Helfort's War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet (27 page)

“Don’t mess around, do they?”

“No, they don’t. It’s the Hammer way, and it’s one reason why the average Hammer’s only loyalty is to himself. Anyway, whatever the reasons, the best PGDF could manage was one air-portable Gordian battery to intercept you, and thank Kraa for it. Most likely, the poor bastard who ordered the operation’s been shot for his troubles.”

“Doesn’t say why Sasaki left it so late, though,” Michael said.

“Maybe he only got his chance in all the confusion of breaking camp.”

“Don’t know. There were a lot of people running around, I must say. Anyway, I’m sure the interrogators will get the answer to that one. Now, changing the subject, and don’t take this the wrong way. The Chalidze operation? Impressive.”

“Yes and no,” Hok said. “Good that it went to plan. Bad that it cost us the people we lost. The worst thing?”

“What?”

“The fact that operations like Chalidze will never finish this war.” She sighed heavily. “What the hell. Beats being a Hammer marine, which is what I was in a previous life. Come on, let me introduce you to a few people. After the death and destruction you dumped on Perkins, Yallan, and Gwalia, people are keen to say thanks. Those bases have been a massive pain in the ass.”

“Oh?”

“That’s where the air support for their ground operations against us came from. That’s why we were able to take out Chalidze; we couldn’t have done it a week ago. Planetary ground defense fliers from Yallan would have been all over us five minutes after we blew the wire, and as usual the marines weren’t interested in lending a hand. Baxter, the commanding
general of the Hammer marines, hates the PGDF with a passion. Last we heard, Baxter is still refusing to allow his landers to relocate closer to McNair. He says it’s PGDF’s fault their bases were trashed, so they have to fix them.”

Michael whistled softly. “Shit! How screwed up can you get?”

“That’s the Hammers for you. We know the marines and planetary ground defense hate each other more than they hate us, and long may that state of affairs continue. Anyway, come on. People to see.”

“Quick question, something that’s been bugging me?”

“Go on,” Hok said.

“General Vaas has a gold sunburst on a chain around his neck, the same sunburst worn by DocSec officers. What’s the story?”

“Ah, well spotted. Happy with the short version?”

“That’ll do.”

“The general ripped it off the uniform of the first piece of DocSec shit he killed. A lieutenant called Morales, Lieutenant Eric Morales. He arrested one of Vaas’s friends, then beat him to death during interrogation. Vaas caught up with him and blew his brains out. It’s become a tradition with NRA troopers ever since. That answer the question?”

“Ah, yes,” Michael said, surprised but not shocked. “It does. Not a man to cross, then?”

“No, definitely not. Oh, by the way, I almost forgot. Have a read of this.” Hok pushed a tattered piece of paper across the desk to him.

“Oh, shit,” Michael muttered as he read it. He pushed it back. “Seems I’m now worth ten million dollars.”

“Hey, be happy. You’re only worth that much alive,” Hok said. “Ten mil’s not bad, though, considering you’ve only been here a few days. The bounty on General Vaas’s head is half that. Somebody out there must hate you big time. Come on, let’s go.”

   Michael woke with a start for a moment, confused, wondering what the hell was happening. Belatedly, he worked out that it was Anna wriggling her way into the narrow bunk alongside him.

“Anna,” he whispered. “What time is it?”

“Too late is what time it is. I’m butchered. Talk to me in the morning.”

“Get a result?”

“Yes. Sasaki tipped off the Hammers. Adrissa’s people had their doubts about him. They were supposed to be keeping an eye on him, but somehow he managed to slip away and fire off a comm without being detected. Sonofabitch.”

“Shit. That’s not good.”

“Adrissa’s totally pissed. Anyway, she’s told
Damishqui
’s provost marshal to prepare the brief of evidence and pronto. Poor bastard won’t be getting much sleep.”

“That’s quick.”

“Adrissa’s worried about the NRA. The whole business is a huge embarrassment. My guess is she doesn’t want to appear weak. Look, Michael. I’m tired, it’s late. Leave me be. I’ll fill in the gaps tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

The Defense Council chamber was silent as Polk’s outburst of incandescent rage soaked into the tired acoustic paneling that lined the walls. Taking a ragged breath, Polk struggled to recover his equilibrium. Kraa help me, he swore silently. This bullshit has to stop.

