Chapter Seven
Give me a place to stand and I will move the Earth.
—Archimedes
I'll make my own goddamned lever.
—Patricio Carrera
Air Balboa Flight 717, 9/8/459 AC
Hennessey was a smoky wraith hidden in a wreath of smoke. He did not recognize anything around him. Somehow, though, it felt very high in the air. There was a floor beneath him above which he floated. Though floating, he felt the heat emanating from the floor.
He was drawn forward by laughter. The smoke parted as his shade moved on and through its swirling screen.
The laughter came from a swarthy man. "Infidels," cried the man, "see the judgment of Allah."
A voice he recognized shouted back, "Allah will send you to hell, you miserable wog bastard!"
He was drawn forward by the voice and away from the hyenalike laughter. "Uncle Bob?" he asked. There was no answer. The shade could not see the wraith, though the wraith could see the shade as it shook its fist. "Uncle Bob?" the wraith repeated.
The shade turned and knelt by a small group. Hennessey recognized his wife, his children. Others were there too, none of whom he recognized.
"Daddy will make them pay, Mom, the men who did this!" Hennessey saw his son, Julio, looking at his mother with certainty in his eyes.
"He will, my son," Linda answered, "and terribly."
"Terribly," echoed Julio.
"I will. I swear it. I will!" whispered the unheard wraith. "Their great-great-great-grandchildren will have nightmares."
Linda looked at the rising flames behind her. "It is time to go, children. Pray now." Linda began to pray, the children joining. Even Hennessey's uncle joined in, as did many others.
The prayer over, Linda began to sing. Hennessey recognized the song, "Abide with Me." Linda had always loved that one, the wraith remembered. He was not surprised that she had chosen it for the last canto. The singing grew in volume as more people crawled over and joined in.
The wraith saw Linda and Uncle Bob stand, along with the others. They held the children in their arms as they began to walk forward, still singing. Linda's hair billowed in the wind from the smashed out window.
"God, even now she is so beautiful," whispered her husband's shadow.
Then Linda squeezed her children tightly to her, waited to feel their answering hugs . . . and took a single step. As Linda, Bob and the children fell forward, others shuffling up to take their places, Hennessey heard, "Help of the helpless, O Abide with me . . . "
High above the ground, in a first class seat toward the front of the airplane, his sergeant major seated beside him, Patrick Hennessey awakened, pulled a medium weight blue blanket over his head, and— as silently as possible—wept.
Herrera Airport, Ciudad Balboa, 9/8/459 AC
"Ahhh. Smell t'e flowers! T'ere's no place like Balboa!"
Hennessey smiled indulgently at the tall, razor-thin, gray-haired black man walking at his left side. They moved quickly through Balboan immigration and into the baggage area. At the Aduana a senior customs agent recognized Hennessey from his previous trip and waved him, the other two whites, and the sole black man forward to the front of the line. With a conspiratorial smile, the Aduana agent fell over himself to make the group's transit through the terminal as trouble free as possible. Within mere minutes Hennessey and his companions, John McNamara, Command Sergeant Major (retired), Matthias Esterhazy, late of the Sachsen Reichswehr's Fallschirmstuermpioniere, or Airborne Assault Engineers, and Her Anglic Majesty's former Royal Sapper, Gary Clean, were standing at the counter to pick up their rental car.
"Where are we goin' first, sir?" asked McNamara in a melodious Maiden Islands accent. Esterhazy and Clean kept silent, looking around with curiosity.
Hennessey answered, loudly enough for all three of his companions to hear, "First, Sergeant Major, we're going to check in at the Julio Caesare. We've got reservations already. An acquaintance of mine—nice girl, 'Lourdes'—has reserved rooms for us. Then we'll need food, I think. This afternoon, after lunch, we'll go look at buying a headquarters. I want you there for that. It may take us a couple of days to find something appropriate."
The CSM nodded. "I've given t'e set up some t'ought. Once we find t'e right place, just leave it to me."
"As always, Sergeant Major."
As the rental car pulled up, Hennessey thought to ask: "You were never stationed on the Ciudad side, were you?"
"No, sir. I've been here, of course, but only to pass t'rough."
"Okay, I'd better drive. I know the way. I'm also more used to the . . . shall we say . . . élan with which they drive here."
The drive from the airport to the Julio Caesare was uneventful. Check-in, too, at the hotel went smoothly, as expected. The rooms proved more than adequate. As Hennessey was unpacking, the room telephone rang. "A young lady to see you, sir. 'Lourdes,' she says her name is."
"Yes, fine. Please have her escorted to my room."
"I am here to see one of your guests," Lourdes told the man at the registry counter. "Patrick Hennessey."
The man looked her over briefly and came to a rapid conclusion— Hooker. A high-end model, I suspect.
Lourdes' already huge brown eyes widened further still. He can't really think . . . oh, no . . . I don't look . . . I don't dress . . . I hardly even wear any make up . . . he can't really. Dammit I'm a good girl!
She said nothing except to sigh as the man picked up the telephone and announced her, then signaled for a bellhop. The bellhop came up to stand beside her, a wide smirk on his face. He thinks so, too?
Lourdes followed the bellhop to the elevator, embarrassment— and not a little anger—growing inside her with each step. She stewed in simmering juices while waiting for the elevator doors to open. She thought, I should have just asked for the room number and told them I could find it myself. But then . . . no . . . if I knew my way around the hotel they would probably be certain instead of just guessing.
Lourdes and the bellhop rode up past several floors before the bell chimed, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. She let herself be led to Hennessey's room quietly, like a sheep to slaughter.
Hennessey opened his door, a few minutes later, in answer to the bellhop's knock. Tipping the man a tetradrachma and dismissing him, he gestured for Lourdes Nuñez-Cordoba to enter. She hesitated, automatically. Helping find a house for someone you barely knew was one thing; being alone in a hotel room with a near stranger was something a Balboan girl of good upbringing just didn't do. The thought of what the hotel staff had assumed about her made her skin crawl.
Overcoming her rearing, Lourdes walked in. "It's very nice to see you again, Patricio."
"And you, too. Have you been well?"
"I'm all right, but my work has closed because of the world's economy since the First Landing attacks. I know after all you've suffered that's small beans, but I'm out of a job. My family has been supporting me. With business so depressed, and so many people out of work, I doubt I will find another job soon."
"You already have one, working for me, if you want to and are willing to put up with some conditions."
Lourdes immediately raised a suspicious eyebrow. "What conditions?" she asked. I am a good girl dammit! You may be good looking, but you are not THAT good looking.
Understanding, in part at least, Hennessey chuckled slightly. "Probably not what you're thinking. First, your job will be general clerical, with some supervisory responsibilities, work gangs and such, and some teaching. Second, the pay is twelve hundred per month plus room and board. You'll earn your pay, believe me. I am not easy to work for." Twelve hundred per month was good pay, very good, by the standards of the Republica de Balboa.
"I don't believe that."
"Believe it, Lourdes. I'm not a nice man."
"I don't believe that, either." The woman thought for a while. This is the best offer I've had lately. Reaching a decision, she answered, "I'll take it."
"Good. I'd hoped you would. You're on the payroll as of the beginning of the eighth month. I'll have your first monthly paycheck for you tomorrow. Oh, yes, there is one other thing before you commit yourself. I expect absolute loyalty, discretion, and obedience from those who work for me. You must also never tell anyone, not your boyfriend, your parents, or your priest—no one—what you do for me or what I do. Can you do that?"
"I don't have a boyfriend right now. I'm a Baptist, so I don't have a priest. I can keep quiet." She hesitated. "Are you planning something illegal? I don't want anything to do with drugs . . . or guns."
"No drugs. And we won't be running guns, if that's what you're worried about."
"All right then. What's my first job?"
"For now, you're going to lunch with me and a few close friends. Then we'll meet the real estate agent you found for me."
Chorrera Province, Republic of Balboa, 13/8/459 AC
"Señor, I am certain this will fit your needs," announced the fat, greasy-looking real estate agent. He may have been fat and greasy looking, but Lourdes had checked and he had an enviable reputation for fair dealing.
