Two Space War Part 26

A sabre instead of a scythe to wield:

War! Red War!

Corporal Kobbsven was the commander of Melville's small escort as he went to make his visits. In this case that meant that Kobbsven was the battering ram, flanked by two large marines, punching a path through the fear-maddened, refugee-clogged streets of a city preparing for war. Women wept, children cheered, men marched or cheered or wept, and insanity reigned. In the background a cacophony of bells, bugles and horns proclaimed, "War! War! War!"

Melville stayed right behind Kobbsven and his two flankers, while Westminster and Valandil, his two rangers, stayed behind their captain in a kind of wishbone formation, with Cinder trotting between them. They were ready to serve as countersnipers, or as a reserve force if need be. Immediately behind them were Gunny Von Rito and Ulrich protecting their rear. Von Rito was here in his capacity as the s.h.i.+p's armorer. If all went well, there would be a need for him.

It was a rather large entourage, but Melville wasn't in the mood to take any chances. He was developing what some would call paranoid tendencies, but in the mind of a warrior this was the kind of SOP, or standard operating procedures, that would keep you, and the people around you, alive.

They had just returned from the funeral for young Mids.h.i.+pman Ngobe and the others who had died in their approach to Ambergris. They'd also buried the handful of s.h.i.+pmates who had died in sickbay since their last planetfall. Those corpses had been kept in cold storage, towed along behind their s.h.i.+p in interstellar s.p.a.ce. Now they had been pulled up and lovingly planted in the living earth of Ambergris. Melville and the crew had grieved intensely but briefly for these s.h.i.+pmates, and now they were ready to get on with business. The first order of business was a visit to the port admiral.

They pushed through the crowds to the port office, and Melville was shown directly in to the admiral. His entourage waited outside, Ulrich and his monkey making a fine game of staring down and intimidating everyone in the outer office, while Melville was escorted in to the admiral. He found himself in a s.p.a.cious, sunny, corner office high upon a prominence. In one direction it looked out upon the immense expanse of the port, a seemingly endless orchard of Pier pilings, ropes, stairways and ladders, all disappearing up into nothing. In the other direction a wide window looked down upon the vast, teeming, lower city of Ee across the river.

The Sylvan fleet admiral was already there, slender and elegant, his long blond hair streaked with gray, standing in fine green silks with intricate yellow and red piping. His Stolsh counterpart sat behind an ornate desk, a tall, dark, dour individual swathed in complex layers of blue, green, white and brown, the colors of a world as seen from s.p.a.ce. His look of calm and dignified control was belied by the steady pulsing of his gills. Both officers carried swords at their hips. Swords with well-worn, sweat-stained hilts.

A servant brought in a tray of refreshments, with two huge chairdogs trotting obediently behind him. The dogs curled up and Melville and the Sylvan admiral each took a seat. Melville was grateful for the opportunity to relax his battered body into the perfectly adjusting contours of the big, plush, warm, contented beast. His monkey delighted in the new experience of the chairdog, and the little creature was even further distracted by the fine Stolsh cheeses and Sylvan wines that were served. Then Melville made his requests.

It was as though some demiG.o.d had descended from above. There was nothing he could ask for that they weren't willing to give. The grat.i.tude of these two battle-hardened old sailors was sincere and gratifying.

"No one can be completely sure," said the Sylvan admiral, "but we believe that thou hast personally destroyed over a dozen enemy frigates, and damaged at least as many more. The s.h.i.+ps that followed thee in thy line of battle destroyed several more. There can be no doubt that the enemy abandoned the attack because of thy actions."

The Sylvans had the bulk of the naval forces around Ambergris, and the Sylvan seemed to accept it as his responsibility to personally acknowledge and thank Melville. "We were cut off by their 24-pounder frigates, as thou hast termed them, and probably could not have escaped. The Osgil fleet, and our Stolsh allies here in Ambergris, were all facing certain doom. We had reconciled ourselves to our deaths when thee didst descend upon them like a hawk among crows, turning our greatest defeat into our mightiest victory. Truly, we owe thee a debt of grat.i.tude that can never be repaid."

Melville and his monkey both nodded somberly in response. Then Melville replied simply, "I am honored to have been of service in your hour of need." He was just too weary to think of anything else to say.

