Chapter Six
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun . . .
—Chesterton, "Lepanto"
Cochea, 26/7/459 AC
It was warmth; it was peace.
With the song of birds in the air, Linda and Patricio sat on a blanket spread on the side of a small hillock. To the northeast gurgled the creek in which she had swum as a girl. Between the hill and the creek, on grass weeded and kept smooth by family retainers, Julio, Lambie and Milagro played a game of ball, Milagro, in particular, giggling madly as her two older siblings tossed the ball to and fro over her head.
It was contentment; it was happiness. His love was with him and the results of that love were with them.
Hennessey heard Linda say, "It's hot, Patricio. Here, why don't you have a beer?"
While keeping one eye on the children, he held out a hand for the bottle she offered. As he took it, his nose was assailed by the stench of rotting flesh. He closed his eyes and whispered, "Oh, no."
When he could bring himself to open them again, he looked at his wife. She knelt motionless by his side, flesh turned black with decomposition and bones beginning to show through as the flesh fell away in long rotten strips and irregular pieces. She made no sound.
Pained, frightful cries came from the children. "Daddy! Help us!"
Almost too frightened to look, still Hennessey turned his gaze toward the creek. The children's game had stopped; the ball sat still on the smooth grass. They stretched blackening arms out toward him, pleading, imploring. Even as he watched, little Milagro exploded in a cloud of bone and rancid meat. Lambie and Julio shook and shivered, screamed and begged, as their bodies fell to ruin.
Hennessey looked back to Linda. She was no longer there. In her place lay a neat pile of disconnected bone. The children's screaming stopped. He looked back for them.
In their places, too, were little piles of joints and ribs.
"Martina? This is Patricio. Would it be all right if I stayed with you and Suegro for a little while?"
Finca Carrera, Cochea, 29/7/459 AC
Poor Patricio, thought Linda's mother, Martina. She looked out to where her son-in-law sat unmoving on her front porch, the picture of human misery. Some food she had brought to him lay untouched, except by the flies, on the porch railing.
It's like he's died inside.
He had told them he had no remaining relatives—barring one cousin—that he wished to see in the Federated States. And even with Annie he found it difficult to talk.
When he had called a few nights back, his voice choking with misery and horror, and asked if he might stay for a while, the family had naturally taken him in. Though it seems to have done little good. Still, it can't have been good for him to stay in that house.
Nothing worked. Hennessey took no interest in anything. He just sat there on the porch, day after day. What passed through his mind no one knew. The only interruptions to his vigil came when he took the short walk to Linda's and the children's "grave." Sometimes, too, he slept in the bedroom the family had provided. Just as often, however, he would fall asleep in the chair on the porch. He hardly spoke to anyone. He drank far, far too much.
Arranging some flowers on a table beneath the window, Martina thought, Poor broken man; he's got nothing left. I don't think I've ever seen a sadder sight than the way he just sits there, day after day, no hope or purpose.
She resolved to demand that her husband find something to interest Hennessey, something to give him even a little interest in life. Maybe cousin Raul can think of something to help. He's mentioned that he thought very well of Patricio.
Linda's father shook Hennessey's shoulder. "Patricio, there is someone who wishes to see you."
At the insistence of his wife, the father had invited distant cousin and old family friend, Raul Parilla, to come to talk with Hennessey. He'd been there when it happened. And Patricio had always spoken of Raul with respect. Perhaps it might do some little good for his son- in-law to talk with the retired general.
Parilla remained one of a very few influential Balboans interested in giving the country an army again. Linda's father was not one of them, though the more politically minded Martina was. The fact that there was such a group was an open secret. As Parilla had told Señor Carrera, they did little more than debate about it. The group had accomplished precisely nothing yet . . . and it had been years.
Hennessey didn't even look up. Twirling the ice filled glass in one hand, he said, "I don't want to see anyone, Suegro. Please ask whoever it is to go away."
"You will want to see this one, Patricio. It's General Parilla. He wants to ask you for some advice. Talk to him, won't you? For me, if nothing else."
Shrugging, Hennessey agreed. Parilla had been with him that day, that counted, as did their long standing friendship. "Okay, Suegro. I'll see him."
Linda's father led Parilla out onto the porch. Hennessey stood up; though he knew the general well, and though neither was any longer in service, old habits die hard. The two shook hands and sat down. Linda's father left them there.
Parilla lit a cigarette before beginning. At his first exhalation, he said, "How have you been, Patricio . . . you know . . . since . . . ?"
"I don't know how to answer that, Raul. Not well? Yes, that. I have not been well."