It had taken four days, and fourteen houses and ranches, before the agent had finally brought them to something appropriate. Lourdes had not understood what was wrong with the others they had seen. Hennessey hadn't bothered to explain. The one in front of which Hennessey, McNamara, the realtor, the two engineers and Lourdes stood seemed close to fitting the bill. It was some eighteen or twenty miles east of Balboa City, on a promontory overlooking the ocean, a mansion of sorts, old and built of stone, with a high stone retaining wall fronting the highway to the south and east. It had the "haunted house" look that said it hadn't been occupied or properly cared for for some years.
"What do you think, Sergeant Major?"
McNamara's head leaned a bit to the side, contemplating. "Security potential is good, very good. We've got cliffs on t'ree sides. Hard for someone to get in directly. A little wire would make it even harder. T'en t'ere's t'e wall around it. T'at can be improved a bit, too; wire . . . broken glass . . . watchposts or security cameras . . . t'at sort of t'ing. I figure an easy one hundred and fifty meter clear zone inside t'e wall, twice t'at on t'e side facin' t'e road. It's t'e best we've seen so far. And, you know, sir, it's actually a perfect place to control t'e highway from t'e city to t'e interior, if we ever needed to. I'd like to see it from t'e air before you buy it t'ough."
"Good thought." Hennessey considered for a moment, then said, "Lourdes, please take the car and the sergeant major back to the city. Go to La Punta Airport. Rent an airplane or a helicopter, if you can, with a pilot. Then, Sergeant Major, I want you to check this place out from above. The agent can drive the rest of us back after we look over the inside. We'll meet you back at the hotel."
Restraining the impulse to salute—barely—McNamara contented himself with a nod and left. Lourdes turned and followed McNamara quietly as Hennessey and his engineers, Esterhazy and Clean, walked forward to inspect the mansion.
"Where do you know Patricio from, Sergeant Major?" Lourdes kept her eyes on the road as she and the CSM chatted.
"T'e old man? We go back a few years. Have kind of a mutual admiration society. He t'inks I'm about t'e best sergeant major he ever met." McNamara chuckled and flashed a smile brilliant in his homely black face. "And I am. I know he's about t'e best commander I ever met...at any rank."
"What makes him so special?" Besides that he's cute . . . and I don't think you care about that.
"If you were a soldier it would be easier to explain. I don't know how to explain it to a civvie."
"Try."
"He's a warrior; t'e real article, no fake. He's afraid of absolutely not'ing. A lot of people aren't afraid of deat', and neit'er is he. But it's rare not to fear even disgrace . . . and he don't. Why, when our brigade commander once told him to stop training to fight or get relieved . . . but never mind t'at. Long story. Sad one, too." McNamara sighed despondently.
"He wasn't always well liked in t'e army. As a matter of fact he was sometimes hated. Smart as hell; too smart for some. Too . . . aggressive. Also he's t'e best trainer of infantry, any soldiers really, t'at I've ever seen. I've never met anyone who even came close, and I've worked for t'e big boys. He can take a group of nice clean-cut kids and make t'em into fanatics in about six mont's. And he loves soldiers. We tend to reciprocate when we get a boss like t'at. After a few months' acquaintance troops'll die for him."
"I find it hard to believe that," Lourdes commented.
McNamara gave her a look that was half pitying.
Seeing the look, Lourdes said, "He told me that he wasn't a very nice man."
The sergeant major laughed aloud. "T'at's a crock. If you're one of his t'ere's no battle he won't fight for you; not'in' he won't do. Take me, for example. I was slowly dyin' from sheer lack of purpose. T'en he came about two t'ousand miles to find me and give me a reason to go on living, to make my last years good ones. No, he is a very nice man. Besides, you should see him some time, when t'e bullets are flying and the mortar rounds going crump. Eyes glowing from inside, I swear to it."
"And what are the two of you going to do?"
"I don't know all of t'e details yet. What I do know is t'at we're goin' to work to make an army for Balboa to help in t'is war . . . and to make it a good one. He's bringin' in anot'er eighteen or twenty people, specialists sort of, to help wit' t'e work."
Lourdes thought about that as she drove. A "good" army? My country has never had a "good" army. Whatever army we have had has typically been just an instrument of oppression, corruption, or—more usually—both. But those problems are out of my ability to influence in any case. Who knows, maybe here I might be able to do some good.
Hotel Julio Caesare, Ciudad Balboa
"Another drink, Top?"
McNamara thought it over briefly. "No, sir, enough for me already." He refrained from saying, "enough for you, too." Not his place, so the sergeant major felt. Besides, Patrick Hennessey drunk is still a better commander than ninety-nine out of one hundred are stone sober. Even so, Hennessey sober is better than Hennessey drunk. Mac's tone betrayed his thoughts.
Hennessey understood the tone. He even agreed. Sometimes he worried that the alcohol was becoming too much of a crutch. He signaled the waitress for one more, not a double this time. Contented, McNamara let it pass.
Over drinks in the hotel's bar, the sergeant major, Hennessey, and the engineers discussed the potential, and potential liabilities, of the latest house they had inspected. The agent had said FSD 1,435,000 was the asking price. Hennessey had shamelessly whittled him down to $1,185,000, even so, but still without firmly committing to buying the place. He wasn't entirely sure. The house was a little run down, despite its setting and architecture.
"The place needs work, Sergeant Major: painting and floor refinishing inside, some new windows, some plumbing and electrical work . . . phones, computer links."
Esterhazy interrupted, "More zan zat. Ve'll have to pour concrete to make a basement floor and finish ze valls if ve're going to get any use out of ze basement. Zat's important, nicht wahr?"
Hennessey and the engineers had discussed probable interior setups on their inspection. The house, though huge, would be hard pressed to hold everyone and all the needed offices and other spaces. Once the wives arrived with the children . . . ?
"But it can be done," insisted Clean, in a properly middle-class Anglian accent. "Take some bloody time, though."
"T'at's not a problem, sir," Mac added. "When t'e troops get here, I'll put 'em to work so you wouldn't recognize t'e place."
Hennessey shook his head. "No. I appreciate the money saved, Sergeant Major, but I wanted the place to be ready for them when they arrive. First impressions and all. Then, too, some of the troops aren't going to be staying in the headquarters indefinitely. When the married men's wives arrive, those men will be moving out. It wouldn't be like they were doing the work for themselves."
"Sir, don't be dumb about t'is. You're payin' t'em yourself. T'at makes it all right to have t'em do work for you. Besides, what t'ey make t'emselves? T'at t'ey'll appreciate."
"Okay. Conceded. But I need some of the rooms ready as soon as possible anyway. Okay," he said, making a final decision, "we'll take the place; finish off the individual areas later. The common areas, my quarters and yours, Lourdes' and Gary's, and the basement floor I need done now. Gary, it's your project, yours and Lourdes'. We'll also need a domestic staff, one or two cooks, a housekeeper. I've got one of my in-laws looking for some suitable women. Those, and a groundskeeper."
The CSM started to say that the troops incoming could take care of that too when Hennessey cut him off. "Sergeant Major, when they get here I've got too much for them to do for them to be polishing brass. And you'll have too much to do yourself to spend a great deal of time supervising them polishing brass. Besides, you know you hate that shit."
McNamara shrugged.
Hennessey and McNamara discussed a few details about setting up the headquarters. Then Hennessey turned over to Clean a large bundle of cash, FSD 40,000 in fifties, to fund the initial work he wanted done. "There's more available when you need it," he said to the sapper. "I'll want receipts."
Giving the CSM the keys to their rental car, he said, "Sergeant Major, in the morning I'll be heading up to Valle de las Lunas for a few days to see some people. I'll rent another car at the hotel desk. Check us out of the hotel when the house is minimally fit to move into." He reached into his pocket, pulled out his checkbook, opened it and began to write. "Here's a check for the full price plus closing costs for the headquarters. I'm turning in. Oh. And Gary? Put up a sign on the front. We'll call the place 'Casa Linda.'"
Ciudad Cervantes, 14/8/459 AC
After a seven-hour drive to Linda's family's city residence, Hennessey was ready for the cold beer her brother, David, handed him at the door. The beer was Nacional. It was not good beer. Hennessey recalled that Linda had done a television commercial for that company in the mid forties, the family owning some stock in the enterprise.
Hennessey asked, "Do you have the list?"
