The Prince by Jerry Pournelle and S.M. Stirling

“We’ll not take that place by storm, John Christian,” Major Savage said carefully. “Not without losing half the regiment.”

“And just what are your soldiers for?” Glenda Ruth demanded. “Do they fight sometimes?”

“Sometimes.” Falkenberg studied the sketch his scout commander was making. “Do they have sentries posted, Captain?”

“Yes, sir. Pairs in towers and walking guards. There are radar dishes every hundred meters, and I expect there are body capacitance wires strung outside as well.”

“I told you,” Secretary Bannister said smugly. There was triumph in his voice, in contrast to the grim concern of Falkenberg and his officers. “You’ll have to raise an army to take that place. Ford Heights is our only chance, Colonel. Astoria’s too strong for you.”

“No!” Glenda Ruth’s strong, low-pitched voice commanded attention. “We’ve risked everything to gather the Columbia Valley Patriots. If you don’t take Astoria now, they’ll go back to their ranches. I was opposed to starting a new revolution, Howard Bannister. I don’t think we can stand another long war like the last one. But I’ve organized my father’s friends, and in two days I’ll command a fighting force. If we scatter now I’ll never get them to fight again.”

“Where is your army—and how large is it?” Falkenberg asked.

“The assembly area is two hundred kilometers north of here. I have six hundred riflemen now and another five thousand coming. A force that size can’t hide!” She regarded Falkenberg without enthusiasm. They needed a strong organized nucleus to win, but she was trusting her friends’ lives to a man she’d never met. “Colonel, my ranchers can’t face Confederate Regulars or Friedland armor without support, but if you take Astoria we’ll have a base we can hold.”

“Yes.” Falkenberg studied the maps as he thought about the girl. She had a more realistic appreciation of irregular forces than Bannister—but how reliable was she? “Mr. Bannister, we can’t take Astoria without artillery even with your Ford Heights ranchers. I need Astoria’s guns, and the city’s the key to the whole campaign anyway.

With it in hand there’s a chance to win this war quickly.”

“But it can’t be done!” Bannister insisted.

“Yet it must be done,” Falkenberg reminded him. “And we do have surprise. No Confederate knows we’re on this planet and won’t for—” he glanced at his pocket computer—”twenty-seven hours, when Weapons Detachment knocks down the snooper. Miss Horton, have you made trouble for Astoria lately?”

“Not for months,” she said. Was this mercenary, this man Falkenberg, different? “I only came this far south to meet you.”

Captain Frazer’s sketch of the fort lay on the table like a death warrant. Falkenberg watched in silence as the scout drew in machine-gun emplacements along the walls.

“I forbid you to risk the revolution on some mad scheme!” Bannister shouted. “Astoria’s far too strong. You said so yourself.”

Glenda Ruth’s rising hopes died again. Bannister was giving the mercenaries a perfect out.

Falkenberg straightened and took a brimming glass from the steward. “Who’s junior man here?” He looked around the steel-riveted chart room until he saw an officer near the bulkhead. “Excellent. Lieutenant Fuller was a prisoner on Tanith, Mr. Bannister. Until we caught him—Mark, give us a toast.”

“A toast, Colonel?”

“Montrose’s toast, Mister. Montrose’s toast.”

Fear clutched Bannister’s guts into a hard ball. Montrose! And Glenda Ruth stared uncomprehendingly, but there was reborn hope in her eyes. . . .

“Aye aye, Colonel.” Fuller raised his glass. “He either fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small, who dares not put it to the touch, to win or lose it all.”

Bannister’s hands shook as the officers drank. Falkenberg’s wry smile, Glenda Ruth’s answering look of comprehension and admiration—they were all crazy! The lives of all the patriots were at stake, and the man and the girl, both of them, they were insane!

* * *

Maribell swung to her anchors three kilometers offshore from Astoria. The fast-moving waters of the Columbia swept around her toward the ocean some nine kilometers downstream, where waves crashed in a line of breakers five meters high. Getting across the harbor bar was a tricky business, and even in the harbor itself the tides were too fierce for the ship to dock.

Maribell’s cranes hummed as they swung cargo lighters off her decks. The air-cushion vehicles moved gracelessly across the water and over the sandy beaches to the corrugated aluminum warehouses, where they left cargo containers and picked up empties.

