Читать книгу Joe Mauser, Mercenary from Tomorrow - Mack Reynolds - Страница 9

CHAPTER FOUR

The mini-jet banked sharply as it began its descent to the airfield below. Joe Mauser’s face was thoughtful. He had requested a slow, wide-winged aircraft, but the clerk hadn’t been able to do much for him. The others hiring rental craft had also been interested in hoverability and low speed, albeit for reasons different than Mauser’s. He’d had to settle for what was available.

Max, seated next to him, gulped, “Hey, Captain, take it easy.”

Mauser looked at him.

“I ain’t never been up in anything this small before.”

“Oh,” Mauser grunted. He leveled out and continued the descent, less steeply now. “When we get around to it, we’ll have to check you out on flying, Max.”

His batman was taken aback. “You mean me? A pilot?”

Mauser said, “One of the things you want to learn early in the game, Max, is that the mercenary’s life isn’t exactly as portrayed on the telly screens. What the fracas buff mainly sees is the combat, and not very much of that, since most combat is on the drab and colorless side. Most of your time is spent crouched in some hole, or face down behind whatever cover you can find. The lens concentrates on the hand-to-hand stuff. The buff isn’t interested in such matters as artillery laying down a barrage. He’s not even interested in a cavalry squadron making a sweep around a flank to execute some bit of strategy that might decide the fracas. He wants action and blood.”

Max, holding to a grab-bar as the small aircraft dropped, managed to get out, “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about, sir.”

Mauser’s hands moved over the controls expertly, straightening the craft for the runway rising to meet them. He had already received his landing instructions from the control tower.

He said, “The more you know about subjects seemingly remote from your trade, Max, the better off you’ll be. Any medical knowledge that you might have, for instance, is priceless. It won’t show on the telly screen, but it sure as hell helps for you to be as near an M.D. as you can make yourself. It also helps to be as good a swimmer as you can, as good a horseman, as competent a mountain climber.

“You’ve got to be a survival expert who can find a meal in a swamp, a desert, a forest, or on top of a seemingly barren mountain. And you want to be a mechanical wizard, capable of repairing not only every weapon allowable under the Universal Disarmament Pact, but any other gadget that might be used in war—from a telegraph to a mechanical semaphore. You even want to be a better ditch digger than the most competent Low-Lower who ever spent his life making with a shovel. ”

Max was staring at him. “Ditch digger? Who wants to be a ditch digger? I didn’t cross categories to become any ditch digger!”

Mauser interrupted him mildly. “We call them trenches, Max. And the sooner you learn to burrow like a mole, the better off you’ll be, particularly when they ring mortars in on you.”

“Oh,” Max said weakly. “Yeah, sure.”

“And you better learn to climb trees faster than any lumberjack, and to shore up a shaft better than any miner.” The two braced themselves as the small craft jolted, its tires squealing as they touched the runway. “Over the years, such skills are more important than being a crack shot, or an expert with a knife in close personal combat. The fact of the matter is, you might go through a half-dozen standard fracases and never get into personal combat, but I’ve never been in one that didn’t involve digging entrenchments.” Mauser concentrated for a moment on braking the mini-jet.

“Do you understand what I’m saying? That being a mercenary has very little to do with what you see on telly? The sooner you realize that, the better your chances of surviving.”

“Well, yeah,” Max said doubtfully. “But what good’s flying? Nobody’s allowed to use aircraft in action, Captain. Even I know that.”

Mauser was taxiing toward the hangers.

“Max, even as a Rank Private you’ve got to stack the cards in your favor—any way you can! When you’re in there, if you’ve managed to swing percentages your way just one percent—just one percent, Max—it might be the difference between copping the final one and surviving.