David nodded, "Yes, Patricio. Seven hundred and thirty-eight names and addresses of the parents, wives and children of the soldiers who were killed in the invasion twelve years ago, and those reserve troops of the Sovereignty Battalions who fought and were killed, too. I also have the list of the two hundred and fifteen soldiers and SB troops who were permanently disabled. It has taken me almost all this time to finish compiling it. Why did you need it?"
Hennessey didn't answer directly. "Has the government started paying support to any of them yet?"
"No. Did you expect they would? Crippled and unsupported, those men and their families are walking advertisements for antimilitarism. Much more likely they'd throw the disabled troops in jail than give them money."
"I suppose I didn't expect them to help, not really. Never mind, we'll take care of them for a while, thanks to my Uncle Bob. I want you to find a lawyer here in Cervantes. Your family keeps one on retainer, don't they?" Seeing David nod, Hennessey continued, "Good. Set up a trust fund. I'll give you a check to start it off. Then I want every wife and set of parents on that list to get two hundred drachma per month. Send an additional hundred for each kid. If there is a particularly needy case let me know. We'll try to cover that too."
"There is one case I'm aware of, over in Las Mesas Province. One of our mid-rank NCOs who was killed, a Sergeant Cordoba, had a very young daughter named Marqueli. His parents are dead. His wife just died." David saw that Hennessey flinched.
"The mother was working to send the girl to school. I'm afraid a hundred drachma won't cover that. Two-fifty might, if she's very careful and can work, too."
"Fine. Put her down for two hundred and fifty a month. Any others?"
"I'll have to check. It would have been easier if you had told me why you needed to know."
"I know. Sorry. I wasn't sure myself until about a week ago. Let's just say that I'm buying good public relations. Do you have my domestic staff?"
"I have the two cooks you wanted, plus a groundskeeper. And Lucinda has agreed to take the new job. My mother will send one of her girls over to keep up your old place. All three women are noted for keeping quiet. The groundskeeper is one of our workers. They also don't have any great grudge against gringos. That's important, isn't it?"
"Very. Now, tell me, have you arranged to move yourself to Balboa City?"
"Yes. I start the beginning of next month."
"Good. I'll want you to make as many connections as you can. Will you be stationed right in the city?"
"Yes, with DEBI, the Balboa Department of Investigations. I'll be working for a Major Fernandez. Which thought doesn't thrill me . . . Fernandez has a reputation for extreme measures."
Hennessey shrugged. "Too bad. It's still a useful posting."
"I don't see what difference it makes, Patricio. The government is not going to let us rebuild an army."
"Well . . . I need to talk to Parilla about that in a couple of days."
Ciudad Balboa City, 16/8/459 AC
They met at Parilla's house, a well-furnished and sprawling two- story colonial mansion in the city's Old Cuirass district. They spent no time inside, but retired upstairs to converse in the privacy of a patio overlooking the tranquil waters of the Bahia de Balboa.
"Not a chance, Patricio," Parilla said, with finality. He'd really thought he could do better. It was a sickening and frustrating defeat that he hadn't been able to. "I can raise maybe eighty-five percent of the votes we need in the legislature. The rest? They're shitting in their pants at the thought of resurrecting the Defense Corps."
"Bribes?" Hennessey asked.
"Still not enough. And we can't just bribe those who are opposed to us. In fairness, we'd have to bribe the entire crew that would vote our way or they'd vote against us out of spite. That's more money than my little fund has in it. Millions more. Many millions."
Hennessey sighed. "And I've had worse news. I'm afraid my pussy cousin in First Landing is going to tie up my uncle's estate for some years, too, so I don't have all that much to help with; just my personal bequest. Less now, really, what with the market down. I've sent one of my people, Matthias Esterhazy, to First Landing to see what he can do."
"But I thought you said that your Uncle's will would cut—what was his name? Eugene?—cut him out of the will if he contested it."
"Yes, so my uncle's lawyer told me. But apparently, from Eugene's point of view it's a good bet. He gets a lifetime income, a comfortable one, if he keeps quiet, true. But he's filthy fucking rich if he sues and wins. And, apparently, an 'in terrorem' clause, with a videotaped codicil to a will, under unusually stressful circumstances, is just weak enough that he might win. So says the lawyer now, anyway. He's advising that I settle."
"Are you willing to settle?" Parilla asked.
"Willing? Up to a point. If I could keep enough to fund our little enterprise, I would settle. Problem is, Eugene hates my guts. Can't say I blame him, either. We've loathed each other since we were kids. He would never settle on any terms that were acceptable to me, anyway. Besides, even though the Salafis would chop Eugene's head off in a heartbeat, he still supports them. I don't want to see that much money going into the other side's coffers. Even if he gave it to charity, that only frees up a different pile of money for war and terrorism."
"So. I see," answered Parilla. "Well, in any case, I just can't deliver the votes, Patricio. Not enough; not at a price we can afford."
Hennessey scowled. "Hmmm. More than one way to skin a cat. Raul, do you know any good propagandists?"
Drama Department, University of Balboa,
18/8/459 AC
The campus really should have been moved. Sitting, really sprawling, as it did between the financial district, the high-end shopping district, and the hotel and casino district, the land on which the university sat was not only too valuable for its current use, it wasn't even convenient any longer to the bulk of its students.
Leaving Soult to guard the Phaeton, Hennessey walked to the drama department. Rather, he searched for it on foot. It was only with difficulty that he finally managed to find it. When he did find it, a secretary showed him to the office of Professor Ruiz, with whom he had an appointment. Hennessey had gotten Ruiz's name from Parilla along with an introduction. The professor had a reputation of being a nationalist to a degree even greater than the university norm. When Hennessey had made the appointment, he had given his name as Patricio Carrera. Under Balboan law, he'd become Hennessey de Carrera at the same time Linda had become Carrera de Hennessey.
Ruiz's office was shabby and rundown, as was much of the university. Books, papers, and binders littered it in the universal academic decor. The professor was not run down but his glasses were dirty and his tie-less shirt wrinkled.
Ruiz made a place for Hennessey to sit by moving some books from a chair to the floor. Once Hennessey had sat down, Ruiz asked, "And so how may I help you, Señor Carrera?"
"Professor, I want to fund a series of projects, one of them a movie. Your name was given to me by General Parilla as someone who might be inclined to make the kind of movie and oversee the kind of projects I want."
"And what kind of movie would that be?" Ruiz asked.
"Frankly, I want a propaganda movie. I want—"
Hennessey stopped speaking when Ruiz's secretary brought in two cups of coffee. Ruiz passed over the sugar and waited for Hennessey to continue.
"As I was saying, I want to make a propaganda movie . . . about the 447 invasion. I am told you might be able to make such a movie, given funding."
Ruiz brightened immediately. He began to wax about the terrible atrocities—largely fictional—committed by the Federated States, the suffering of the people, the destruction of the economy. Ruiz paused. "But aren't you a gringo, yourself?" he asked, doubtfully.
"I am. And I am not remotely interested in an anti-FSC movie. Oh, don't misunderstand; the Federated States is going to have to be the enemy. But I need them to be an honorable enemy. As for atrocities; that's not the message I wish this movie to send. Perhaps later we'll do another . . . on a different kind of atrocity." Hennessey smiled before continuing, "The kind of film you are thinking of tells about the evil of the Federated States. What good would that do, even if true? We have bigger enemies. Worse ones, too, now. Enemies of our entire civilization. So, really, Professor, what good?"
"It would help rally the people against this puppet government. That is quite a bit, don't you think?"
Hennessey shrugged. "Up to a point. But I don't want to demoralize the people. I have a different idea. Let's not spend our effort showing the Federated States as bad. Anyone here in Balboa who believes that already doesn't need further convincing. Instead, let's work on showing Balboa and Balboans as good. With, and I cannot emphasize this enough, the glaring exception of General Piña, of course."
Ruiz looked confused and uncertain. "But everyone in the country would agree even more on that. What's the point?"
Hennessey thought that Ruiz was perhaps overoptimistic. Few in Colombia Latina, Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking Columbia had any real faith in their own governments and societies.
He answered, "That depends on how we go about it. I want a film about Balboan soldiers doing their duty unto death. I want you to write a script, or have one written, about the last stand of the BDC in the Estado Mayor. I want the film to give three main messages. First, I want the movie to show that the BDC troops in the Estado Mayor fought as well as any troops ever have, as well as the gringos did . . . or better. Since I was there at the time, I can assure you that this is the truth. This will tell the people that they are not inferior, not helpless. Second, and without going to the level of the ridiculous, I want the movie to show that the only reason the BDC lost was because they were outnumbered and outgunned, not outfought. Third, and this will probably require the greatest artistry on your part, I want the message sent that while the battle was physically lost, morally it must be seen as a victory."
