Imperial Guard (11 page)

“Deal? Deal? What position are you in to make deals? I can’t do it.”

“OK, just forget it. I’ll stay here and take my chances.”

“Don’t be an idiot! Why do you want to be a Guardsman anyway?”

“I like their uniforms . . . and their status,” Josh sniffed. “Besides, you can do it if you really want to. You can pull almost any strings you want.”

“Yes, but at what cost? You don’t understand what these kinds of deals cost . . . and not just in money either.”

“My mind’s made up.” Josh plopped down indifferently into a nearby chair and crossed his legs, elbows on the armrests and fingers tapping together petulantly.

Carl knew that it was probably an act. Josh was certainly wrapped in thought, pondering the hot spot he was in. Apparently he was hoping to salvage some perks from this deal. He was too smart not to realize that remaining on Earth with Hercond was too risky. He would probably be impossible for Josh to finish off, surrounded as he was now by an army of bodyguards. So now he waited petulantly to see what his brother could come up with.

Carl turned away to pace and think.
The brat wants to be in the Guard so he can be powerful and bully anyone he wants to with impunity. Well, this deal’s too important, so I better let the cockroach have his way.

A few more seconds of tense silence prevailed, then Carl Mogul turned to face his brother. “Very well. I’ll see what I can do. Wait here.”

Mogul walked into the study and closed the door behind him. Stopping for a few seconds, he peered through the spy panel beside the door to make certain his brother was staying put and not positioning himself to eavesdrop. When he was satisfied, he turned to the console on his desk and tapped in a number he had committed to memory. A young captain appeared on the screen. The captain saluted respectfully. “General Hemenez is expecting my call. Is he available, Captain?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll buzz him at once. If you will be so kind as to wait . . .” The general appeared on the screen almost at once.

Unlike generals who had earned their rank by service in combat, Hemenez had gained his influential position by means of a careful manipulation of social and political intrigue. He was portly and tended to run to multiple chins. His appearance in uniform seemed rotundly comical rather than militarily impressive. Ignoring Carl’s military rank, the general said, “Earl of Mogul and pride of Manchuria, how go your political aspirations?”

Pompous baboon!
Carl intensely disliked Hemenez’s lack of discretion. And he despised the general’s obvious enjoyment at watching him struggle for power.
Be smug while you can, my General. One day you will have to choose sides, then we’ll see . . . although I’m sure you’re ready for any contingency. Well, until then, perhaps I can still use you to my advantage.

“I think it best, General, that we scramble. Please use code 27F.”

Each party punched the code into his console. A scramble code was not foolproof by any means, but it did discourage the casual eavesdropper. When a conversation was scrambled, it was heard as an unintelligible garble unless each receiving unit had a descrambler of the same matrix.

Carl hated to spend time on the usual amenities, but he knew that they were necessary, especially with the general.
If I want the fool to help me, I’ve got to pander to him.

“How is Liz, General?”

“Her usual disagreeable self, I’m afraid. She is finally bound and determined to redecorate my den. And I fear that this time she may succeed.” No one else dared insult the general’s wife, but the general enjoyed the habit immensely. “How is your father?”

“Father is well. He seems absolutely indestructible, as you well know. How about your youngest grandchild. Has he begun to walk yet?”

“Oh, yes,” the general visibly lightened. “He has even begun to say a few words. But let us discontinue the small talk,” Hemenez exclaimed with a wave of his hand. “I know how much it bores you.”

After a pause, “Ah, the ambitions of youth. You’re much too intense, Carl. You should find yourself a nice little woman, settle back
—in the bedroom of course—and enjoy life. You’re not like your brother, who requires a thrill a minute. Speaking of your brother, this latest unpleasant business with what’s-his-name was disgusting, to say the least. Some day he’ll skate too close to the edge . . . perhaps he already has. That isn’t the reason for this call, is it?”

Mogul was infuriated.
Old round bottom has guessed. Sneaky little brain!
“Yes, General. I’m afraid you are one step ahead of me as usual.”
Let’s see how well you butter up.

Hemenez reached beyond the view screen for a delicacy that he stuffed into his mouth. “Must have something to do with your political plots,” he mumbled around his food. “What’s the matter? Josh cramping your style?” he asked, carefully licking each ringed finger.

