Chapter Six
These, I take it, were the characteristic acts of a man whose affections are set on warfare. When it is open to him to enjoy peace with honour, no shame, no injury attached, still he prefers war; when he may live at home at ease, he insists on toil, if only it may end in fighting; when it is given to him to keep his riches without risk, he would rather lessen his fortune by the pastime of battle. To put it briefly, war was his mistress; just as another man will spend his fortune on a favourite, or to gratify some pleasure, so he chose to squander his substance on soldiering.
—Xenophon, on the Spartan, Clearchus, The Anabasis
Quarters #2, Isla Real, 2/5/467 AC
The nightmares had started coming again, since Carrera had returned from Sumer. They'd been bad—horrifying, really—before he'd begun to gather the means of revenge. Then they'd tapered off, even becoming somewhat rare. Whether this was because he was actually doing something to destroy those who had murdered his wife and children or because he was typically so exhausted at the end of the day that he had not even the energy left to dream, he had no clue.
Then the fighting had begun and the nightmares had gone almost completely. Again, he could not say whether they had stopped because he was advancing the cause of vengeance—he didn't delude himself that he was really in search of justice—or because of exhaustion, of for some other reason or reasons.
He never told anyone, not even his closest friends and especially not Lourdes, his second wife, but he was a superstitious sort and a part of him really felt the dreams came from the shade of Linda, reminding him not to let the murderers of her children get away.
Whatever the case, since returning with his troops from Sumer the nightmares had begun coming again with increasing violence and frequency. They were repetitive, as well. Tonight's was one of the worst; the one where he had just met Linda for the very first time and she burst into flames before his eyes. He awakened from that one screaming, as he always had. Lourdes held him tightly until he calmed down.
It was perhaps one reason that he loved Lourdes as much as he did. She should have been jealous that her husband was still in love with Linda. She probably was jealous that he was still in love with Linda. After all, what woman likes being in second place? But she understood that the world was imperfect and was thankful for what she did have.
Besides, she took care of him. He needed her, even if he was gone most of the time. He needed her, even though he was more at home in the field with the legion. He needed her, even though she could never completely replace Linda.
Perhaps he loved her most because she loved him as much as, perhaps more than, Linda had. And he felt terrible, terrible guilt that he couldn't, not quite, fully reciprocate.
He spent virtually all early mornings out with one or another maniple, joining that ever-so-lucky tribune at daily physical training. That meant he would be able to see every maniple commander at PT about once every two years.
More often than not he would go directly from PT to his office, shower, grab a quick bite at the Headquarters mess, and then either go look at training or attend one of the meetings that he did his damnedest to limit. This morning, given the performance of the previous night, he thought he probably ought to have breakfast with Lourdes. The eldest boy—little Hamilcar was four years old now and in prekindergarten—would be at school. The younger, still just a baby, would likely be asleep.
As he drove himself to his quarters, he thought, I wonder if it's even a good idea for me to join them at PT. How much stupidity do these kids go through on the off chance I might show up? Maybe it would be better if I do what I do in the field; watch but almost never let them know I'm watching. Something to consider, anyway. And, then, too, what the hell is the point of watching something once every two years? I don't know that there is any. Do I get a picture, or just a false picture?
As Carrera turned his sedan into the parking lot for Quarters #2, he sighed to himself. This garrison crap is a new playing field and I probably still have things to figure out. I wish . . .
He didn't finish the thought. Had he, it would have been, I wish I could go back to the war.
Carrera eased the car under the columned carport to the right side of the white-painted quarters. Once underneath, he stopped the car with a gentle touch on the brakes, turned it off, and exited. Hearing the door close, Jinfeng, the trixie, stuck her brightly feathered head out from a bush and screeched a welcome.
It was eighteen steps along the side and front of the wraparound porch—like the porte cochere, also columned—to the centrally located front door. He'd not had the legion skimp on anybody's family quarters, and his was nearly eleven thousand square feet on three floors. He didn't need it. Lourdes didn't need or want it and slightly resented having to have domestic help to keep the place up. But there were social obligations that went with command and some of those social obligations involved space. A full half of the first floor was a ballroom and industrial kitchen. Even that was only just big enough to accommodate the occasional dinners he threw for senior legates, their sergeants-major, and their wives.
The household kitchen was much smaller and cozier. He found Lourdes there, hunched over a computer, ordering supplies from the main commissary. Although legion pay was generous by local standards, it didn't necessarily permit two cars, or even one, per family. He'd made arrangements for a local company to provide a delivery service. For some it was a necessity. For others, like Lourdes, it was a damned nice-to-have convenience.
