Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(169)
“It’s well we marched as fast as we did, or the enemy would be stronger still,” Inquisitor Choon remarked, then sighed. The passage through the forest hadn’t been pleasant and they’d faced ambuscades, small and large, by Grik musketeers—or huge, terrifying monsters—on an almost-daily basis, but they’d actually maintained a better pace than Choon expected. That was largely because General Kim had applied the lessons learned on the Plain of Gaughala and built a real, united army at last; an army of toughened, realistic veterans, who knew they could lose—but also knew they could win. The transformation had been profound.
“Still, their force is quite formidable enough for my taste, and we must find a way through or past it with all haste,” Choon reminded. They’d received word of Captain Reddy’s victory at Zanzibar with satisfaction, but close on its heels came the rest: the Grik were stirring, TF Bottle Cap would try to stifle their movement in the nest, and if successful, General Alden would land his army ahead of schedule. That meant the Army of the Republic had to churn forward without pause, regardless of resistance, across another hundred miles of enemy territory. On the upside, if they secured a crossing—and a depot—at Soala, their supply situation would improve dramatically, by land and sea, and the growing Fliegertruppe would have a base of operation. In addition, the closer they got to Sofesshk, the more support they might expect from Allied aircraft. The ultimate question no one could answer was whether the two-pronged attack would help them defeat the enemy in detail—or invite the Grik to do the same to them.
General Kim retrieved his telescope from Courtney and snapped it shut, eyeing Bekiaa. “What do you think?” he asked.
Bekiaa blinked, then flattened her ears, looking behind them at the army still spilling from the forest in the distance, spreading out, forming up. The tawny uniforms were faded now and the army wasn’t as pretty, but it finally acted like a proper army, deploying, positioning artillery, erecting tents, and throwing up breastworks, all without a word from General Kim. The Grik had already done much the same on the other side of the river, and there were more of them. But even if the quality, armaments, and determination of their individual troops had improved, they still weren’t . . . people, with all the imagination, initiative, and personal awareness of “why we fight” that the term implied. And they didn’t have machine guns, breech-loading rifles, rapid-firing artillery. . . . She looked back at Kim. “I think it’s gonna be chick-aash—hell—gettin’ across,” she said slowly. “An’ even worse pushin’ on to Sofesshk. But we’ll do it.” She shrugged, blinking determination. “We got no choice.”
General Tomatsu Shinya’s HQ
Popayan
Major Blas-Ma-Ar flung the tent flap aside and marched inside the command HQ with Sister Audry, Colonel Arano Garcia, and Captain Ixtli in her wake. When their bedraggled, much-depleted column eventually joined Shinya’s X and XI Corps, the full “Army of the Sisters,” in the high mountain village of Popayan, they’d been cared for, fed—and left cooling their heels for a week. All while rumors of a fierce battle to the east, at the Quito road and Camino Militar crossroads, flashed through camp. None of the army’s senior commanders were present, and Blas couldn’t get a straight answer out of anyone. Finally, the day before, Generals Shinya and Blair, Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald, and Saan-Kakja arrived, looking exhausted. When there was still no summons, and growing increasingly furious and frustrated, what remained of the leadership of TF Skuggik Chase marched, en masse, to Army HQ, bypassed sputtering guards, and burst in on what was apparently a fairly heated staff meeting, judging by the loud voices they heard outside.
Blas blinked as her eyes adjusted to the canvas-filtered light, but soon recognized Shinya, Blair, Rebecca, and Saan-Kakja. There were others too that she didn’t know, but whatever was going on, she was immediately certain it was their business—at least Sister Audry’s—and they had a right to the unvarnished version.
“Ah,” Shinya said with a glare at a standing officer in the old-fashioned uniform of the Imperial lancers. “The very people we were discussing. I apologize for not greeting you sooner, but things have been rather hectic, as you may have gathered, and we”—he nodded at the other commanders—“were attending a conference with High Admiral Jenks at Quito when the . . . unpleasantness commenced. Making it here was somewhat tedious, I’m afraid. Please make yourselves comfortable.” He blinked genuine, relieved pleasure to see them. “Would you like a refreshment?”
Blas was taken aback. “Ah, sure. What about us?” she asked, taking a cold mug of beer an Impie steward offered.
Shinya gestured at the lancer. “This gentleman, Colonel Lassiter, believes you should’ve more quickly detected that the force in front of you wasn’t Don Hernan’s entire army, and a more timely warning might’ve allowed us to prevent the . . . situation that arose as a result.”
Blas bristled.
“I cannot see how that might be,” Sister Audry stated coldly, leveling an expression of distaste at the lancer. “Given our limited resources compared to what we all believed was Don Hernan’s main body, not to mention the very specific orders we were constrained to obey”—she bowed her head to Blas—“the major, in tactical command of our force, did all anyone could expect. She followed orders precisely, kept pressure on the enemy to the best of her ability, and used initiative and daring to discover the ultimate unpleasant truth. She behaved with honor and courage, and I will not hear her performance—or that of Colonel Garcia—disparaged. In fact, I will recommend them both for recognition and reward.”