"Ya," the machine gunner, Jenny, said. She kicked the fallen German in the thigh. The nerves must have been severed, for there was only a dull wet sound and the gasping rasp of the Paternoster.
"Hey, dec, he's raht." The American looked around, blinking in amazement. It was the redhead, McAlistair. She snapped the selector on her assault rifle to single shot and continued. "So he's not of the Race; not a dawg, neithah. Hell, if n his granpap had emigrated, maybe-so he'd be raht heah with us'n. Won't take a second. Pa always did say yo' should finish off game yo'
wounded."
No.
"Ah, c'mon, dec, don't be such a fuckin' hardass—"
"I said no, McAlistair: better a hardass than a
randyass
. Now
haul
it."
The fox-faced trooper's easy grin turned to a snarl as she stepped closer, slapped aside the NCO's pointing finger, curled her own black-gloved hand into a fingers-and-thumb gesture beneath his chin. The American was not surprised; rank in the Citizen force was a purely functional matter. There was no mystique to it, unless won by personal example; a commander was someone who directed the business of fighting or unit movement, not a social superior. This was an army where officers ate from the same field kitchens as the troops, where KP
and guard duty were settled by votes or flipping a coin.
Wouldn't
work with Americans
, he reflected.
Too individualistic
. But Draka soaked up the concept of teamwork from infancy…
"Look, Dhalgren, yo' lettin' a field promotion go't' yo'
head
.
This isn't the fuckin'
Janissaries
, my man. All that rank badge on yo' sleeve means is yo' gets't' call the shots in
combat
. This
isn't
combat, unless we waste mo' time on it, and that cheap stripe don't mean
shit
t' me. Got it?"
Silence stretched for an instant. The decurion's eyes slitted, flicked down to the SS man, back to his subordinate. The tip of his tongue came out to touch his upper lip.
"All raaht," he said in an even, conversational tone. "You wants't' expend him so bad, do it. Expend him." His hand caught the sling of her Holbars for a moment as she began to turn.
"Didn't say yo' could
shoot
him. That'd be wastin' ammunition and it would just purely break my
heart
."
"
Fuck
yo', Dhalgren!" the trooper said with an unwilling smile.
That was neatly within the letter of regulations.
"Any time, Tee-Hee; any time."
"Not until we run outta goats," she muttered, going to one knee and gripping the German's hair. The other hand was clenched into a fist behind her ear; she exhaled in a sharp
huff
of breath and brought it down with a snapping whipcrack motion, putting the flexing twist of hip and back behind it. The metal inset of the warsap thudded into his temple; the German jerked once and went still. She rose, opening and closing her hand.
"Hope that gets yo' hard, dec," she said with ironic graciousness, walking to the rear exit and beginning her scan. It always paid to be careful when you were on point.
"Cock like a rock, Tee-Hee; that bettah 'n the girl-and-pony show at the Legion who'house," the decurion said with a grin.
That turned colder as his eyes passed over Dreiser. "Welcome't'
the real world, Yank. All raaht, Draka, ready…
move
."
Holbars T-6
Assault Rifle, Model 1936
Caliber: Operating System:
Weight: Length, overall:
Feed device
: Sights:
Muzzle
velocity:
Cyclic rate:
Notes:
Design history:
5mm (5x45mm. aluminum case) gas. selective fire (optional
3-round burst)
9.7 Ibs.. loaded 42 inches, stock extended 30 inches, stock
folded 75 round drum (disintegrating link, factory-packed)
x4, optical (plus post & aperture emergency fallback) 3300
f.ps.
approximately 650 r.p.m. (variable by adjusting gas port)
Folding bipod; barrel and all parts exposed to gas-wash are
chrome-plated. Drum is ridged glass-reinforced plastic with
transparent rear face. The Small Arms Study Project (1926 -28.
Alexandria Institute) determined that the T-5 semiautomatic
rifle used in the Great War "overkilled" at the usual battle
ranges, and that a small-calibre, selective-fire alternative was
preferable. Chief Engineer Sven Holbars and his design team
produced the prototype T-6 in 1932; field trials followed and
series production commenced in 1935 at the Alexandria.