Carrera's steps were catlike, virtually silent. It wasn't anything he tried to do; in fact, he'd tried to cure himself of it since it tended to give people unpleasant shocks when he materialized behind him. Lourdes didn't know he was even standing behind her until she felt his hands cup her breasts. She immediately inhaled sharply and leaned her head back against his waist, near his groin.
"Coffee, breakfast, or me?" she asked.
"You."
"Good, because coffee would make a real mess on the bed."
She knew he wouldn't be long. Even on those rare mornings when he came home after physical training he was invariably out the door by 08:15. That left her perhaps half an hour to enjoy the post-coital nearness of her man. Over the last two years, ever since she'd turned up pregnant in Sumer with their second child and he'd put his foot down and insisted she go home where she and the children would be safe, opportunities to be together had been all too infrequent.
Infrequent! She mentally snorted. A couple of weeks twice a year. No, less than that; one year he didn't come home for eight months. Then there was this last Christmas.
And now? Now he's home for a while. Maybe it will be a long while. But it won't—she felt a tear begin to form; she stifled a sniffle—it won't be forever.
The thing is, and the tear rolled across the bridge of her nose and then down the cheek on the other side, that he leaves me because he has to avenge her. He still loves her. More than he does me? I don't know . . . probably. He must because he leaves me even though that will never bring her and her children back.
Then, too, why do I love him. Because the little DNA analyzer in behind my nose tells me he's a good genetic match? Probably . . . somewhat. Because he's rich and powerful? No, he wasn't either of those things when we met. Because he's good looking? He isn't all that good looking.
No, it isn't any of those things, or not them entirely, anyway. I think it's . . . because he has honor. Honor? What a rare concept now. Who can even agree on what it means anymore? It's not what it once was, in the olden days back on Earth or the early days here, when it was all appearance only. A man was honorable if he had high repute, never mind if he deserved it or not. A woman could screw half the world but, so long as no one ever found out, she was honorable.
No, Patricio has honor inside. He doesn't care what the world thinks of him. He knows what's right. He knows that it's not right to turn the other cheek to a movement of homicidal maniacs, and he does what he can to fight it.
Mendoza residence, Avenida Central, Ciudad Balboa, 2/5/467 AC
Marqueli's little hands shook as she opened the envelope from the legion's higher education board. What it would do to Jorge if his thesis proposal were not accepted . . . she didn't know and was afraid even to think about it.
They must accept. They must. What Jorge wants to do, it's important. Carrera sees that. And even though Jorge's blind, he sees more clearly than anyone with sight.
She inhaled, exhaled, and then forced herself to open the envelope.
The contents were printed on very nice paper; she could feel it in her fingertips. Still not daring to unfold the letter, she wondered, Do they waste good paper on rejections?
With trembling finger she began to unfold. As soon as her eyes reached the line, "We are pleased to inform you . . ." she shouted, "Jorge!"
She hadn't needed to shout. Since losing his eyesight Jorge had, like many of the sightless, developed remarkably keen hearing. Still, half the joy of the thing was listening to Marqueli's little feet dancing around their small, legion-provided, apartment in the city. They'd been assigned those quarters when Jorge had entered the BA program for disabled legionary veterans. They would remain in it as part of the new program. The building was both near the University of Balboa and more than large enough to accommodate the eighteen disabled Ph.D. candidates, six per year at a standard three years per course of study. At seven floors with four apartments for each of the top six floors, it could have held twenty-four families.
The apartments weren't huge, each having a small kitchen, combination living and dining room, two decently sized bedrooms and a small office. Each also had a balcony looking towards the campus. There was an elevator that ran from the parking lot, which was in a stilted area beneath the building, to the top floor. They were furnished, if sparsely, and, all in all, could have been called "comfortable." Since all but one of the candidates was anything from disabled to severely disabled, the building was modified for handicap accessibility. The bottom floor was devoted to an academic advisor, on one side, and a "club" on the other.
For the most part the first six doctoral candidates selected had been free to choose their own subjects. That is to say, those selected were those who wished to study and write on something Carrera wanted written. One candidate would write on "Combat Ecology," which had absolutely nothing to do with the natural environment but would deal instead with the way social factors, technology, doctrine and tactics fed upon each other and caused each other to develop, often in odd ways. Other candidates wanted to explore subjects like "Command in War," "Technology in War," "Organizing for War," and "Supplying War." (That last candidate was a former supply clerk who'd lost both legs in Sumer to an improvised explosive device.) Jorge's proposal, "History and Moral Philosophy," had also been accepted.
Jorge sat on the legion-provided sofa in the living room. He'd been at his desk, braille-reading a text on Old Earth's ancient Rome, when he'd heard Marqueli's shout.
