Jerry Pournelle - Janissaries

JANISSARIES

Text copyright c 1979 by Jerry Pournelle

Illustrations copyright C 1979 by Bermejo

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

An ACE Book

Cover art by Enrich

First Ace printing: June 1979

Printed in U.S.A.

CONTENTS

Part One: The Mercenaries 6

Part Two: The Ship 66

Part Three: Tylara 109

Part Four: The Crossroads 153

Part Five: Tamaerthon 181

Part Six: War Leader 206

Part Seven: Scholars 254

Part Eight: Janissaries 290

Epilogue 333

PART ONE:

MERCENARIES

The mortar fire was nearer.

Rick Galloway heard the sharp crump! of at least five mortars. Then there was silence for a moment. It was just twilight, and twilight does not last in the tropics. Night came fast, and with it the sound of the African tropic highlands: birds, crickets, unidentifiable creatures calling each other in the sudden dark. A warm breeze rustled the dry grass on the hilltop.

There was a rattle of distant machine-gun fire. It sounded much too close.

I think the roadblock has gone, Lieutenant Parsons said. His voice was surprisingly calm. They will be here within the hour.

Yeah. Captain Galloway swept his night glasses along the southern slope of the hill, down toward the crossroad where he had left Major Hendrix with the wounded. There was nothing to see. He turned carefully, letting the glasses sweep the perimeter of the hill that for the moment was his entire world. He saw nothing at all except the tiny remnant of his command. The men were digging in and had done a good job with the little they had.

Where the hell are those choppers? Galloway demanded. He felt sweat drip from his forehead despite the cooling breeze that sprang up after sundown. Elliot.

Sir. Sergeant Elliot was at the other end of the trench where Galloway stood. The trench had not been bunkered, but there was no time to construct better defenses for the command post.

Cant you raise headquarters? Galloway demanded.

No, sir. Warners trying. The big sergeant turned back to the radio.

Perhaps we should let the men run for it, Parsons suggested. Some may escape.

Rick shook his head. Whats to run to? he asked. Parsons shrugged. We sell our lives to no purpose

Were giving our employers another hour, Galloway said. His voice was as bitter as he felt, although he had tried to hide his feelings. Theres no point, Andr, Galloway said. We dont speak the language, were the wrong color, and were surrounded. I expect half the troops have run anyway. They know the score. Elliot!

Sir.

How many effectives do we have?

Maybe fifty, Captain.

So there you are, Rick said. About half the number we brought up this silly hill. The rest have run. He knew he was talking too much, saying too many words; but he was young and inexperienced and afraid.

Parsons nodded in the darkness. He took a plastic bottle from his belt. Wine?

Sure. Rick took the liter bottle and drank a couple of swallows of the cheap local wine. Parsons always carried a bottle. Rick was certain that Parsons wasnt the lieutenants real name. Parsons spoke French and German and sometimes let slip a few words about Legion experience.

It hardly mattered. Rick wasnt a real captain, either. The operation was CIA, and the Agency had borrowed men from anywhere they could get them.

Galloway handed the bottle back to Parsons, who raised it in a mock toast. Heres to us. There are damned few left.

Theyre taking their own sweet time about coming, Rick said.

Afraid of us. Parsons voice was a mocking lilt in the dark.

Sure, Galloway said. But they well might be, he thought. Weve broken more than one Cuban mercenary outfit. With any help at all from the politicians who put us out here in Sainte Marie, wed have won. At that it was a near thing. What was it Wellington said about Waterloo? A near-run thingas near a thing as youd ever hope to see. Well so was this, but the difference is its us who lost it.

Officially they were volunteers, and received no direct support from the United States at all; but most of the men were veterans of the US Army, and the CIA had brought them in. The Cubans and Russians had made no secret at all of their aid to the other side.

I got headquarters, Sergeant Elliot announced.

Mirabile dictu Parsons muttered.

Rick crawled over to the radio. Perhaps prayers are answered after all, he thought. There was more automatic weapon fire from the south, and a mortar bomb dropped in fifty yards downhill. Rick estimated the enemy at less than a mile. It wouldnt be long now.

Galloway here, he told the microphone. Can you get us the hell out of here?

Negative.

The single word was a death sentence. Rick started to say that, then thought better of it. They knew. Why not?

Im sorry, Rick. Galloway recognized Colonel Blumfelds voice. Blumfeld was one of the men whod talked him into volunteering for this mission. Washington has canceled all support. Highest level. Id send the choppers anyway and to hell with my career, but I dont have any to send. They came and took them away.

They?

Higher command. Blumfeld sounded unhappy. Rick thought he damned well ought to be unhappy. Your orders are to surrender, Blumfeld said.

Bat puckey. The Cubans will have us in a show trial as mercenaries, Rick said. Then theyll shoot us.

They say they wont.

Sure. Colonel, are you sending me any support? Anything at all?

No.

Then go to hell. Galloway handed the mike to Sergeant Elliot, then went back to where Parsons stood.

Parsons listened with a half-smile that barely showed in starlight. Then he took out his wine bottle. We had a good run, he said.

Rick reached for the bottle. Ill drink to that.

And now what?

Rick shrugged. There were few choices. They were white men in a black country. Rick had always been quick to learn languages, but even he hadnt enough of the local patois to do more than buy groceries. They would be spotted easily wherever they went.

Major Jefferson had taken all the black troops on an infiltration raid. Rick hoped theyd escape, but without the black troops, there wasnt even the pretense of an integrated army. No blacks to speak and front for them. Rick wondered if that would matter. It might, depending on who captured them.

It was his first command, and very likely the only one hed ever have. He wasnt experienced. Hed begun as a junior lieutenant, just out of ROTC from the state university, and his promotion to brevet captain was due to being in the right place and time; he knew better than to think it meant more.

Rick thought it didnt mean very much at all. Parsons was a career man, but the military wasnt Galloways career. ROTC had been an easy way to pay for the college education he couldnt afford.

The other alternative was football. Rick was quick and wiry. Had he gone out for football, he could have got a scholarship, with all the other perquisites of a star. But he didnt like the game. It required too much commitment.

Instead, he had joined the track team and won his letter. Track didnt have the glamour of football; the football jocks got first choice of the girls. On the other hand, they often couldnt enjoy their opportunities because of injuries or training rules. Being a runner was definitely superior in Rick Galloways view. He told himself that quite often. But track hadnt been important enough to the alumni; there werent all those easy jobs available. ROTC had provided Ricks spending money.