The two admirals didn't know what to make of this heavily bandaged young barbarian who had come to succor them, literally out of the blue, in their darkest hour. He was an enigma sitting before them in his faded, tattered uniform, with his strange pet beast sniffing and peering into the patient chairdog's eyes, ears, nose and mouth while periodically stealing tidbits and sips of wine. But they were warriors, veterans of many battles and skirmishes in distant corners of the galaxy. They understood that here was something beyond the ken of past experience. Something to be appreciated, supported, and perhaps even placated. Every resource of the vast dockyard was extended to him, and they also agreed to help find human sailors to fill out his crew. The Sylvan admiral even promised a draft of crack Sylvan topmen.

Prince and page, sot and sage,

Hark to the roar of War!

Poet, professor and circus clown,

Chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town,

Into the pot and be melted down:

Into the pot of War!

His s.h.i.+p and men cared for, Melville and his entourage then fought their way through the weeping, cheering, cursing ma.s.ses to the Westerness Consulate. Again Ulrich and his monkey very successfully performed their intimidation act in the outer lobby while Melville was shown directly to the consul. A bald, potbellied, bespectacled little man in a drab black, pinstripe suit sat behind his desk in a wide, expansive office. No seat was offered, no refreshments provided. It was like a house in mourning. The drapes were drawn on all the windows, as though that would protect them from the hostile world outside.

The Honorable Milton Carpetwright sat looking at Melville with eyes full of dread. He was as small in spirit as he was in stature. Here was a man in a quiet job, at the pinnacle of a quiet career, who suddenly found himself deep in affairs far beyond his ability. "No risks, no gambles, no chances," was his petty little life's motto. When a violent, harsh, unpredictable world intruded, as it inevitably does, he was completely bewildered and unprepared.

Now he was confronted with a wild-eyed, bandaged, tattered young captain with an exotic beast upon his shoulder. Both of them looked at him with a casual ferocity that made his bladder loosen. He was cut off from his immediate superior, who was the amba.s.sador in the Sylvan capital world of Osgil. In the absence of other guidance his top priority became his personal survival. In his high-pitched voice he told Melville that he wanted to use Fang to immediately evacuate the consulate to Osgil.

"Yes sir, I can try to do that," answered Melville slowly. "But we've been shot up badly and will need a lot of repairs first. And we'd be on our own against the entire enemy fleet. I think we've proven that we are good, sir, very good, but chances are that we would all die if we tried to break out without the entire Sylvan and Stolsh fleets supporting us."

Carpetwright's eyes grew wide and his jaw quivered as Melville continued. "I think our chances are far better if we wait to see if the enemy ground forces are defeated. If we beat them on the ground here, then we are safe, and sooner or later they will have to pull off most of the forces besieging us. If we lose the ground battle then we will have to evacuate, but we will have the entire fleet here to support us. Probably some relieving forces from Osgil will also be available to link up with us by then."

The consul nodded. This did make sense. Here was wise advice.

"Basically, sir," Melville continued, "I'm under your orders. If you accept my advice to stay here, then the only question is, should my men support the ground defense of the city? They have attacked our Westerness flagged s.h.i.+ps repeatedly, in a totally unprovoked manner. Essentially, they have declared war upon us, whether we want it or not. In a legal, diplomatic sense, would that make us justified in defending ourselves here?"

"Oh yes, yes indeed. Defending ourselves. Very important. 'The right of self defense is never denied.' "

"Then sir, again, the question is, do we partic.i.p.ate in the defense of the city? I think we could contribute a lot, could significantly increase the chances of victory. The question is do we do it, and if so how thoroughly should we commit ourselves?"

Sweat beaded up on the little man's forehead as he committed himself. "If it will help us stay alive, then I want you to partic.i.p.ate in the defense."

The diplomat is able to pull his head out of his . . . sh.e.l.l, thought Melville as he nodded to the consul, and make a decision.

"But under no circ.u.mstance should your forces become decisively engaged. Your priority is to prepare your s.h.i.+p for evacuation," he concluded, with a note that almost sounded like decisiveness.

Ah, but he is, in the end, still a diplomat. If the pig flies, don't blame him if it's only a little ways, and if the landing is rough.

