บท 7: WHEN THE COUNT IS GOOD (7)
It was soon 10 a.m.
Everyone was in place. Moa had joined the other cushy job holders, a little behind to be able to observe everything. The atmosphere was no tenser than usual, a sign that no one was really under any illusion about the outcome of the day. One officer was joking, another was blowing his nose, and a third one was clearing his throat by vocalizing. A fourth, a fifth, a sixth, each of them had his little ritual to get in condition.
On the battlefield, the two teams were in place. The competition for mopeds, the first of the day, would start as soon as Pom ordered it. The engines were turned off. Several hundred roaring mopeds agglutinated on such a small area produced a sound nuance difficult to bear for those who were not used to it. In addition, even if the sound engineers could filter certain sound frequencies in their control room, the whistle used by the referee also emitted in these trebles. It had been envisaged for a time to use a device making it possible to modulate the sounds at the exit of the exhaust pipes of vehicles to make them have a more low-pitched sound, or silencers to attenuate them but of strong protests on behalf of the purists did not miss to arrive. For better readability, it was chosen to park the engine off and start only after the official start of the joust. Believe me, it was a show in itself and the silence that preceded participated in the dramaturgy.
Pom was standing at his assigned place, a headset in the ear to be kept informed of the progress of the advertising break on TV. As soon as the antenna was taken over by the team present on the front, he could give the start of the jousting. His whistle in his right hand approached his mouth, indicating the eminence of the kick-off.
The press booth, located against the light in the morning hours, was crowded. Moa could recognize the majority of journalists usually present to comment the fighting. Some teams had invited experts. According to their uniforms, they were mainly retired soldiers or members of forces involved on other fronts. Even if in the military field, they were not all famous, with civilians, they produced their effect, giving de facto credibility to what was said on the air.
A look around the battlefield showed to a discerning eye that the device today was a bit superior compared to the standard device, proof that there should not be much going on elsewhere in the world.
The moped match was usually the most favorable for the coalesced. It was no coincidence that Moa had chosen this regiment at the time, when finishing his training program he had large choice of career opportunities.
For a long time, the pilot squadron had even been the very pride of the third regiment. At the very beginning of the war, the pilots became famous for their exploits on the battlefield. It was usual to see them on the news, in the evening. It was by that way Moa came into contact with them. The most famous ones had even their photographs on milk bricks and others had taken part in advertisements for cookies, probably the greatest honor someone who would have been an anonymous hero could dream of.
The very first team was a band of daredevils but piloting geniuses. Yet, as the rules specified, if the vehicles were free to chose, they had to comply with very detailed specifications, in particular the engine size and a flange installed on the engine limiting power, acceleration capacities and maximum speed.
All the pilots were thus housed in the same boat, and what made the difference was not the technological superiority of one camp compared to the other, but really the intrinsic qualities of each soldier. Their talent in the maneuverability of their machines regularly made the difference. In the first months of the war, they had a record of invincibility that still hold today. Most of them had survived long enough to receive more decorations than their Christmas tree.
Their skills were legendary and certain maneuvers really disoriented the Grenati soldiers. Books had been written on this subject, like the famous best-seller, 'How to make the most of mittens to maneuver gas', a reference work that Moa had bought himself when it was published and in a moment of extravaganza, he had even gone to find the team to collect their autographs.
Times had changed, alas, the squadron was unrecognizable. It was now timid, the shadow of itself since what the annals of the conflict had dubbed as 'the tragedy of the badly inflated tires'.
It had happened on a winter morning, as there were sometimes. At that time, the front had penetrated far in the north. The temperatures had gone down for a few days already, a temperature so low that the military staff had even advised the officers to wear a scarf.
For several days already, a mass of low pressure air had been sweeping the region. The humidity was high, turning into precipitation. The temperature even if not optimal for mammals' metabolism was still in an acceptable range. One night, an anticyclone had managed to break through this depression, creating a starry sky as rarely seen in the region; it was a new moon, the light pollution kept to its minimum, a representation of rare poetry in wartime, magnificent but refrigerating. Nothing supernatural in there, a harsh winter often led to temperatures below that of water melting. At moderate altitude and normal atmospheric pressure, the landscape sparkled with myriads of ice crystals. The fields of grass were covered with a white veil; the windshields of the cars had become opaque. The smoothest surfaces reflected the sun's rays. The ice had appeared; at a somewhat early date which had not been correctly anticipated.
That day, the coalesced had won the draw. The battlefield had a special layout with a hump. When on the top of the bump, they faced the south-west, they had the advantage of starting downhill, which was less demanding for the mechanics, and thinking of the following jousts which required more muscular efforts, this choice was probably the most judicious, especially since the bright sun that morning was in their back. The problem lay in the fact that the bump was directly beaten by the winds, a lot fresher.