He couldn't see to read the damned letter, of course; Marqueli had had to read it to him. (Well, that was her job. The legion also hired the spouses at a small stipend of one hundred and ten FSD a month to be "assistants" to their husbands. It helped defray the greater expense of living in the city and without making the relatively simple finance and accounting system of the Legion del Cid any more complex than necessary. The one candidate who was unmarried was also given a girl-hire. They would soon be sleeping together.) Still, Jorge Mendoza sat with the letter held lightly but firmly in his hands. The letter made the dream real.
Now I can do some good. Now I can be heard, he thought.
Isla Real, First Tercio Centurions' Family Quarters, 3/5/467 AC
"Can you hear me, Ricardo?" Cara asked in a furious voice. "I am proud of you, yes. I love you, yes. But I cannot—do you hear me? CANNOT!—stand this anymore! You were almost killed two months ago. How many more times were you almost killed that I never found out about? Do you have any idea what it's like for a woman to lie awake at night worrying that her husband—the man she loves most in the world—might be lying dead in a ditch? Or captured and butchered—yes, I've seen the films on the TV—by some ragheaded maniacs? Or blown to bits by some coward's bomb with never even a body to bury?"
She buried her face in her hands and began to cry. That was, for Cruz, worse than the anger. The anger he could fight against. Against the grief and the hurt he felt helpless.
"But, Cara," Cruz answered, despairingly, "I don't know how to do anything else. And I'm good at this. Then, too . . . I don't know if I'd like doing anything else."
"You have veterans' benefits. I checked; they're matched to your rank. As a centurion, junior grade you could go back to school full time and earn a degree, then maybe teach . . . or be an engineer . . . or a doctor . . . or a lawyer."
Cruz shivered. "I hate lawyers. My father would disown me if I became one. And I can't stand snivelers. How can someone be a doctor when he can't stand people who whine about being sick? Other than our own kids, I don't really like kids. So how could I teach? And engineering doesn't really interest me. What's the challenge in working with unthinking, inert material when I've grown used to building with the hardest material of all to build with, men?"
"If you loved me, you would think of something you could do," she insisted, through tears.
"If you loved me, you wouldn't ask me to give up a job I love for one I would hate," he countered.
To that objection Cara had the definitive answer. She ran off to the bedroom in tears, slamming and locking the door behind her.
Each tercio's caserne had a club for officers and another for centurions. These were mostly frequented by the junior officers, lowest grade tribunes and signifers, and the centurions and optios. There were larger and considerably more ornate clubs for seniors at the main cantonment area on the north side of the island, overlooking the bay.
The theory behind the club was, at one level, organizational and, at another, moral. Carrera believed that men could best identify with and care about all the members of groups of between about one and two hundred. Anything smaller was too likely to be demoralized by losses; anything larger was too big for every man to know every other, care about those others, and value the good opinions of those others.
He further believed that men could normally feel that way about two groups at a time. These groups were, presumptively, the maniple—most armies said "company"—to which the soldier belonged and, for leaders, the leadership corps to which they belonged. For example, within a tercio of four cohorts, there were approximately one hundred and sixty officers and warrant officers. They represented a primary group that had a potentially serious emotional hold on each of them. Thus, there was an "O" Club to each tercio caserne. There were also about two hundred centurions and optios, so they too belonged to a primary group in addition to their maniple and, thus, had their own club. There were also, within each cohort, something over two hundred noncoms, corporals and sergeants. Though this was a bit large, there was a noncom club for each of the four cohorts in a tercio. Soldiers had a club within their barracks for the roughly two hundred men of their maniple.
Guests from outside the applicable unit or corps were, by and large, not welcome except by special invitation. Girls were always welcome, of course.
Some armies looked at the clubs as businesses, to be kept if profitable or at least self-sustaining and to be discarded if they failed to support themselves. Carrera considered them to be, in the broadest sense, training opportunities, to be supported whether they made a profit or not.
As a practical matter, legionary clubs typically broke even. If they found themselves with an embarrassing profit they threw large parties. If they found themselves operating at a loss the price of drinks went up until the loss was made good or the club manager had the money squeezed from him ("squeezed" being something of a euphemism).
Arredondo found Cruz sitting at the bar squeezing a lemon into a rum and cola.
"I didn't think you drank, normally, Ricardo." First names only in the club. "Hell, you usually give away the little rum bottles in the combat rations."
"Normally, I don't, Scarface." Or nicknames, where appropriate. Arredondo had a broad scar running from one side of his jaw up to past his hairline, a gift of some long-deceased Sumeri rebel. Since the scar was honorably earned, Arredondo rather liked the nickname.
"And, besides, the ration rum's pretty vile. This"—his finger indicated his drink—"is the good stuff."