“So,” he hissed, his voice all silken menace, “once again we see what happens when planetary defense refuses to trust the marines. Now the NRA has the services of not one, not two, but three Fed assault landers, landers we should have destroyed the instant they broke cover. No, no,” he said putting his hand out to forestall the inevitable objections from the PGDF’s supporters.
“It’s not all planetary defense’s fault, though it has good reason not to trust the marines: Sit down and shut up, Councillor. I don’t give a flying fuck that your father was once commanding general of the PGDF, nor do I think that gives you the obligation to defend them come what may.”

Polk paused, breathing heavily, face red with rage. “Where was I? Oh, yes. There is fault on both sides, both sides.” He paused to glare in turn at the men around the table. “And now,” he continued, “the time has come to fix this problem.”

“What are you proposing, Chief Councillor?” Under-Councillor Kaapsen said. “There is no mention of this item in the briefing papers for this meeting of the council.”

“No,” Polk said. “There isn’t. You have a problem with that?” he added, face hardening into a belligerent scowl. He had no time for Kaapsen, the man responsible for the PGDF. He had the job only because he was what his political allies liked to call “a safe pair of hands” when it came to looking after planetary defense’s interests.

“No, no, no, Chief Councillor, of course not, no,” Kaapsen said, the words tripping over themselves in his hurry to get them out.

Polk snorted. Kaapsen might be a safe pair of hands, but he was gutless. “As I was saying,” he continued, “we must find a way to ensure that the marines and PGDF work together. Only a blind fool can fail to see the threat the NRA poses to all of us, and only an even bigger fool would argue that forcing this Council to meet every time the PGDF needs the assistance of the Hammer of Kraa marines is not utter stupidity.”

“It may be,” Councillor Jones said. “And I agree that it is,” he added hastily when he saw the anger flooding across Polk’s face, “but it is the Constitution.”

“That’s true,” Polk conceded, “but what good will the Constitution be if the NRA wins this war and puts the Nationalists into power? The first thing they will do is to tear the Constitution up. So what is it to be, Councillors? Slavish adherence to a piece of paper or pragmatic good sense in the face of an unprecedented challenge to our authority, a challenge that will see us all dead if we fail to meet it?”

“What is it you propose, Chief Councillor?” Jones asked.

“A new unitary command authority, responsible for all military operations against the NRA, to which would be tasked all PGDF forces in the McNair theater of operations along with Marine Forces 3, 6, 8, and 11. I believe—”

Whatever else Polk had wanted to say went unheard as the room erupted in violent protest that engulfed all present, voices rising as everyone struggled to make his point. It took repeated hammering of his fist on the table before Polk could restore order.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “This is no way to conduct Defense Council business. I do not know how often I have to say the obvious: The NRA poses a serious threat, the most serious in the Worlds’ history, a threat that will see us all hanging from lampposts if we do not crush it.”

Polk paused for a second. “You do all understand that, don’t you?” he demanded. “That this may be the end for us? Kraa knows, the unwashed scum that infest our cities would kill us all without a moment’s hesitation.” His finger stabbed out at the nearest councillor, making the man flinch back. “You! Councillor Kando! Do you understand how close we are to losing this?”

“Yes, Chief Councillor,” the man admitted. “I do.”

“Good? Anyone here think we’re on top of things? No … well, I hope not, because one thing’s for sure. The heretic filth that run the NRA and Nationalists know how much trouble we’re in every bit as well as we do. You’d just better pray that the rabble out there”—he hooked a thumb at the wall behind him—“doesn’t work it out any time soon. We’re dead if they do.

“Right. Let’s move on,” Polk said, his voice easing to a conciliatory softness. “Now, I understand many of you want to make sure the marines stay focused on external defense, but the current crisis demands changes. So changes there will be … and why not now?” He paused, wondering if he had the numbers to force the matter to an in-principle vote and win; he stifled a curse as he counted heads. When too many councillors refused to look him in the eye, he knew he did not. “Under-Councillor Kaapsen,” he continued, resigned to a long fight. “You are the councillor responsible for the PGDF. Your views?”