"Aye, sir. Will do," said Melville standing up. "Now, sir, if you'll permit me, I must attend to your orders."

"Indeed, Captain, indeed."

"Oh, sir," said Melville, as though it were a minor afterthought, "I recommend that your Marine guard should stay here to secure our noncombat personnel." As though this sad little man would have it any other way. His handful of marines wouldn't make that much difference anyway. "But I wonder if we could tap into the consulate's emergency supplies. It will greatly increase our chance of success."

"Oh, yes, indeed, Captain." Carpetwright was obviously relieved that this wild-eyed, young man didn't try to take his personal marine guard. Great military minds must think alike, he thought, preening and rebuilding his wounded ego slightly. Here is a man who thinks like me, someone I might be able to trust. "You have my permission to make any military decisions in that area. Just, again, my marines stay with me, and do not become decisively engaged."

"Yes sir, I agree completely." And in truth, he did. He had no intention of fighting to the death here, on land. But he did intend to hurt the enemy as much as he could, and the consulate's "emergency supplies" might make all the difference.

Women all, hear the call,

The pitiless call of War!

Look your last on your dearest ones,

Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons:

Swift they go to the ravenous guns,

The gluttonous guns of War.

"Aye, sir. Here they is," said the consulate's little marine armorer, Corporal Petrico. "Each one made by hand from raw steel, with tendur luvin' care, acrost several decades, an' then carefully tested an' retested. M-1911A1, .45 caliber, semi-ottermactic, recoil-okerpated, magalzine-fed, gummernt modul pistuls. The finest pockin' low-ta-mid tech hand weapon efer inventud."

"Aye. Ahhh, aye, indeed," said Gunny Von Rito, holding one reverently in his hand. "Essentially using nineteenth century, Victorian era metallurgy and technology, it was developed in the early, early days of the twentieth century and first used in combat in 1916 against Pancho Villa. And yet over a century later it was still the dominant handgun of its time. h.e.l.l, until them la-tee-da blasters and phasers were developed, centuries later on high-tech worlds, there really was no better weapon for one man to hold in his hand. You'll seldom see any weapon with that kind of staying power, throughout the annals of history."

The bullet-headed, scarred old NCO was in a state of near religious veneration as he continued. "Can you imagine what kind of technology base it would take to develop blasters or phasers! And when you're done, you still will never have the psychological impact, the noise, concussion, flash, and smell of a .45. With just a minimal tech base this baby gives you maximum lethality. And, most importantly, when properly built, this is one of the most reliable, dependable guns ever built. In the mud and the blood and the beer, this baby will never let you down. All skill is in vain if the angels p.i.s.s in the flintlock of your musket."

"Aye, Gunny," said Petrico, as they both paid homage at the altar of the .45 auto. " 'At's G.o.d's Gun."

"Aye, that's G.o.d's own gun," the Gunny replied. "The perfect gun. There's some that'd disagree, but I'm not one."

"Now," said Petrico, with reverence as he held the gun in his hand, "six hundert years later, it's da standart three-s.p.a.ce weapin fer da hole pockin' Westerness forces any time they gets a chance ta develerp a perduction base. When wurd come out fer da marines ta develop small arms at each emba.s.sy an' consulate, waddaya suppose we turns ta? Saint Browning's pockin' masterpiece, thas wat. This baby wouldn' last fife minutes in two-s.p.a.ce, but da plans, printed on paper, dey travels jis fine. Firs' we made da tools ta make 'em, an' then we begun ta work, buildin' 'em, one-by-one. Lots o' spare time the Marines have on consulate an' emba.s.sy duty. Wot better way ta spend it. I'm not even shur them pockin', mawdikker diplermats knows or cares about 'em. But we knows, we pockin' knows, ay gunny?"

The ceremonial guards of Westerness' emba.s.sies and consulates didn't waste a lot of time on spit and polish. Some fancy ceremonial guards spent all their time polis.h.i.+ng their fancy ornamental armor. The marines did look good on duty, and everything that could be polished was well polished, but they hated being thought of as the kind of people who wore stupid ceremonial armor. They saw it as a kind of "gilt" by a.s.sociation. Thus they had a fair amount of spare time, but they believed in investing it. Physical fitness and combat training was important, and whatever time was left over, across the years, was spent handcrafting firearms. Mostly they built .45 autos, but they also built a few of Saint Browning's other masterpiece, the M-1918 Browning Automatic Rifle, or BAR, invented in the same general time frame. The technophobia of the Westerness Empire was able to stretch just enough to embrace these two, magnificent, almost Victorian era weapons, both of which were used in World War I.

