Steel Gauntlet (34 page)

The 19th, 36th, and 225th FISTs, and the 10th Light Infantry Division, were to go after the First Tank Brigade and Third Armored Division in the badlands. Major General Daly was in command of that task force. The 13th, 21st, and 34th FISTs, along with the 2nd Infantry Division, under the joint command of 34th FISTs Brigadier Sturgeon, were to kill the Fourth Armored Division in the forest. Aguinaldo got arguments from both army generals.

“Sir, I must protest,” Major General Ott said. “As fine a general officer as I know General Daly to be, he has no experience commanding a division.”

“General,” Aguinaldo replied calmly. “Allowing for the 10th’s lack of air, vehicles, and organic artillery, and despite its superior numbers, your division does not match the force General Daly has been commanding since day one of this war. He is more experienced than you are at commanding an operation of this size.”

The Marine’s relaxed demeanor reminded Ott of nothing so much as a native life-form on Lechter.

The Barsoomian trapper looked innocent, rather like a coating of algae on rocks, but when enough weight moved across its center, it suddenly wrapped up its sides, engulfed whatever animal was on it, injected it with a paralyzing toxin, and began to digest it. When he was a captain commanding a company on Lechter, a squad had patrolled across one. There were no survivors.

When Aguinaldo saw that his point was accepted, he said, “General, I believe your foot soldiers will be better able to move rapidly and unseen in the badlands than one of the heavier divisions. That’s why I’m sending the 10th—I think you can do the job.”

“Thank you, sir,” was all Ott could say.

Major General Flathead, commander of the 2nd Division, wasn’t discomfited by Ott’s abortive confrontation. He had a stronger position.

“Sir, this is preposterous,” he began. “I’m a major general. Sturgeon’s a brigadier. I outrank hum.” Aguinaldo looked at him levelly. “That’s easily enough remedied.” Flathead opened his mouth to continue, then realized the unspoken threat had just been spoken. He turned livid, but closed his mouth. He hoped there would be an inquiry into the lack of readiness of III Corps and that he’d be called upon to testify; it was General Han’s fault he was facing the embarrassment of having not just a Marine, but a junior Marine, in command over him. He wanted to see Han humiliated. It didn’t occur to him that if he and the other division commanders had their divisions better prepared in the first place, there wouldn’t have been a problem with III Corps’ readiness and Han wouldn’t have been relieved.

It took Task Force Daly two weeks of hard, grinding, slow movement through the hills and gullies of the badlands to corner and kill the elements of the Third Armored Division that didn’t immediately surrender. They didn’t kill the First Tank Brigade. As soon as the brigade’s battalion commanders saw the desert camouflage of the advancing 10th Light, they sent out emissaries under white flags to arrange surrender.

Task Force Sturgeon had a harder time, though what turned out to be the antiarmor phase of the operation only took one week. All elements of the Fourth Armored Division fought to the last tank. The surviving tankers then became infantrymen and melted deeper into the forest, where they had to be found and killed or captured piecemeal. That took another month. That phase of the operation was conducted primarily by the Marines, who knew how to operate in platoon-size and smaller units. To the 2nd Infantry Division, a “small-unit” action was battalion-size, and their battalions couldn’t function well where the tankers had gone.

Ninth Corps’ heavy equipment finally arrived and its five divisions began landing. They didn’t land as quickly as the 106th and 2nd divisions had because General Aguinaldo’s attention was focused on the two task forces that were hunting down the Third and Fourth armored divisions.

The 10th Heavy Infantry Division was the first to land. It arrived just in time to help defend Oppalia from an assault made by three previously undetected Diamundean divisions that came up from the south.

Three days of heavy fighting broke those divisions and sent them fleeing back to the south. Aguinaldo sent the 37th and 106th divisions after them. They were gone for five weeks.

Once the south and southeast were cleared, Aguinaldo sent the massed artillery of III Corps to the Tourmaline mining complex. The big guns battered the face of the mountain until it collapsed, sealing the First Armored Division inside. At last, seven weeks after the First Tank Brigade was driven from Oppalia, it was time to deal with the forces defending New Kimberly. Six Marine FISTs and two army Corps, all battle-tested if not battle-worn, lined up to assault the three divisions defending the capital city.

That was when the cease-fire order arrived from the Confederation Council.