Legionary combat ration rum was 180-proof suicide-in-a-little- bottle that was only palatable if cut—much cut—with something. On the plus side, one could theoretically pour it into raw sewage, mix it up, wait a few minutes, and then drink with reasonable confidence that all one was drinking was shit, not the various bugs that usually went with it. Best of all, it made legionary rations very popular with FSC forces, such that a six-for-one trading ratio was standard fair market value whenever the two forces worked in close proximity.
The ration rum was vile, true enough, but Esterhazy had seen to the creation of a not unimpressive microbrewery to produce Cervesa del Cid on the island. Arredondo signaled the bartender for a beer.
While waiting for his drink, Cruz's boss rubbed the scar on his cheek. He looked at Cruz's face, then at the rum and coke. Adding one somber face to one rum and coke he came up with the perfect question: "You have a problem, Ricardo?"
"Bad one," Cruz answered, succinctly "Cara wants me to leave the legion. I don't want to. But if I don't, I think she may leave me."
"Ooo, that sucks."
"No shit."
"How are you leaning?" Arredondo asked as the bartender set a frosty mug down in front of him.
"I'm not," Cruz shrugged. "I have no clue what to do. If I leave the legion, I'm going to be miserable. If Cara leaves me, I'm going to be miserable."
"Switch over to one of the reserve cohorts of the tercio?" Arredondo asked, helpfully. Each tercio had several reserve cohorts, composed of discharged regulars and volunteers who joined expressly for the reserves. The reserves only served one three-day weekend a month, plus a month a year, for which they were paid at standard rates and were entitled to a reduced scale of benefits. They were obligated to come when called but, so far, there had been no call up.
"I considered it, Scarface, but it wouldn't really be the same. I'd feel second-rate. I'd see the regulars often enough to realize what I was missing, too."
Arredondo absentmindedly bit at the right quadrant of his upper lip. "What's her problem?" he asked.
Cruz shook his head. "I . . . think . . . yes, I think, that it's a mix of things. Mostly, though, it's that I'm gone a lot and she doesn't want me to get my ass shot off."
"Well, you can understand—"
"I do understand. That doesn't make it any easier."
"Could you buy her off if you took some other kind of duty? Like . . . mmm . . . maybe took over a slot as a combat instructor or basic training platoon centurion? I think I could arrange that."
Cruz had considered it, but, "I don't think so. That would still keep me gone much of the time and there would still be the chance that I might get sent back to the war."
Arredondo tilted his head to one side. "It would be more than a chance, Ricardo," he admitted. "We've got a little break going now while the Tercio Don John takes up the fight at sea, but that can't last. We'll be back at the war within a couple of years, I figure."
Nodding, Cruz agreed, "So does Cara. I think that's part of her reasoning, if reasoning is the right word to use when discussing a woman's thoughts. Right now, while the ground forces are not in the war, I can leave with a good conscience. If we were still engaged, our boys still under fire, I probably couldn't . . . wouldn't anyway. She knows that."
"'Women are stupid but clever and bear considerable watching,'" Scarface deliberately misquoted. "Did you tell her you're probably moving up to take over the platoon? That it would mean a promotion and a not-exactly contemptible pay raise?"
"I mentioned it. She wasn't impressed. Hell, Scarface, if it were about money then she'd have to admit I make more here than I am likely to on the outside, even with reserve pay tacked on to whatever I might make as a civvie."
Cruz sighed deeply. "It really comes down to the fact that she wants me home and she doesn't want me hurt or killed. And I don't know how to argue against that. She wants me out."
Ciudad Balboa, Presidential Palace, 5/5/467 AC
Presidente de la Republica Rocaberti had problems.
The Republic of Balboa had a Gross Domestic Product, exclusive of the LdC and its various enterprises, on the order of just over twelve billion FSD a year. Of that, the government managed to squeeze out about a tenth. Thus, the loss of income from legionary contributions, amounting to roughly one hundred and sixty million a year, hurt. Not only had services had to be curtailed, but—far, far worse, from the point of view of those families that actually ran the country—the rake-off potential had virtually disappeared. Those chief families were not happy about it, either.
That was one reason why the government had acquiesced in the legion's creation of half a dozen military schools. It had not only reduced expenditures, it had also left more to disappear down the rat hole of familial corruption.
The legion had done other things, too, that reduced government expenditures and made more available for graft, even as it made the graft more obvious. The reserve formations did a great deal of what was sometimes called, "civic action," building clinics and schools, road improvement, opening factories, and such. Admittedly, the factories just flat refused to hire anyone who was not either a reservist, a discharged regular, or the spouse of a slain or disabled legionary (indeed, that requirement was the biggest single limitation of legionary economic expansion within the country), but there had been quite a bit of trickle down. The Civil Force, Balboa's police force cum armed force, was also given full post-service employment rights as a matter of courtesy and good public relations.