"There were so few survivors—at the Estado Mayor, I mean—that it will be difficult to be accurate."
Hennessey smiled grimly. "So much the better. Without witnesses there will be few to criticize what the story shows if we're broadly and generally realistic. Get copies of some of the movies made by all sides during the Great Global War, The Fighting O'Rourkes, maybe. Maybe Kohlstadt, too. You'll see what I mean."
Ruiz hesitated. "I would like to do the script myself, but I don't know anything about soldiers or fighting."
"Don't worry about that, Professor. I have several first-class technical experts coming who can assist you. In addition," Hennessey handed over the draft of the history he had been working on with Jimenez, "here's an accurate version of the truth as seen by both sides."
Ruiz flipped through the draft quickly. His English was acceptable for the purpose. "How quickly do you need this done, Mr. Carrera?"
"In the GGW films like this were turned out in as little as three months. I'll give a little more time than that; five months, say. At the end of that time I want to see a rough cut. Can you do the job on five hundred thousand?"
"If I start today, and can keep costs low, which is a very big if, then yes."
"Then start today, Professor Ruiz. I'll be in touch."
"You mentioned other projects."
Hennessey nodded. "Ah. Yes. Several, assuming the movie makes a reasonable profit. I need radio and TV propaganda. I need newspaper propaganda. I will want a series of soap operas; 'Novellas,' you call them. I am thinking of six."
"Concerning?"
"Well, for the first use as a working title El Rasul—the Prophet. I want it to be on the oppression and betrayal of Christians under Mohammed when Islam first reared its head on Old Earth. Historical accuracy is unimportant. I want to plant the thought in Balboa that Islam is evil and false in its very roots. For the second, Los Esclabos, a romance of Christian lovers torn apart by Moslem slavers. He goes to a galley, she to a harem, to rape, and then to a brothel. For the third, El Martillo, I want the turning back of the Moslem tide of conquest at Tours, on Old Earth. Also a romance . . ."
"Why so many romances?" asked the professor.
"Because I want the women of Balboa enraged at the very thought of sharing a planet with Salafis. For the fourth, Lepanto . . ."
Casa Linda, 22/8/459 AC
With a substantial expenditure of cash, Lourdes, Clean and McNamara had worked a miracle or ten in getting as much of the house ready as they had. All of the floors had been redone, the walls of the common areas on the first floor painted or papered, barring only those that were already paneled. The paneling was old mahogany, individual planks of fine wood, and far too nice to cover. Lourdes was given the task of furnishing the place.
"Use your own judgment," Hennessey told her. "You dress well. I trust your taste. Besides, the people I have coming are used to army furniture: often poor quality, almost always tasteless. They'll be impressed if the stuff isn't outright ugly. Hmmm . . . try to stay within budget, Okay?"
Lourdes was warmed slightly. He likes the way I dress. He thinks I have good taste. He . . . he trusts me. She flashed him a brilliant smile, which quickly turned to a frown when he failed even to notice.
Hennessey's own quarters, and some of the common areas, had been filled with some of his own, or rather his and Linda's, furnishings. David had taken some leave from his job and overseen the move. Hennessey now sat on one of those chairs, sipping a scotch on ice. Among other things the CSM had done to prepare the place was to furnish a bar. Hennessey swirled the ice and sniffed, savoring the peaty aroma.
The CSM and Lourdes were currently at the airport picking up the troops. Hennessey thought they might even be on their way back by now; David would see the troops through the Aduana. He was filled with a curious sense of—almost—happiness such as he hadn't known in some time. Whether this was because he was soon to see many old friends, because it heralded the start of real work again, or because he was an imperceptible measure closer to his goals, he couldn't have said.
Johnson and Kennison had wired ahead with the names of those they had recruited, the names encoded by prearranged numbers. The list had pleased Hennessey immensely; twenty-four good men—including himself, McNamara, Esterhazy and Clean—were all anyone needed for the early stage of a job like the one he planned. He had them . . . plus Lourdes. Lourdes? Pretty girl. Nice girl. In another time . . . another life . . . oh, well. He pushed her from his mind.
Hennessey had wanted to go to the airport but McNamara had talked him out of it. In retrospect, he had realized, the sergeant major was right. It was better for McNamara himself to get the troops, billet them, put out the rules of the house, and then have Hennessey make the grand entrance. The troops had signed on for a military enterprise; the more like a military enterprise this looked, the happier they would be. Stage management? Not my forte. So I will, for once, listen to someone like Mac who understands it.
There had been some discussion, too, as to whether or not the troops should come in separately. Ultimately, McNamara had nixed that.
"Too much bot'er. Besides, if t'ey come in openly an toget'er, lookin' like t'ey're supposed to, soldiers, t'e customs and immigration people will be too afraid to say anyt'ing about it . . . for now. But if t'ey come in separately, t'ey would look like a bunch of criminals— damned suspicious, anyway—to anyone who can add t'eir names, origins, and destinations up and come up wit' us!"
Hennessey had, eventually, agreed.
From the upper back porch of Hennessey's quarters he could see for some dozens of miles out over the Mar Furioso. The smell of Balboan cooking wafted up from the kitchen below and on the other side of the house. It reminded him of Linda, painfully so. He continued to gaze out over the ocean, mulling his plans over in his mind.
Hennessey sat there, just staring at the distant waves and thinking, for perhaps an hour. Then came from below the sound of moving vehicles, two vans and a step van hired for the occasion, grinding up the gravel of the front drive. This pulled him from his reveries. The sergeant major's melodic Maiden Islands voice, loud but not shouting, and the opening and closing of automobile doors, told Hennessey that his new command had arrived.
Inside the first floor foyer, the sergeant major had the troops pile their bags against the wall by the stairs. He then brought them into the living room opposite what even Lourdes was beginning to call "the mess."
Mac said, "Welcome, gentlemen, to your new home. Later, I'll be showin' you to your quarters. For now I want to give you t'e rules of the house and t'e organization. First off, t'e house rules. You are expected to keep your own quarters clean; t'at goes for both officers and noncoms. It ain't because t'e boss can't afford more maids. It's because we want as few outside ears listening in as possible. T'is might change, later.
"Meal times are 0800 to 0900, 1130 to 1230, and 1800 to 1900. T'e kitchen is t'e province of t'e chief cook. She's a tough old bitch, so no snackin'. If you miss a meal, other t'an in t'e line of duty, tough shit. If it's in line o' duty, she can maybe be persuaded.
"Second is t'e schedule. Physical training will be conducted from 0600 to 0715, Monday t'rough Saturday. I will lead it, initially. Starting next week we will begin to rotate leadership of t'e PT sessions. T'e CO has ordered weights. T'ey should be here in a couple of weeks . . . or maybe a bit less. T'ere's a room down in t'e basement we've set aside as a weight room.
"Blendin' in. For t'ose who don't speak Spanish, Miss Lourdes here will be giving lessons from 1930 to 2100 nightly, Mondays t'rough T'ursdays, until you do. T'e rest of t'e time you work on t'e CO's project.
"Saturday afternoons and Sundays are off unless you have duty. Two men, one officer and one NCO, will be on duty during t'e weekend days. One NCO will pull duty from 1800 to 0600 on weekdays. T'e CO and I will not be pulling t'e watch. T'ose who pull t'e weekend duty will have the followin' Monday off. Check t'e schedule on t'e bulletin board, which, as you can see," McNamara jerked his thumb to the rear, "is right behind me. If you are not on duty or workin' you are off and can do what you want. Now, how many of you are married?"
McNamara raised an eyebrow. "Still married, Daugher? Your wife is a saint." Seeing five other hands raised the CSM said, "T'at will be fine. T'e CO is going to have t'e outbuilding, I suppose it used to be servants' quarters, converted as soon as possible to make married quarters. He's also going to put up a few houses for t'e spillover and, eventually, some bachelor quarters. He's going to hire an English speakin' teacher from t'e locals for your kids. T'e school will be in t'e old stables down the hill, once it's ready. Your families are invited to t'e eat in t'e mess when t'ey arrive. Your wives will be expected to help out wit' social occasions at need."