CHAPTER 27

“Madame Speaker,” Perry Anolitch, the representative from New Olifants intoned, “Madame Speaker, I request the august members of this august body be polled individually and by voice to confirm that—” He was interrupted by shouts and groans as other congressmen, supporters and opponents of Val Carney’s resolution to declare a cease-fire on Diamunde, voiced their opinions.

“—to confirm that the count is correct,” Anolitch finished. With the electronic poll showing 248

members against the cease-fire and 252 for the measure, the vote was, so far, a clear victory for Carney.

Just three votes were needed to swing the ballot Chang-Sturdevant’s way. In the event of a tie, the speaker, a nonvoting member, was empowered to break the deadlock. The speaker was Madame Piggot Thigpen of Carhart’s World, an outspoken ally of Marston St. Cyr, but she shifted her vast bulk angrily and gestured at the sergeant-at-arms to proceed with the voice vote.

Wearily, he began to poll each member of the Congress. “I ask the Honorable Gentleman from Aardheim: How do you vote, sir?” Aardheim was against the cease-fire. He took a full five minutes to respond.

The recount could take several days. Already Anolitch and his colleagues were talking frantically to unpolled delegates who had voted for the measure while Val Carney and his allies appealed to those same delegates not to change their votes.

“Look there,” Madame Chang-Sturdevant said to Marcus Berentus as they sat watching the vote on closed-circuit video from the private chamber reserved for the President’s use. She nodded toward the screen, which showed Carney and Thigpen engaged in a whispered conversation.

“Hmph,” Berentus grunted. “And they tell us there are no sentient life-forms harmful to the human species.”

“Marc!” Chang-Sturdevant laughed in spite of herself. The two politicians were grotesque by themselves but, together like that, they resembled a circus sideshow duo, Jack Sprat and his fat-eating wife, licking their political platters clean: Carney thin as a rail, his sharp nose and chin almost touching; Thigpen a grotesque mound of fat, her eyes mere slits in a face as round and red as a setting sun. She constantly swiped at the rivulets of perspiration running down her flushed cheeks, and people in her vicinity had to be careful to avoid getting hit. Carney, deeply absorbed in what he was saying, was oblivious to the droplets that splashed onto him now.

“He probably enjoys her showers,” Berentus said.

“I’ve heard she doesn’t like men very much.”

“Well, the feeling is mutual.”

“Marc, I certainly hope this conversation is not being recorded.”

“No, ma’am, not that I’m aware of.”

After a moment Madame Chang-Sturdevant, shaking her head, changed the screen and they watched a prominent delegate, one whose turn was way down the roster to vote, dozing peacefully at his desk.

Beside her, Berentus remarked, “This antiquated recount procedure is one of the weakest aspects of our system.”

Madame Chang-Sturdevant only shrugged. All parties used the parliamentary maneuver occasionally.

She sighed. “What travels about comes about. I used it once when I was in Congress, and who knows, it may work for us this time.” She paused. “But don’t count on it, Marc. Our forces have had some hard fighting on Diamunde, which may have cooled the enthusiasm of some members.” She shrugged again.

Her nonchalance belied how she really felt—betrayed and disgusted. If St. Cyr pulled off the political coup, those who died attempting to stop his butchery would have been sacrificed in vain. From where she sat at the moment, he had pulled it off.

“And don’t forget St. Cyr’s money,” Berentus added bitterly. “All those good men’s lives wasted because of these damned money-grubbing cowards... excuse me, Madame President! I am no politician; you know that. But we have that bastard by the short hairs, ma’am, all we need is a little more time and he’s history.”

Madame Chang-Sturdevant nodded. The voting droned on and on. Eventually the President of the Confederation Council of Worlds dozed off herself.

The recount took six hours. The final tally was 250 members against a cease-fire and 250 for it.

Madame Piggot Thigpen smiled, her several chins jiggling merrily. She cast her vote. The measure passed.

Perry Anolitch rested his head in his hands.

Madame Chang-Sturdevant got to her feet. “Dispatch a drone to Admiral Wimbush immediately, Marc. Order him to initiate a cease-fire upon receipt and to open negotiations with St. Cyr as soon as possible.” Berentus nodded, bowing silently to the inevitable. “But Marc,” Chang-Sturdevant added, “tell the admiral to be very careful. Very careful. St. Cyr cannot be trusted. He may yet do something that will permit us to nail him. Nothing’s over till it’s over.”

