. He enlisted yesterday. The Hangman has him out training on the island."

  "Damnable," Sanmartin said with a touch of clairvoyance. "If this dominee didn't hate us poisonously before, he will now." He looked at Scheel and his eyebrows wrinkled. "Hold on, Rudi, you just reminded me of something. When Colonel Lynch was here, he complimented me on overfulfilling our training schedule. What was that about?" He looked out the window to where the engineers were laying steel-reinforced sidewalks, to the evident puzzlement of the local inhabitants who were in a position to observe.

  "The battalion training officer said that we met or exceeded all objectives of our unit training program," Scheel said with a placid expression.

  "We don't have unit training objectives. I didn't even know we had a battalion training officer," Sanmartin said with a puz­zled look.

  Scheel held a finger to his lips. "Little colonels have big ears. The holy Table of Organization still has a place for one some­where."

  Sanmartin managed a shocked but dignified expression. "And Colonel Lynch thinks that ..."

  "And demands appropriate reports on a daily basis," Scheel replied. "If he found out the Variag cannibalized things like that to fill out the rifle platoons years ago, he might be distressed."

  "I imagine he would." Sanmartin was trying to maintain an expression that would be consistent with the dignity of a bereft dominee. "Think up some names so we can get them right if we're asked."

  "Already I asked our resident intellectual to make them up. We now have a Sergeant Felsen, a Sergeant Roche, and a Ser­geant Pena."

  "I can't put my finger on it, but something is suspicious."

  "When you know what the joke is, tell me so I can kill him."

  "Count upon it." Sanmartin grimaced. "Ship in the domi­nee. If he's not gone in ten minutes, come in and bail out the ship. When will this foolishness end?"

  Scheel brayed loudly through his nose. "About the same time you get your pistol back!"

  on the hangman's island, the dominee's son was receiv-

  ing firsthand exposure to the Hangman's mode of discourse.

  Henke glanced over the recruits mustered into four uneven ranks. "Good morning, gentlemen. I am Major Paul Henke. I will be your chief instructor. Please take a moment and look at the man on either side of you," he added. "One of the two will not be here when you complete training."

  In the front rank, Jan Snyman, standing rigid in the manner demonstrated by Corporal Orlov, echoed the major's comments in Afrikaans for the Afrikaners whose English was not yet up to standard.

  "The standards you are expected to meet are high, perhaps higher than you can imagine. Each of you will require assistance at some time during training. If you fail to request assistance from me, from your other instructors, or from your comrades, you will be terminated, for stupidity, and rightly so."

  Even on Ashcroft, where potential recruits had been scarce, the Variag's officers had been a little careful about trying to make over garbage into soldiers. Henke waited for some com­ment to make itself apparent from the staggered ranks. None was forthcoming.

  Snyman found himself comparing Major Menke s laconic style to Corporal Orlov's. Corporal Orlov's introduction had been equally unpromising.

  "If the answer to any of my questions is 'yes,' please raise your right hand," the Hangman continued. "Are any of you practicing homosexuals?"

  They looked at each other uncertainly.

  "Are any of you practicing heterosexuals?"

  Most cautiously raised their hands.

  "Are the rest of you out of practice, unsure, or undecided?" This last question was greeted by a nervous laugh.

  "Plus, minus, or alternating current, we have one simple rule: on leave with consenting adults. In uniform, on duty, keep it in your trousers. If you wish to play around in the bunkers at night, please feel free to join Lieutenant-Colonel Kimura's bat­talion."

  In addition to battle dress, Henke wore a small, flat pack that looked unconscionably heavy, as did Orlov and the rest of the cadre. Snyman did not, as yet, know why.

  "Do any of you use alcoholic beverages, tobacco, or other drugs, excepting coffee, tea, or mate?"

  All of the cowboys and many of the Boers raised their hands.

  "Occasional social use is acceptable. Dependence or drunk­enness is not. Use in the field is not. If any of you believe you will have difficulty with this, see me. Any habit of yours which would endanger your comrades we will eradicate, or we will eradicate you. We have few rules. We do not expect you to break the ones we have."

  Henke was smiling. At least, Henke thought he was smiling, and no one contradicted him.

  "Muster for allegiance parade, ten minutes," Orlov whis­pered under his breath.

  the town of venterstad was a cruciform, the long axis

  running along a length of the road and the short axis extending on either side toward the fields. Alerted by two dogs, its citizens peering out windows saw eighty-eight teams set themselves on the rooftops for unobstructed fire and gp machine guns align at the north and east arms as the first of Jankowskie's sections began filtering in.

  Venterstad was Jankowskie's third village for the day, and he was not inclined to Christian forbearance. Before his men began rousting the inhabitants with brief and courteous explanations, two of Wojcek's helicopters cracked the sound barrier at an al­titude of thirty meters then alighted at the far end of the village.

  Wojcek's choppers were not troop-carrying aircraft by any stretch of the imagination; a 30mm gun mounted in a chin turret like a dragonfly's labium, semirecessed hard-points for ord­nance, and a narrow stinger tail made this apparent at a glance. Nevertheless, they could carry four persons easily if not com­fortably in catwalk seats located on either side of the engine. Wojcek's disgorged a tiny, disconcerted group of technicians from civil and a slightly larger mound of equipment to process identity cards. Kokovtsov's discharged a team of Reinikka's en­gineers.

  Jankowskie's men knew the drill. As the search teams moved the locals out to have their fingerprints scanned, Reinikka's en­gineers began examining walls, floors, and ceilings for charac­teristic traces of weapons and explosives. Out in the street, Jankowskie's platoon sergeant, Peresypkin, stood controlling the supporting weapons, fidgeting as the piles of contraband began to grow.

  Peresypkin, "Pertsovka," was almost as annoyed as Jank- owskie. In the previous village, they'd spent the better part of two hours tearing up cement where the density meter had picked out a cavity. Instead of explosives, the cavity had turned out to be stuffed with the corpse of somebody's missing wife, slightly the worse for wear. That had made a stink, and it had been still another hour to get things straightened up after that.

  His attention was diverted by the approach of a solid civilian in a straw hat with a weathered face and a young woman clinging desperately to his wrist. The man brushed aside one of the Bor­der policemen who were along. The light transport aircraft the platoon had ridden in on were sitting in a field, and Peresypkin had a shrewd idea who owned it.

  The girl—Daniela Kotze was her name—ended up talking. Her father was too mad, but that was what the terrified little sublieutenant from civil had a box of money for. His Imperial Majesty's military government made enough from indirect taxes to spread incidental losses equitably. Peresypkin made sure the man got his.

  Kotze was attractive. He told her so, which didn't stop him from making a note of her number.

  Tuesday(3)

  vereshchagin glanced down at his wrist mount. he

  closed his eyes, waiting for a knock. If Saki Bukanov had a single flaw, it was the precision that made the intendance offi­cer's actions unerringly predictable.

  A few moments later. Bukanov knocked respectfully. A per­plexed look was evident on his face. Vereshchagin guided him to a chair.

  "Sir, there is a problem."

  "What might that be?" Vereshchagin asked innocently.

  "Sir, we are only authorized ten recruits over strength. We have seventeen."

  Vereshchagin tapped his chin thoughtfully. "By the time Paul finishes, we will not. Please pay the extras out of the flower fund and bring me the authorization to sign."

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39