Of course, the downside was that the legion was buying affection at a greater rate than the government could hope to. Then again, the Balboans were a realistic people. They knew their government was unutterably corrupt from the word go. They basically had no affection for it. It had been put in power by foreign, gringo, arms. It was maintained now by foreign, Tauran Union, arms. It was simply despised.
And now there are rumors that Parilla is going to retire from the legion and enter politics, thought the president. That's intolerable. Not only is Parilla a frightfully honest man, but he's a peasant, a stinking campesino. He has no connection to the old families. Worse, he's approximately as ruthless as his pet gringo, Carrera. A Presidente Parilla means many true gentlemen in prison or in exile, including, most likely me. If he applies legionary rules retroactively, it might mean many true gentlemen put against a wall and shot.
President Rocaberti shivered at that thought. The legion, back when there was only one, and that one at one third strength only, had had not the slightest qualm about shooting his nephew; shooting him like a dog without the slightest regard for the man's clan or its position. How much more ruthless would they be with four regular legions, the equivalent of as many in reserve, and owning the government?
Shoot me? Rocaberti thought, fingering his neck. No, I'll be lucky if they don't hang me, along with every adult member of my clan that ever took an illicit dime. They've got to be stopped.
He said it aloud. "They've got to be stopped."
"Quoi?" asked the Gallic commander, General Janier, of the Tauran Union brigade stationed in the Transitway area.
Janier was a tall, elegantly slender, but sadly toad-faced officer who understood Spanish perfectly well but refused to lower himself to speak it. His country's contribution consisted basically of himself and his headquarters, plus a commando battalion. The line combat battalions were provided by other, lesser, TU members, in rotation. This had become a national pattern for the Gauls, to provide low risk headquarters troops and commanders, plus a small elite force, but leave the bulk of combat capability for others. To give them their due, they were good at that sort of thing; despite having one of the least competitive economies in the TU, they still managed to take a central position in that organization and run the thing to suit the Gallic Republic to a tee.
The Taurans had been brought in to "secure the Transitway" once the terrorist threat had grown out of hand as a result of the LdC's participation in the war. That had been merely an excuse, though. They were really there to secure the government—internationalist, emotionally detached from its country's and people's welfare, and therefore corrupt, pro-TU and pro-UEPF—from the legions. Any securing of the Transitway from terrorist attack was merely incidental.
Janier repeated, "Quoi?"
Sighing with frustration, Rocaberti explained the problem to Janier, in French. He ended by pointing out, "And outside of your brigade we have nothing. Our police and militarized police are underarmed and unreliable. The people despise us. Even the FSC, which has fallen desperately out of love with the legions, still could probably not intervene against them here."
The Gaul smiled with satisfaction. It was good to have one's protectorates actually need protecting.
The ambassador to the Republic from the UEPF added, "Don't count on us. We are still stymied from direct action by the FSC. If there is any one issue the bulk of the people there agree on, it is that the UEPF is the enemy. Even their progressive politicians can't openly disagree with that, not if they want to keep their jobs."
Janier's smile grew broader still. Yes, it was very good to be needed so desperately. But, one had to be realistic.
"There is no practical way, at this time, for the TU to do more than safeguard the Transitway and your government. I have four battalions, one of those mechanized but one also a very lightly equipped commando battalion. Usually, too, I have another infantry battalion undergoing jungle training here. We could fly in a couple more on fairly short notice, maybe even three to five more battalions if, and only if, we planned it well in advance, had control of the airfields and the skies, and if we impressed civilian air carriers. If your 'legions' decided to hit us first, or to mobilize their reserves and hit us first, we wouldn't have a prayer."
"Allies?" Rocaberti asked.
"The Zhong have forty or fifty thousand illegal immigrants here, plus about as many legal ones," Janier answered. "They could perhaps be induced to intervene to protect what they consider to be their people. But such intervention would be—" He looked at his dumpy adjutant, a Gallic major who appeared even more toadlike than Janier.
"Major Malcoeur, what could the Zhong bring to the field?"
The major was widely believed, within his own army, to have no real talent but licking the boss's ass. This was unfair. Though he was quite a talented asslick, he was, at least, very thorough in his official duties. "With warning—a lot of warning, mon General—they could fly in a brigade or move a division by sea. These are not mutually exclusive. If we provided sea and air lift they could probably double or even triple that. They have a large army, over one hundred divisions, but little in the way of strategic transport."
"We have a . . . close . . . yes, a close connection with the Zhong Guo," said the ambassador from the UEPF. He, too, spoke French. "I will make inquiries."
"Not yet, Mr. Ambassador," answered Janier. "Before we bring them in too closely, I need to find a way to crush these 'legions' with or without the Zhong. That I do not have yet."