No one objected to that. The few who were married had wives who were used to the unremunerated obligations the military laid upon them.
"T'ere is no rule against drinkin' when not on duty. If you want to have a bottle in your room t'at's no problem. I've set up a bar. Drink prices are posted behind it. If you want to use t'e bar just check off what you took and it will be deducted from your pay. Beer wit' lunch and dinner are free."
That raised a cheer, and not a small one.
One of the men, Siegel, interjected, "Oh, crap. If Hennessey's giving out free beer you know this is just gonna suck."
"Quite correct, Sig," McNamara agreed. "T'ere ain't no such t'ing as a free lunch . . . or free beer."
"We will not be wearin' uniforms for t'e next several months," the sergeant major continued. "Frankly, we're not even sure yet what t'ose uniforms would look like, t'ough I am pushing t'e CO to go for Tan Tropical Worsted. You are required to look presentable. Haircuts are not optional. If you can stand t'em in t'is heat, mustaches and neatly trimmed beards are encouraged.
"T'e maid will take care of your laundry on days I'll post on t'e board. You are expected to bring it to t'e laundry room yourself.
"Some time next week we'll have t'ree cars and a light truck you can sign out. T'e Phaeton sedan is t'e CO's; leave it alone. If you take a car on personal business you will sign it out from t'e duty NCO and return it wit' a full tank.
"We have no medical personnel. T'e sick will go to Balboa City for treatment. T'ere's a small, first class hospital t'ere used to dealing with FSC types. English speakin' an' everyt'ing."
One man, Daugher, raised a hand. "Weapons, Sergeant Major?"
"Our weapons are limited to two pistols, mine and t'e CO's, and a couple of Samsonov rifles. We'll be gettin' more in a few days. Among other t'ings, we will all be goin' to town tomorrow to apply for permits to carry a weapon concealed. T'e CO is payin'. His brot'er in law will . . . facilitate. T'e CO will also be payin' for your personal sidearms. T'ey will all be forty-fives."
That elicited smiles from everyone. There wasn't a man present who didn't believe that most any pistol was good enough . . . as long as its caliber began with a "four."
"Lastly, t'is. You are to avoid any contact wit' anyone here in Balboa except in line of duty. You may not discuss any aspect of what we do wit' anyone. You will report any attempt to get information about our activities to me. Any questions before I send for t'e CO?"
Seeing there were none, the CSM asked, "Miss Lourdes, would you go get t'e boss, please?"
After Lourdes left, the sergeant major added, "One ot'er t'ing. I don't know if t'e CO has any interest in t'at one. Keep your fuckin' hands off, anyway. T'at means, among ot'ers, you, Daugher."
"Oh, Sergeant Major . . ." Daugher began, plaintively.
"Hands off, boyo."
Lourdes shivered as she left the foyer. Those men. They look so dangerous there in a group, not at all like Patricio and the sergeant major; they're civilized men even if a bit rough. And the way that tall blond one kept looking at me? I don't think I like him.
Reaching the door to the porch just off of Hennessey's private quarters, she knocked politely. "Patricio? The sergeant major says he's ready for you now."
Hennessey looked up and gave a friendly smile, friendly and no more than that. "Thank you, Lourdes. I'll take it from here but I would appreciate your checking on dinner, if you would."
"Certainly. Will you need me for anything before dinner?"
"No. No, thank you. Everything should be fine." "Hmmm. Attend anyway."
A mildly uncomfortable few minutes were spent between Lourdes' departure and the moment McNamara saw Hennessey about to enter the conference room. He announced, "Gentlemen, t'e commander."
Everyone rose to attention as Hennessey walked to the center of the room in front of them. Yes, he thought, this will be a good crew. The most talent I've ever had working for me at any one time, I think. Before beginning to speak he looked over the assembled men recently arrived. He ordered, "At ease. As you were." Those who had risen resumed their seats.
By the door stood Johnson and Daugher. Tall, blond, strong as an ox, and disgustingly Aryan looking, Daugher had personally killed— with his bare hands alone—almost as many people as were in the room and always in "self defense." Johnson was at least as strong, but more restrained.
Framing those two were Soult and Mitchell, more like younger brothers to Hennessey than subordinates. Years before they had been Hennessey's drivers at different times in different units. They looked nothing alike, Soult being rail thin, sharp featured and clean shaven while Mitchell was something of a mustached human fireplug.
Beside Mitchell, short, balding, and wearing glasses, Dan Kuralski's looks were deceiving. However much he might have looked like an aging professor at some small university, his heart and mind were those of a soldier.
Must see about getting Dan remarried while he's here, Hennessey thought. I wonder if Lourdes can be any help there.
Next was Carl Kennison. Irwin Rommel, Robert E. Lee, Heinz Guderian and Ulysses S. Grant could probably not have passed a body fat test. Huang? Zhukov? Tamashita? No way. Welcome to you, too, my chubby little genius.
However pudgy he looked, Carl could bench press almost three times his body weight. He had also run Hennessey into the dirt on more than a few occasions. Carl had not been picked for either his appearance or his physical strength. Hennessey remembered that in Carl's unusually long time as a second lieutenant he had had the distinction of having received a letter of reprimand once a week for a three-month period from a full colonel or higher—without even once repeating reprimanders. Little things: kicking his company commander in the groin (he had argued "accident" but no one believed it had been anything other than perfectly deliberate), burning down a Federated States Militia brigade headquarters ("Hey, who thought that tent would be so flammable?"), loading forty-six men on a single (stolen) quarter-ton vehicle with trailer and taking them for a drive (two letters from that one).
I like a man who can break the rules.
On a chair behind the table sat Aaron Brown, a diminutive tanker—and one of only three blacks in the group. Brown's tank company had been the normal attachment for Hennessey's infantry battalion some years before. Seeing Hennessey's eyes on him, Brown said aloud, "Es braust unser panzer, sir."
"Im stuermwind, dahin," Hennessey finished. Our tanks roar through the stormwind.
Next to Brown was Michael Morse, a former squad leader for Hennessey. Okay, so Morse isn't the brightest soldier who ever lived. I'll take an honest man with a good heart who tries really hard before I'll take some glib shithead looking out for Number One. Hennessey was well pleased that Morse had joined his group.
There was no smile for the next man, just a nod of respect. Hennessey had wanted Michael Bowman in the crew despite the fact that he was a borderline psychotic.
Have to keep that one busy; not give him time to start contemplating his navel. Bowman was as capable as Morse, considerably smarter, but not quite so reliable. A dangerous man. Well, so are we all.
Esterhazy—here for only a few days before he had to return to First Landing where he was watching out for Hennessey's interests—and Clean stood in the back of the room along with several others. Hennessey nodded in turn to "Dutch" Rudel, a chemical officer but also an FS Army Ranger; Greg Harrington, the only other tanker in the group, besides Brown, but much more valuable for his logistics skill than his ability to order a charge; Lawrence Triste, a first rate intelligence officer; and Tom Christian, infantry, but with long experience in personnel administration.
Hennessey was especially pleased to see the men in the last group: "Sig" Siegal, looking like a koala bear in mufti; Fletcher, serious as always; Prince who knew Hennessey's training methods and could be counted on to see them through, and Clinton, whose happy smile belied a fine mind and a meticulous sense of order.
Siegal's brains, linguistic ability—he spoke Spanish, French, German, Italian, Arabic, Turkish and Tagalog—and knowledge of weapons, organizations, and the undeveloped world in general would be indispensable. "Fletch" was a communications man. Prince was an 'expeditor.' Warren Clinton was as conniving a supply man as ever doctored a property book.
Fletcher, Clinton and Siegal were the only new arrivals to have stayed in the army long enough to have retired.
Hennessey looked each one in the eyes before beginning to speak.
"Gentlemen, you smell bad and you're ugly. Jesus, it's good to see you."
That earned a small laugh.
"You've all heard my introductory speech at one time or another. I don't see the need to give it again. I won't ask you why you decided to come. Your reasons are your own so long as you follow the rules and do your jobs.
"You probably won't get rich here working for me. I think I can promise you that we're going to have a lot of fun over the next several years. Military fun, the only kind worth having for people like us.
