Tactics of Mistake (4 page)

Its name was a derivative from its original, unofficial designation of “dial-a-gun,” which name proved that even ordnance men were capable of humor. With proper adjustment it could deliver anything from a single .29 caliber pellet slug to an eight-ounce, seeker-type canister shell. It was just the sort of impractical weapon that set Cletus's tactical imagination perking over possible unorthodox employments of it in unexpected situations.

But he and Mondar were in the car now. With a hiss from its compressor, the command car's heavy body rose ten inches from the concrete and glided off on its supporting cushion of air. An opening in the jungle wall loomed before them; and a moment later they were sliding down a narrow winding road of bonded earth, with two deep, weed-choked ditches on each side unsuccessfully striving to hold back the wall of jungle that towered up on either side to arch thinly together, at last, over their heads.

“I'm surprised you don't burn back or spray-kill a cleared area on each side of the road,” said Cletus to Mondar.

“On the important military routes, we do,” said the Exotic. “But we're short-handed these days and the local flora grows back fast. We're trying to variform an Earth grain or grass to drive out the native forms, and plant it alongside our roads—but we're short-handed in the laboratories, too.”

“Difficult—the services and supply situation,” jerked out Eachan Khan, touching the right tip of his waxed gray mustache protectively as the command car came unexpectedly upon a giant creeper that had broken through the bonded earth of the roadway from below, and was forced to put down its treads to climb across.

“What do you think of the dally gun?” Cletus asked the Dorsai mercenary, his own words jolted from his lips by the lurching of the command car.

“Wrong sort of direction for small arms to go…” The creeper left behind, the car rose smoothly onto its supporting air cushion again. “Nagle sticks—dally guns—ultrasonics to set off, jam or destroy the components in your enemy's weapons—it's all getting too complicated. And the more complicated, more difficult the supply situation, the tougher to keep your striking forces really mobile.”

“What's your idea, then?” Cletus asked. “Back to crossbows, knives and short swords?”

“Why not?” said Eachan Khan, surprisingly, his flat, clipped voice colored with a new note of enthusiasm. “Man with a crossbow in the proper position at the proper time's worth a corps of heavy artillery half an hour late and ten miles down the road from where it should be. What's that business about ‘ …
for want of a nail a horseshoe was lost…‘
?”

“
‘For
want of a horseshoe a horse was lost. For want of a horse a rider was lost…‘
” Cletus quoted it through to the end; and the two men looked at each other with a strange, wordless but mutual, respect.

“You must have some training problems,” said Cletus, thoughtfully. “On the Dorsai, I mean. You must be getting men with all sorts of backgrounds, and you'd want to turn out a soldier trained for use in as many different military situations as possible.”

“We concentrate on basics,” said Eachan. “Aside from that, it's our program to develop small, mobile, quick-striking units, and then get employers to use them as trained.” He nodded at Mondar. “Only real success in use so far's been with the Exotics, here. Most employers want to fit our professionals into their classical tables of organization. Works, but it's not an efficient use of the men, or the units. That's one reason we've had some arguments with the regular military. Your commanding officer here, General Traynor—” Eachan broke off. “Well, not for me to say.”

He dropped the subject abruptly, sat up and peered out through the open window spaces in the metal sides of the command car at the jungle. Then he turned and called up to the driver on the outside seat.

“Any sign of anything odd out there?” he asked. “Don't like the feel of it, right along in here.”

“No sir, Colonel!” called the driver back down. “Quiet as Sunday din—”

A thunderclap of sound burst suddenly all around them. The command car lurched in the same moment and Cletus felt it going over, as the air around them filled with flying earth. He had just a glimpse of the driver, still holding the dally gun but now all but headless, pitching into the right-hand ditch. And then the car went all the way over on its side and there was a blurred moment in which nothing made sense.

Things cleared again, suddenly. The command car was lying on its right side, with only its armored base and its left and rear window spaces exposing them to the outside. Mondar was already tugging the magnesium shutter across the rear window and Eachan Khan was pulling the left window-space shutter closed overhead. They were left in a dim metal box with only a few narrow, sunlit apertures toward the front and around the armored section behind the driver's seat.