Mogul clutched the edges of his desk painfully.
Am I so transparent? Where does the old toad get his information? I’ll have to do some snooping of my own.

“I only wish to help my brother out of an unfortunate situation. I was wondering if you could arrange a commission for him in the Imperial Guard.”

Hemenez grinned his knowledge of the lie, food particles showing between his teeth. “That’s a sizable request.”

“I trust the Scotsberg Affair was handled to your satisfaction,” Mogul reminded Hemenez of his most recent favor.

“Since when did old friends start counting favors?” Hemenez replied, flourishing a candy morsel in the air before popping it into his mouth. “Your brother would best be suited to the rank of private, scrubbing out latrines. But be that as it may, a nobleman can serve only as an officer . . . unfortunately. Sometimes I think our system has grown too soft. The only thing that counts for anything anymore is privilege.”

Mogul was getting impatient.
You ought to know, you old hypocrite.
“I will accept a commission for him in the Fusiliers. Whatever you say I’ll tell him is the way it has to be.”

“Well, I won’t be party to adding a corrupt influence like your brother to the officer corps of the Fusiliers. He should be in the company of those like himself. Therefore, I will issue an order that he be commissioned as a second lieutenant in the Imperial Guard. . . . I hope that is all you wanted. It certainly is a large enough favor. It should put me way ahead. . . . But who’s counting?” Hemenez added with a mocking smile.

“I’m afraid there’s just one more thing. I want him assigned to Peru II. He must get off-planet at once.”

“A Guard officer serving in a Fusilier theater of action? My, we are ambitious aren’t we? So you would stoop to fratricide, would you? And what of the brave Fusiliers who are bound to die with him? I can’t have that on my conscience!”

Again Mogul was stung by Hemenez’s penetrating insight.
Conscience! We both know full well that you have sent thousands of men to their deaths to advance your own self-interest. I know what you really want, you pompous mercenary.

“I know that you have always admired my estate on Minas 5. If I were to deed it over to you, would that persuade you to reconsider?”

Hemenez pursed his lips in a particularly offensive way. “It might . . . if you included the slaves.”

You’re making me pay through the nose for this one, aren’t you, you old windbag. I’d love to face you in the arena and show you just what a useless slug you really are.
The value of the slaves and droids that looked after and serviced the estate nearly equaled the worth of the estate itself. But Mogul thought of a compromise.

“Of course, I would retain title to the droids.”

Hemenez stopped smiling—a bad sign. “Under the laws of Minas 5, the ownership of the droids and other mechanical equipment used by the slaves in their work must be transferred with the slaves. You must be aware that the excesses of my children and our high taxes have grievously reduced my fortunes. Do show a little concern for someone in his old age, sir.”

“Certainly, General. How foolish of me to have forgotten that particular law. You’ll have the necessary paperwork within the hour. I am sending my brother directly to the port. Please have him sworn in and outfitted there. I want him on the next transport to Peru II.”

Hemenez replied frostily, “He’ll be sworn in when I have all the legal papers in good order. Now, unless you have something else, I’ve duties to attend to.”

“Thank you for your indulgence, General,” Mogul snapped curtly and switched off his viewer. Still angry he called his attorney and began the transfer of property. It required his retinal and digital records, which he sent electronically over the transmitter. Nursing a foul mood for how much this deal cost him, he launched himself out of his chair and walked back to where his brother was waiting. He found Josh sprawled carelessly on his sable-covered chaise.

“Get your filthy boots off my furniture!”

“Take it easy, big brother. Your furniture ain’t hurt none.” Josh pushed himself to a standing position and began sauntering around the room, hands in his back pockets. “Everything all set?”

“Yes. You leave immediately.”

Josh scratched his head. “I’ve been thinking. I’ve decided I might not like the Guard after all.”

Carl strode over to his brother, grabbed his shirtfront, and shoved his face close to his. Through gritted teeth, he hissed, “It’s all been arranged, and it’s cost me plenty. You are to report to the port within the hour. Now get moving!” Carl shoved his brother away in the direction of the door.

