CHAPTER THREE
SCOUTING
“You wanted to see me, Colonel?”
Rick nodded. Technical Sergeant Harvey Rand had earned his promotion organizing madweed production. The army abandoned the rank shortly after World War II, though the Air Force kept it. Rick had reintroduced it so Rand wouldn’t be in the ordinary chain of command, but would still have the authority to get his job done.
But he’d been sent to the madweed fields as a prisoner, to work off a blood debt. He still wore the beard he’d grown in his years of independent service with Gengrich in the south. His clothes were locally made, local copies of the US Army field uniforms he’d lost down south, buttons rather than Velcro and snaps, but the camouflage dye was nearly as good as standard issue on Earth. He still had a Walther PPK, but his other weapons were locally made as well. Nothing fancy. Most of his pay went to compensate the family of the sentry he’d killed while Rand was part of the breakaway group. Rand’s bad luck was that the sentry had had noble family connections.
Rand stood at attention, relaxed, his face calm, a mild expression of curiosity but no more. Not rebellious, Rick thought. And not sullen. He took his punishment a hell of a lot better than I would have.
And I need him.
“At ease. Rand, I’ve paid off all your debts. You’re a free man. As free as any of us, anyway. Your pay’s your own from here out. As far as I’m concerned, you’re back in the outfit on regular duty. You can keep the rank.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” Rand spread his feet slightly but stood nearly at attention.
“You don’t wonder at what I want in return?”
“I think I’ve guessed, Sir.” He looked directly at Rick. “And you’ll tell me whether I ask or not.”
Rick noted the suppressed grin. Rand was working hard at being The Good Soldier . . .
“Let’s see. Rand, back in Africa you were about the best night scout we had. You still any good?”
“Maybe a little out of practice, Sir, but yeah, I think I’m pretty good. It’s not something you forget.”
“Right. Okay, you know what I want then. We’re up against something new, apparently a new group of mercs from Earth. I need to know how many, and what they’re equipped with, and anything else, like who sent them. Take anything and anyone you’ll need, and go find out.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“It may not be easy. Murphy says these troops have Mad Bear and his Westmen spooked.”
Rand nodded.
“Means night action, then. The Westmen’re as good as me in daytime, but they never were much good at night. I am.”
“All right. One more thing. I’d rather have a little information and a live trooper than no information and a dead one. Come back alive, Rand.”
“Colonel, I sure as hell intend to obey that order. Right now, I take it?”
“As soon as possible. Murphy’s troops have been keeping track of them, you can get there in about three hours.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll set out in an hour then, and go in tonight, after the True Sun’s gone but before the Stealer sets completely. That’s late enough most will be trying to sleep, and I like dusk better than dark for slipping in.”
Rand was quiet for a while as he considered the task.
“Jack Beazeley just came in with Murphy’s people,” Rand said in a manner that didn’t sound like a question.
Rick nodded in reply.
“Good. I’ll want him to watch my back. I’ll need grease paint. And a couple of Mad Bear’s people to hold the horses. Nobody better’n them for keeping animals quiet. That ought to do it, if we can do it at all.”
“Good enough.”
“Skipper, this ain’t likely to be easy, if Mad Bear’s people can’t do it, maybe I can, and maybe I can’t.”
“I know. Come back alive, Rand.”
“You know it, Colonel.”
* * *
Rick was awakened by Sergeant Bisso.
“Rand’s back, Colonel.”
“He all right?”
“Seems to be. Quiet, though.”
“Okay. Orderly room in ten minutes,” Rick said. “Secure the area around it. And have some coffee ready.”
“Sir.”
* * *
“Gurkhas,” Rand said. He looked formidable in his camouflage outfit, leaves fixed to his hair and twigs poking out of his uniform, his face streaked with brown and green paint. “Gurkhas.”
“What?”
“Yeah, Colonel, you heard me right. Gurkhas. Fewer’n eighty, more’n thirty. At least three white officers, Brits by their accents, I got close enough to hear them talking but I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.”
“They’d have to be Brits with Gurkhas,” Bisso said.
“No, Colonel,” Warner said. “There are Gurkha regiments in the Indian Army.” He frowned. “What I never heard of was any Gurkha mercs. I mean, yeah, they’re all mercenaries, but they only hire out to governments. Britain and India.”
“Sultan of Brunei,” Bisso said. “He had a regiment of Gurkhas with Brit officers. I know, ’cause a buddy thought of hiring out to him once.”
Rand looked quietly amused.
“The officers are white,” he said. “The troops aren’t.”
“Rand, you’re sure these are Gurkhas?” Rick asked.
“Yes, Sir. I heard them. I know what the language sounds like. And I have pretty good night glasses, I could see them. Short little Indian-looking bastards, big grins, FN rifles, kukri knives, white officers. They’re Gurkhas all right, Colonel.”
“How close did you get, Harv?” Bisso asked.
“Close enough to see that much,” Rand said. “If you mean did I sneak around in their camp, hell no!”
“Don’t blame you,” Bisso said.