Isla Real, Quarters #1, 7/5/467 AC
Carrera had stuck himself with having a ballroom in his house. Parilla's burden included keeping a very secure conference room in the basement of his. On the plus side, it also served as a place where he could have a drink without being nagged by a loving wife who worried endlessly over his health.
"This is screwing me; you realize that, right?"
Parilla blew air through his lips. "Yes, I know. And if I don't retire and become president of the country what happens? We've gone just about as far as we can go with this, as things are. In fact, we've gone as far as I ever wanted to go. My country has an army again, even if that army is not under the government of the country and even if a substantial proportion of it is expatriate."
A secure conference room didn't at all rule out comfortable leather chairs. Parilla rested his head on the back of his. "But what I didn't realize was that there are ends beyond ends . . . unintended consequences. What I didn't realize was that we would automatically be put in opposition to the government here such that one of us must go. I certainly didn't foresee TU troops here in my country. God knows, I didn't foresee fighting a war here."
Carrera grimaced and shrugged, then shifted his rear forward to rest his own head on the back of his seat. He admitted, "Neither, I suppose, did I. I just focused on destroying those who murdered my family; something—you might note—I have so far failed to do . . . or even to get appreciably closer to doing. Sometimes I despair of it."
He was silent for a few moments. Then he asked, "Okay, so let's suppose you resign and run for president. We have over forty thousand 'election workers' in the form of the reserves. We have a lot of sympathy and affection from the people. If you retire and run, you will probably win. Then what?"
"Then I invite the Tauran Union to leave, with our thanks and gratitude."
"Won't work," Carrera objected. "They are here at the invitation of the government, yes, but they also have a mandate from the World League to, 'secure the Balboa Transitway for the common benefit of mankind.' That means they have a mandate they can present to their own people as a legitimate reason to stay no matter what any given chief of state here might say. Moreover, since you— that is to say, we—represent 'the forces of fascism and reaction,' you and we are inherently illegitimate in their eyes. The short version of which is—"
"The short version of which is, they are not going to leave peaceably," Parilla interjected. "Yes, you're probably right. Fight them?"
Carrera's face screwed up in distaste. "Given a choice, I'd rather not. We are not friends but we do have a lot of the same enemies, even if the Taurans' heads are stuck so far up their asses that they can't see it. Besides, probably we wouldn't end up fighting them only."
"You say you would rather not. That isn't really the question. Can we fight them and win?"
"Sure," Carrera admitted. "We can fight and defeat them here in Balboa, especially if we get in the first hits and without warning. That, however, means only a limited defeat for the Taurans—no, let's be accurate here, for the Frogs who run the TU like they owned it—and much motivation to get even, even if they won't admit that that's their motivation. In a long war, they outclass us in almost every way."
"In what ways do they not outclass us?" Parilla asked. Carrera was as much his superior in military matters as Parilla was Carrera's better in affairs political.
Carrera didn't even have to think about it. "Easier to answer it what areas they do: industry, population, wealth, size of armed forces, technology, diplomatic clout, naval power. Add to that that our own government is on their side. Our advantages at the moment are better-trained and -led troops with adequate if not superior equipment. Oh, and superior ruthlessness. Even then, though, the best half of our troops, the regular legions, are stuck here on the Isla Real with only the reservists on the mainland. The TU has enough naval and air power, easily, to prevent us from deploying regulars to the mainland in a crisis."
"That's half the reason we built the military schools, isn't it?" Parilla asked, rhetorically. Carrera simply nodded.
"Do things change if we are the government?" he asked.
"Yes. Then we can redeploy the regular legions to the mainland. Then we can expand the reserves to a serious militia system along the lines of Helvetia's and Zion's. Then we can build defenses, expand our industry, and hit them economically by denying them access to the Transitway."
"So you agree then, that I must become president."
"I always agreed, Raul. It's just that it's screwing me by making me take on your duties here and my own overseas once we are rehired."
"Will we be?"
"Oh, yes. We'll be rehired, probably within six months, to save the Tauran Union's collective ass in Pashtia."
Indicus Koh Mountains, Central Pashtia, 9/5/467 AC
The winding mountain pass was sheer-sided, and strewn with rocks on both sides. Behind the rocks, and dug in where there was enough soil for that, Noorzad's band awaited the arrival of the point of the enemy column at the marker, a scraggly tree, which would signal the beginning of the ambush.
At the other end of this road was a Tauran Union base camp. Cutting the road would not cause them to starve. It would, on the other hand, make life difficult as supplies would have to be flown in by helicopter.
