The Forlorn Hope (8 page)

“Don't know that I want to be Rube cannon fodder either,” someone muttered. He was answered at once by a waspish, “Have you looked at the choice?”

“But what's the catch?” Captain Tetour objected. “They know they've got our balls in a vise!”

“No catch,” insisted Captain Khlesl, holding up the message form. “‘No quarrel with fellow citizens of Cecach, only with the government of idolators in Praha.'” He slapped the paper down. “All we have to do is to turn over the Complex unharmed. And to disarm the mercenaries and turn them over too.”

There was abrupt silence around the table. “What do you mean, no catch?” Strojnowski said sourly. “Fasolini may have ideas of his own about turning in his guns.”

“Wait a minute,” someone said in amazement. When the others turned, they saw the speaker was Albrecht Waldstejn. The Supply Officer had not left the room. “Why are we concerned about the terms the Rubes might offer? There's twenty-three ore haulers empty in the compound right now. They'll hold all the troops and most of the civilians—and if we move fast, we can be clear before they cut the pylon line.”

“Get him the hell out of here,” Captain Tetour said.

Lieutenant Dyk commanded the Second Company since the regular CO had been invalided out with bull-head clap. Dyk had not spoken during the meeting proper. Now, faced with a chance to score off Waldstejn, he said, “Because we've got orders from Praha to hold to the last man! If we retreat, Morale Section will have every one of us shot. Every officer for sure.”

“Frantisak's right, though,” Brionca said. “We can't just waltz over to the mercs and say, ‘All right hand over—'”

“God
damn
it!” Waldstejn shouted. His hands were clenched. “If
we
can't go, we can put
them
on a truck before we surrender. That's
murder!
”

“You damned fool!” Dyk shouted back. “Those foreigners are the only thing between you and me and a firing squad!”

“Another word from him,” said the Major as he lurched to his feet, “and they won't have to shoot him.” A flush and the shadows of the overhead light hid the patterning of Lichtenstein's face. His right hand was fumbling at the flap of his pistol holster. The motion seemed almost undirected and the fingers never did touch the gun butt. “You're out of uniform, Lieutenant,” he muttered. His hand fell away from the holster. Taking a deep breath, the Major shouted, “Guard! Guard!”

Lieutenant Stoessel sprang up to fetch someone, but his zeal was unnecessary. Sergeant Ondru rushed into the outer office with his slung rifle clattering on the door jamb. More formally, the non-com paced the three steps to the inner doorway and saluted. “Sir?” he said. Members of his squad were peering through the open doors.

“Have three men take Waldstejn here to his quarters,” the battalion commander said, gesturing with a heavy thumb. “Tie him to a goddam chair and make sure he stays in it.”

The Supply officer turned and slammed a fist into the wall. He did not speak.

“If you're real lucky, Lieutenant,” Lichtenstein snarled at the younger man's back, “I'll have you untied when all this is over.”

Waldstejn walked past the Sergeant. He shrugged his arm away from the hand with which Ondru would have gripped his upper arm.

“He doesn't talk to anybody!” the Major shouted. Everyone else in the office was silent, watching. “He tries any crap,
shoot
him!”

Sergeant Ondru carefully closed the building's outer door behind him. “Breisach, you take over here for me,” he told his startled companion. “Doubek, Janko, come on—we're going to escort our prisoner here to his quarters.” He prodded Waldstejn between the shoulder blades with a stiff finger.

“And make sure your night goggles are on,” the Sergeant added. “We just might get a chance to shoot an escapee.” He prodded the Lieutenant again. This time he used the muzzle of his rifle.

*   *   *

“Halt!” cried the first of the guards to see him.

Colonel Fasolini flipped up the visor of his helmet. “It's me, Fasolini,” he said in Czech. “Your CO just sent for me.”

“You're alone, then?” Sergeant Breisach demanded. “We were told there was two of you.” The whole squad was on its feet and tense.

There was reason enough to be tense, the squat mercenary knew; but perhaps these local troops were reacting only to the morning's raid. “No, I'm alone,” Fasolini said. “I make the decisions for the Company by myself.” He entered the building at the Sergeant's assenting nod.

