CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“What news from the academy?”
Libert’s aide smiled. “The report from Commandant Soubirous is nothing to report, my general.”
The pudgy little man nodded seriously and tapped his map. There was enough sunlight through the western entrance of the tent to show clearly what he meant; the Union Military Academy was located at Foret du Loup, out on the rolling plateau country, between the mountains and Unionvil.
“When we have cleared the passes through the Monts du Diable, we must send a column—a strong column—to the relief of the academy. The Reds must not be allowed to crush Commandant Soubirous and the gallant cadets.”
Heinrich Hosten coughed discreetly. “My general,” he said, in fluent but accented Fransay. “Surely we should be careful not to disperse our forces away from the main schwerepunkt? Ah, the point of primary effort, that is.”
“I am familiar with the concept,” Libert said.
He looked at the Chosen officer; the foreigner was discreetly dressed in the uniform of a Union Legion officer, without rank tabs but with a tiny gold-on-black sunburst pin on the collar of his tunic.
“Yes, my general,” Heinrich said.
“However, this will probably be a long war—and it is perhaps better that way,” Libert said. The Chosen in the room reacted with a uniform calm that hid identical surprise. The Unionaise commander smiled thinly.
“This is a political as well as a military struggle. A swift victory would leave us with all the elements that brought on the crisis intact. A steady, methodical advance means that we do not simply defeat but annihilate all the un-Unionist elements. And it gives us time and opportunity to thoroughly cleanse the zones behind our lines, in wartime conditions.”
“As you say, sir,” Heinrich said. “That presupposes, however, that we succeed in getting out of this damned valley to begin with.”
“I have confidence in the plan you and my staff have worked out,” Libert said, turning back to the map.
Heinrich ducked his head and left the tent. “Damned odd way of looking at it,” he said to Gerta.
“Sensible, actually,” Gerta said, smiling and shaking her head, “when you look at it from his point of view. We could stand being a little more methodical ourselves; this whole operation here has the flavor of an improvisation, to me.”
They stopped for a moment to watch Protégé workmen and Chosen engineers assembling armored cars from crated parts sent up by rail.
“It’s an opportunity,” Heinrich said after a while.
“Its a temptation,” Gerta said. “We’ve had less than a decade to consolidate our hold on the Empire—”
“Nine years, six months, two days, counting from the attack on Corona,” Heinrich said with a smile of fond reminiscence.
“Quibbler.” She punched him lightly on his shoulder. “We should wait for a generation at least before taking on Santander. And this is probably going to mean war with the Republic eventually, if our little friend”—she jerked her head back at the tent—”wins.”
“They’re getting stronger, too,” Heinrich pointed out. “You know the production problems we’re having with labor from the New Territories.”
“Yes, but we’ve got the staying power. We don’t have an underlying need to believe the world is a warm, fuzzy-pink playground where everyone’s nice down deep except for a few villains who’ll be defeated at the end of the story. We can get the animals working well enough, given enough time—and the Santies will go to sleep and let down their guard if we don’t make obvious threats.”
“We’re not threatening them, strictly speaking.”
“Land forces on their border? Even a Santy can’t convince himself that’s not a threat. We’re waking a sleeping giant, and stiffening his backbone.”
Heinrich shrugged. “But if we beat the Santies, everything else is mopping up. Anyway, it’s a matter for the Council, nein?”
“Jawohl. Orders are orders. Let’s get this battle done.”
Heinrich smiled more broadly. “Actually, you’ve got a different job.”
“Oh?”
“Libert’s pretty taken with this academy thing. He’d probably spend six months avenging the place and the gallant cadets if it fell, which would be an even worse diversion of effort than marching to relieve it. So we’d better make sure it doesn’t fall. . . .”