Chapter 13: They also serve who only jump and wait.
The telephone jangled Conrad Fitzhugh’s concentration. Preparing this report and these analyses was a thankless, fruitless task. Conrad still tried to turn in something he could be proud of, even if that mindless jerk Carrot-up would probably refuse to read it. Conrad had had no formal training for this. Before the war he’d been nothing but a relatively spoiled son of a Shareholder, with a penchant for danger-sports. Yes, his parents were unusual, in that Conrad’s father’s fortune owed far more to business acumen than to the modest size of his shareholding. But otherwise Conrad had not been that atypical. Now he wished he knew more about data analysis. The phone rang again. He ignored it.
Dammit. There’s something going on here. Sector Delta 355 . . .
The phone rang again.
“Answer it, Simms.”
There was no reply, except another ring of the telephone. Fitzhugh remembered that Corporal Simms was out at satellite tracking, collecting pictures. Sat-trac refused to send it electronically. He was alone in the dank office. Even Ariel was out foraging somewhere. She couldn’t sit still for too long. Irritated, Fitz snatched the instrument from the cradle.
“Intelligence,” he snapped.
A gargantuan laugh came down the line. “Were you on the job, my boykie, that you took such a long time to answer?” The voice could have done a fair double as a foghorn.
Fitz’s frown slipped. A smile actually began to ease through. “Bobby, you dumb bastard. You haven’t bounced yet?”
“So long as I don’t let you pack my ‘chute again, I’ll be all right,” rumbled Major Robert Van Klomp of the 1st HAR Airborne. “Listen, boeta, I’ve got a big favor to ask. If I have to do one more damn ‘display-jump’ I’m going to go mad and bite somebody’s balls off. I begged and kissed ass to get this unit formed. Sure, I’ve only got one-fifth of the men I was promised, but I’ve trained them into a halfway decent strike group. Maybe they’ve even got a bit more backbone than a bowl of herrings.”
Fitz knew this translated as enormous pride. Bobby had pushed those men to the limit of his own gorilla-like endurance. The paratroopers were as tough as you could make soldiers without putting them under fire. The parachute major thought the world of them. But Van Klomp would never say that.
The parachute major sighed. “So what do we do, Fitzy? We jump out of airplanes or helicopters at parades. Five-way linkups with pretty colored smoke for the Korozhet observers. I’m fucking sick of it, and so are my boys.”
Fitz snorted. “And what do you expect me to do about it, Bobby? Tell this bunch they can’t have their parades? They’d shit themselves. That’s the purpose of war! Anyway, the best I could do for you is to recommend you go on doing a parade a day and never see active service. That’s how well General Cartup-Kreutzler listens to my recommendations.”
“Ja. I wondered how well you’d fit in there. But I don’t need your general, Boykie. Just a set of orders from someone you’ve managed to bully.”
It was Fitz’s turn to sigh. “I’ll try, Bobby. But I’ve blotted my copybook here already. And after last time, Carrot-up has circulated a memo to all Headquarters staff. ‘In future any action recommended on the basis of intelligence reports is to be coordinated through his office and signed by his high-and-mighty self.'”
“So what are you still doing there, Boykie?” demanded Van Klomp.
“I don’t know, old friend. I really don’t know.”
Chapter 14: There’s got to be a morning after.
The radio crackled. “The getaway vehicle has been spotted on satellite photographs at the Shaw Plantation, which is now in enemy hands. In the opinion of the Chief of Police, Ben Hudrum, the kidnappers made a severe misjudgement in their choice of hideout. Now we cut to Doctor Victor T. Slade, an expert in Criminal Psychology at the Sydney and Beatrice Webb College for his comments on the choice of hiding place. Dr. Slade, in your opinion . . .”
“I’m damned if I know why you listen to that Company propaganda rubbish, Chip,” said Bronstein. The bat had fluttered silently up to where Chip was sitting against the wall, toasting his balls in the morning sun, and thinking wishfully about coffee while listening to his cheap portable radio.