PAGE 15
Mercenary
by
Joe said, stiffly, “I’m afraid I’m in no position to discuss my commander’s military contracts, marshal. We’re in mufti, but after all–“
Cogswell’s lean face registered one of his infrequent grimaces of humor. “I understand, Joe. Well, good luck and I hope things don’t pickle for you in the coming fracas. Possibly we’ll find ourselves aligned together again at some future time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Joe said, once more having to catch himself to prevent an automatic salute.
Cogswell and his staff went off, leaving Joe looking after them. Even the marshal’s staff members were top men, any of whom could have conducted a divisional magnitude fracas. Joe felt the coldness in his stomach again. Although it must have looked like a cinch, the enemy wasn’t taking any chances whatsoever. Cogswell and his officers were undoubtedly here at the airport for the same reason as Joe. They wanted a thorough aerial reconnaissance of the battlefield-to-be, before the issue was joined.
* * *
Max was standing at his elbow. “Who was that, sir? Looks like a real tough one.”
“He is a real tough one,” Joe said sourly. “That’s Stonewall Cogswell, the best field commander in North America.”
Max pursed his lips. “I never seen him out of uniform before. Lots of times on Telly, but never out of uniform. I thought he was taller than that.”
“He fights with his brains,” Joe said, still looking after the craggy field marshal. “He doesn’t have to be any taller.”
Max scowled. “Where’d he ever get that nickname, sir?”
“Stonewall?” Joe was turning to resume his chair and magazine. “He’s supposed to be a student of a top general back in the American Civil War. Uses some of the original Stonewall’s tactics.”
Max was out of his depth. “American Civil War? Was that much of a fracas, captain? It musta been before my time.”
“It was quite a fracas,” Joe said dryly. “Lot of good lads died. A hundred years after it was fought, the reasons it was fought seemed about as valid as those we fight fracases for today. Personally I–“
He had to cut it short. They were calling him on the address system. His aircraft was ready. Joe made his way to the hangars, followed by Max Mainz. He was going to pilot the airplane himself and old Stonewall Cogswell would have been surprised at what Joe Mauser was looking for.
V
By the time they had returned to quarters, there was a message waiting for Captain Mauser. He was to report to the officer commanding reconnaissance.
Joe redressed in the Haer kilts and proceeded to headquarters.
The officer commanding reconnaissance turned out to be none other than Balt Haer, natty as ever, and, as ever, arrogantly tapping his swagger stick against his leg.
“Zen! Captain,” he complained. “Where have you been? Off on a trank kick? We’ve got to get organized.”
Joe Mauser snapped him a salute. “No, sir. I rented an aircraft to scout out the terrain over which we’ll be fighting.”
“Indeed. And what were your impressions, captain?” There was an overtone which suggested that it made little difference what impressions a captain of cavalry might have gained.
Joe shrugged. “Largely mountains, hills, woods. Good reconnaissance is going to make the difference in this one. And in the fracas itself cavalry is going to be more important than either artillery or infantry. A Nathan Forrest fracas, sir. A matter of getting there fustest with the mostest.”
Balt Haer said amusedly. “Thanks for your opinion, captain. Fortunately, our staff has already come largely to the same conclusions. Undoubtedly, they’ll be glad to hear your wide experience bears them out.”
Joe said evenly, “It’s a rather obvious conclusion, of course.” He took this as it came, having been through it before. The dilettante amateur’s dislike of the old pro. The amateur in command who knew full well he was less capable than many of those below him in rank.