“Every old pro who’s going to be in this fracas has been studying the terrain, Max. Stonewall Cogswell has fought this reservation three times that I know of, and probably more. But where is he, right this minute? He and his whole field staff are up in a transport going over the whole reservation, again and again. Why? Because possibly he’s forgotten the exact layout, although that’s not very likely with the marshal. But maybe, since he fought this reservation last, a new road has been cut from one point to another. Possibly the streams are so high this month that fords he’s used before can’t be utilized, or maybe the streams are so low that new fords are practical. Maybe a forest fire has leveled some clumps of trees that were formerly suitable for gun emplacements. Maybe a lot of things, Max, and Stonewall Cogswell is going to have every bit of information he can cram in, before the fracas proper.”

“Zen!” Max muttered. “I was thinking Military was one category where education didn’t make much difference. Way you sound, Captain, you gotta be like an Education Category professor in every field there is before you make even Rank Sergeant.”

They came to a halt before the hangers, and Mauser cut the exchange short. He turned the craft over to the field’s employees, gathered up the charts and the papers on which he’d scribbled notes. His face was thoughtful. The morning had been profitable, but he wanted to take at least one more flight over the reservation. What he had been telling Max was all too true. You became a real pro, an old pro, by taking infinite pains with every detail.

But for Mauser it was more than just the old survival bit, this time. This was his big fling.

He was walking toward the administration building to wind up his account for the mini-jet’s rental when a male voice behind him whined, “Captain Mauser, could I have your autograph?”

He began to turn, wearily bringing a smile to his face for the sake of the fracas buff, fumbling in his jerkin pocket for a stylus.

But then the man laughed.

It was Freddy Soligen. Back in the shadow of one of the hangers Mauser could see the little man’s crew, taking advantage of the shade and relaxing between interviews of the notables that were coming and going.

Mauser grinned. “Hello, Freddy. It works both ways. Could I have yours? Somebody ought to collect the autographs of telly reporters who’ve been in the dill as much as you have.”

Freddy Soligen must be out here at the airport getting preliminary material, as he had been in the recruiting offices in Kingston. Mauser knew it was all part of the game. The buffs couldn’t expect to see a top fracas every day, nor even every week—a major conflict such as this one would only develop, say, ten or a dozen times a year. In between the buffs had to be happy with telly war dramas, or with the sort of thing Freddy was doing now—building up to the fracas to come, or following it, rehashing and commenting on the action.

Of course, true buffs ate it up. Interviews, especially, since these allowed the buffs to see their favorite warriors live, and any hints about the personal affairs of star-level fighters were most valued.

He didn’t expect Soligen to want to interview him again just now. It was too soon after yesterday, and Joe Mauser wasn’t a top fracas star. Somebody like Stonewall Cogswell or Jack Altshuler, the cavalryman, you could interview as often as they would submit, which wasn’t too often in some cases; in fact, the marshal was notoriously uncooperative with the telly men. He could afford to be; he was as high in the Category Military as it was possible to get, and he needed publicity like he needed a head wound.

But on Joe Mauser’s level, the better his in with the combat lensmen the more likely the lenses would be on him for his moments of glory—and Mauser could certainly use that in this fracas. This was his big fling, and it would not do to have what he had planned pass notice.

“That’ll be the day,” Freddy said, his voice sour with cynicism, “when somebody asks a telly reporter for an autograph. The stupid cloddies don’t even realize that somebody has to be there in the middle of the action, directing the cameras.”

Mauser chuckled. “Face it, Freddy—your colleagues aren’t usually as near as all that. That’s why they have pillboxes for the cameras! Some of you boys are as safe as the buffs sitting in front of their idiot boxes watching the show, and the buffs know it.”

Freddy frowned slightly. “A lot of my friends might be interested to hear what you say, Captain—if they hadn’t copped the final one.”

Mauser nodded. “I’ll take that. I wasn’t talking about you, Freddy, nor all of the others. I haven’t forgotten the time the two of us were pinned down in a foxhole on that damn knoll.”

“Yeah. Hotter ‘n’ hell, and me with a mini-ball through my camera—right in the middle of it, and I couldn’t get any footage! We were thirsty enough to drink a river, and nothing to drink but that little half pint of whatever you had.”

