“Certain of that?”
“No. Not certain.”
“You have no real choice, you know.”
“Sir?”
Falkenberg chuckled. “The stakes are too high, Your Highness. I won’t say it never happened that someone as prominent as you joined the Legion, but in your case it won’t work. If you choose to remain Cornet Prince, your orders will be to return to Sparta and become King. We need friends there.”
“We?”
“That’s the second time you’ve asked for information I can’t give to Cornet Prince.”
“But Prince Lysander—”
“Is an ally. Potentially a great deal more.”
More. What’s more than an ally? “What makes you think Prince Lysander can keep secrets?”
“We have our ways.”
“I guess you do. All those friendly people buying me drinks and asking me questions—”
“That was part of it. Mostly, there comes a point when you have to trust someone, because if you don’t, you can’t accomplish the mission.”
“Like sending the heavy weapons first?”
“Something like that. So. Who are you, Lysander Collins?”
“Colonel—Oh, damn it, Colonel, what will happen to her?”
“Her choice. She has choices now. You’ve given her that,” Falkenberg said. “The governor has offered to hire her. I doubt she’ll take that offer, because we’ll make her a better one. The Regiment can always use toughminded bright people. Captain Alana has a post for her. Or—well, there are entirely too many bachelors and widowers among my officers. Women with the temperament for a soldier’s life aren’t easily found.”
Who gets her? You? She’s too damned young for you. Or—
“None of which answers the question I asked you.”
“No, sir.”
“Odd,” Falkenberg mused. “A couple of hundred years ago it was a standard situation. Prince or Princess involved with commoner, conflict of love and duty. Lots of stories about that. None now, of course. How could there be? Not many people with a sense of duty.”
Not a lot of love, either. What’s more rare, love or duty? “Damn it all, Colonel. Mr. Fuller has his Juanita to take care of him. Someone—else—gets Ursula. I have Harv. It’s not fair!”
“I can also point out that Mr. Cornet Prince would never have met her.”
“Whereas Prince Lysander of Sparta could take her to dinner in the Governor’s Palace. You would remind me of that, you son of a bitch.”
Falkenberg’s smile was thin but triumphant. “Your Highness, when junior officers get to feeling sorry for themselves, we tell them to shut up and soldier. In your case—”
“Shut up and princify. Especially if I’m going to talk to you like that. Hardly appropriate for Cornet Prince. Yes, sir. Bloody hell.” Lysander smiled wistfully. “I don’t suppose anything has to be fair. At least you’re not telling me to count my blessings.”
There was a long pause. Finally Lysander reached up and took off the shoulder boards from his blues. “Colonel Falkenberg, I believe you were going to tell me something about New Washington.”
* * *
It was well past midnight, and the sounds of the party were fading away. Lysander stared at the sketches and maps on Falkenberg’s table screen. “God knows it’s ambitious enough. There’s a lot that can go wrong.”
“Of course. There always is, when the stakes are high enough.”
And these can’t get a lot higher. “Let me be blunt about this. I’ve known something about Lermontov’s plan for a year, but this is a lot more. You, the Blaine family, and half the senior officers of the Fleet are part of a conspiracy led by Grand Admiral Lermontov. You want Sparta to join that conspiracy.”
“It’s what I want. I do realize that you haven’t the authority to commit your government.”
“I can’t even commit my father to this!”
“Your Highness, he joined us years ago.”
“Oh, I’ll be damned—yes, of course that would explain a lot of things I didn’t understand. Colonel, this is going to take getting used to.”
“You’ll have time. While you’re digesting that, get used to this: the only person who outranks your father in this—conspiracy—is Lermontov himself.”
“What? But—Colonel, what are you saying?”
“Your Highness, the CoDominium is finished. Dr. Whitlock and Vice Admiral Harris of Fleet Intelligence don’t give it ten years.”
“Yes, of course, Sparta sees it coming too.”
“Without the CoDominium there won’t be any order at all. Not even the laws of war. Your Highness, I don’t know what will—what can replace the CoDominium. I just know something has to, and it will need a secure base.”
