"For one thing," MacRuder — still filling the door — told him, "we're stuck. And we're sitting ducks here. These little valleys might harbor enough farmland to supply this elevator and co-op, but the rocky timbered ridges around them are a haven for hit-and-run tactics."
Sinklar flipped on his comm. "Ayms? Kap? Report!"
"Got the boys billeted out here, First. Everything's quiet. Boring in fact. What's the news on the transport? What do I tell these guys?" Kap asked.
"Tell them we're staying here for a day." Sinklar rubbed the back of his neck. "Remember the drills we did outside Kaspa? I want small search and destroy squads out and around. This time, we play their game. Meanwhile, organize foraging parties. One from each Section. They are to bring in livestock, raid the farms, and shoot any wildlife. If it's kicking and red-blooded, it's edible."
"So when do we get out of here?" Ayms asked, voice somber.
"As soon as I think of a way. Tell the troops the Rotted Gods will starve before I leave 'em hung up to dry. Headquarters or hell take the hindmost!"
"Yes, sir. We're on it," Kap signed off.
Sinklar turned to the map. "We could walk. That would get us there within three weeks. But a long column would be easily picked to pieces. And how would we feed them all? The country isn't that rich!"
MacRuder stepped forward, a perplexed anxiety in his deep blue eyes as he ran a nervous hand through his blond hair. "I could take a squad back with the transport. We could, um, 'suggest' that they give us transport. A blaster under full charge can be real pus-stinking persuasive when you're looking down the other end."
"And they'd blow you to pieces." Pensively, Sinklar rolled his stylus between his fingers. "No, Mac, they'd be prepared for that."
Gretta's eyes slitted before she spoke, voice deadly flat. "You mean they did this on purpose?"
"Of course." Sink tapped the stylus against his chin, gaze switching from face to face. His mind raced as the possibilities unfolded in his mind.
"Stupidity!" Mac flared. "What good does it do the Empire to have the First Targan gutted and destroyed again? It's preposterous!"
"That would appear to be the question," Sinklar agreed, considering the situation, refusing to let his anger carry him away. "To allow the Division to be savaged and decimated again will give the Targans heart, a great psychological
and political victory. The Empire will be set back and the involvement here will escalate in cost and lives and material."
"Who profits from that?" Gretta moved behind him, hands comforting as she
massaged his shoulders.
"I'm not really sure." Sinklar patted one of her hands affectionately. Smile fading into frown, he added, "What we see here is a tiny part of the complete picture. No, our dilemma is not a tactical error. Somewhere — Rega, most likely — an Imperial defeat will benefit some party or destroy someone else. Who? Mykroft? I don't think so. He hated appointing me to this position."
The piece clicked into place. Sinklar's eyes lit. "Of course!"
"What?" Gretta demanded, leaning forward to stare into his eyes, suddenly hopeful.
"That's why they appointed me." Sinklar laughed bitterly and slapped a hand on his knee. "I'm a sacrificial goat! The perfect fall guy! Set up the First Division with raw misfits;
leave them stranded with a new 'green' commander; allow the Targans to blast us to pieces while the command falls apart, lacking food, supply, and relief; and finally, no one powerful or important gets the blame or shame of losing a whole Division to the Targans. We're expendable for political reasons."
Mac's mouth worked. "Rotted Gods! What are we fighting for? I mean, they can't just waste their own people like that, can they? We're Imperial citizens! What about all that rhetoric when they took Maika, and Riparious, and all the rest? What about the speeches on law and human rights and ethical responsibility?"
"Propaganda," Gretta guessed. "Face it, Tybalt built an Empire to promote his power and will. Only the Sassans stand in the way."
"And there's a missing factor in interstellar politics that hasn't been heard from," Sinklar observed, steepling his fingers.
"That is?" Gretta sank onto the corner of the desk, eyes soft as she watched him. Her long brown hair framed her face.
"The Companions." Sinklar tapped the map with his stylus. "How many wars has Rega fought without Staffa kar
Therma's people doing the majority of the work?" He raised an eyebrow. "For the past forty years, not one. Where do you think that asinine regulation of command personnel staying hidden in the rear came from? The Divisional staff has been appointed by political merit. In the last ten or fifteen planetary conquests, the Companions waged the war — not the Regans. We were just mop-up and defensive troops."
"And now Sassa has consolidated its empire." MacRuder lifted a thumb to his mouth and chewed the nail. "If the Star Butcher goes Sassan, where are we? Rega, I mean?"
Sinklar lifted his arms in an eloquent shrug. "I don't know. No one in the Regan Ministry of Defense knows anything about tactics or combat. The game plan was always supplied by the Star Butcher; his people oversaw the strategy and tactics while the political hacks took their commissions and were decorated for gallantry and efficiency in the Imperial Hall after the war."
"Pus-Rotted Gods," Gretta whispered, stunned. "We're vulnerable as sheep!"
"Bad analogy. Think of us — Rega, that is — in actual terms. We have a lot of combat veterans. They just aren't here. Significant, don't you think? Only two green divisions on this planet? Why not the hard-core veterans from Maika and Riparious and Etaria and Ashtan? No, this is either a diversion or bait, one of the two. Why hasn't the Star Butcher showed up to cow Targa? Is he working for Sassa or… maybe this war isn't hot enough to stir his interest? Or, could it be we're an example — misleading at that — to lull someone's perception of Regan power? Disinformation can be a potent weapon."
Sinklar's brows lowered, the smile twisting his grim lips. "So, if the war could be heated up — say a Division was lost — the Targans would organize. Individuals whose loyalties are wavering would see a chance and commit themselves to the Rebellion. Staffa would find a reason to take a contract. Thus, he would already be in Regan contract if a confrontation with the Sassans could be provoked. Or the Sassans might jump before they were ready."
"But what if the Companions are already contracted to the Sassans?" Mac asked pointedly.
Sinklar shifted in his seat. "Then this war would have
already been settled. Either Tybalt would have agreed to a political settlement to stabilize treacherous waters, or the veterans would have been here in such a massed force as to crush the potential for rebellion." He squinted
at the thought. "Rega could destroy the food chain here within three days by using the combined power of the fleet. No food — no revolution. Very simple. Works all the time."
"But there's only a token force orbiting," Gretta reminded.
"And if Staffa was in contract to the Sassans," Sinklar responded, "there would be military panic, frantic training, and no promotion of an unknown Sergeant Third to Divisional First."
Mac puffed a deep breath. "And that brings us back to this pus hole. Sink, I wasn't scared by the Targans. All they want to do is drive us away. Imperial politics? What the hell do we do about that?" He sighed and closed his eyes. "Rotted Gods! How do we fight the Minister of Defense, hell, even the Emperor, for all we know!" Mac paced, face working anxiously as his fists clenched and unclenched.
"First, Mac," Sinklar's gentle voice soothed, "relax. That's an order. The way to win is to think." He laced his fingers together and winked at Gretta. "The best way to defeat whoever is behind this is to derail their plans for the destruction of the First Targah Assault Division."