Read The Rods and the Axe - eARC Online
Authors: Tom Kratman
Tags: #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #General, #Action & Adventure, #military
Which is all to the good
, thought the captain.
Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Santa Josefina,
Rio Clara
, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Marciano, half resting against a desk, took one look at the message handed him by a runner and went into a stream of profound invective, largely in Italian, that was both lengthy and, insofar as it made full use of various concepts , terms, and phrases not found in Italian but common in French, German, and English, really quite original.
It was three days before Marciano got word of the uprising in the south. He still didn’t know about the arms being landed, or the place of the
Casement
in it, because, by the time he got an overflight, the
Casement
had been almost entirely unloaded.
He might not have found out even then but for the events of months before. The mechanism of the discovery went back to the Tauran Union’s loss of the Balboa Transitway. Prior to that, most of whatever supplies couldn’t be purchased locally, and barring a trivial amount flown in by air, had come through
Puerto Bruselas
, on the
Mar Furioso
. Once the Transitway was gone, however, and ships had to sail the long way to Santa Josefina, the Tauran Defense Agency had
eventually
determined that there was a Tauro to be saved by changing the chief supply port to Matama, and trucking the goods over the central mountain range.
There’d been no real hurry about it, though. Most food and fuel were locally purchased. Little ammunition was being used. Replacement troops came in via airship, for the most part. Some parts were needed, of course, and things like military specific batteries, of which there was a vast number of completely incompatible types, for equipment that could almost never use civilian batteries. Even there, the minimum requirements could be brought in, more or less space available, on the airships or occasional planes. And there’d been sufficient stockpiles that switching simply hadn’t been a priority.
But with the advent of the overstrength tercio massing on the border, switching ports had moved up quite a bit in prioritization. Marciano had given the necessary orders. Contracts for civilian trucking had been negotiated, and the advance party had moved out for Matama.
They had not, however, quite made it there. By the time the column—no more than a score of vehicles and under a hundred men—had reached the road intersection in the town of Pelirojo, the town was under Legate Salas’s control. In the ensuing ambush soldiers from such diverse states as Lusitania, Mannerheim, and Anglia, plus medical personnel from Castilla, had been almost utterly annihilated, either killed or captured. Only a lone vehicle, a Gaul-provided, Mannerheim-driven, Sochaux S4, had managed to escape to bring the word.
Those shots, historians would later agree, constituted the first shots in the broader war between Balboa and its allies, on the one hand, and the UEPF, Tauran Union, and
Xing Zhong Guo
, on the other.
“They could have fucking told me,” Marciano said, as his contempt for Santa Josefina climbed upward a notch. He crumpled the note and tossed it on the desk.
“They probably didn’t know,” answered his exec,
Oberst
Rall, of the Sachsen Army. “Infrastructure here is poor, without a lot of redundancy. I’d be surprised if the landlines didn’t wash out, or the cell towers didn’t have their power cut, regularly.”
“Don’t try mollifying me, Rall. I have my heart set on sneering at Santa Josefina and its moral welfare and I don’t want anything interfering with that.”
Marciano was grinning as he spoke. With an answering grin, Rall, agreed, “
Jawohl, Herr General. Zu befehl.
And I couldn’t agree more. Even so, what are we going to do? They’ve engaged our men and killed a number of them. We can’t just take it.” Rall pulled out a map and laid it across the desk.
When Marciano remained uncommunicative, but for a scowl, the Sachsen continued. “If we try to contain it, there are two avenues of approach to the capital. That takes a minimum of two battalions to outpost, and we don’t have them. On the other hand, if we take the town where our men were ambushed, Pelirojo, that is where the road branches. We can hold it with one battalion, I think.”
“And our reserve, Rall? And how we handle attacks there and across the border?”
The Sachsen gave that an apparent half a minute’s worth of thought, more for show than anything. He’d already decided to recommend that, “We can outfit a small mobile force, say the Hordalander
Panzers
and a company of Sachsen infantry on trucks. But the bulk of our reserve striking power ought to be in the air.”
“Still leaves us the problem of taking the town back,” said Marciano.
“I’ve taken the liberty already of getting the Cimbrian commandos on the road,” said Rall. “We don’t even know what’s there yet. They’ll recon the town, and we can build our force around what they find. For the nonce, I think we start assembling a counterattack force at Cerveza.
“The enemy can’t be in great shape,” Rall said. “We knew they were scattered all over and are probably still assembling. For now, from Cerveza we can cut them off if they try to take the southern road to the capital. If they try to go after Cerveza . . . well . . . we’re regulars, better trained and better armed. We’ll just stomp them.”
Marciano tugged at an ear. “They thought that in Balboa, too, you know, Rall.”