"Ranks? Don't worry about mine. Officers retain the ranks and seniority they had in the FS Army. The sergeant major is the Sergeant Major. Don't fuck with him. Fletch, you were a first sergeant, I believe. You will hold WO4. Former sergeants first class are three's. Former sergeants and staffs are WO1's and 2's respectively. When the time comes to wear insignia that is what you will wear . . . assuming we finally decide on a set of insignia. For now it doesn't matter.
"The mission: We are going to recreate a real army for Balboa, to plan the foundation of something that can be of use to the Federated States at need. The first part of that will be pretty dull. Later, it should get a lot more exciting . . . when we actually can start building and training; better still, when we can deploy and fight. Still, don't expect too much right off. Don't worry about who's paying the bills.
"Organization. We are a staff. I intend for us to set up under something close to the old Sachsen model, not the one the Federated States inherited, if you dig deep enough, from the Frogs of Old Earth. That means that personnel administration, instead of being the 'One,' is the 'Two,' Roman numeral two. The Roman numeral 'One' shop is the Operations, Logistics, and Intelligence office—Ia, Ib, and Ic, respectively.
"Assignments are as follows. Dan, you are the Chief of Staff. Carl, you are the 'One.' Larry and Sig, you have the Ic, Intel. Harrington has the Ib, Logistics. Mr. Clinton will assist you, Greg. You're also in charge of the household."
Hennessey turned his gaze to Johnson. "Terrence, you are Ia, Operations and Training. Morse, Bowman, Fletcher, Daugher, Prince, and Brown are all in your shop. Likewise you have—and let me introduce—Gary Clean, late of Her Anglic Majesty's engineers and 'Dutch' Rudel, late of the 39th Parachute Division.
"Tom Christian has the II, personnel. Mitchell assists you, Tom. Matthias Esterhazy has some considerable experience in banking. He's our comptroller. The sergeant major is, as stated, the Sergeant Major. Sergeant Major, Soult will assist when he's not working for me directly. Lourdes, although normally you would work for Captain Johnson as our Spanish teacher, for now you work for the sergeant major and myself.
"That is all for now. This evening, after chow, I'll give you your immediate work priorities. If you have questions, hold them until then. The sergeant major will show you to your rooms and offices. They're a mess but at least they're furnished. You can thank Lourdes for that. You'll also be doubling up until I can have quarters prepared for the married folks. When you figure out what you need to fix your rooms up, drop a request with Mr. Clinton."
It was a festive time. After all, how often do a group of men get together with a real prospect of renewing their wonderfully misspent youth?
Lourdes and the domestic staff had done a fine job. The dining room—Why did Patricio insist on calling it the mess? she had wondered. It's not a mess at all.—was bedecked with flowers and wreaths. Candles burned unnecessarily in sconces.
Table space had been a problem. Hennessey's old dining room table, his and Linda's, had been large enough for twelve with chairs to match. Lourdes had brought in a card table suitable for four, and moved in another one from the kitchen that could handle eight or even ten in a pinch. Crystal, silver and china had had to be a mix of three different sets each.
Still, as Hennessey admitted to himself, the girl has done wonders. Note, though, we need to knock out a wall, expand the mess, and get regular seating for thirty-six to forty-eight.
Daugher took one look at the tables and announced what they all thought. "This is some good shit."
The table was garlanded with tranzitree flowers the women had picked from a patch growing halfway from the house to the sea to the north. The flowers were harmless. Bluegum wax candles burned in sconces in three spots along the walls, centered and at both ends. Many people liked the smell of bluegum candles. The aroma they gave off was something like, although milder than, myrrh.
This being an occasion of some celebration, dinner centered on a frightfully large turkey, roasted and stuffed, an equally large prime rib from the Finca Carrera, and an impressive ham from the same source. To the usual trimmings for these were added some typical Balboan dishes: empanadas, a sort of meat turnover, fried yuca, a fibrous tuber, poisonous if not properly prepared but superior in taste to potato, and maiz rojo, which was not corn though it was red.
From the market the cook had obtained half a dozen steaks from a freshly caught baby carcharodon megalodon. These she'd soaked in milk and then broiled with butter and garlic. Next to the meg steaks sat a tureen of sancocho, or stew. The meat in the stew was a mix of normal beef with several kinds of reptile not to be found on Old Earth and becoming rare on Terra Nova.
The bread was made from a seed taken from a plant that resembled an orange-colored sunflower, except that unlike the sunflower it never grew above two feet in height. The plant, like the maiz rojo, the tranzitree and the bluegum, was one of those that were either native to Terra Nova or had also been transplanted by the Noahs from somewhere besides Old Earth. Before being ground the seed resembled nothing so much as very tiny corn kernels. Once ground they made quite a good bread though, because of the flour's high gluten content, nothing that resembled cornbread. The bread tended to a buttery yellow color. The plant and its flour were called "Chorley."
As it was a sort of Thanksgiving for people who had never again expected to be able to do the work they felt they were born to, wine was served, along with the beer. When dessert was finished, and plates cleared away, the sergeant major lit a candle, the "smoking lamp." The cook brought in a tray of single malt scotch with glasses just as the smoke began to curl to the ceiling.
Standing, Hennessey began to speak:
"Everybody moved in, all right?" he asked. Seeing the general assent, he continued. "Notebooks ready?" He paused to allow the men to get out writing materials. For the few who pulled out electronic ones, he said, "No E-Slates. Security. Take a notebook and pen."
He waited until they had and began, "Good. We have two initial tasks, one minor, and one major. The minor one is ourselves. You've all had a chance to see what your quarters and offices need. You'll fix them yourselves on your own 'copious free time.'"
That was a joke that spanned solar systems and centuries. It received the laugh it deserved.
"A little more complex is the question of arms, equipment, and uniforms. Uniforms will have to wait. We couldn't wear them for a while yet, anyway. Sorry. For arms, we need enough to defend ourselves against minor threats and possibly to take out a minor target ourselves. Let me make clear here that, no, I have no one and nothing in particular in mind. It just pays to be prepared."
Hennessey focused his attention on Bowman and Daugher. "So, no, you two, it is extremely unlikely I will be asking you to kill anyone any time soon. Calm down."
Hennessey turned his gaze to Harrington. "Greg, I'm going to put you in touch with my brother-in-law, the guy who eased your way through customs. He's in the Civil Force. Good kid. Have him put you in touch with a black market supplier. I believe he knows at least one. I want two antiarmor weapons and a fair supply of ammunition. Get us two light machine guns, it doesn't matter which, and a dozen and a half rifles, Samsonovs would do but don't feel bound. Make sure that the rifles match the LMGs, whatever you buy. Get starlight scopes for each. Also get four or so pair of night vision goggles. Don't buy Volgan for those. I also want two sniper rifles, Dracos, M-12s, or even bolt-action hunting rifles. Oh, yes, get us a machine gun the caliber of which matches the sniper rifles. Don't buy a Federated States MG-6, no matter how cheap it is; the odds of it being just plain worn out are too good to risk. Get a forty-five and shoulder holster for each man. If the dealer has silencers for the pistols, get one for each and have the pistols threaded.
"Also, the day after tomorrow I'll give you a check to go to town and get a pickup and three passenger cars. You'll also need to pick up the Phaeton I ordered a few days ago. Task the One shop as needed for drivers.
"When you're downtown it should be possible to buy twenty-four sets of body armor . . . hmmm . . . make it twenty-five; get a slender one for Lourdes, too. Don't scrimp on those. Get the best available. Gentlemen, Lourdes, give Captain Harrington your sizes before going to sleep tonight.
"Greg, I also want you to look into the possibility of buying a boat, forty or so feet and fast. Don't commit to it yet, though. Look around a bit. As a matter of fact, we are probably—no, certainly—going to need merchant ships as well. Look into it.
"The maid could probably use another washer and dryer. See about getting a big freezer for the kitchen. It's got to be cheaper than paying someone to do a daily grocery run the way you fuckers are bound to overeat."
Harrington looked mildly distracted as he scratched notes on a pad. "Can I borrow Miss Lourdes for a translator?"
"Sure."
Hennessey turned to Johnson.
"Terrence, you are tasked to help with the making of a propaganda cum recruiting film. We'll discuss that in more detail later.
"So much for ourselves, for now."
