Drakas! by S. M. Stirling

Author:S. M. Stirling
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Africa, General, Science Fiction, American, Adventure, War & Military, Military, Fiction, Short Stories
ISBN: 9780671319465
Publisher: Baen
Published: 2000-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

* * *

The projectamap showed the ongoing campaign in western Europe. Draka forces had smashed their way across the Rhine, ready to hook southward through the Low Countries towards France. Bilious green ovals marked the contaminated areas where atomics had been used in the Rhine and in Brussels.

The amphibious thrust into southern Spain had fizzled out, but the beachheads were secure, if unfortunately stationary.

It was those Spanish beachheads that Dominarch Felix Heusinger pointed to. Heusinger had recently replaced John Erikssen as the Dominarch—Draka Army Chief of Staff. Ack-ack shrapnel over the Vistula had put Erikssen in the intensive care ward. The drive across the Rhine had been Erikssen's planning; the landings in Spain Heusinger's.

"We're simply spread too thin," he told the Archon. "We can't even scrape up enough troops for a breakout in the Iberian Peninsula. We certainly don't have spare resources for absurdities."

"Absurdities such as Verwoerd's proposal?" The Archon smiled. "Or such as the Navy?" She leaned back in her chair and fumbled in her jacket for a smoke. "You've of course already explained all this to Admiral Verwoerd?"

The Dominarch snorted. "Of course not. That's why we have lowly decurion clerks at Castle Carleton sitting at desks with rubber stamps." He slapped the back of his fingers on his folder. "To reject twaddle like this and not waste my time."

The Archon lit a thin brown cigar and drew on it until it caught. "So actually this is the first time you've seen this."

The army man flushed.

She blew a smoke ring. "Admiral?"

Verwoerd got up out of his chair and walked to the projectamap. He tapped his wooden pointer right on the Spanish beachheads.

"The Dominarch is quite right. We are stretched too thin." Verwoerd spoke in a clipped Oxford accent.

The accent was quite genuine, the legacy of schooling and a youth spent abroad back when the Domination was still but a Dominion of the British Empire.

"That's precisely the reason for my proposal."

Heusinger muttered about circular logic.

Verwoerd ignored him and continued. "The Domination is trying to conquer the whole of Eurasia with an army of four million, roughly ten percent of our free population."

He nodded in the direction of the Security Directorate liaison, Brekenridge. Erikssen had rated a stategos for a liaison; Heusinger a mere cohortarch. "And that's not counting who knows how many Draka Security personnel—the Order Police, Krypteria, Compound and Camp Guards needed to pacify the areas we already have overrun."

"Or the Navy," added the Archon.

"Or Navy," Verwoerd nodded. "Or Air Corps personnel." He lowered the pointer. "There simply aren't enough Draka to go around."

" . . . Janissaries . . ." Heusinger muttered.

Verwoerd shook his head. "Ask Brekenridge if he wants a larger serf army."

It was Brekenridge's turn to snort.

"I'll take that as a no. Also, we're running short of free Draka to run the homefront. Key industries are limping along—"

"Like shipbuilding?" Heusinger asked, mocking the Navy's perennial complaint.

"—And it's only going to get worse."

No one in the room wanted to argue that. War production shortfalls were at near-critical level.

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