“Ten years,” Lysander mused.
“Maybe longer. The Grand Admiral believes we can hold on for twenty, and we might get a miracle after that.” Falkenberg shook his head. “I think it will take a miracle just to keep things together for twenty years, and I don’t believe in miracles.”
“But you’re going to New Washington anyway.”
“I’ve told Lermontov about my doubts. Perhaps you can guess what he said.”
“Shut up and soldier.”
“Precisely,” Falkenberg shrugged. “Actually, it makes sense. If things don’t come apart too soon, we can keep the balance of power. If it all collapses, New Washington is a potentially valuable addition to the Alliance.”
“But we need your troops as cadre for the new Spartan army. You’re going to New Washington! How—?”
“You’ll get your cadres. I’m merging Barton’s troops into the 42nd. That frees up men to send home with you. Not as many as we’d like, but enough. We all make sacrifices, Mr. Prince. Pardon me. Your Highness.”
“Who will you send?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“Owensford?”
“A good candidate, actually. Good teacher.” Falkenberg stood. “And now, Your Highness, it’s probably time I make a quick appearance at the party, then get some sleep. Major Barton and I have a number of details to iron out in the morning.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for your confidence.”
Falkenberg’s look said nothing. Or everything. “Just don’t forget the sanitation workers,” he said. “Goodbye, Mr. Prince.”
The night outside was cool. Lysander left Falkenberg’s quarters and went to the Officer’s Mess. He stood outside the door. Inside he heard laughter. After a long while he turned and went to his empty room.
SWORD AND SCEPTRE
Military authority has no parts. It can be delegated but it cannot be divided without in the doing it be shattered. Euphemisms for its hopeless fragments obscure truth and invite supervention of the natural forces that destroy nations. It is safer to allow that the few victims of injustice resulting from the fallibilities of even the best of human commanders pay the penalties than that the whole should come to ruin in the hope of saving them. The great pandemarchic cultures that seethe and ferment in the cadavers of empires are foremost in their concern for the weak, the stupid, the unlucky, and see the hope of aiding them only through the destruction of all official authoritarian systems (more often than not in order to exploit them privately for greater personal gain). Such governments have therein been also foremost in expediting their own extinction, both from within and without. The concerted power of the common man is formidable; but the power is not concerted by men who are common. Born of the efforts of common men to rationalize mediocrity into decisive roles without whole authority to play them are the modern concepts of leadership and management.
Leadership, management and command are terms too often confused by mistaking the similar for the synonymous.
James Maxwell Cameron
The Anatomy of Military Merit
The purpose of surprise is to generate uncertainty in the mind of the opponent. Surprise may result from technology, but the actual surprise is not in the weapon system. It is the mind of the commander and staff that surprise really takes place. Military commanders, not weapons systems, are surprised.
It is probably worth repeating that: Surprise is an event that takes place in the mind of an enemy commander.
Stefan T. Possony and Jerry E. Pournelle
The Strategy of Technology
I
Tanith
Heat beat down on sodden fields. Two hours before the noon of Tanith’s fifteen plus hours of sunshine the day was already hot; but all of Tanith’s days are hot. Even in midwinter the jungle steams in late afternoon.
The skies above the regiment’s camp were yellow-gray. The ground sloped off to the west into inevitable swamp, where Weem’s Beasts snorted as they burrowed deeper into protective mud. In the camp itself the air hung hot and wet, heavy, with a thick smell of yeast and decay.
The regiment’s camp was an island of geometrical precision in the random tumble of jungles and hilltops. Each yellow rammed-earth barrack was set in an exact relationship with every other, each company set in line from its centurion’s hut at one end to the senior platoon sergeant’s at the other.
A wide street separated Centurion’s Row from the Company Officers Line, and beyond that was the shorter Field Officers Line, the pyramid narrowing inevitably until at its apex stood a single building where the colonel lived. Other officers lived with their ladies, and married enlisted men’s quarters formed one side of the compound; but the colonel lived alone.
Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273