Mauser 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. I hope things don’t pickle for you in the coming fracas. Possibly we’ll find ourselves allied again at some future time.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mauser said, once more having to catch himself to prevent an automatic salute.
Cogswell and his staff strolled off toward the reservation desk, and Mauser looked after them thoughtfully. Even the marshal’s staff members were top men, any one of whom could have conducted a divisional magnitude fracas. Joe felt the coldness in his stomach again.
Even though the fracas must have looked like a cinch, the enemy wasn’t taking any chances. Cogswell and his officers were here at the airport for the same reason as Mauser. They wanted a thorough aerial reconnaissance of the battlefield 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’s no bigger than me.”
“He fights with his brains,” Mauser said, still looking after the craggy field marshal. “He doesn’t have to be any taller.”
Max scowled. “Where’d he get that nickname, sir?”
“Stonewall?” Mauser was turning to resume his chair. “He’s supposed to be quite a student of a top general back in the American Civil War—Stonewall Jackson. Uses some of the original Stonewall’s tactics.”
Max was again 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,” Mauser said dryly. “Lots of good lads died. A hundred years after it was fought, the reasons behind it seemed about as valid as those we fight fracases for today. Personally, I—”
The public address system blared his name. His aircraft was ready.
Max in tow, Mauser crossed the administration building’s concourse and exited via a small door through which, Joe noted, Cogswell and his men had disappeared earlier. Rank hath its privileges, he reminded himself; doubtless Cogswell had phoned ahead and someone had been bumped off the reservation lists in his favor.
They exited into bright sunlight and followed a concrete walkway to the hanger area, where Mauser quickly spotted what had to be the aircraft assigned him—a small two-seater. He crossed the tarmac, hailed an attendant, and quickly took care of the necessary formalities of handing over his reservation slip and identifying himself.
As he and Max climbed into the cockpit of the single-engine mini-jet, Joe chuckled inwardly at how surprised old Stonewall would be to know just what Joe Mauser was looking for on this flight. Even greater would be his surprise when he was presented, so to speak, with the results of Mauser’s research.
CHAPTER FOUR
The mini-jet banked sharply as it began its descent to the airfield below. Joe Mauser’s face was thoughtful. He had requested a slow, wide-winged aircraft, but the clerk hadn’t been able to do much for him. The others hiring rental craft had also been interested in hoverability and low speed, albeit for reasons different than Mauser’s. He’d had to settle for what was available.
Max, seated next to him, gulped, “Hey, Captain, take it easy.”
Mauser looked at him.
“I ain’t never been up in anything this small before.”
“Oh,” Mauser grunted. He leveled out and continued the descent, less steeply now. “When we get around to it, we’ll have to check you out on flying, Max.”
His batman was taken aback. “You mean me? A pilot?”
Mauser said, “One of the things you want to learn early in the game, Max, is that the mercenary’s life isn’t exactly as portrayed on the telly screens. What the fracas buff mainly sees is the combat, and not very much of that, since most combat is on the drab and colorless side. Most of your time is spent crouched in some hole, or face down behind whatever cover you can find. The lens concentrates on the hand-to-hand stuff. The buff isn’t interested in such matters as artillery laying down a barrage. He’s not even interested in a cavalry squadron making a sweep around a flank to execute some bit of strategy that might decide the fracas. He wants action and blood.”
Max, holding to a grab-bar as the small aircraft dropped, managed to get out, “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about, sir.”
Mauser’s hands moved over the controls expertly, straightening the craft for the runway rising to meet them. He had already received his landing instructions from the control tower.
He said, “The more you know about subjects seemingly remote from your trade, Max, the better off you’ll be. Any medical knowledge that you might have, for instance, is priceless. It won’t show on the telly screen, but it sure as hell helps for you to be as near an M.D. as you can make yourself. It also helps to be as good a swimmer as you can, as good a horseman, as competent a mountain climber.
“You’ve got to be a survival expert who can find a meal in a swamp, a desert, a forest, or on top of a seemingly barren mountain. And you want to be a mechanical wizard, capable of repairing not only every weapon allowable under the Universal Disarmament Pact, but any other gadget that might be used in war—from a telegraph to a mechanical semaphore. You even want to be a better ditch digger than the most competent Low-Lower who ever spent his life making with a shovel. ”
Max was staring at him. “Ditch digger? Who wants to be a ditch digger? I didn’t cross categories to become any ditch digger!”
Mauser interrupted him mildly. “We call them trenches, Max. And the sooner you learn to burrow like a mole, the better off you’ll be, particularly when they ring mortars in on you.”
“Oh,” Max said weakly. “Yeah, sure.”
“And you better learn to climb trees faster than any lumberjack, and to shore up a shaft better than any miner.” The two braced themselves as the small craft jolted, its tires squealing as they touched the runway. “Over the years, such skills are more important than being a crack shot, or an expert with a knife in close personal combat. The fact of the matter is, you might go through a half-dozen standard fracases and never get into personal combat, but I’ve never been in one that didn’t involve digging entrenchments.” Mauser concentrated for a moment on braking the mini-jet.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? That being a mercenary has very little to do with what you see on telly? The sooner you realize that, the better your chances of surviving.”
“Well, yeah,” Max said doubtfully. “But what good’s flying? Nobody’s allowed to use aircraft in action, Captain. Even I know that.”
Mauser was taxiing toward the hangers.
“Max, even as a Rank Private you’ve got to stack the cards in your favor—any way you can! When you’re in there, if you’ve managed to swing percentages your way just one percent—just one percent, Max—it might be the difference between copping the final one and surviving.
“Every old pro who’s going to be in this fracas has been studying the terrain, Max. Stonewall Cogswell has fought this reservation three times that I know of, and probably more. But where is he, right this minute? He and his whole field staff are up in a transport going over the whole reservation, again and again. Why? Because possibly he’s forgotten the exact layout, although that’s not very likely with