“Hey, stay cool, bro,” Josh said, laughing. “I got a date tonight. Maybe I’ll go tomorrow . . . afternoon. Not too early, you know,” with a wink.

“You will go now under your own power, or you’ll go feet first . . . into the first available disintegrator tube,” Carl shot back, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“OK! OK! I was only testing you to see if you were serious.” Josh started heading for the door. “See, I’m going.”

“You better make sure that you do, Josh. This is your last chance. If you’re not at the port in an hour, I’m sending the Guard after you. And that’s final.”

“Hey, I’m gone!” Josh raced out of the suite.

Mogul collapsed into a nearby chair.
At last! It’s over!
He sat with his head thrown back, resting, recovering from the tension of the ordeal. He began to wonder about Josh’s chances.
He did attend military school like I did when he was growing up. That’ll help some. But I don’t think it will be enough. . . . Well, I’ve got more important things to worry about.

His thoughts turned unbidden toward the massacre of his company, torn from the depths of his memory by Josh’s harsh comment. He considered again how unfair it was for him to have been blamed for that unfortunate affair.
Why shouldn’t I have saved myself at the expense of the others? After all, I’m destined for greatness. Yes, I must keep that firmly in mind: Carl Mogul is destined for greatness.

He rose and buzzed for a servant to attend to his needs.

The com transmissions Brogan managed to pick up from main base indicated that the situation was critical. But the ubiquitous, corrosive mist that clung to everything prevented supporting fire from the orbiting laser platform. It wasn’t that the fog concealed targets from the ship, it was that laser beams would be so diffused by the water vapor as to have little or no effect. Secure in this knowledge, the rebel forces were launching a blistering attack with chemical explosives by means of old-fashioned artillery weapons. Unless somebody did something, the base was sure to fall by morning.

Brogan examined the map. As near as he could make out, the artillery weapons were located some twenty-five clicks from main base. The location was between Brogan’s position and the base, a little to the left of a straight line. “But who can travel in a straight line out here?” mumbled Brogan.

Examining the map further, Brogan noticed a trail of some kind that led more or less in the direction of the rebel base—a march of fifteen clicks. About ninety men were fit to fight. A forced march might enable them to reach the rebel artillery by midnight.

It would be a risky operation,
thought Brogan,
but it may be the only chance main base has got.

Only one sled was operational. But it was no advantage to the march. It had to be used to transport the wounded.

“Well, Top,” Brogan said as he turned away from the map and faced Sergeant Dombrowski, “looks like we have a long march ahead of us. The men aren’t going to like it, but it’s got to be done. At least we’ve got plenty of food and null-grav units to tow our gear. Break the news to ‘em, Top, and organize the survivors into some semblance of a company.”

The Top had become the acting XO, and Brogan left it to him to appoint other sergeants as temporary platoon commanders. Meanwhile Brogan planned the marching order. The droids would advance ahead of the main force, scouting the trail and acting as flankers. As each platoon advanced, they would maintain a minimum distance of two hundred meters from each other. Radio silence was a given, but with the helmets equipped for night vision, visual communication would be no problem.

An avid reader, Brogan had devoured several volumes on ancient battle tactics and guerrilla warfare at the academy. How to get to his objective was second nature to him. His main concern was to achieve complete surprise once within range. Without this strategic advantage, it was highly questionable that his small force would succeed.

He decided to be upfront and candid with his men. But he must also project all the confidence he could muster. Once the acting XO had organized the remaining units and the men were assembled for their briefing, Brogan began his speech.

“Men, the success of the Empire’s entire mission on Peru II may be riding on our shoulders at this moment. Although we’re tired and beaten up, we still have a job to do. I won’t try to deceive you about what lies ahead. But many a fighting force has entered combat situations under worse conditions.

“Main base is right now being bombarded with chemical artillery. Without relief, they can’t last much longer. Therefore, we are going to march on the enemy artillery, and we are going to capture it tonight! We will rest ten minutes out of every hour. The wounded will ride the one functioning sled and bring up the rear. Tie down your gear for silent marching and disable your comsets until we reach our objective. Complete surprise is our only hope of victory. Our ETA is midnight. The droids move out in five minutes, and each platoon will follow in three-minute intervals. Get ready to move out!”