Hennessey began to pace around the room as he spoke to the group as a whole. "The major task, however, is to design an army for Balboa for the future. That is what will consume most of our efforts for the next few months. Dan, as chief of staff I want you to direct that. Start with the assumption Balboa could, were the funding available, raise and sustain a force of about thirty thousand regulars, maybe ninety thousand reservists and perhaps three times that in militia. Assume that between Balboa and the rest of Colombia del Norte we can find as many as thirty thousand volunteers a year. The reservists and militia are critical because you just can't politically trust professional Latin soldiers. Eventually, given the fantastic degree of governmental corruption, they will overthrow their governments. The reservists and militia are to counter that.
"That size force is the illogical and unreasonable extreme," Hennessey continued. "Start there anyway. Once you have done that, shrink it to what is possible; a single corps of about fifty or sixty thousand that is capable of deploying one division of eleven to fourteen thousand in support of the Federated States in the war now ongoing. Match the huge force to the smaller corps so that if it ever did become necessary the corps could be expanded with minimal confusion, battalions expanding to regiments, regiments becoming divisions, and so on. Again, that's just in case the illogical and unreasonable come to pass."
Everyone present, with the exception of McNamara, Esterhazy and Clean who had heard Hennessey thinking out loud for some time, was a little shocked. Not a few wondered if their boss had flipped. He had, of course, but not in the way they were thinking.
"The corps is the important thing," Hennessey said. "Note carefully, however, that I can't pay for it now and neither can Balboa."
Okay, so he hasn't quite flipped completely . . . in the way they had been thinking.
"What I want you to do, Dan and the I-Shop, with a big assist from the II, is design it carefully and completely. Then further shrink that. I don't know what I can pay for, not yet anyway. So shrink it in four forms: to a division of about eleven to fourteen thousand, to a large brigade of about eight thousand, to a regular sized brigade of about four or five thousand, and to a combat team of around two thousand. Which we decide to go with will depend on funding."
Okay, that's reasonable . . . but a frightful amount of work.
"I would have told you to optimize this first force for Pashtia. But I think that is going to kick off within a couple of weeks—"
Triste interrupted. "My sources say three, Pat."
"Fine, three then. It will in any case be too soon for us to have anything to offer to the FS. So the question is, 'Who's next?' Larry?"
Triste didn't have to think. He already knew. "Sumer," he announced with absolute certainty in his voice. "Sumer . . . but not soon. I am thinking maybe early in 461. In theory it could be summer of 460 but the heat . . ." Triste's voice trailed off.
"I concur," Hennessey said. "Sumer in early 461. It will take at least that long for the Federated States to build up the logistics in al Jahara for a—what do you think, Larry?—a four division invasion."
"About that," Triste agreed. "Or maybe only three plus maybe two Anglian brigades or possibly even a full division of the Royal Army along with some odds and ends from other contributors. All will, I am sure, be most welcome to help out and there is hardly a country on industrialized Terra Nova that hasn't lost some people to the TNTO attacks. For poorer allies the Federated States will gladly foot the bill, I am sure."
"Mmm . . . yeah," Hennessey half agreed. "The FS will be happy to pay the operational costs for anyone joining in the fight. I don't want them to pay for us, or not yet anyway. I think our bargaining position, for later on, will be much better if we—if I—can pay the initial costs."
Esterhazy interjected, "You are right about zat, Pat. But have you considered just vhat a fair price would be for the FS to pay for a . . . oh, say . . . a full division of Balboan troops?"
Hennessey pulled out a cigarette and lit it. McNamara, and not for the first time, thought that his chief would kill himself young if he didn't cut down.
"I've thought about it and made a few inquiries, Matthias, yes. For the FS to maintain one full division overseas in action, even low intensity action, requires them to keep three divisions on the books. So one division deployed costs three divisions worth of normal pay and operating expenses. That's about fourteen billion drachma a year. The cost of one division at war at low intensity is maybe— frankly no one I spoke to was quite sure—sixteen or seventeen billion a year more. Annuitized retirements, long-term medical care, disability payments to the badly wounded, etcetera, would probably add another four billion to that. I think the total cost is about thirty-five billion per committed division, per year. And that says nothing about the political costs of combat casualties or the benefit, propaganda- wise, that comes from having a strong ally in the fight."
"We won't have to charge them anything like their own cost," Hennessey said as he flicked an ash onto his plate. "We can pay the Balboans maybe forty percent of what a soldier from the FS gets and they would still consider it princely. Lourdes?"
"I don't know," she answered. "What is the pay for a soldier in the FS?"
"A new private receives about twelve hundred drachma a month," Hennessey answered. "Plus room and board."
The girl did some quick calculations in her agile mind then said, "We have unemployment here that fluctuates between fifteen and twenty percent, and most of that is concentrated among young men. Their unemployment rate is over fifty percent. Four hundred and eighty drachma a month would be considered, along with room and board, very good, yes. And those boys are not unemployed because they are lazy or untalented. In fact, our literacy rate is almost one hundred percent, considerably higher than in the FS," she added, not without some pride. "People here are unemployed because they lack connections, not because they lack ability."
"I know. So, gentlemen, we can pay a lot less and still be considered generous. Food is cheap here, too," Hennessey added, pointing to the remains of the bird. "That turkey you just massacred cost about a third of what it would have in the FS. Moreover, our troops will not have the expectation of the best, most cutting edge, equipment. In all, I think we can pay for a corps of fifty or sixty thousand, with a division deployed and fighting, for about four to four and a half billion a year."
"If that's true, Pat," observed Esterhazy, "then you could charge the FS nothing more than the cost of one of their divisions deployed, say sixty percent of their total cost, and still make a fortune."
"Even at half," Hennessey corrected, "we can make a fortune."
"Where's all that money going to go, Boss?" Daugher asked.
"Mostly we'll plow it back into Balboa," he answered. "This war will last a very long time. Ideally, I would like, before I die, to set things up so that the force we build can continue that war indefinitely and independently, without having to ask for help from anyone.
"Anyway, enough about fuzzy finances. Back to the concrete. Dan, do the whole Table of Organization: numbers, equipment, ranks, individual gear, training base, et cetera. Maximize ground combat forces. Design, to the extent that is possible, for things the FS Army is either not good at or lacks the capability for. For example, they are always short infantry, so design for primarily infantry missions: counterinsurgency, city fighting, reduction of complex fortifications. Plan for a very austere logistic and admin tail. I have a preference for Volgan equipment, where it will do. With them having gone about half belly up I think there will be a lot of useful military equipment for sale in the near future for cheaps. Nonetheless, consider a mix of Volgan, FS and Tauran Union equipment. Zion may have some useful stuff, too."
Kuralski looked up from note taking and asked: "What kind of fire support? What kind of control system? ATADS?" This, the Advanced Tactical Artillery Data System, was a digitalized system for controlling and massing artillery fire. No one entirely trusted it.
"No, Dan," Hennessey answered. "How's the quote go: 'Real soldiers don't trust ATADS'? Number of guns and throw weight are the semi-developed world's solution to the artillery battle. Now that you mention it, though, put the forward observers in the combat support/ weapons company of the maneuver battalions. I've never liked the idea of people who have to fight together being strangers to one another."
Hennessey continued. "Assume that we will never be able to afford a high tech battlefield communications system. No microwaves, few or no frequency hopping radios. Regular radios and wire are what they need."
Kuralski observed, "I'll need a computer to keep track of all of this. It will save months of work."
"Fine. Have the log shop get you one, the best available. And don't scrimp on computer security. On second thought, Greg, better make it about six. This isn't our only concern."
Hennessey turned to Rudel. "Dutch, don't worry about NBC"— nuclear, biological and chemical—"warfare beyond defense, individual protective masks and suits, recon, and some decontamination capability. This isn't that kind of country. Worry about defensive training.
"Nauseating as the thought is, I half expect to have to call whatever force we build 'Military Police.' Don't let the name fool you. It's to be a combat organization, having within it all arms and services. And it has to be ready to deploy and to fight by early 461."
Everybody looked doubtful about that. A mere year and a half to go from a standing start to something resembling an army in battle? Ridiculous! Absurd! Impossible!
Except they'd seen Hennessey do impossible things before.
Hennessey paused briefly, then added, "In the back of your minds, I want you to keep the concept of a 'nation in arms' . . . just in case.
