Good lad, Raj said. That would make their tactics serve their strategy.
correct, Center replied, dispassionate as always. the strategy john hosten has outlined would give probability of chosen victory within a decade of over 75%; probability of long-term stalemate 10%; probability of santander victory 15%. in addition, in this scenario there is a distinct possibility of immediate and long-term setback to human civilization on visager, as the effort of prolonged total war and the development of weapons of mass destruction undermines the viability of both parties.
“Fortunately, they’re not likely to do that,” Jeffrey said. “The Chosen always did tend to mistake operations for strategy,”
probability of full-scale chosen attack on santander border is 85%, ±7, Center confirmed.
“They’ll try to roll right over us,” John said. “The question is, can we hold them?”
“We’d better,” Jeffrey said. “If we don’t hold them in the passes, if they break through into the open basin country west of Alai, we’re royally fucked. The provincial militias just don’t have the experience or cohesion to fight open-field battles of maneuver yet.”
“The Regulars will have to hold them, then.”
Jeffrey’s face was tired and stubbled; now it looked old. “And Gerard’s men,” he said softly. “There in the front line.”
John looked at him. “That’ll be pretty brutal,” he warned. “They’ll be facing the Land’s army—in the civil war, it was mostly Libert’s troops with a few Land units as stiffeners.”
Jeffrey’s lips thinned. “Gerard’s men are half the formed, regular units we have,” he said. “We need time. If we spend all our cadre resisting the first attacks, who’s going to teach the rush of volunteers? We’ve split up the Freedom Brigades people to the training camps, too.”
John sighed and nodded. “Behfel ist behfel.”
* * *
“Good God, what is that?” the HQ staffer said.
Jeffrey Farr looked up from the table. All across the eastern horizon light flickered and died, flickered and died, bright against the morning. The continuous thudding rumble was a background to everything, not so much loud as all-pervasive.
“That’s the Land artillery,” he said quietly. “Hurricane bombardment. Start sweating when it stops, because the troops will come in on the heels of it.”
He turned back to the other men around the table, most in Santander brown, and many looking uncomfortable in it.
“General Parks, your division was federalized two weeks ago. It should be here by now.”
“Sir . . .” Parks had a smooth western accent. “It’s corn planting season, as I’m sure you’re aware, and—”
“And the Chosen will eat the harvest if we don’t stop them,” Jeffrey said. “General Parks, get what’s at the concentration points here, and do it fast. Or turn your command over to your 2-IC.” Who, unlike Parks, was a regular, one of the skeleton cadre that first-line provincial militia units had been ordered to maintain several years ago, when the Union civil war began ratcheting up tensions. “I think that’ll be all; you may return to your units, gentlemen.”
He looked down at the map, took a cup of coffee from the orderly and scalded his lips slightly, barely noticing. The markers for the units under his command were accurate as of last night. Fifty thousand veterans of the Unionaise civil war; another hundred thousand regulars from the Republic’s standing army, and many of the officers and NCOs had experience in that war, too. Two hundred and fifty thousand federalized militia units; they were well equipped, but their training ranged from almost as good as the Regulars to abysmal. More arriving every hour.
Half a million Land troops were going to hit them in a couple of hours, supported by scores of heavy tanks, hundreds of light ones, thousands of aircraft.
“None of Libert’s men?” Gerard said quietly, tracing the unit designators for the enemy forces.
“No. They’re moving east—east and north, into the Sierra.”
“Good,” Gerard said quietly. Jeffrey looked up at him. The compact little Unionaise was smiling. “Not pleasant, fighting one’s own countrymen.”
“Pierre . . .” Jeffrey said.
Gerard picked up his helmet and gloves, saluted. “My friend, we must win this war. To this, everything else is subordinate.”
They shook hands. Gerard went on: “Libert thinks he can ride the tiger. It is only a matter of time until he joins the other victims in the meat locker.”