“Different circumstances,” said the Sachsen. “We walked into an ambush they’d been laying for ten years. Here, we’re the ones who’ve been on station for a while.
“And, yes, yes, sir, I know they know their own ground better. But they know their own ground in the places they grew up, or worked or lived in. How many, do you suppose, grew up right in Cerveza?”
“All right,” said the Tuscan. “Get things in motion. But restrictive rules of engagement for now. The mere fact that the enemy shot first is probably not enough to get the Tauran Union to authorize offensive action. That, too, is one of the side effects of the defeat in Balboa. The bureaucrats weren’t keen on war to begin with. Now they’re positively gun-shy.
“Yes, sir. I concur, for what they may be worth. But the Cimbrians, at least, have to be able to fire in self-defense, yes?”
“Yes,” the Tuscan agreed. “And if we can get the artillery in position to support them if they need it, we’ll go for third party self-defense, too.”
“Speaking of self-defense . . .”
Marciano rolled his eyes. Rall’s tone alone said, “Serious problem.”
“Okay, what is it?” the Tuscan asked.
“You remember that bar where Corporal Martinelli, of the sappers, was eviscerated?”
Marciano gave it a moment’s thought, then answered, “
El Mono Loco
, in Aserri? I remember.”
“Well, seems there’s been another incident. We didn’t lose anybody, but two dozen Tuscans broke up the place last night, killed three of the locals, including one girl. She was probably an accident, but the two men were definitely
not
accidents, since the sappers carved “This is for Martinelli” on their faces before cutting their throats.”
Marciano put his head in his hands, asking, “Do we know who did it?”
“They’re all in custody, sir, yes. On the other hand, they’re nearly a platoon of engineers and it’s not clear we can spare them all indefinitely. And none of them will admit to anything or testify against anyone.”
“There are times, Rall, when I wish I were Carrera, or could operate under his rules.”
“Why?” asked the Sachsen. “What would he do?”
“Either ignore the murders or line up the sappers and shoot every tenth one.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Insurrection by means of guerrilla bands is the true method of warfare for all nations desirous of emancipating themselves from a foreign yoke. It is invincible, indestructible.
—
Giuseppe Mazzini
Pelirojo, Santa Josefina. Terra Nova
The town had streams on three sides of it, two of them, east and west, rather large and the third, to the north, narrow but swift. The rivers tended to channelize movement naturally, and had dictated the placement of roads and bridges.
Anywhere near the main road, one could still smell the burnt rubber and overdone human meat, heavily overlaid with the stink of diesel. All along the main street running through the town, from where Highway Twenty-three crossed the bridge over the river to the west to both branches that split off from it in the center, were the wrecked vehicles of what, upon interrogation, turned out to be a slice of service support troops.
Which half explains,
thought Salas,
why they were such easy meat. The other half of the explanation, of course, is that they didn’t know we were here, or that we were weapons free.
The bodies, at least, had been taken away for a Christian burial. Still, when men burn in vehicles, parts of the men always remain behind.
Hence that clinging, long pig aroma
.
There were also fifty-three prisoners. Ideally, so had Colonel Nguyen advised, the prisoners would be placed somewhere where Tauran fire was sure to kill them. Salas could see the logic of that, could see the intensely demoralizing effect and also the enraging effect.
But I’m not a barbarian. My duty is to safeguard the prisoners, not use them to score a propaganda point. And Carrera himself can kiss my ass if he thinks I’ll violate the customs of war for such a trivial advantage.
’Course, if he were here he’d be less likely to be kissing my ass than having me shot for disobeying orders. Well . . . before I commit an avoidable war crime I’d rather be shot.
Legate Salas had known happier days.
Not a lot of satisfaction in machine gunning people who don’t know there’s a war on
, he thought.
Not a lot of joy in knowing what’s going to happen once they—their side—figures out that there
is
a war on.
He’d had reports on that, too, from scouts his cohort in Pelirojo had sent out up Highway One, to the north, that the Taurans were unlikely to be ambushed again. He’d also had scattered reports of enemy scouts actually
behind
the town. If true, the defenders, once it came time to defend, wouldn’t be able to count on any mortar fire five minutes after the Tauran attack started.
Thing is, this isn’t key terrain to me. Or, at least, it won’t be once we’ve finished dispersing the arms and other supplies to the units. I need to hold this only until then. Well . . . and until the cohorts are fully into the jungle.
The other thing, though, is that if they hit me right this minute . . .
Salas looked around. There wasn’t much to see, but he could hear the sounds of preparation. He could also hear the sounds of argument, as civilians told his troops to fuck off,
their
houses weren’t there to be turned into battle positions. Not for the first time, he contemplated the old saw, “When you’ve got ’em, by the balls their hearts and minds will follow.”