"You know, Gunny, Corporal," said Melville, nodding to each of the old warriors respectfully as he held his own .45 up beside his ear and heard the satisfying "thok" of the reset as he put it through a function check, "The idea isn't new. Even in the twenty-first century, on Old Earth, there were craftsmen in Pakistan and other parts of Asia who could handmake a replica of almost any gun you brought to them. Give them a working model, and in weeks they could have an exact copy, made entirely by hand. The only thing that would stop them is if you needed something with fancy metallurgy, or with tight tolerances."

"Aye," replied Von Rito. "No fancy metals or tight tolerances here. Just a fistful of death and destruction. With the twenty-two .45s and the two BARs the boys can release to us, plus all the ammo they've ginned up, we'll make the Guldur mighty sorry they ever landed on this world."

"Aye, indeed, Gunny," said Melville grimly. "They might conquer this world, but if they do I intend for it to be a hollow victory. If I have my way, this arm of the invading force will have nothing left to attack any other worlds. And they'll think long and hard before they ever attack the Westerness Navy again."

Training their troops with the .45 wasn't something to be taken lightly. All of them had familiarized with the weapon in basic training, but this was the first Westerness force to use them in true combat, and the first force to tap into a consulate's "emergency stores." There was a responsibility to make sure the troops did a good job, and that meant intense training.

The BARs weren't a problem. Gunny Von Rito and Corporal Kobbsven were both instructor qualified with that weapon. Some might think that their two best marksmen, Westminster and Valandil, would be the best men to a.s.sign to the BAR. But proper use of a heavy automatic rifle is as different from a normal rifle as a submachine gun is from a pistol. The BAR required specific training and skills, which these two NCOs possessed in spades. The effective use of the ma.s.sive BAR in crowd-clearing, close-range operations also required a big man, a strong man, and Von Rito and Kobbsven both met the standard there.

The real problem was making sure the .45s would be used to the maximum possible effect. They had several thousand rounds of ammunition for each weapon. For the BARs that meant the .30-06 ammo had to be held back, used conservatively. Firing at a cyclic rate of around 550 rounds per minute, the automatic rifles would burn a few thousand rounds, or fifty twenty-round box magazines, in a matter of minutes. There was no need to waste the BAR ammo for anything other than a quick test-fire, since they had experienced, highly trained gunners. But it took a long time to burn a thousand rounds of .45 ammo from a pistol. They could afford to fire a thousand rounds per man in training and still have a thousand rounds for combat. And so they did.

To Melville's surprise it turned out that Lieutenant Fielder was the best qualified individual to train their troops on the .45. He was instructor qualified and, according to his records, had even survived a gunfight with a .45. The specifics were vague. When asked about the incident Fielder's answer was, "The people you kill aren't important. What matters is the ones who fail to kill you." He'd even trained at Gunsite, the famous desert world where the monks at the Gunsite monastery followed the teachings of Saint Cooper. Thus he was called upon to be the lead instructor for the .45 training. And he did so, in his own, inimitable style.

He taught misfeed drills, tactical reloads, speed reloads, and one-handed reloads. Marksmans.h.i.+p wasn't as critical since most of his students were already extensively trained with two-s.p.a.ce pistols, and with three-s.p.a.ce, muzzle-loading, double-barreled pistols. But they still fired many, many rounds of ammunition to fine-tune their shooting skills with these weapons. What was important was the new philosophy and science of combat with a semi-automatic pistol. That was Fielder's specialty.

"Gentlemen," he began, "you are holding in your hands the universal translator. As the ancient wise man, Saint Clint the Thunderer, once said, 'You can say "stop" or "alto" or use any other word you think will work, but a large bore muzzle pointed at someone's head is pretty much the universal language.' I will teach you how to use your universal translator, and I will teach you much of the wisdom of Saint Clint and the other ancient wise men from the time of the great warrior Renaissance in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries."

