Intrepid

30

Thorpe got Cortez on the commlink as soon as the Golden Hind's sensors located his column. ''Colonel, what's taking you so long? You're barely covered two miles since I was overhead.''

''And I'm doing well to have made that,'' the colonel shot back.

''You need to plant a boot up the asses of some of your men?''

''I need them to look carefully where they plant their own boots,'' Cortez answered, and filled the space side of the operation in on what the ground side was facing.

''The locals are digging those holes. Start shooting hostages,'' Thorpe said with all the moral involvement of a man selecting between two kinds of beer.

''I can't. I haven't actually seen any local digging the holes, and the hostages insist those ferret things, whose droppings were the first thing we confiscated, dig just these kinds of holes.''

Thorpe scowled at Whitebred. He'd taken to summoning the businessman to the bridge whenever he talked to Cortez.

''Those pharmaceutical precursors could still bail us out,'' Whitebred said. ''We have four years of harvesting already on board. They'd pay our costs even if we made nothing else.''

''I don't care about that,'' Thorpe snapped. ''I want to know if those beasties dig holes that are causing problems for our infantry. Do they dig holes people step in?''

''How should I know?'' the representative of the expedition's financiers said with a shrug. ''We buy what comes to market. We don't care how it came there. What it looks like in the field. The smelly stuff is repulsive enough.''

For another uncountable time, Thorpe noted how different businessmen and warriors looked at things. And how poorly prepared the intelligence was for this operation. Next time he did something like this …

But before next time, Thorpe had to finish this time. He pounded on his commlink. ''Mr. Whitebred once again is a glowing fount of ignorance. We'll search our telemetry to see if we can spot anyone digging the holes that are troubling you.''

''I've been looking at what you show ahead.''

''It doesn't look like much,'' the spaceship commander said. There was a long pause before he got a reply from Cortez.

''Someone's in the hills overlooking us. I assume that's a scout reporting our progress. I also see you've got some heat signatures under bushes and trees ahead of us along the road.''

''But they're too spread out to be worth an eighteen-inch laser shot,'' Thorpe pointed out.

''I bet,'' Whitebred offered helpfully, ''that as soon as we aren't overhead, they start digging your holes.''

''You know that for sure, sir,'' Colonel Cortez said. His ''sir'' was gauged to flail half the skin off Whitebred.

''No, no, I don't know anything for sure,'' came in a crestfallen voice.

''Thank you, sir, but I don't need any half-baked guesses from orbit,'' Cortez said.

''There is a group of people on the south side of the river,'' Cortez said slowly. ''They've been moving along slowly, showing up every pass, and growing larger. But they haven't crossed the river. They keep the swamp between them and me.''

''When they get to the causeway, they can either cut your line of communications or move to attack your rear.'' Thorpe knew he was saying the obvious, but he needed to measure the morale of his ground contingent. Officers who lost the fighting spirit started looking over their shoulders for ghosts in their rear.

''Not a problem. My supplies are in my carts. Once I destroy the main force, I can sweep that one up on my way back.''

''Assuming the main force is ahead of us and not that one over there,'' someone on the ground added.

''There is that, Major Zhukov, there is that,'' Cortez said. ''Well, Captain Thorpe, if you don't have anything else, my latest broken leg is now sedated and we are ready to move. I assume everything is quiet in orbit.''

''They now have nanosatellites in orbit ahead of us and behind. They slip above our horizon every once in a while and check us out. I can do nothing without them immediately sounding an alarm. That gunboat could be right on my tail or just over the horizon ahead of me.''

''We all must bear our little crosses,'' Cortez said, and cut the commlink.

* * *

''Imagine that man whining about his little problems,'' Colonel Cortez growled as soon as he was sure his commlink was silenced. And Thorpe's cavalier attitude to shooting hostages!

This whole operation was balanced on the sharp edge of a very long knife, indeed. Killing hostages would contribute nothing to winning this battle. And if matters did not go as well as Thorpe was so sure they would, one colonel might find himself trying very hard to remind this Lieutenant Longknife that the laws of war said POWs were to be respected. No, it would not be pretty to argue that if he was standing there with his hands dripping with the blood of innocent hostages.

The informal contract between them was clear. If they killed one of his troopers, he could kill ten of them. So far the Longknife girl had gone out of her way to leave his troops alive. Cortez would not be the one to change their tacit agreement. Not now. Not when things were, if anything, going more her way than his.

Major Zhukov brought Cortez back from those unexpected thoughts. ''And him insulting us, asking us if we're worried about that other group getting in our rear. He who hasn't offered us a kopeck of proof that there is anything ahead of us but a screen,'' the major spat. ''For all we know, his pretty little Kris Longknife could be laughing up her sleeve as she passes us on the other side of the swamp and takes off for our landing boats after leaving a few guns to hold the causeway.''

''Be careful what you say, Major,'' Cortez said behind his hand. ''You don't want the psalm singers to think that we don't know what we're doing.''

Zhukov glanced around, saw troops in white coats carefully looking away from the command unit … but not closing their ears. ''But we don't,'' he said softly.

''I know that. You know that, but we must not have anyone else even thinking that. Put on your game face,'' the colonel said, glancing at the sky. The midafternoon sun glared down at him. He eyed the map, then stabbed his finger at what he saw.

''There. There is heat. See, Zhukov. See. Troops have occupied the ditches.''

The officer came to peer over his commander's shoulder. ''No visuals of anything but bushes and trees,'' he pointed out.

''As there is here,'' Cortez said, waving at the screen well ahead of him. ''But there weren't any heat signatures in the trenches before. Now there are.''

''Do we attack them this afternoon?''

Cortez measured the distance, both across country and along the winding road, then shook his head.

''No, too far to go, and our troops are tired. Beside, the faster we push them, the more step into these so-called ferret holes. No, let's plan to camp here, a good four miles away from them tonight. We can walk the psalm singers in early and fight in the cool of the morning.''

Zhukov preened. ''And we can get the Guard to bed early. They will have no problem with a little walk in the dark, no matter how wet it is. It's time we started telling the drummer what the dance will be.''