But . . . nah. The downsides, at least for now, are too great. We need them on our side, not harboring grievances. And the whole idea of a native Santa Josefinan military is just too strange to them. Besides, when the Taurans level this place, even though we didn’t take any but public buildings, it’ll be a
big
shot in the arm for our recruiting efforts.
But what worries me is that my troops are not the “First Infantry
Tercio,
Liberation Army of Santa Josefina.” They’re an amalgam of different maniples and platoons, squads and some individuals, scraped out of every
tercio
in the legion with a Santa Josefinan to spare. Technically and tactically they’re about as good as any in the legion. Maybe not quite as good, because we have fewer officers and centurions, but still . . .
But still, the really worrisome thing is that they aren’t a real regiment, they’re just a collection of disparate parts, and we never had the chance to fully turn them into a regiment.
And, sure, the Tauros are a bunch of disparate cohorts, but at least at that level they’re cohesive.
And, now, I suppose, it’s time to make my speech.
With a shout, Salas summoned his driver and his commandeered economy class sedan. They drove off, taking Highway Twenty-three in the direction of Matama. Several miles outside of town the driver pulled off the road then turned right to follow a narrow trail to where the radio container waited, with generators humming in the background.
“You ready?” Salas asked his chief of propaganda.
“As we’ll ever be, sir. Your speech is sitting there. You probably should rehearse it a few times before you go live.”
Silently, Salas nodded. He was perhaps a little thankful for the delay offered by the chance at rehearsal.
Irazú, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
The Hordalander tank had the name, “Thanatos,” or death, painted on the barrel. The tank crew had been in country long enough for three things, to have acquired a taste for the local women—except for the tank commander, who generally referred to
himself
as “Thanatos” and who preferred boys—to have picked up enough of the language to have some chance with the local women (or, in the case of the TC, boys), and to have acquired a certain appreciation for the music. Thus, they had a civilian radio going just atop the tank’s turret, while they relaxed there, and over the glacis, catching a few rays. Yes, yes, it was normally bad practice, but it wasn’t as if the enemy was likely to throw an air strike at them.
The tank company, minus one platoon that was still up supporting the troops by the border, was currently not even in artillery range of any enemy. Instead they were sitting in a public park, the objects of
intense
curiosity from the locals. They expected to stay there at least through the end of the day, then move by night to the assembly area by Cerveza.
In any event, the radio was on and, if no one was dancing, still the music had the most gratifying tendency to put a little spring in the step of the Santa
Josefineñas
, which spring put a lovely bounce in Santa
Josefineña
bosoms.
Rather, it did right up until the music cut off with a protesting squawk, to be replaced by one of those annoying “We interrupt this broadcast” messages.
The best Spanish linguist on the tank was the driver, Corporal Arthur Kjelstrup. He translated for the rest.
“People of Santa Josefina, I am Ricardo Salas . . . of the Liberation Army of Santa Josefinan . . . the Lord God and the dead generations laid in our soil since the founding . . . call the children of Santa Josefina to her flag . . . to strike for freedom . . . and to resume her old place as an honored member of the nations of this world by becoming . . . once again . . . a
real
nation in this world.
“The guiding spirit of our country . . . having sent her sons and daughters away to learn the arts that our corrupt national elites have denied them . . . summons them to her colors and her cause again. . . . Relying, in the first place, upon those newly trained sons, but confident also . . . in the second place, of the unstinting support . . . of our brothers and cousins across Colombia Latina . . . and in total and complete confidence in the dear God who is . . . the wellspring of liberty . . . Santa Josefina rises now to strike for her freedom from foreign occupation.
“Our country is ours alone. . . . It is not Tauran. . . . It does not belong to Old Earth. . . . Less still is it the country . . . of the government and president . . . who called the foreigners in to occupy us. . . . The Taurans could be here for one thousand years;
still
would this land be
ours.
. . . They could leave tomorrow;
still
would the traitor . . . and licker of foreign boots, Calderón, have relinquished his right to call himself a citizen.
“Santa Josefina . . . sacred and holy . . . calls upon all her true children . . . to rise in arms against the foreign occupation . . . to drive them out . . . to take back what was ours . . .”
Though the speaker was still talking, Corporal Kjelstrup stopped translating. The tank crew exchanged nervous looks among themselves until the gunner, Sergeant Qvist, said, simply, “Oh, shit.”
Rio Clara,
Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Corporal Moran shook his head in disbelief. “They said
what
?”
Araya shrugged. “I don’t understand it either, Corporal. But maniple headquarters says, ‘no,’ ‘don’t call us; we’ll call you,’ and, ‘go talk to the locals and see if you can’t drum up a little demonstration to block the roads.’ They also said they were trying to get a riot going in Irazú.”