“You armed, Colonel?” asked Eachan Khan, producing a flat, little, dart-thrower sidearm from under his tunic and beginning to screw a long sniper's barrel onto it. Solid pellets from sporting guns—theoretically civilian weapons, but deadly enough at jungle ranges—were already beginning to whang and yowl off the armor plating of the car surrounding them.

“No,” said Cletus, grimly. The air was already close in the car and the smell of crushed grass and nutmeg was overwhelming.

“Pity,” said Eachan Khan. He finished screwing on the sniper barrel, poked its muzzle through one of the aperture cracks and squinted into the daylight. He fired—and a big, blond-bearded man in a camouflage suit came crashing out of the jungle wall on the far side of the road, to lie still.

“The bus will hear the firing as it comes up behind us,” said Mondar out of the dimness behind Cletus. “They'll stop and phone ahead for help. A relief squad can get here by air in about fifteen minutes after Bakhalla hears about us.”

“Yes,” said Eachan Khan, calmly, and fired again. Another body, invisible this time, could be heard crashing down out of a tree to the ground below. “They might get here in time. Odd these guerrillas didn't let us pass and wait for the bus in the first place. Bigger package, less protection, and more prizes inside… I'd keep my head down, Colonel.”

This last sentence was directed at Cletus, who was heaving and wrenching in a fury at the shutter on the down side of the car. Half-propped off the road surface as the car was by the bulge of that same surface under it, opening the shutter gradually produced a space facing on the ditch. Into which the dead driver had pitched—a space large enough for Cletus to crawl out.

The jungle-hidden riflemen became aware of what he was up to, and a fusillade of shots rang against the armored underside of the car—though, because of the narrow angle it made with the ground, none came through the opening Cletus had produced. Melissa, suddenly recognizing what was in his mind, caught at his arm as he started through the opening.

“No,” she said. “It's no use! You can't help the driver. He was killed when the mine went off—”

“The hell… with that…” panted Cletus, for a fire-fight did not encourage the best in manners. “The dally gun went with him when he fell.”

Wrenching himself free of her grasp, he wriggled out from under the armored car, jumped to his feet and made a dash for the ditch where the body of the driver lay unseen. An explosion of shots from the surrounding jungle rang out, and he stumbled as he reached the ditch edge, tripped, spun about and plunged out of sight. Melissa gasped, for there was the sound of thrashing from the ditch, and then an arm was flung up into sight to quiver for a second and then hang there in plain view, reaching up like a last and desperate beckoning for help.

In response, a single shot sounded from the jungle and a slug blew away half the hand and wrist. Blood spattered from it, but the hand was not withdrawn; and almost immediately the bleeding dwindled, with none of the steady spurt and flow that would have signaled a still-pumping, living heart behind it.

Melissa shuddered, staring at the arm, and a shivering breath came from her. Glancing about for a minute, her father put his free hand for a moment on her shoulder.

“Easy, girl,” he said. He squeezed her shoulder for a second and then was forced back to his loophole as a new burst of shots rang against the body of the car. “They'll rush us—any minute now,” he muttered.

Sitting cross-legged in the dimness like a figure meditating and remote, Mondar reached out and took one of the staring girl's hands in his own. Her gaze did not move from the arm in the ditch, but her own grip tightened, tightened, on Mondar's hand with a strength that was unbelievable. She did not make a sound, but her gaze never moved and her face was as white and still as a mask.

The shots from the jungle stopped suddenly. Mondar turned to look at Eachan.

The Dorsai looked back over his own shoulder and their eyes met.

“Any second now,” said Eachan, in businesslike tones. “You're a fool if you let them take you alive, Outbond.”

“When there is no more point in living, I can always die,” answered Mondar, serenely. “No man commands this body but myself.”

Eachan fired again.

“The bus,” said Mondar, calmly, “ought to have gotten close enough to hear the firing and phoned, by this tune.”