“Well, Chief Councillor,” Kaapsen said. “It is clear to all that …”

   A long hour later and with heated argument still raging, Polk gave up the fight. So far as he was able to determine, all the debate had achieved was to solidify the PGDF’s position, and he knew the matter was lost. He cursed his own stupidity; deciding to take the matter head-on had been a spontaneous decision, one made to deny the PGDF’s supporters the chance to lobby the rest of the Council. It had been a mistake. All they had done was argue more loudly and passionately than everyone else until they had ground the resistance to dust.

So they were back to square one. The PGDF would always need the marines’ support. Thanks to the paranoia of the people who wrote the Constitution, only the marines were permitted to operate heavy armor and ground-assault landers. That meant the PGDF had to ask the Defense Council to approve their requests for help each and every time. It was no wonder the NRA was doing so well.

“Enough,” Polk said wearily, worn out by the endless squabbling. “I will defer this matter for further discussion. Councillor Jones.”

“Yes, Chief Councillor?”

“I want a draft report looking at the feasibility of a unified command structure before next week’s meeting. Now, moving on. Admiral Belasz. Your report on the week’s operations against the Feds.”

“Thank you, sir. If you would look this way, you will see that Fleet has had a busy week, and as usual the Feds have struggled to respond. Here, here, and here we mounted …”

It had been a long, grinding week, and Michael was exhausted. Like all the Feds except those involved in Leading Spacer Sasaki’s court-martial, he had been working long hours getting the microfabs purloined from the three dreadnoughts operational. If the Feds were to make a difference, the damn things needed to work. All things considered, the NRA was doing well, but Vaas and his commanders had admitted that it had to do better, and to do better, the NRA needed more of everything: ordnance, secure comms gear, real-time decrypters, portable electronic intercept systems, battlefield trauma equipment …

Michael abandoned his attempt to itemize all the things the NRA needed. He would be itemizing all night; the list was endless, and everything important was scarce. Thanks to a library of microfab production templates, the machines had the smarts to turn out much of what the NRA needed using only basic raw materials, geneered bacterial feedstock, and lots of power. Nothing they produced would be state of the art—after all, the templates had been bought from an information broker based on one of the Rogue Planets—but what they did turn out would be a hell of a lot better than nothing.

Best of all was something that Chief Chua had discovered during the setting-up work: Microfab machines carried microfab templates. In theory, given the right raw materials, they were able to turn out copies of themselves.

Which meant—

Michael’s dreams of hectares and hectares of microfab plants busy churning out everything the NRA needed were rudely interrupted by a call from Anna.

She wasted no time on niceties. “Court-martial’s wrapping
up. Sasaki’s been found guilty, and they’re about to sentence him. Patch your neuronics into channel 36. It’s the live vid.”

“Okay.”

Michael’s neuronics filled with an image he never forgot: the face of Leading Spacer Sasaki, pale, sweating, his fear betrayed by a trembling lower lip.

The president of the court-martial panel looked just as unhappy. He peered at the piece of paper in his hands; he was clearly having trouble believing what was written there. “Leading Spacer Jon James Sasaki,” he said finally, voice wavering. “It is my duty as president of this court-martial to announce that the court-martial, all members concurring, sentences you to death by firing squad.”

The tiny court-martial room was silent. “Oh, shit,” Michael murmured as he dropped the holovid feed.

   Michael’s hopes of a full night’s sleep were shattered by a priority call from Adrissa. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled, trying to shake off the bone-numbing fatigue of a long, hard day.

“My office, now!” she snapped, dropping the comm before Michael responded.

“Yes, sir,” he said to the empty nothingness of a dead comms link. What the hell, he wondered as he slipped out of his bunk, fumbling around to find his shipsuit and boots, careful not to wake Anna.

Michael hurried through the silent corridors connecting the Feds’ quarters. The sparse lighting did nothing to help him shake off a dreadful certainty that something bad was about to happen. Knocking on the flimsy door to Adrissa’s office, he went straight in.

“Yes, sir?”

“Sit, Michael,” Adrissa said. She looked tired, her face gray with fatigue. “I need you to do something for me.”