In the fortress above Astoria the officer of the guard dutifully logged the ship’s arrival into his journal. It was the most exciting event in two weeks. Since the rebellion had ended there was little for his men to do.

He turned from the tower to look around the encampment. Blasted waste of good armor, he thought. No point in having self-propelled guns as harbor guards. The armor wasn’t used, since the guns were in concrete revetments. The lieutenant had been trained in mobile war, and though he could appreciate the need for control over the mouth of New Washington’s largest river, he didn’t like this duty. There was no glory in manning an impregnable fortress.

Retreat sounded and all over the fort men stopped to face the flags. The Franklin Confederacy colors fluttered down the staff to the salutes of the garrison. Although as guard officer he wasn’t supposed to, the lieutenant saluted as the trumpets sang.

Over by the guns men stood at attention, but they didn’t salute. Friedland mercenaries, they owed the Confederacy no loyalty that hadn’t been bought and paid for. The lieutenant admired them as soldiers, but they were not likable. It was worth knowing them, though, since nobody else could handle armor like them. He had managed to make friends with a few. Someday, when the Confederacy was stronger, they would dispense with mercenaries, and until then he wanted to learn all he could. There were rich planets in this sector of space, planets that Franklin could add to the Confederacy now that the rebellion was over. With the CD Fleet weaker every year, opportunities at the edges of inhabited space grew, but only for those ready for them.

When retreat ended he turned back to the harbor. An ugly cargo lighter was coming up the broad roadway to the fort. He frowned, puzzled, and climbed down from the tower.

When he reached the gate the lighter had halted there. Its engine roared, and it was very difficult to understand the driver, a broad-shouldered seaman-stevedore who was insisting on something.

“I got no orders,” the Earth mercenary guardsman was protesting. He turned to the lieutenant in relief. “Sir, they say they have a shipment for us on that thing.”

“What is it?” the lieutenant shouted. He had to say it again to be heard over the roar of the motors. “What is the cargo?”

“Damned if I know,” the driver said cheerfully. “Says on the manifest ‘Astoria Fortress, attention supply officer.’ Look, Lieutenant, we got to be moving. If the captain don’t catch the tide he can’t cross the harbor bar tonight and he’ll skin me for squawrk bait! Where’s the supply officer?”

The lieutenant looked at his watch. After retreat the men dispersed rapidly and supply officers kept short hours. “There’s nobody to offload,” he shouted.

“Got a crane and crew here,” the driver said. “Look, just show me where to put this stuff. We got to sail at slack water.”

“Put it out here,” the lieutenant said.

“Right. You’ll have a hell of a job moving it though.” He turned to his companion in the cab. “OK, Charlie, dump it!”

The lieutenant thought of what the supply officer would say when he found he’d have to move the ten-by-five-meter containers. He climbed into the bed of the cargo lighter. In the manifest pocket of each container was a ticket reading “COMMISSARY SUPPLIES.”

“Wait,” he ordered. “Private, open the gates. Driver, take this over there.” He indicated a warehouse near the center of the camp. “Offload at the big doors.”

“Right. Hold it, Charlie,” Sergeant Major Calvin said cheerfully. “The lieutenant wants the stuff inside.” He gave his full attention to driving the ungainly GEM.

The lighter crew worked the crane efficiently, stacking the cargo containers by the warehouse doors. “Sign here,” the driver said.

“I—perhaps I better get someone to inventory the cargo.”

“Aw, for Christ’s sake,” the driver protested. “Look, you can see the seals ain’t broke—here, I’ll write it in. ‘Seals intact, but cargo not inspected by recip—’ How you spell ‘recipient,’ Lieutenant?”

“Here, I’ll write it for you.” He did, and signed with his name and rank. “Have a good voyage?”

“Naw. Rough out there, and getting worse. We got to scoot, more cargo to offload.”

“Not for us!”

“Naw, for the town. Thanks, Lieutenant.” The GEM pivoted and roared away as the guard lieutenant shook his head. What a mess. He climbed into the tower to write the incident up in the day book. As he wrote he sighed. One hour to dark, and three until he was off duty. It had been a long, dull day.