“Tequila,” Mauser said. “Mexican tequila.” He shook his head. “That’s the last time I ever took anything stronger than water into combat. It tasted all right for the minute, but Kipling was right.”

“Kipling?” Freddy’s eyes were automatically scanning the tarmac, checking to see if he was missing anyone he might approach for some telly footage.

Mauser said, “Old-timer British poet. He used to write about the fighting in India—

“When it comes to slaughter,

“You’ll do your work on water,

“And you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots

“Of ’im that’s got it.”

The reporter’s eyes came back to him, speculatively. “Where’n Zen did you learn to quote poetry?” Mauser laughed it off. “In hospital beds, Freddy. In hospital beds.”

Soligen was looking at him as though for the first time. “You know,” he said, “now that I think about it, I’ve known you about as long as anybody I can think of in Category Military, and my memory must go back at least fifteen years. I haven’t seen a great deal of you, perhaps, but over the years you’ve always been around. What in Zen are you doing, still a captain?”

Mauser couldn’t completely repress the flush that came to his face. He said, “What are you doing still in charge of a combat camera crew after fifteen years? By this time, you ought to at least be in charge of covering this whole fracas.”

Freddy shook his head. “You know better. There’s precious little promotion in Category Communications; it’s frozen. The jerk in charge of this coverage sits back in Kingston in an air-conditioned office giving commands to units like me. He’s never been in the dill in his life and doesn’t expect to be—he’s an Upper. But it’s different in Military. If you’re on the ball, you can get bounced in rank.”

Joe shrugged it off. “Maybe I’m not photogenic, Freddy. The buffs don’t take to me.”

The telly reporter cocked his head to one side and peered up at Joe. “No, it’s not that,” he said seriously. “As a matter of fact, that beautiful withdrawn air of yours…”

Mauser’s eyebrows went up.

Soligen snorted. “Don’t you even know about it?

“Most of the phonies I come in contact with cultivate this craggy, military dignity that you come by naturally. You look like the kind of officer a bunch of Lower riflemen would love to have in command when the situation pickles. I’m just wondering why you’ve never hit the big time. What you ought to do is pull something out of the hat that’d give us cameramen a reason to zero in on you.” He grinned. “Capture old Stonewall Cogswell, or something.”

For a moment, Mauser wondered if Soligen suspected that he was about to do exactly that. That is, pull something out of the hat that would focus the attention of every fracas buff in the West-world on Joe Mauser. But no, that was ridiculous. Mauser had confided in no one—he couldn’t. Oh, had Jim still been alive, yes, Joe would have told him. But as it was, no. It might take no more than a hint to blow the whole plan.

But still… here was the man who could bring the results of that plan to the attention of the world. Without thinking it through, Mauser said, “Freddy, possibly you’re right. Can you keep something under your hat?”

Freddy Soligen tilted his head to one side again and cocked an eye at Joe. “I’ve kept so many items under my hat in my time, Captain, that sometimes there’s been damn little room for my head.”

“I’m sure you have. In your own field, Soligen, you’re an old pro. As much as I am in mine.”

“Okay. Okay. There’re no violins handy, but I’ll accept the compliment. So what do I keep under my nonexistent hat?”

Mauser said slowly, “If there’s any way you can swing it, have that camera crew of yours as near my vicinity as possible.”

The telly reporter frowned in anger. “This is the big deal to keep under my hat? For crissake, Captain, you’re not that green. You must know that every Category Military cloddy on the make tries to suck up to telly teams. You’d think most of them were Tri-Dee stars, trying to get their faces on lens as much as possible.” He snorted again. “This is the first time you’ve braced me, though!” There was contempt in his voice; that and a certain disappointment.

Joe now realized he’d made a mistake. He couldn’t put it over this way. He either had to tell Freddy Soligen now or forget it. But he had no intention of telling Freddy Soligen a thing. He couldn’t afford to.

He said, “Forget about it. To hell with it, Freddy. See you there, later.” He turned and walked off. Max Mainz, who had been standing off a few feet, followed.

