tube deals up to Fairbanks from Edmonton. You were expecting a minor fracas, involving possibly five thousand men all told. You never expected Hovercraft to parlay it up, through their connections in the Category Military Department, to a divisional-magnitude fracas which you simply aren’t large enough to afford. But Hovercraft was getting sick of your competition; you’ve been nicking away at them too long.
“So,” he went on relentlessly, “they decided to do you in. They’ve hired Marshal Cogswell and the best combat officers in North America, and they’re hiring the most competent veterans they can find. Even the fracas buffs figure you’ve had it. They’ve been watching you come up the aggressive way, the hard way, for a long time, but now they’re all going to be waiting for you to get it.”
Baron Haer’s heavy face had hardened. He growled, “Is this what everyone thinks?”
“Yes. Everyone intelligent enough to have an opinion.” Mauser nodded toward the outer offices. “Most of those men out there are rejects from Catskill, where Baron Zwerdling is recruiting. Either that or they’re inexperienced Low-Lowers, too stupid to realize they’re sticking their necks out. Not one man in ten is a veteran. And when things pickle, you want veterans.”
Baron Malcolm Haer sat back in his chair and stared coldly at Captain Joe Mauser. He said, “At first I was moderately surprised that an old-time mercenary like yourself should choose my uniform rather than Zwerdling’s. Now I am increasingly mystified about motivation. So again I ask you, Captain—why are you requesting a commission in my forces—which you seem convinced will meet disaster?”
Now they had reached the critical point. The old man was suspicious, and Mauser couldn’t blame him. He had to tread carefully, or he might fail to convince the baron of his sincerity when he offered his plan. A plan that was, on the face of it, outrageous. But now was not the time to reveal that plan, lest it be quashed before he could implement it. He had to get in good with these people, to win their confidence, if he was going to have a chance to make his fling.
He wet his lips carefully. “I think I know a way you can win.”
Baron Haer leaned back in his chair. “Ah, now I see. I can appreciate your self-confidence, Captain Mauser, considering your past record. But what you are really after is to be a part of the underdog’s victory, and pick up a share of the glory, eh? And perhaps you’ll be a little more visible on this side than working under Cogswell. After what happened to you in the McDonnell-Boeing fracas, that would seem reasonable—”
“Uh, father…” the younger Haer cleared his throat. “Are you sure that this is a wise decision? Perhaps we should take another look at the options.”
“You’re looking at the options, Balt!” the baron roared. “Certainly, the potential exists for Captain Mauser to be a plant, working undercover for Cogswell—I’m not blind. If that is the case, then we’ve lost the war before the first battle.”
He stood then. “But, as you well know, without competent, experienced officers, we’re lost in any event. We’ve few enough of them, and Captain Mauser is the best of the lot.”
Balt Haer glared for a moment, then nodded, lips pressed tightly together.
Baron Haer extended a hand. “Welcome to Vacuum Tube Transport, Captain Mauser.”
CHAPTER TWO
His permanent military rank—decided upon by the Category Military Department—the Haers had no way to alter, but they were short enough of competent officers that they gave him the acting rating and pay scale of major.
They also gave him command of a squadron of cavalry. Joe Mauser wasn’t interested in a cavalry command for this fracas, but he said nothing. It wasn’t time as yet to reveal the big scheme, and he didn’t want to buy trouble by complaining. Besides, he could be of use in whipping the Rank Privates into shape.
After they’d finished discussing the preliminaries, Mauser left to unsnarl the red tape involved in signing up with Vacuum Tube’s forces. He reentered the confusion of the outer offices just in time to run into a telly team doing a live broadcast.
Joe Mauser recognized the reporter who headed the team, although the man’s name escaped him. Mauser had run into him more than once in fracases, and knew the man to be a cut above the average newscaster. As a matter of fact, although Mauser held the military man’s standard prejudices against telly, he had a basic respect for this particular newsman. When he’d seen him before, the fellow had been hot in the midst of the action, hanging on even when things were in the dill—he and Mauser had even shared a foxhole at one point. He took as many chances as did the average combatant, and you couldn’t ask for more than that. Undoubtedly, he was bucking for a bounce in caste.
The other knew him too, of course. It was part of his job to be able to spot the celebrities and near celebrities. He zeroed in on Mauser now, directing the cameras with flicks of his hand. Mauser was glad to co-operate—like any old pro, he was fully aware of the value of telly to one’s career, even though he was at best ambivalent about the telly coverage of fracases.
“Captain! Captain Mauser, isn’t it? Joe Mauser, who held out for four days in the swamps of Louisiana with a single company while his ranking officers reformed behind him.”
That was one way of putting it, but both Mauser and the newscaster knew the reality of the situation. When the front collapsed, his commanders—of Upper caste, of course—had pulled out, leaving him to fight a delaying action while their employers mended their fences with the enemy, coming to the best terms possible. That had been the United Oil versus Allied Petroleum fracas, and Mauser had emerged with little either in glory or pelf.
What happened behind the scenes meant nothing to the buffs, though. The mind of the average fracas buff didn’t operate on a level that could appreciate anything other than victory. The good guys win, the bad guys lose—that’s obvious, isn’t it? Not one fracas fan out of ten was interested in a well-conducted retreat or holding action. They wanted blood, lots of it, and they identified with the winning side. What mattered the tactics and strategies that brought the blood? One might as well wonder at the workings of telly itself.
It was the fiesta brava of Spain and Latin America all over again. The crowd identified with the matador, never the bull. Invariably, the cheers went up when finally the wounded, bedeviled, and bewildered animal went down to its death, its moment of truth. In the fracases, fans might start out neutral, but as the action developed and it became obvious that the victors-to-be were going in for the kill, the fans’ loyalty was totally with the winner.
Mauser wasn’t particularly bitter about this aspect. It was part of his way of life. His pet peeve was the real buff. The type of fan, man or woman, who could remember every fracas you’d ever been in, every time you’d copped one, and how long you’d been in the hospital. Fans who could remember, even better than you could, every time the situation had pickled on you and you’d had to fight your way out as best you could. They’d tell you about it, their eyes gleaming, sometimes even with a slight trickle of spittle at the sides of their mouths.
They usually wanted an autograph, or a souvenir such as a uniform button. And there seemed to be no end to the tactics these fanatics would employ in consummating their adoration. Once a fan had maneuvered his way into the hospital where Mauser was laid up with a triple leg wound from a Maxim gun and begged for a piece of bloody bandage. It was one of the great regrets in Mauser’s life that he’d been in no shape to get up and kick the cloddy down the stairs.
Now he said to the telly reporter, “That’s right, Captain Mauser. Acting major in this fracas, ah—”