Life was good for Noorzad and his band. Still, while his men enjoyed the benefits of battlefield success, honor, respect, trophies and—best of all—female slaves, he was quite indifferent to the material rewards. Oh, yes, he made use of the slave girls. That was under the advice of the Prophet (PBUH) and, so, was not only not a vice, it was a positive religious virtue. And religious virtue mattered to Noorzad. The only thing that mattered more was the triumph of his religion, submission to the will of Allah across this globe.
He knew his followers were not so pure of heart as he was himself. Some were here for revenge, after losing family. Others were in it for the money or the excitement. Some wanted to wipe out the shame caused by so many centuries of defeat of the sons of the Prophet by the bastard children of Christ. Some were in it for the robbery and rapine. Most were a mix.
Of all his band, only he was in the war purely for the advancement of his faith. Oh, yes, he liked the action, just as he liked the use of the women his men captured. But he would have done it without the women and, if he'd had a talent for anything but action, he could have done it from behind a desk.
Fortunately, he didn't have to do anything for which he lacked talent. All he had to do was fight. As he was about to do, as a matter of fact, with the Tauran Union column moving through the pass below.
The first sign of the ambush, to the Tauran troops in the truck column, was a large explosion at the point that blew a goodly boulder right through the cab of a truck, turning the driver and the column commander into so much strawberry-colored paste. The two soldiers who had been in the bed of the lead truck disappeared in the smoke and dust from the blast. Alive or dead; none could say.
Not that anyone cared to say. The explosion was the signal for riflemen, machine gunners and RGL gunners lining both sides of the pass to open up. Trucks exploded in living technicolor as machine guns set white-skinned soldiers to dancing the ballet. Many ran in panic, with no obvious regard for direction. Others froze in shock where they were, oblivious to what cover there might have been. Some tried to return fire but, with the leaden hail coming from both sides and above, the only cover available either left one open to fire from the other side of the pass or put one in a position—under a truck, typically—where no return fire was practical.
Noorzad didn't laugh at the plight of the Taurans; killing the infidel was too serious a business to laugh over until the job was done. These, at least the ones in the backs of the trucks, were Royal Haarlem Marines, so he thought. They weren't panicking, though under the circumstances their resistance was marginal. Little by little it was beaten down.
When he was satisfied that resistance was completely crushed, Noorzad gave the order to sweep into the kill zone. The sweep was not a precision movement. By ones and twos his men arose from their rocks and walked carefully downhill into the kill zone, rifles at the ready. Noorzad followed at a distance; for this he didn't need to lead from in front. Scattered shots ahead told him that his men were finding wounded.
He watched calmly as one of his men put the muzzle of his rifle to the head of a prone Tauran. The enemy soldier simply closed his eyes; not even having the will anymore to try to resist.
And that is why Taurus is doomed; their people no longer have the will to resist, but only to close their eyes to the reality around them. I wish the FSC were as accommodating.
Noorzad walked the line of trucks, many of them aflame. From somewhere—perhaps one of the trucks had contained personnel files—papers billowed in the smoky wind. Around him his men were stripping bodies of weapons, money, watches and boots. Still other parties ransacked the trucks for useable supplies. Much could not be used, of course, and would be burned or detonated in place. Still, there was much valuable loot.
He gave a few curt orders to his men, reminding them of their priorities. Then Noorzad spotted the prisoners. He was surprised, really; he hadn't expected any.
Private Verdonk was not a Marine. To understand that is to understand what followed. The Marines believed in something, even if it was only a faith in the Korps Mariniers, Haarlem's Brigade Princess Irene. Verdonk had never believed in anything. He'd known few people in his life, and none of those at all well, who really believed in anything. Believing in things—in people, in religions, in one's country and one's culture—this had fallen out of favor in Haarlem. Instead, from kindergarten to old age, one was expected to believe in everything. The problem with that was that faith in everything meant no special faith in anything; to love all mankind was to love none of it.
Love? What did Verdonk know of love beyond some hasty thrusting on a moldy mattress with some girl who meant even less to him than she did to herself? His people? How can you love a people that have given up on themselves? His country? What was a country within the Tauran Union except a lower mechanism for collecting taxes and redistributing income, for obeying and enforcing the diktats of the bureaucrats? His culture? His people had given up on that when they'd given up on themselves.
It was fair to say that, inside Verdonk, feeling was a vacuum awaiting fulfillment. He'd joined the army in search of that, joined it and discovered that the army was no better than the people from which it sprang.
And I didn't have the courage to join the Marines. But then, few do.
Noorzad looked over the baker's dozen prisoners his men had taken. Seven, he saw, were female. One was quite attractive; the others acceptable. They would become slaves. In fact, they already were.
The men were of more interest to Noorzad. Whether women submitted to the Faith or not was more or less irrelevant, so long as they submitted to the rules. A whip was a good enough tool for that. And Mary the Copt had made a perfectly acceptable slave for the Prophet, peace be upon him.