The telly reporter started after him, then stopped and called out, “Yeah. See you, Captain. Hope you run into no personal dill.”

“Same, Freddy,” Mauser called over his shoulder.

* * * *

Soligen continued to scowl after him. His reporter instinct told him something was off. It wasn’t like Captain Joe Mauser to be sucking up to a telly man, trying to get on lens for a moment or two for the publicity value. Of course he, Soligen, had possibly precipitated it with his crack about Mauser pulling something out of the hat just to become newsworthy. But still…

Just then Freddy Soligen noted the landing of Stonewall Cogswell’s transport. He started off to round up his crew, but his tight little face still registered suspicious thoughts.

They drove back to their billet in silence, Max Mainz respecting Mauser’s desire to mull over the morning’s developments, whatever they were. Max still wasn’t quite sure what had been accomplished by the flight over the military reservation. From several thousand feet of altitude, he had been able to make out precious little below, and couldn’t understand why they so completely covered the mountain ridges, hovering at this point or that for five or ten minutes at a time.

His captain pulled up the sporty little air cushion car before their cottage and left Max to bring their things in.

Mauser entered the front door, pulled his jerkin off, and threw it over the back of a chair. He went on through the front room and into the kitchenette. There were several bottles standing on the cabinet; he picked up one and scowled at it. Tequila. It brought to mind what Soligen had said about the knoll they’d been pinned down on, years ago, down on the Chihuahua Military Reservation in what had once been Mexico.

He’d been a top sergeant at that time, and had picked up a taste for the fiery Mexican spirits. He remembered how they drank it there. You put a little salt on the back of your hand and a quarter of a lime on the bar before you. After licking the salt, you picked up the shot glass of tequila and tossed its contents back over your tonsils. You then grabbed the lime and bit into it, by way of a chaser.

He didn’t have any limes here in Kingston, nor the patience to go through the routine. He poured a glass of the colorless potable and tossed it off, stiff-wristed. He started to pour another, but caught himself. At this time of day? He put the bottle back and went back to the living room, scowling.

He didn’t think of himself as a drinker. He knew the drinkers, and what happened to them. You didn’t remain one in Category Military; if you did, you didn’t last long. You needed your reflexes at top peak.

Back in the living room, he noticed the message light glowing on the terminal. He flicked the playback.

The screen lit up with the expressionless face of a girl clerk clad in the Haer uniform. Probably an office worker, drafted for special work during the fracas. It wasn’t the best thing in the world for Baron Haer to be doing. Even clerks in the military should be old hands. Silly mistakes made by tyros could lose a fracas.

She said, “Captain Mauser, please report soonest to the offices of Reconnaissance Command.” The screen blanked; a recording.

There were no other messages. He shrugged and went into his bedroom to get back into his cavalry major uniform. He was sorry now he had taken the drink; it would be on his breath when he showed up at headquarters. But then he shrugged impatiently at himself. Why should he give a damn? For that matter, every officer in the Haer forces was probably doing a bit more drinking than usual. They had something to drink about, to be sure.

As he dressed, he called through the door to Max, “I’ve got to go into Kingston. Take the rest of the day off, if you want. Believe me, you can use the rest. Tomorrow we’ll start whipping this outfit into a unit.” He added, sotto voce, “If possible.”

Max said, “I guess I’ll get into my own kilts and go into town to see what’s jelling, sir.”

Joe grinned, remembering his own first days in the Category Military and the glory of wearing combat attire. He had been lucky to survive the first year or so as a mercenary. You had a very good chance of becoming a casualty long before you learned the tools of your trade. He shrugged into his tunic and left the motel, still buttoning it.

Let poor Max have his moment of glory, strutting the streets of downtown Kingston in his spanking new Haer kilts under the admiring gaze of the fracas buffs who were pouring into town to get as near as possible to the Category Military officers and soldiers. Men who all too soon would be spilling their blood on the Catskill hills.

Yes, Max should enjoy it while he could. Soon enough he would know what being a mercenary was really about.