Fasolini stood out like a wrestler in a law office among the battalion staff. His helmet and the grim burden of his crossbelts made him utterly alien. Chairs scraped as Federal officers rose to greet the mercenary. “Glad you were so quick, Colonel,” said Captain Khlesl. The little Intelligence Officer had been chosen to make the presentation. Now he reached across the table to shake the mercenary's hand. “Do sit down. A drink?”

The Colonel seated himself in the chair left vacant for him. Captain Strojnowski across the table would not meet his eyes. “No drink,” the Colonel said. “Maybe later.”

“Right,” agreed Khlesl, “right.” He smiled, continuing to stand. “You see, Colonel,” he continued, “the strategic situation has deteriorated very sharply in the past twenty hours. The—I'll call them the enemy—has broken through—”

“I know what the Rubes've done,” Colonel Fasolini said bluntly. “At the moment, I'm more concerned about what you propose to do about it. I assure you, me and my boys'll agree to any reasonable suggestion.”

Major Lichtenstein belched, then looked around as if he suspected someone else of making the sound. The room was silent.

“Well,” Captain Khlesl said, “yes. The truth of it is, Colonel, that the plan we have decided to implement is surrender. We have some reason to believe that General Yorck will be quite generous in his terms … though of course we'll have to disarm all the troops in the compound first. We—we here are as good patriots as any on Cecach, but with Republican armored columns certain to encircle us within another day at most, well.… There's no point in causing needless slaughter, is there?”

“After all,” put in Captain Tetour, “the garrison was put here to keep the civilians in order and to keep the Rubes from making some sort of raid on it. Well, we've done that. But they've got tanks from
Terra!
”

“Sure, I can see that,” the mercenary agreed with a smile that slashed, then slumped back to stark reality. “Thing is, we've got a notion that General Yorck may not be quite so generous to mercs as he might be to … brothers and sisters of the Cecach soil. Eh?” He smiled again, a reflex and not a real plea. Captain Khlesl's grin had stiffened into a bright rictus.

“Now, I wouldn't be surprised if some of you people kept off-planet bank accounts,” Fasolini continued. “Doesn't mean you're not patriotic, it's just common sense, spreading the risk.” He gestured with both hands, palms down, fingers splayed. “The rest, you can get an account easy enough. Now, what I'm offering is a pre-accepted order on my agents on Valunta to transfer—” his eyes counted— “thirty-one thousand Valuntan pesos, that's over twelve thousand crowns, into
each
of your private accounts. All you have to do to get that money is to give us one truck and one hour. It's that simple.”

Major Lichtenstein rolled forward in his chair. He planted both palms meatily on the table. “How about your life instead?” he said. His voice rode down the buzz of talk that had followed the mercenary's offer.

“Come on, now,” the Major cajoled heavily, “that's a fair deal, isn't it? Man to man. We hide you, save your ass when the Rubes roll in—which you and me couldn't stop if we wanted to. You're clear. Your gear's gone, but that's gone anyhow. And Mary and the Saints, you won't have any trouble finding gallows bait to replace what you leave here, will you? Come on, man to man—what do you say?”

“Well, there's a whole lot of truth in that,” Colonel Fasolini said. He leaned back in his chair, his tension apparently submerged by the new consideration. “A lot of truth,” he repeated. “You know, Major, I think I can buy into that. I mean, businessman's got to know when to cut his losses, don't he?”

Fasolini stood up. “Tell you what, gents—” he nodded to Brionca— “Captain, I'm going to my Operations Center now to pick up a few items. I'll be back in an hour and give my troops the order to disarm from here.” He smiled. “Okay?”

“Take all the time you need, Colonel,” Major Lichtenstein agreed. “Glad you're a reasonable man.”

The mercenary closed the inner door behind him. Captain Brionca jumped to her feet. Lichtenstein's face was a mask of fury. He nodded to his Operations officer. “The bastard's lying,” he said. “He's going to double-cross us.”

Brionca caught the handle of the outside door just as it closed. She snatched it open, throwing her shadow forward on a fan of yellow light.
“Kill him!”
she called to the guards.

CHAPTER FOUR

As they neared the warehouse, Albrecht Waldsten stumbled less frequently. He had recovered both his night vision and his poise during the march, despite Sergeant Ondru's frequent jabs. “You know,” the tall officer said in a thoughtful voice, “you boys'd have to tie me up regardless, it'd be your asses if you didn't—”

“Never fear
that,
” quipped Ondru. Because of the way his rifle was slung, he had to step very close to his prisoner in order to poke the weapon into his ribs. He did so again.