Jon Beerdmens, Chief of the Confederation Diplomatic Corps, shifted his huge bulk and farted loudly.

His chair had been made to his exact specifications by craftsmen on New Brooklyn; the meal he’d just eaten had been prepared in the headquarters cafeteria. Eating there always made his innards rumble embarrassingly. Others who ate the cafeteria food didn’t seem to have that problem. He wondered why.

Perhaps it was the shurdlu sausages dripping with fat, the boiled cabbages grown on Eatoin and the Creme of Greece soup he enjoyed so much. The chef knew which foods Beerdmens liked best, and since he was the Chief of the Corps, his favorite dishes were always on hand when he was in town.

Beerdmens raised himself slightly and fanned the air vigorously. He wondered, as he always did, why one’s own farts never seemed to smell as atrociously rotten as those expressed by others. He sat back down heavily. The padded cushions under his 153 kilos hissed as they absorbed his weight and lowered him slowly back into a comfortable sitting position. Fumes fingering in the fabric under him rose, silent and deadly, into the still office air. He punched a button on the climate control console to freshen the air exchange. It labored mightily, silently, but, ultimately, ineffectively to do his bidding; in the twenty-fifth century there were still tasks so difficult that mere machinery was unequal to them.

Beerdmens belched loudly. The sound reverberated like a shot in his spacious office suite. He looked about self-consciously, hoping his secretary, sitting just outside, hadn’t heard. “Excellency, you have a visitor,” that very same person announced over the intercom.

“Not now, Grace!” he said petulantly. Gad, he couldn’t have someone coming in here now, not with that odor.

“Excellency, it is Madame Wellington-Humphreys. She is on your calendar for—”

“Oh, very well. Uh, Grace, tell her to wait a minute, would you?” The air exchanger was not working fast enough. With some effort Beerdmens got out of his chair and waddled, swiftly and gracefully for so large a man, to the nearest window. He pressed a control pad, and instantly cool afternoon air flowed in. He stood there, shaking out his clothing and waving his arms.

Satisfied that the aroma had dissipated, he waddled back to his desk and sat down with a huge sigh. The chair quietly readjusted. “Send in Madame Ambassador now, Grace.” Madame J. Wellington-Humphreys swept into the room. She carried with her the faint but pleasant aroma of very expensive perfume. She was, as always, ravishing.

“Excellency,” she said with a small bow toward Beerdmens.

“Madame.” Beerdmens leaned forward and extended his hand across his desktop. It was far easier than trying to get up again. “Forgive me, but recently I sprained my ankle, and must receive you like this,” he lied with an embarrassed smile. “Please, be seated, Madame. Would you like some refreshment?”

“Very thoughtful of you, Excellency! Yes, please. Would a glass of Katzenwasser ’thirty-six be any trouble? I’d like it served with just a tiny pinch of Cerebrian garlic, if possible, and perhaps a pipe of thule on the side?”

“Ah, Madame, an excellent vintage! Thule, of course! John...” Beerdmens punched a pad on his communications console and gave Wellington-Humphreys’s order to his steward. “And the same for me,” he added.

Wellington-Humphreys wrinkled her nose slightly and looked about the room. Beerdmens sought to distract her. “Ah, Madame, you’ve been to Wanderjahr, haven’t you?” Damn, he thought, I must get maintenance to work on that air scrubber. Back to matters at hand: The champagne and the mild narcotic thule were Wanderjahr’s chief exports, and Beerdmens enjoyed both enormously.

“Yes, Excellency. I was there on a diplomatic mission when that dreadful Spears person was our ambassador. I understand Spears is retired and Kurt Arschmann in jail.”

“Indeed. Good riddance to them both.”

“I rather liked Arschmann,” Wellington-Humphreys said. “They put some—some—nobody in charge after Kurt was arrested.” John arrived and served the drinks and pipes of thule. “The military made quite a mess of things there, I understand,” Wellington-Humphreys continued, sipping her champagne.

“Don’t they always?” Beerdmens laughed. “For them the best solution to any political crisis is to kill as many people as possible. That brings me to the reason I asked you to come back here. Been following events on Diamunde lately?”

“Well, I’ve been busy on Dagondxi, as you know. Got the Samovarians and the Mercers to agree on a border treaty, and that was damned hard, let me tell you!” Beerdmens nodded sympathetically. “So not much time to follow events elsewhere. But yes, I know we had to send in the Marines to deal with this—this whatsisname...”