But the men? He'd been toying with the idea, of late, of seeing if any of the prisoners could be converted to the true faith instead of being killed. He'd never before tried but had heard rumors that others had had success with the attempt. It was also said that the fundamental emptiness of Tauran lives made such people truer converts, once they had had the chance to experience the richness and fullness of being in submission to the will of Allah. He thought it worth a try.
After all, they can always be killed later if it doesn't work.
He spoke a few words to his followers. The women were separated and hustled away. Then he spoke to the men, even as the cries and screams elicited by the mass rape of the women began. That the Haarlemers almost always spoke English rather well helped.
"Are any among you here Christians or Jews?" he asked.
All the Haarlemers were afraid to answer affirmatively. There were no Jews and, as a matter of faith, no real Christians among them anyway. Some might have answered that they were, since they went to services on rare occasion. But they were too afraid of being killed as infidels.
"I see," said Noorzad softly. He'd expected them to be either too faithless or too afraid to announce a faith if they had one. That was part of his plan. More loudly, he announced, "Then you are all either pagans or atheists and must be killed." He began to turn away.
"Wait!" pleaded Verdonk.
That, too, was part of Noorzad's plan.
HQ, Legion del Cid, Isla Real, 18/5/467 AC
"Gentlemen, I need a plan," Carrera announced at a special meeting called with certain key staff officers.
This was no big deal; his staff was used to it. They knew, too, that whatever he wanted they could almost certainly deliver on. After all, they'd never failed him yet. His next words, however, were a bit out of the ordinary.
"Rather," he continued, "I need a transformation plan, one that converts the legions as they are into a corps. I need to be able to do that without irreparably breaking the system that we have. I further need to be able to transport that corps to the southern border of Pashtia with full supplies for six months' intensive operations. After that takes place—in fact I need it before the deployment takes place— we need to be able to fight our way from Mazari Omar to Chabolo. Following that, we will need a plan to redeploy most of that corps, leaving a standard legion behind for interdiction and counter- insurgency."
Now that was ambitious. The staff sat silent until Dan Kuralski whispered, "Holy shit."
Kuralski looked up, asking, more loudly, "Do you have any idea what you're asking, Pat? To transform from legions to a full corps, to get those to an inland railhead . . . We'll screw everything up, organizationally. Do you have a contract for this?"
"Not yet. But my family senator tells me that Hamilton, FD, is getting into a panic. The Taurans are crumbling in Pashtia. The Progressive Party administration can't commit more FSC troops without crumbling, too. That leaves us. Harriet is pushing—and, yes, it is costing us, costing me, to have her push—for them to rehire us for Pashtia. By the time they do that the country will be half lost. I could be convinced otherwise but for now I think nothing less than a corps can fight its way to Chabolo and retrieve the effort there. Do you think we could get by with less?"
Kuralski didn't answer that question. Instead he started thinking aloud on what a corps might look like.
"We could take three legions. Then we strip off the mechanized cohorts and the Cazador cohorts—maybe minus one maniple each— to create a brigade of each. For headquarters and support for those brigades we can raid the schoolhouse for cadre, the head of the Armor School and Cazador School and their staffs becoming brigade headquarters. Maybe we should do the same with the air alae from those legions. That leaves the infantry legions with four infantry cohorts, a heavy maniple and a Cazador maniple, the combat support and artillery cohorts, and the service support and headquarters cohorts. Maybe, too, we strip off one maniple of heavy artillery each to form a corps artillery, the Artillery School providing headquarters, as well. We could do something similar with the other combat support branches like engineers, air defense and MPs. We can probably curtail courses for the D echelon legionary cadre to fill in gaps. God, though, that leaves little enough here."
"I know," Carrera agreed. "Assume we'll actually call up some of the reserves for the first time. Assume that we'll leave D echelon to fill up to replace the corps later on. Beyond that, you're chief of staff. So go staff it, Chief. I want to see a preliminary OPLAN within . . . oh, two weeks."
Barco del Legion Dos Lindas, Xamar, 26/5/467 AC
"I once wanted to see this sight so badly," said Kurita, looking out at the steaming Uhuru coast from the bridge of the Dos Lindas. "Back during the war we tried so hard to get this far. And then the FS Navy caught us in the open, far from land-based air support. And they butchered us. My ship escaped, barely, along with half a dozen destroyers and two light cruisers. The rest went down."
Fosa contemplated how that must have felt, saw in his mind's eyes his own fleet going down in smoke and flame, sailors trapped below decks slowly drowning, some struggling in the oil-covered water as the flames licked along the surface to drive them below to death. He shivered, though if Kurita saw it, he affected not to notice.
Instead, Kurita asked, "What's next, Captain-san?"