Waldstejn missed a half step. His voice was still friendly as he resumed, “But it strikes me that the knots might not be
quite
as tight if we all had a drink or two together first. After all, it's not much point worrying about liquor rations now, is there?”

One of the privates whistled, “Holy Mother,” under his breath.

Ondru shifted his grip on his rifle. The looming warehouse had a rosy cast through his light-enhancing goggles. The visual cliche made him bark out a laugh. “You mean,” the big sergeant said, “that you'll open the liquor cabinet if we don't try to amputate your legs with the ropes?”

Waldstejn turned his head, stumbling a little again, and replied, “Hell, yes. What did being a hard-ass get me? Look, I may be dumb, but I'm not too dumb to learn.”

The Sergeant grinned back at his prisoner. “Guess we got a deal, then,” he said. Ondru was thinking about how he would tie the sanctimonious bastard as soon as he opened up the booze. On his belly, with one cord looped from his throat to his ankles, that was for sure. That way if Waldstejn relaxed a muscle, the weight of his own feet would start to choke him. That for sure.

The Supply Officer had the magnetic key to the front door in his pocket. He swung the panel inward. One of his escorts felt a twinge of concern and brought his rifle up. Waldstejn was very careful to move slowly and to avoid any suggestion that he hoped to leap inside and lock the others out.

The lobby was even dimmer than the outdoors had been. The holes in the roof were brighter than the solid metal around them, but they served to illuminate the interior only for the escort with their night goggles. Lieutenant Waldstejn was thoroughly familiar with the lay-out, however. He walked without hesitation to the counter, knowing that there was nothing between it and the door to trip over. He swung open the gate. “Here,” he said, “I'll just get the keys from back here and—oh, would one of you like to turn the lights on? The panel's by the front door.”

Sergeant Ondru had stuck close to his prisoner's left elbow. “No!” he snapped. “Janko, get your goggles off.” The night goggles issued to Federal troops had no built-in overload protection. The face-shields of Fasolini's mercenaries would hold a desired brightness setting, regardless of changes in ambient light. The Cecach-produced goggles, however, multiplied light by a set factor. They could dazzle their users with excess enhancement.

“Sure, no problem,” said Lieutenant Waldstejn. He was trying to keep the fear out of his voice. The officer pretended to fumble beneath the counter for a key. The liquor cabinet had had a thumblock, keyed only to his fingerprint, ever since Waldstejn had taken over as Supply Officer.

Waldstejn's equipment belt was still looped over the back of the chair where he had slung it while talking to Captain Ortschugin. “There we go,” Waldstejn said, jingling the keys from his pocket. His left hand, hidden by the chair, unholstered the little pistol.

“All right, you can turn on the lights, Janko,” Sergeant Ondru said as he raised his own goggles.

Waldstejn stepped next to him, thrusting the pistol into the Sergeant's ribs as the lights flashed on.

The view of Doubek, behind the counter, was blocked by his own goggles and his sergeant's body. Janko, three meters to the side at the light switches, caught the motion. He gasped and threw up his rifle.

“Mother of God!” Ondru squealed to his subordinate in a high-pitched voice. “Don't shoot—you'll
hit
me!”

“Drop the guns, drop them!” Waldstejn cried on a rising inflection. He caught a handful of Ondru's tunic to hold the man close while he shifted the pistol in Janko's general direction. Janko dropped his rifle with a clatter.

The other private backed a step away from Ondru and the officer. He held his rifle waist high, advanced but not precisely pointing at the tight-locked pair.

“Drop it!” Waldstejn repeated, peering past the equally-tall man whom he held. He waggled the pistol at the uncertain private; and when it went off, Waldstejn himself was more surprised than any of the others in the room.

The muzzle flash of the little gun burned Ondru through his tunic. The Sergeant yelped but managed not to clap a hand to the spot. He stood as rigid as if he were a carcase on a meat hook. Doubek, by contrast, flung his rifle down as if it had burned him. He jumped backwards twice and banged into the wall. “I didn't mean anything, sir!” he bawled, holding out his empty hands. “I didn't mean anything!”