Archona. Alma Ata. and Constantinople Armories.
Re-equipment of the last reserve. Janissary and Security
Directorate/ Police units was completed in 1940. A squad
automatic-weapon version with heavy quick-change barrel
and larger magazine was produced concurrently. Weapons of
the Eurasian War by Colonel Carlos Fueterrez. U5. Army
(ret) Defense Institute Press. Mexico City
VILLAGE ONE, OSSETIAN MILITARY HIGHWAY
APRIL 14, 1942: 0615 HOURS
The impromptu war council met by an undamaged section of the town hall's outer wall; the cobbles there were a welcome contrast to the mud, dung, and scattered rocks of the main square. It was a mild spring day, sunny, the sky clear save for a scattering (if high, wispy cloud; the air was
a silky benediction on the skin. Clear weather was doubly welcome: it promised to dry the soil
which heavy movement was burning into a glutinous mass the color and consistency of porridge, and it gave the troopers a ringside view of the events above, now that there was a moment to spare. Contrails covered the sky in a huge arc from east to west, stark against the pale blue all along the northern front of the Caucasus; it was only when you counted the tiny moving dots that the numbers struck home.
"Christ," the field-promoted Senior Decurion of the late Lisa Telford's tetrarchy said, swiveling his binoculars along the front.
"There must be hundreds of them. Thousands… That's the biggest air battle in history, right over our heads." He recognized the shapes from familiarization lectures: Draka Falcons and twin-engine Eagles, Fritz Bf 109's and Eocke-Wulf 190's—even a few lumbering Bf 110's, wheeling and diving and firing. As they watched, one dot shed a long trail of black that ended in an orange globe; they heard the
boom
, saw a parachute blossom.
"So much for 'uncontested air superiority,' " said Marie Kaine dryly as she shaded her eyes with a palm. A Messerschmidt dove, rolled, and drove down the valley overhead with two Draka Eagles on its tail, jinking and weaving, trying to use its superior agility to shake the heavier, faster interceptors. The Eagles were staying well-spaced, and the inevitable happened—the German fighter strayed into the fire-cone of one while avoiding the other.
A brief hammering of the Eagle's nose-battery of 25mm cannon sent it in burning tatters to explode on the mountainside; the Eagle victory-rolled, and both turned to climb back to the melee above. The air was full of the whining snarl of turbocharged engines, and spent brass from the guns glittered and tinkled as it fell to the rocky slopes.
The officers of Century A were considerably less spruce than they had been that morning: the black streak-paint had run with sweat; their mottled uniforms were smeared with the liquid grey clay of the village streets; most had superficial wounds at least.
So
much for the glory of war
, Eric thought wryly. Once the nations had sent out their champions dressed in finery of scarlet and feathers and polished brass.
Now slaughter had been industrialized, and all the uniforms were the color of mud.
A stretcher party was bearing the last of the Draka hurt into the building. Eric had made the rounds inside—a commander's obligation, and one he did not relish. In action, you could ignore the wounded, the pain and sudden ugly wrecking of bodies, but not in an aid station. There was a medical section, with all the latest field gear—plasma and antibiotics and morphine; most of the wounded still conscious were making pathetic attempts at cheerfulness. One trooper who had lost an eye told him she was applying for a job with the Navy as soon as a patch was fitted,
"to fit in with the decor, and they'll assign me a parrot." And they all wanted to hear the words, that they had done well, that their parents and lovers could know their honor was safe.
Children
, Eric thought, shaking his head slightly as he finished his charcoal sketch map of the village on a section of plastered stone.
I'm surrounded by homicidal children who
believe in fairy stories, even with their legs ripped off and their
faces ground to sausage meat
.
The commanders lounged, resting, smoking, gnawing on soya-meal crackers or raisins from their iron rations, swigging down tepid water from their canteens. There was little sound—an occasional grunt of pain from the aid station within, shouts and boot-tramp from the victors, the eternal background of the mountain winds. The town's civilians had gone to ground.
The Circassian patriarch stood to one side, McWhirter near him, leaning back with his shoulders and one foot against the building, casually stropping his bush knife on a pocket hone. The native glanced about at pale-eyed deadliness and seemed to shrink a little into himself; they were predator and prey.