"A last word before we adjourn for the evening. For various reasons I have found it useful to go by my wife's maiden name, 'Carrera.' It's a name of some local importance. It also became one of mine— here, at least—the day I married her. Mostly it may help to allay suspicions about our obviously gringo origin. Force yourselves to think of me that way from now on: Carrera."
Hennessey tossed off the dregs of his drink, then grinned evilly. "The fucking wogs are going to remember it, I promise you."
Casa Linda, 5/9/459 AC
"Sir, there are four Civil Force officers and an NCO here to see you."
Jamey Soult stood at a respectful attention, a habit Carrera had never succeeded in breaking him of. "Shall I have the rest of the boys stand to?"
"Quietly, Jamey. Have Sergeant Major collect up five or six of them. Silenced pistols. You stay with them. Have them keep out of sight and earshot. I'll call if I need you."
Soult left quickly to summon aid. Those people go after the boss and there'll be hell to pay; I promise.
Carrera walked down the stairs to meet the men who were very likely there to arrest him. Why the hell didn't David let me know this was coming? He should be in a position to know.
When Carrera entered the living room where the Balboans waited, he relaxed immediately. They all had the look of men with no intention of arresting anyone. They stood up when he entered the room.
Taking the Balboans in with a single glance, Carrera saw that they were a major, about as high a rank as existed in the Civil Force that had replaced the BDC, two captains, a lieutenant and a sergeant major. He knew none of them by sight, however their uniforms all bore name tags that identified them.
The major's name was Fernandez. He was small, slight and mildly stoop shouldered. Withal, he looked like nothing so much as a pharmacist. Certainly, his appearance gave no hint of the frightful reputation of which David Carrera had warned.
After shaking hands, Fernandez asked, "Señor, are you the same Carrera that has been supporting the families of those killed in the 447 Invasion?"
"I am."
"May we ask why you are providing for them out of your own pocket? And why now, rather than before?"
"Now," Carrera answered, "because I only recently acquired the wherewithal to help them. As to why, for no reason than that I thought it wrong for the parents, wives, sons, and daughters of brave men to go in want if I could do something about it."
Besides, it may be that I am to blame for their loss. In part, anyway.
"I see," said the major. "An unusual generosity. You are from the FSC, are you not?"
"I am, though I make my home here."
Fernandez began a staccato interrogation, pausing to bite on his lower lip between questions. "Why should you do that? Why should you come here now? What do you intend here? We know that you have a small army here on the premises with you. We also know that you were once a military officer, that you were part of the invasion force, and that you lost your family in the Terra Nova Trade Organization attack. I have investigated. And no, I have not yet informed the government."
Hennessey—no, "Carrera" now—said simply, "Revenge."
Major Fernandez smiled. "That is a worthy goal. It was also worthy to plant your brother-in-law in my department. However, though your brother-in-law is a nice kid, he has no business in intelligence . . . so please get him moved."
"I don't know where else to send him."
"Major Valdez, from 5th Company of the Civil Force, will take him. He said to me, just a few days ago, 'I'm down one platoon leader, anyway, as soon as I fire the stupid son of a rabiblanco bitch who's wrecking my chingada third platoon now.""
The other officers with Fernandez tried to control smiles. They failed. Everyone in the Civil Force knew about Valdez, his general loathing of pure whites (though he loathed pure indians, too), and his foul mouth.
Patricio Carrera agreed, "Okay. Fine. David should be glad of the change. I hadn't intended to offend anyone. I just wanted to keep tabs on things."
"You didn't offend me. It is impossible to offend me. Unless you're a Piña or someone riding on his coattails or some gringo trying to run our country. That would offend me."
"You do not care for your former 'Supreme Leader'?"
Fernandez gave an evil, angry laugh. "No. Not me. Not my men. Not anyone in my department. Piña? When the going got tough that cowardly son of a bitch got going."
"Oh. I see your point. Major Fernandez . . . I will not run out on you. But I will tell you that in the course of avenging myself on the stinking wogs I am going to help make Balboa free, really free, for the first time in centuries. That . . . and I know what I'm doing."
Carrera paused, then made a decision. "Follow me, please. Just you. Say nothing."
With a shrug, Fernandez motioned for his men to remain while he followed Carrera downstairs to the staff area. It was empty at the time, as McNamara and the other on duty were currently upstairs checking pistols and ammunition.
Carrera flicked on a light. Fernandez saw three entire walls each covered with an intricate diagram of lines, circles, boxes and numbers. There were many gaps in the diagram.
"This is why I'm here. I don't want to 'run your country.' I just want to help it build an army; like any other country has. This is part of that, though it's a long way from complete. Tell me, Major Fernandez, have you ever even been in a real army? No, I thought not. Not your fault. But you do not, cannot, know what goes into creating one. Do you know what schools you need? What equipment? How many spare parts of what type? Ammunition? How many trucks to operate at a given distance from a port? How many drivers and mechanics? How much does it all cost? How long will it take to do X? Is Y what you should really be doing?
"I do know. And I'm here to show you . . . you and the rest of the old Defense Corps."
Fernandez moved closer and looked over one of the diagrams. He noted that there were many blank spaces. This Carrera doesn't have all the answers then. But I didn't even know the questions. He considered this. At length he nodded his head slowly. "Perhaps you do know. Perhaps you do, indeed. How can I help?"
"In many ways, Major. Notably by keeping the government off my ass and out of my business. And by giving me whatever you can to make them support this effort."
"My department can help with this."
"Then viva Balboa, Major. Will you and your men join me for a drink?"
"Thank you, sir, no. My men are still on duty and I need to get home to my daughter. I am a widower, you see, and I'm all she has."
Interlude
1 January, 2050, Brussels, Belgium, European Union
Margot Tebaf awakened in a strange bed. There was nothing particularly unusual in this; she and her husband had an understanding.
She risked a glance at the other form in the bed. It was hidden by the covers. Hmmm. Large, so probably male. But who was it?
Margot wracked her brain frantically. There had been a lot of champagne, stronger drink as well. Well, it was New Years, after all. She'd been talking to someone . . . some expert in demographics and migration patterns. What had he said?
Oh, yes. It's coming back now. He said that this new planet may be the answer to all our problems. And not just the EU's problems, but the UN's, the progressive movement's. Everything.
We are losing talented and fertile young people to the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa. They produce there, in the cutthroat, dog-eat-dog competition of the capitalist system. That makes our system look bad by comparison—never mind that it is much the fairest and most gentle system in the history of the world—and pulls even more young people away.
But if the new planet can be used to attract those tired of Europe and, better still, if it can also be used to attract a number of those stinking Americans out of their own stolen homeland, the drain on us will lessen and they will begin to lose some of their power and their arrogance.
Margot muttered aloud, "Oh, how I hate those bastards."
The body next to her stirred. "What's that?"
"I was thinking about what you said last night . . ." She found, to her consternation, that she couldn't produce a name to go with the body she had spent the night with.
"Dominique, Margot. It's Dominique," the body answered, apparently unperturbed.
"Ah, yes. Dominique. Explain to me again, please—I had so much to drink last night—how we can use the new planet to hurt the United States and save ourselves and the Earth?"
"Well, it would take a lot," Dominique admitted. "We would need . . . oh . . . call it one hundred ships, more or less, each capable of carrying fifty or so thousand colonists."
"Ships, yes, but how big?"
"I've asked someone in the navy about that. He told me to think of the size of the United States' supercarriers or the very large ships that carry crude oil. Built in space because otherwise we would never get them off the Earth."
"We couldn't afford that," Margot said, suddenly looking very glum.
"No, no, of course not," Dominique admitted. "Certainly we could not ourselves. But we, China, Japan and the United States could, collectively."
"Why should they participate in a project that ultimately hurts them?" Margot asked.
"Because in the short term it helps them," the other answered, reasonably. "Have you ever known an elected politician who really thinks long term? No. Long-term thinking requires what we have here in Europe, an elite that cannot be turned out of office over the latest blip in the economic forecast.
"It's more than that though, too, Margot. If we can get some substantial numbers of the more extreme Moslems to leave Earth— though I confess I have no good idea yet how to do that—the more moderate ones will make life uncomfortable for the extremists who remain. Then they'll leave, too."
"Wouldn't that be wonderful," she mused aloud.
"Indeed," Dominique agreed.
Margot admired such clear thinking. She pulled the covers down and bent her head over to show how much she admired it.