The bad anticipation of the arrival of this cold wave, coupled with increasing logistical problems as the front moved north meant that the chains to equip the tires had still not arrived on the spot, awaiting a signature on the H5 form that an official had inadvertently placed in the wrong stack of documents.
Finally, the talent of the pilots was not enough. The grip was really too bad, their boldness did not compensate for the slippages each time they accelerated.
Conversely, the Grenati pilots, they were not called like that at that time, were equipped of studded tires. Their logistic chain was shorter and they had managed to adapt faster, as a factory belonging to the Grenati family, specialized in this production, had been able to be mobilized and had succeeded in supplying, in exchange for a sum of money kept secret, the army on time hours.
They rapidly managed to take the initiative and held the advantage during the entire joust, an advantage they quickly materialized as a massacre, the best term to define what had happened to a helpless coalesced squadron. There were deaths and there were many. The first ever coalesced squadron was finished.
That day, tears ran down Moa's cheeks. It was the sadness of losing his idols, as well as the piercing cold pricking his eyes as his function forced him to stay watching, focused as always.
Even if it was a real massacre, it was not a total annihilation. There were survivors, some lucky ones who had the chance not to be at the bad location at the bad time. They were however traumatized. They went mad; in any case, it was what the psychiatric expert reported. That event gave its name to a new psychiatric disorder, known as the 'syndrome of the badly inflated tires'.
This fiasco had subsequently given rise to an official investigation. The army needed to find culprits. As it was improper to put everything on the backs of the dead and above all counterproductive because it was not possible do not judge a dead person, and as it was less improper but nevertheless improper to put everything on the backs of the survivors because as celebrities, they had good lawyers, the army sought the help of various experts.
The investigation was a long process and in the end, a team of mechanics found a reason satisfying nearly everybody. They discovered that the tires of coalesced mopeds were usually a little too much inflated. It was not too big of a difference when compared to the optimal data given by the suppliers. It seemed that it was a choice directly made by the pilots without the validation of the hierarchical chain. It was just a few centibars, not much but maybe enough to degrade handling in case of ice. It was nevertheless enough to indict the tire inflators as being responsible for the tragedy. There was no trial; many months had passed already and there was no point in turning the knife in a gaping wound that did not heal. For the major convinced, they were executed, for the minor convinced, they were given back to civil life.
The situation was not good for a period of time, following this tragedy. However, the new blood progressively injected into the third regiment finally allowed a stabilization of the balance of power during the first joust. Mopeds were the banner of the third regiment, their pride and it was not so easy for the Grenati army to gain too much of an advantage.
Pom had whistled the kick-off.
A first click of the ignition key; the attenuated sound of the starter of some somewhat tired machines; the lever of decompression in action; a sharp blow on the pedal to launch the fitter, the pistons driven, the crankshaft in rotation, the engine running; the roaring noise of the open gas control triggering the arrival of petrol in the internal combustion engine... yes, believe me, for someone like Moa who loved beautiful mechanics, the synchronized start-up of several hundred two-stroke engines was a spectacle it was hard to get tired of.
Some mopeds a little too damaged or manipulated by too nervous novices always refused to start at the same time as the others but it was usual and it didn't produce dissonance in the general concerto. It was a minority of the pilots; the majority of them were used to it.
The first jousts, the cameras, the ambience, all this could let up the stress in some, especially rookies. Adrenaline was a complicated hormone and everybody didn't react in the same way. If some got a rush boosting them all the way until the end of the joust, some were inhibited, paralyzed. But for a veteran who had known dozens, sometimes hundreds of jousts, it was nothing, he was jaded.
After two or three failures, the mopeds were almost all in motion. The few recalcitrant at that time were of no help on the field of maneuver. The rule stipulated that they had only five chances and ninety seconds to start their machine; failing and the pilot had to evacuate the place, under penalty of quickly dying. Not that their death was important, but the televisions considered that filming an awkward pilot unable to start a moped in this period of time was certainly funny, but that the best jokes were often the shortest.
The coalesced team took almost two minutes to get into formation because one of its fundamental elements had failed to start his moped. However, the reorganization operated, everything went smoothly and very quickly Moa was able to recognize that it was the formation of the-donkey-surmounted-by-a-dog-himself-surmounted-by-a-cat-on-which-a-cock-cropped, a formation which pulled its name from a statue placed in a city that had served as a battlefield in the past. It was a mixed formation, neither too offensive, nor too defensive.
On the other hand, the Grenati army had decided to adopt the formation of the-little-straw-hut-lost-in-the-forest; a formation which took its name from a song Gelkeur was a fan of. This formation was particularly conservative.