“No wonder my poachers couldn’t get close to them,” Murphy said. “Colonel, I don’t mind tellin’ you, this is a little scary.”
“Anybody have experience with Gurkhas?” Risk asked.
Headshakes.
“Spent three days on a troop train with one of the Brit Gurkha outfits,” Rand said. “That’s how I know what they sound like. But mostly I’ve just heard stories.”
“So has everyone else,” Bisso said. “Damned scary stories.”
“Okay,” Rick said. “What do we know for certain about them? Larry?”
Warner struck a lecturer’s pose.
“They’ve been associated with the British Army for over a hundred years. They come from Nepal up in the high Himalayas. Hindu religion. There are at least five tribes they recruit from. Real rugged country, everybody’s poor. They serve out their enlistments and go home with their retirement pay, and that’s the main support of their villages. There were like ten regiments of them when India got independence. The Indians took on about half, and the Brits kept the rest. I don’t know how they get along with the Indian Army, but the Brits have always had a kind of love for them. They served in nearly every war the Brits had after about 1850, and everybody I’ve talked to says they’re the best light infantry in the world.”
“So what are they doing here?” Rick demanded. “Freelancers? Did the British government send them?”
“Don’t seem likely,” Murphy said.
“I’ve never heard of freelance Gurkhas,” Warner said. “They’re recruited directly into their regiments, and only the British and Indian governments have recruiting rights. And Murph is right, it’s unlikely either the British or Indian governments sent them here.”
“Nothing else seems likely either,” Rick said. “Well however they got here, they’re our problem now. Anyone know a weakness? What spooks them?”
“Skipper, the way I hear it nothing spooks them,” Bisso said.
“They’re not our only problem,” Warner said. “They’re the toughest part, but are we forgetting there’s a whole Five Kingdoms army out there? And our army is scattered. Skipper, I’m not so sure we can handle the Fivers with what we’ve got.”
“He’s got a point,” Murphy said sourly. “They’ve been building up with those supply wagons. Is that Matthias any good?”
Rick nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
Murphy went on, “So the bottom line is, there’s an army out there bigger than ours will be if we can round up everyone. It’s commanded by a good man. So far, no big deal, the Colonel’s pulled us through much stickier situations than that.”
Warner nodded.
“Combined arms,” he said. “Use our firepower combined with locals.”
“Only this time it’s the other guy who can use that trick,” Murphy said. “Face it, if Ganton fights this Matthias without us, he’s going to lose. And if we fight those Gurkhas we’ll probably lose, there being more of them and assuming they got ammo, and why wouldn’t they? They haven’t had to do much shooting. So the way things stand we lose to the Gurkhas and Ganton loses to the Fivers.” He shook his head. “So what do we do about it, Skipper?”
And they were all looking at Rick Galloway.
* * *
Rick sketched out what he knew of the Gurkhas in a letter to Tylara. It wouldn’t be welcome information. Nor would the rest.
“I am summoned to meet with the Wanax. The Black Rod Usher was deferential.” Rick briefly considered crossing out the last word and substituting another, but decided that Tylara would have no problems with it in context. “‘His Majesty requests that you attend him,’ he said, and he was very respectful. We can both remember when he’d use a different tone. I’ll go, but I don’t know what the heck I’ll tell our Wanax. This is a tough situation, and I don’t have advice for him. I wish I had you here to advise me. For other things, too. I sure miss you.
“I’ve heard legends of Gurkha troopers all my life. Probably as much legend as fact, but if half of it is true they’re going to be hard to beat. And whatever happens, it can’t be a good sign that there’s fresh star troops on Tran. Who sent them? Why to the Five Kingdoms? If the Galactics are taking a hand in this, God help us.
“Then there’s the situation in Nikeis. More evidence of Galactic activity. But I’ve heard nothing on my transceiver and neither has”—he stopped himself before he could write Gwen’s name—“anyone else. I await word from our Roman allies who have sent spies in droves to Nikeis, but I can’t wait too long. My comrades won’t like it if I just write off Clavell and Harrison. Neither will I. And we have to know just what came down from that starship. If you have any way of finding out what’s going on in Nikeis, it would be well to do that.
“Everything is a bloody mess.” He crossed out the last sentence.
“I love you, I miss you. And the children. Kiss them for me. Be sure Mikhail learns his lessons. He’ll have to take my place one day. And we can hope Isobel can marry for love. And that she’ll be as happy as we are. And now I am off to see the Wanax. God bless us all. Rick.”
He folded up the parchment and sealed it, then dripped on more wax and used his ring to seal it again. This wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted to send by semaphore. Some of those operators knew more English than they let on. It wasn’t an urgent message, not urgent in that sense. It wouldn’t do Tylara a lot of good to get it fast—but it was important that she get it if he didn’t come back from his meeting with Ganton.
I’m not really worried, he thought. Not really.
But he called in a wounded horse archer who was being invalided home with comrades, and charged him to deliver it in person to the Lady Tylara.
Just in case, Rick thought. Just in case.
So what now?
Well, we can’t beat them. And if you can’t beat them—