They made good time while the sun shone. But by dusk the men were weary, and even with night vision, the progress was slower. Minor injuries were becoming major impediments because of the stress factor. Brogan’s injured foot was agony despite the medication. The rest stops stretched to fifteen minutes. Brogan soon discovered the disadvantages of being in command. For him and the platoon commanders, the rest stops did not provide much rest. They were busy attending to the men, checking for blisters and injuries.

A couple of hours after dark, a runner approached Brogan. “Sir,” he panted, effecting a half-hearted salute, “November Eagle 3 regrets to report that the prisoner has escaped. Sergeant Manazes is in pursuit with a squad of men.”

Brogan stiffened and fear began to clutch at his heart. His mind raced.
If the rebel captain succeeds in beating us to the battery, we’ll lose our surprise.
Then reason reasserted itself.
But we can still make it. He’ll have to take a circuitous route, and he’s not equipped with a helmet.

“Sir?” the runner asked, waiting for a response.

“Thank you, soldier,” Brogan finally replied. “Report back to November 3 that we are pushing on with all speed. And make sure the other platoons, as well as the sled, get the same message.” The runner left on his mission.

Brogan moved out his unit. He increased the pace, wincing from the pain in his left foot with each step. His men began cursing and fuming as they attempted to keep up over the slippery terrain. Noticing this, Brogan resisted the impulse to plunge madly ahead and reduced his speed. The assault must go ahead as planned, he knew. For, even if it ended in failure, it might give main base the time it needed to mount its own offensive. But he could not launch an attack if his men were completely exhausted from the march.

Periodically the night was lit by the blast of the big guns, and their thunder rolled across the sodden countryside. Both were helpful in keeping them on course and masking the sound of their approach. As they drew nearer the emplacement, the vegetation began to thin out. Eventually the forest came to an abrupt end. Brogan halted his unit, selected two other men, and crept to the edge of the jungle.

They found that the area around the rebel encampment had been cleared to a distance of about two hundred meters. This gave the enemy an excellent field of fire, but it also meant that Brogan’s forces would not have to burrow through the jungle when they attacked. The three men made a crude map of as much of the emplacement as they could see, taking special note of strategic positions. Then they crawled back to the unit.

Brogan selected some runners and sent them to the other commanders with detailed instructions for the assault. It was now 0017, not much after midnight. All platoons would attack simultaneously at 0045 along the western third of the perimeter. For now, all they could do was get ready and wait. And that could well be the hardest part.

Brogan ordered more pain killer for his burned foot, then briefed his men and moved them into position. Lying flat on his belly, Brogan crossed his arms in front of him and rested his head on them.
Too many “ifs,”
he worried.
If only the platoons can get into position without being seen . . . if only they’d beaten the captain . . . if only they could cover most of the cleared ground before being spotted.

Second thoughts began to surface. Would it have been better to play it safe and set up his decimated force in a defensive position to await rescue instead of making this forced march? No one would have blamed him. It was the sensible thing to do. Was this a venture of pure folly? Was it presumption to believe that he could save his beleaguered base with a decimated rifle company?
Maybe so,
thought Brogan,
but maybe they have assumed that the ambush was successful enough to eliminate threat from this direction. If so, they won’t be looking for us.

So far, the men had responded well to Brogan’s assurance and bold strategy. They were gaining confidence in his leadership. But their dependence weighed heavily upon his inexperience. It began to rain, gently at first, but quickly turning into a torrential downpour. The fog had made visibility bad enough; now it was down to about a meter. The deluge would make the advance more difficult, but it would also make early discovery of their attack next to impossible, even with heat and audio sensors fully deployed.

Brogan looked at his watch . . . 0043. He passed the word to get ready, to hold fire until his command, and to keep contact with the man on the left. At 0045 Brogan jumped to his feet and yelled, “Let’s go!”

Cautiously the men moved in ragged formation up the hill, picking their way carefully over the broken jungle. Night assaults were difficult to control under the best of conditions. Brogan remembered the practice assaults at CIO School. Sometimes, even those performed under ideal conditions went awry. And woe to the acting CO of a snafued attack. He recalled one in which two platoons got separated and attacked the wrong hill. But that was just a game . . . this was cold
—and wet—reality. He prayed quietly that everyone knew what to do. It was up to the squad leaders now. Neither he nor the platoon leaders had much control over what happened from here on.