It was clear from the disposition of the two teams that everyone had been surprised this morning by the downpour that had fallen, hence the lack of extravagance displayed. This was good news for Moa, who had the confirmation that the weather report had also surprised their enemies, proof that they had not infiltrated the organization in charge of the weather forecast.
The first few minutes of the joust ended in a barren observation round. The road was a little wet, the driving was difficult. The attacks were timid and the defenses easily took precedence.
After a few minutes of status quo and a few bursts easily blocked, the coalesced decided to speed up the tempo. The maneuver started, the-little-beast-that-rises for its name, was mainly used to test the temperature. However, a coordination error in the Grenati line opened a breach allowing the isolation of one of their pilot who had to face three of his enemies.
A whistle blew. It was Pom, the referee who reported a fraudulent maneuver from the Grenati pilot, a prohibited support.
A wave of protests was heard in the coalesced ranks, the conspirators were already starting to sharpen their arguments of a referee sold to the enemy.
A prohibited support was a recurring fault during the first game, but in general the referee let it slip when it was defensive, the advantage on attack should normally prevail.
The fault was whistled. It was an illusion to protest. The coalesced had to stay focused on their task: staying alive and trying to gain the advantage. As for the unfortunate and reckless enemy soldier, he got away with no more than a great fright.
It was in any case only a postponement. Two minutes later, a new maneuver, the-alcohol-no-ferruginous-water-yes, again isolated the same soldier. He was a rookie, Moa was sure of it. In his panic, this soldier dropped his protective gear. He was at the mercy of his direct opponent but the latter, himself a rookie, was clumsy and only managed to damage a front wheel mudguard. Pressed in turn by two Grenati soldiers arriving as reinforcements, he could only beat back.
Sighs of exasperation could be heard from the coalesced side. It was normally a must, but sometimes it could happen to miss a must. Conversely, sighs of relief was heard in the ranks of the Grenati army.
These successive speed ups by the coalesced then forced them to slow down a bit. The volume of gasoline in their tanks had dropped significantly and they risked a penalty if they had to refuel. It was a fairly recent measure, one of these rules emerging here and there, under the pressure of lobbies. For this rule, the one to thank was the environmental protection committee who feared that with the increase in greenhouse gases in the atmosphere; soon they would no more know what typical seasons were. Given the harm these gases did to the climate, particularly with the increasingly frequent occurrence of extreme events that were difficult to predict, Moa was entirely in favor of the adoption of these climate-friendly regulation.
This slow down allowed the Grenati to relieve the pressure on their side and to put a little pressure on the coalesced. Their maneuvers remained disorderly. It was not very dangerous. They even almost been countered but Pom whistled another fault. This time, the fault was for the coalesced who had exceeded the 104 db allowed for battle cries. This was not a big fault and the conspirators couldn't say anything, an electronic detector clearly showed the fact.
Cooled down, the Grenati resumed their defensive formation. The allies also did not intend to waste their fuel in a closed joust, so the rest of the joust was not exciting to follow, even for a keen eye.
It was only a few minutes before the end that the coalesced gathered in a new formation, the-clown-juggling-with-a-silver-metal-service, tribute to an acrobat's performance in vogue a few years earlier. It was just a last charge and the almost unsportsmanlike conduct of the opponent would leave it in vain.
Two minutes from the end, two Grenati soldiers found themselves in bad shape but their captain shouted that he wanted a carrot, forcing Pom to suspend the maneuvers.
The manager of the Grenati's carrot stock ran towards his captain, carrot in hand. He handed it to him and the biker just crunched the tip, to show he acted in good faith and not being suspected of playing with the rules. He threw the rest on the ground.
This kind of action was not very good for the audiences therefore the television channels generally took the opportunity to pass an advertising break. The pause lasted exactly 89 seconds; the conclusions of a study had shown that after this duration, the viewer was inclined to change channels.
On the battlefield, everyone caught their breath, being careful not to stall their engine. There were only two minutes left and nothing would happen.
Pom whistled indicating the end of regulation time for the joust.
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ludo2776
ludo2776 ... to be continued in the next chapter
I thought, as the beginning of the novel is already written in French, most of the job I was required to do was to translate it and post. But the edition time is very long and he more I advance, the longer it is... For this chapter, which would have been around 1,700 words in the original script, it's close to 3,000 now and I had to cut off a part I intended to put here and directing it in chapter 8. I spend 7 hours just editing, trying to make the narration go smoother. So keeping a pace of 2 chapters a day will be difficult. I hope I can do but I'm not sure. At least 7 hours of work a day is still manageable during my confining period, so I pretty sure I will be able to post at least 1 chapter a day :)
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