"Nice of the Air Corps to provide the show," Eric began. "But business calls. As I see it—"
Sofie tapped his shoulder.
"Yes?"
"Report, Centurion; vehicles coming down the road from the pass. Ours… sort of."
The convoy hove into sight on the switchback above the town, the diesel growl of its engines loud in the hush after battle, a pair of light armored cars first, their turrets traversing to keep the roadside verges covered with their twin machine guns, pennants snapping from their aerials. Behind them came a dozen steam trucks in Wehrmacht colors. The machines themselves were a fantastic motley—German, Soviet, French, even a lone Bedford that must have been captured from the English at Dunkirk or slipped in through Murmansk before the Russian collapse; two were pulling field guns of unfamiliar make. Bringing up the rear were a trio of bakkies—cross-country vehicles with six small balloon wheels, mounting a bristle of automatic cannon and recoilless rifles. All were travelling at danger speed, slewing around the steep curves in spatters of mud and dust.
"Quick work," Eric commented, as the vehicles roared down the final slope, where the military road cut through the huddle of stone buildings. "I wonder who—
The daunting hoot of a fox-hunter's horn echoed from the lead warcar, and an ironic cheer went up from the paratroopers.
"Need I have asked," the Centurion sighed. "
Cohortarch
Dale Jackson Smythe Thompson III."
The warcars rolled into the square at 90 kph, spattering passers-by in a shower of mud, their variable-pressure tires gripping at the earth and cobbles. The lead car finished its circuit with a charge directly at Eric's position, slewed about in a perfect 180 degree turn, and came to rest in front of Century A's commander. There were fresh bullet scars shiny against its dark-grey battlepaint, and a puckered exit-hole in the hexagonal turret just to the right of the machine gun. A jaunty figure in immaculately pressed fatigues pulled himself from the commander's seat and stepped down to the deck, standing with boots braced; a beaming smile showed as he pulled down the silk scarf that covered his face and pushed his dust goggles back onto the brim of his helmet. His left arm was bandaged from elbow to wrist; the right slapped a riding-crop against his leg as he glanced around the square.
Gaping, blackened holes marred the face of the mosque and the town hall.
Just as well for that piece of miniature Stalinist
wedding cake
, he thought.
Pity about the mosque
—
pretty in a
quaint sort of way
. There were bodies in Waffen-SS camouflage still lying scattered about the irregular open space, or hanging motionless from windows; the last thirty lay in a neat row, with their hands bound behind their backs. He glanced behind; the rest of the convoy was pulling up at a more sedate pace.
"Nice piece of driving, Lucy," he called down into the warcar.
A giggle came in answer; there was a clatter as a grenade looped out of the driver's port to land on the riveted aluminum of the deck. He ignored it, but the sight brought the beginnings of a dive for cover from the onlookers, until a woman's voice followed it:
"Never notice the pin's still in, do they?"
The cohortarch laughed, jumped to the cobbles and strode over, snapping a salute before extending a hand—a rarity in the Draka military and even rarer in the field. "Matters well in hand, I see," he called. "And how are you, Eric, dear boy?"
Eric returned the salute, smiling at the older man: a slight figure, freckled and sandy-haired and snub-nosed. "Busy. How are things in the cavalry, Dale?"
"The cavalry's in tanks, and that's the problem—if I'd wanted to crawl about in a giant steel coffin, I would have joined the navy… and flying makes me squeamish, so I'm left here, trying to bring some tone to this vulgar brawl of yours."
He nodded to the assembled commanders. "Now, I suppose you'd like to know how the war's going…" He assumed a grave expression. "Well, according to the radio, the Americans claim that resistance is still going on in the hills of Hawaii three months after the Japanese landings, and promise that McArthur's troops in Panama will throw the invader back into the Pacific—"
"Dale, you're impossible!" Marie burst out, with a rare chuckle.
"No, just a Thompson… Actually, we had a bit of a surprise."
"We heared about the tanks," Eric said.
"That was the
least
of it. Have you ever heard of a Waffen-SS
unit, '
Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler
?' Perhaps met a few of them?"