“Okay,” said Moran though, of course, neither his agreement nor Araya’s was precisely necessary. “Well . . . you go see about getting a group together. I’m going to go check on the road and the bridge. Maybe we can take it out if we get the order. At least I might see something worth reporting.”
“Jeez, Corp,” said Araya, “I don’t know anything about explosives . . . if we had any, which we don’t.”
“I don’t know much,” admitted Moran. “How to use them, safely for limited purposes. And I know nothing about making them. Maybe we could steal some.”
“Maybe. Though we might be better off trying to buy some.”
“Yeah, maybe. Anyway, you run along.”
Once Araya was out of the way, Corporal Moran walked the few paces down the hallway to the next room, Jaquelina Araya’s. She gave him a big smile once the door opened.
Irazú, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
It was shocking really, not least to the tank commander of tank “Thanatos” who, safe behind his armor, had never really imagined a serious threat coming from the locals. But then a veritable hurricane of Molotov cocktails had engulfed the tank ahead of him, as the company tried to escape from the town in a long, clanking column. The Molotovs didn’t initially set the tank alight. Rather, they cut off oxygen to the engine and stalled the thing temporarily.
Modern tanks were designed generally to prevent gasoline from firebombs leaking down into the engine compartment. Despite this, and probably because of the sheer amount of fluid, coupled with the many different angles from which it came, some of the burning fuel from those must have dripped down to torch off some of the plastic over the wires or the rubberized pieces, or the fabric gaskets of the engine, for black smoke began to pour out from the engine grate behind the turret. That, in turn, caused the crew to pop hatches and try to escape, before being driven back in by something the tank following could not see. And then a single firebomb had smashed against the inside of the partially open commander’s hatch, letting burning fuel pour down upon the TC. His scream, followed by those of his crew as the flames spread, were heard by every man of the company. Why the fire suppression system failed to activate, as it should have, would remain a mystery.
The driver, alone, managed to escape, as he was separated from the fighting compartment of the tank. But as soon as he’d crawled across to glacis and down to the ground, choking and heaving from smoke inhalation, a small mob of Santa Josefinan men, bearing clubs, surrounded him and began kicking with their feet and pounding with their clubs.
It was then that the tank, “Thanatos,” opened fire on the crowd, sweeping across the mob with its coaxial machine gun.
“What the fuck?” screamed the gunner. “What the fuck are you doing you goddamned maniac?”
“Back up, back up,” screamed the tank commander, still wildly flailing with his coax at the scattering crowd. He ignored the gunner, or perhaps his span of attention had narrowed to where he couldn’t hear. Too afraid to stick his head up, as a proper tank commander would have, he tried to direct the driver by viewing through the narrow and inadequate periscopic vision port on the rear of his cupola. The tank ended up backing into a relatively narrow side street, preparatory to turning around and running like hell.
The vision blocks were perfectly acceptable for some purposes, but really made it difficult to see fine details like the fifteen-year-old Santa Josefinan with the sister five months pregnant by the Gallic legionary . . . the fifteen-year-old with the Molotov cocktail . . . and the lit match.
Ignorant, the boy had aimed his fire bomb uselessly at the turret. Inexperienced, he’d missed that and landed it across the engine grate. It wasn’t enough to stop the tank immediately. The next one to try to throw did even worse; he set his own hands alight, then, panicking, dropped the Molotov at his feet, making a large flambé of himself. His screams could be heard over the roar of flames, though not inside the tank he’d intended to target.
The third and fourth fuel bombs, however, possibly following the fifteen-year-old’s unwitting lead, landed across the rear deck and bursted into fireballs. Those
did
cause the tank to stall temporarily. They did not stop the turret.
What did stop the turret was a combination of things. First was that the narrow side street meant the tank’s main gun bumped against something solid, and was no longer able to traverse in that direction. Second, however, and more important, was that the tank commander, seeing the flames and being something of a coward, panicked. Ripping off his combat vehicle crewman’s helmet, he undogged the hatch and practically flew up.
Sadly, Molotov cocktails five and six landed on the turret roof at about that time, catching him in their fireballs, melting his eyes, setting hair alight, and making him scream like a terrified little girl, until the inhalation burn running down his throat caused the tissue there to swell, cutting off his breath.
And then the tank commander of tank “Thanatos” got to experience the very Platonic essence of a shitty death, more than one deadly effect, racing at a snail’s pace, to see which one would kill you. In his case it was even more than usual as the flames set his subcutaneous fat alight, too. For a while, no more firebombs flew as the mob stopped for a moment to enjoy the arrogant Tauran’s death.