Baron Malcolm Haer's field headquarters were in the ruins of a farm
house in a town once known as Bearsville. His forces, and those of
Marshal Stonewall Cogswell, were on the march but as yet their main
bodies had not come in contact. Save for skirmishes between cavalry
units, there had been no action. The ruined farm house had been a victim
of an earlier fracas in this reservation which had seen in its
comparatively brief time more combat than Belgium, that cockpit of
Europe.
There was a sheen of oily moisture on the Baron's bulletlike head and
his officers weren't particularly happy about it. Malcolm Haer
characteristically went into a fracas with confidence, an aggressive
confidence so strong that it often carried the day. In battles past, it
had become a tradition that Haer's morale was worth a thousand men; the
energy he expended was the despair of his doctors who had been warning
him for a decade. But now, something was missing.
A forefinger traced over the military chart before them. "So far as we
know, Marshal Cogswell has established his command here in Saugerties.
Anybody have any suggestions as to why?"
A major grumbled, "It doesn't make much sense, sir. You know the
marshal. It's probably a fake. If we have any superiority at all, it's
our artillery."
"And the old fox wouldn't want to join the issue on the plains, down
near the river," a colonel added. "It's his game to keep up into the
mountains with his cavalry and light infantry. He's got Jack Alshuler's
cavalry. Most experienced veterans in the field."
"I know who he's got," Haer growled in irritation. "Stop reminding me.
Where in the devil is Balt?"
"Coming up, sir," Balt Haer said. He had entered only moments ago, a
sheaf of signals in his hand. "Why didn't they make that date 1910,
instead of 1900? With radio, we could speed up communications--"
His father interrupted testily. "Better still, why not make it 1945?
Then we could speed up to the point where we could polish ourselves off.
What have you got?"
Balt Haer said, his face in sulk, "Some of my lads based in West Hurley
report concentrations of Cogswell's infantry and artillery near Ashokan
reservoir."
"Nonsense," somebody snapped. "We'd have him."
The younger Haer slapped his swagger stick against his bare leg and
kilt. "Possibly it's a feint," he admitted.
"How much were they able to observe?" his father demanded.
"Not much. They were driven off by a superior squadron. The Hovercraft
forces are screening everything they do with heavy cavalry units. I told
you we needed more--"
"I don't need your advice at this point," his father snapped. The older
Haer went back to the map, scowling still. "I don't see what he expects
to do, working out of Saugerties."