An explosion and subsequent scream ripped Brogan from his reverie. In spite of the personal mine-sensing equipment employed by each soldier, someone had apparently stumbled onto one. Brogan peered in the direction of the enemy position, but there was no response. The incessant firing of the big guns must have masked the explosion. It seemed incredible to Brogan that no one would be defending the western side of the enemy base.

Soon they had made their way to the edge of the encampment without further mishap. Here they found a row of wire spread out in a lackadaisical manner, making clear to Brogan that the rebels had prepared for assault from this direction in only a token way.

Thank you, Lord!
Brogan muttered without thinking. With rising hopes, they dispatched the obstruction and began to move on. At that moment, however, a star shell burst overhead, emitting a stark, glaring light and eerily illuminating the whole western side of the encampment. Rebel soldiers began running toward them in a disorganized fashion.

“This is Eagle 6,” he yelled into his comset. “Open fire!”

A blaze of light erupted from the assault line, and the rebel troops disappeared. Charging into camp, they began routing enemy soldiers from their shelters, where they had taken refuge from the downpour. Then one of the gun crews, discovering the attack, alertly swung their gun around and blasted a hole in the line of assault. Brogan felt the concussion from the explosion and imagined that he could hear the shrapnel singing past. At a fever pitch, he and his men hurled themselves into the offending gun pit.

In savage hand-to-hand combat, the men grappled in the rainy darkness, hardly knowing friend from foe. But within seconds, the attackers had no one left to fight. Looking around to size up the situation, Brogan saw a laser cannon at the top of a nearby bunker blasting away unmercifully at the attacking Fusiliers. Grabbing a nearby man, he yelled, “Get into that gun turret!”

Following him in, Brogan was once again thankful that he had been trained in the use of every known weapon. He directed the soldier in how to operate the automatic loader, then donned the headset for the eye-directed line-of-sight firing. He activated the targeting headset and swung the gun around in the direction of the laser cannon. By the time he had targeted the cannon, the gun was ready to fire. Pushing the soldier away from the breach and the line of recoil, he jammed his thumb against the firing stud.

Nothing happened. Then Brogan remembered. He had forgotten the primer cartridge. Within seconds he was ready and banged the firing stud again. The blast was deafening, even inside the turret. The recoil of the huge gun left little room in the small compartment until it slid back onto its shock arresters. Brogan looked at his target. Not only was the cannon obliterated, the top of the bunker was as well.

By the time they tumbled out of the gun and caught up with the action, His Majesty’s Fusiliers had the rebel base fairly well in hand. Only small pockets of resistance remained. Most of the defenders had been caught trying to stay dry and were totally unprepared.

Soon a soldier trotted up to Brogan. “The base is secure, sir.”

“Excellent work! Have we located the CP?”

“Yes, sir. It’s the bunker over there that some guys shot the top off of.”

Brogan grinned. “Tell Top to get the wounded moved out of the rain. Then have him see if he can scare up some com gear to contact our base with.”

The man ran off, and Brogan, switching on his head com, called for the platoon leaders to report to the destroyed CP. Brogan made his way to the bunker and entered it. Even though it was badly damaged, the CP still held out most of the rain. The platoon commanders began to assemble.

When all were present, Brogan said, “Congratulations, men, we did the impossible. All of you are to be commended for our success. Unfortunately, now that we have done the impossible, we have to do the really hard part.” Brogan smiled grimly. “We have to hold this place! Now, Third Platoon, you will see that the wounded are cared for wherever Top sets up the aid station. When you’ve finished with that, police up the dead. Get on it!”

“Yes, sir!” The man scurried out.

“First and Second Platoons, you will set up a perimeter defense. And make sure that you link up all the way around. We don’t want to make the same mistake the former tenants did. You’re dismissed.”

Turning to another man, Brogan continued. “Fourth Platoon, find shelter for your men and get some rest. You will relieve Second Platoon in four hours . . . at 0600.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the commander said as he turned to go. The night would be over in a matter of hours, and Brogan had only one platoon that would have had any rest at all in more than twenty-four hours.