“No doubt,” said the Dorsai. “But help'd have to be on top of us right now to do any good. Any second, as I said, they'll give up sniping at us and make a rush. And one pistol won't hold off a dozen or more… Here they come now!”

Through the aperture, over the soldier's shoulder strap, Mondar could see the two waves of camouflaged-overalled figures that erupted suddenly from both sides of the jungle trail and came pouring down upon the car. The little handgun in Eachan's hand was speaking steadily, and, magically—for its voice was almost lost in the general din and uproar—figures in the front of the rush were going down.

But there was only a matter of fifteen meters or so for the attackers to cover; and then the jungle and the little patch of sunlight Mondar could see were blotted out by camouflaged overalls.

The gun in Eachan's hand clicked empty—and in that second, just as the shape of the first guerrilla darkened the opening through which Cletus had gotten out, the wild yammer of a dally gun roared from behind the attackers, and they melted like sand figures under the blow of a heavy surf.

The dally gun yammered on for a second longer, and then stopped. Stillness flowed in over the scene like water back into a hole made in a mountain lake by a falling stone. Eachan pushed past the frozen figures of Mondar and Melissa and crawled out from the car. Numbly, they followed him.

Limping on his artificial right knee joint, Cletus was climbing out of the ditch, dragging the shape of the dally gun behind him. He got to his feet on the roadway just as Eachan came up to him.

“Very well done,” said the Dorsai, with a rare note of warmth back in his usually stiff voice. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“Not at all, Colonel,” said Cletus, a little shakily. Now that the excitement was over, his one knee that was still flesh and blood was trembling with reaction, invisibly but perceptibly under his uniform trouser leg.

“Very well done, indeed,” said Mondar, as quietly as ever, joining them. Melissa had halted and was staring down into the ditch where the dead driver lay. It was his arm that had been upflung, obviously with intention by Cletus, as he lay thrashing about like a deeply wounded man, unseen in the ditch. Melissa shivered and turned away to face the rest of them.

She stared at Cletus out of her white face, in which a strange mixture of emotions were now intermingled. Mondar spoke:

“Here come our relief forces,” commented the Exotic, gazing skyward. A couple of battle aircars, with a squad of infantry aboard each, were dropping down to the roadway. A hiss of a braking airjet sounded behind them and they turned to see the bus slide into view around a turn in the road. “As well as our signal section,” he added, smiling a little.

The command car, its compressor damaged by guerrilla fire, was left behind. One of the battle aircars carried its four surviving passengers the rest of the way into the port city of Bakhalla. The air-car dropped the four of them off at the transport section of Alliance Headquarters in Bakhalla. Eachan Khan and Melissa said good-bye and left by autocab for their own residence in the city. Mondar opened the door of another autocab and motioned Cletus inside.

“You'll need to go to Alliance HQ for your assignment and billeting, and that's on my way. I'll drop you off.”

Cletus got in; Mondar reached to punch out a destination on the control board of the autocab. The cab rose on its air cushion and slid smoothly off between the rows of white-painted military buildings.

“Thanks,” said Cletus.

“Not at all,” said Mondar. “You saved all our lives back in the jungle just now. I want to do more than just thank you. I take it you might like to talk to Dow deCastries again?”

Cletus looked at the Outbond curiously. All his life he had enjoyed watching people of strong aims at work to achieve them; and in the five days since he had met Mondar he had become aware of a purposefulness in the Exotic that might well be as dedicated as his own.

“I thought deCastries went down to Capital Neuland.”

“He did,” said Mondar, as the autocab made a right turn into a somewhat broader boulevard and began to approach a large building of white concrete with the Alliance flag flying on top of it. “But Neuland's only twenty-five minutes from here by air. The Coalition hasn't any direct diplomatic relations with our Exotic government here on Kultis, and neither our people nor Dow want to pass up a chance to talk. After all, it's really the Coalition we're fighting—Neuland couldn't last six weeks without them. So I'm giving an unofficial little party at my home this evening—with a buffet supper and general conversation. Eachan and Melissa will be there. I'd appreciate having you, too.”