They were standing in the sweltering heat of a Stolsh firing range as Fielder paced the firing line, looking at his twenty students. They each had a .45 holstered at their side. "The first thing we want to do is to avoid a fight! The First Rule of a Gunfight is don't! As a last resort, you use your weapon, your 'universal translator,' to communicate to your opponent that this is all a misunderstanding, and they really don't want to mess with you. The Second Rule of a Gunfight is, if you can't avoid it, bring enough gun. An armored vehicle with automatic weapons can be considered barely enough gun. But the enemy has forced this fight upon us, and you hold in your hand the biggest, best gun we can provide. So let us use it to communicate the most effective message possible!"

Melville and Petreckski stood to the side of the firing line with the remaining two .45s holstered comfortingly at their hips, listening, a.s.sessing, observing, and learning. Broadax stood beside them, scowling. Like most of her race she was essentially useless with a firearm, so she'd be conducting this battle with her trusty, faithful ax. Melville was beginning to wonder if it had been a good idea to pull his first officer away from the s.h.i.+p's repair and refurbis.h.i.+ng for this training. But, in truth, what Fielder was saying did make sense.

"If you can choose what to bring to a gun fight, the most important thing to bring is a friend. Bring lots of friends. Bring a whole d.a.m.ned platoon! And be d.a.m.ned sure they're well armed and well trained!"

Fielder gestured to the left and right. "Look around you. Look carefully." Lieutenants Archer and Crater, their four surviving mids.h.i.+pmen (the unfortunate Faisal was wounded again, and poor Ngobe was dead), twelve marines, and two corpsmen obeyed, looking quizzically at each other. "These are your friends. Do not shoot them! They are well armed, and we will make d.a.m.ned sure that they're well trained. It doesn't do any good to have a well- armed, well-trained partner and then shoot 'em! Although," he added, quietly and introspectively, "I've had some partners I'd like to shoot . . ."

Breaking out of his reverie, he continued. "Teamwork is essential. For one thing, it gives the enemy someone else to shoot at. As a team player, shooting at your friends should be considered a major faux pas! Guaranteed to get you taken off their Christmas card lists. The only thing more accurate than incoming enemy fire is incoming friendly fire, and it's guaranteed to make you very unpopular!"

Taking a weapon from young Mids.h.i.+pman Aquinar, Fielder held it before them as he continued. "The primary thing that makes this weapon different from the weapons you're used to is the fact that it has lots of bullets! One in the chamber, and seven in the magazine. And we have lots of extra magazines. When I get done with you, you'll be able to change magazines in a fraction of a second, without conscious thought. So you have, essentially, an endless supply of ammo. Endless, that is, until you run out of magazines. But it's your commander's job to make sure that we break off before we get to that point. Since Captain Melville will be commanding you, I think we can all agree that you are in good hands when it comes to such matters."

Melville was mildly surprised by this vote of confidence from his first officer, and warmed by the chorus of agreement from the cla.s.s.

"So, you have lots of bullets. That means you can afford to be generous! The First Rule of Target Engagement is this. Anybody worth shooting is worth shooting twice! But don't be wasteful! In a 'target-rich environment' such as this one, where a whole army will probably be charging at us, double-tapping each target is probably about right. Unless someone has singled you out for personal attention, at close range. Then the rule is, 'when in doubt, empty the magazine!'

"The bottom line is this: you're going to make your attacker advance through a wall of bullets. You may get killed with your own gun some day, but by G.o.d he's gonna have to beat you to death with it, because it's going to be empty! You must understand that, in the end, anything you do can get you shot, including doing nothing! So you might as well be putting lead downrange."

Then he got deadly serious. Even more deadly serious than before, and it became obvious that he was speaking from personal experience. "My friends, you've done a lot of shooting at targets, and you have all been in combat, but I can tell you that a gunfight with one of these babies in your hand is real different when the bad guy shoots back. It doesn't mean you're going to lose, it just makes the story more interesting afterward. To make sure that you do the right thing at the moment of truth, we must drill it into you. Drill it, and drill it, and drill it until your fingers bleed and it's burned into your midbrain as muscle memory. You'll hate me before we are done, but that's okay, I can live with that, as long as you're alive to keep me alive."