Giving a quick fraternal squeeze on the shoulder, Parilla said, "Well, man, I can understand that. I wish . . . but there weren't any words that day. And I have none now. Except I am so sorry."
"Yes. Me, too, Raul. But sorrow doesn't help. Nothing helps. Only that one time have I felt any better, and shooting strangers on the street is not something I can make a hobby of."
Parilla nodded understanding. Jimenez had told him the story. In the same shoes, he could not imagine feeling or acting any differently.
"I came here to ask advice, Patricio."
"Yes, so said my father-in-law. I don't know what help I could be, but if I can help . . ." He let the words trail off.
Parilla's mind groped back over fifteen years, to the day he had first met a much younger Hennessey, then a lieutenant leading a joint Federated States-Balboan small unit exercise at the Jungle Warfare School at Fort Tecumseh, on the southern side of Balboa. Despite having his recon party compromised, Hennessey had managed to win through in the problem, a company raid. Since Parilla had only a very basic idea of how to conduct a raid at all, he had been impressed.
"I think you can. But tell me . . . you never have, you know . . . why aren't you still with the Federated States Army? And . . . too . . . why don't you go back now? I remember; you were good."
Hennessey nodded quietly, then paused to think about his answer.
"Well," he began, "I can't go back. They don't want me."
"Why not? It makes no sense to me, your leaving. It never has."
Hennessey sighed with pain, an old remembered ache to go along with the fresh agony. "There's nothing I can tell you that won't sound like sniveling, Raul."
"I know you are not a crybaby, Patricio."
Muscles rarely used stretched Hennessey's mouth into something like a grimace. "No. No, I'm not. You really want to know?"
Seeing that Parilla did, he continued. "Raul . . . you know that in the army, nearly any organization I suppose, you will often be forgiven for being wrong. What they never tell anyone is that you are very unlikely to be forgiven for being right."
Parilla looked honestly perplexed and said so.
Another deep sigh from Hennessey. "It had to do with training; my approach to it. I'm not the only one it ever happened to. You remember General Abogado? He got bounced for much the same thing, though he had some other issues, as well. In any case, let me ask a question of you, Raul. In the old Guardia, who trained the privates on a day to day basis?"
"Their sergeants and corporals mostly. Is there a better way?"
"No. None. At least given good sergeants and corporals. But that isn't the way it worked most places in the FS Army. There, oh, since time immemorial, most of the day-to-day training has been closely supervised by officers. Mostly, it doesn't work very well, either."
"No. I can't see how it could," Parilla agreed.
"Well . . . I did something a little different. I had been watching and experimenting with the training of individual soldiers very closely for nearly two decades. In all that time, every time someone mentioned 'individual training,' the stock solution was: "'tighten up the training schedule,' 'waste not a minute' . . . you know, all that rot."
"I decided to try something a little different. I made my subordinates loosen the training schedule, to leave a lot of gaps and holes for the sergeants to use. Then I made them put on the schedule certain things that had to be done by Thursday night . . . or else. Told them I would test for it, too."
"Well, they didn't believe I was serious. It was too different a concept. The first week I tested—had my sergeant major test, actually— the whole damned battalion failed and so I held them over the next night until nearly midnight retesting. Next week it was about five- sixths of the battalion to just after eleven PM. Then about three- fourths until ten or so. By the time six weeks rolled around I had privates going to their squad leaders and saying, 'Forsooth, Sergeant, I am in desperate need of getting laid. The only time to do that is Friday night. The only way to have Friday night off is to pass the muthafuckin colonel's test. So teach me this shit, please.""
"About that time my boss got wind of it; tubby little fart of a dumb- assed tanker. 'Tuffy' was his nickname." Hennessey sneered with contempt. "Don't ask me how he got or why he deserved the nickname 'Tuffy;' the evidence was pretty thin on the ground. He was so fat he couldn't squeeze through the hatch of an armored personnel carrier without greasing his ponderous gut. Anyway, he was a clueless, stupid shit. I explained what I was doing and he told me to stop. I answered, 'No, sir. Relieve me if you want but this is starting to work pretty damned well.' Well, he wouldn't do that. But he hated it. He hated me, too, for defying him."
Parilla likewise didn't understand why Hennessey had done this, and said so.
"The trick," Hennessey answered, "was that the sergeants had for decades been conditioned to being told what to do and had had driven out of them any native initiative they might have had. They were . . . over-supervised, if you will. Worse, they'd grown to like not having to think or use initiative."
"But weren't you over-supervising doing it your way?"
"At first, yes," Hennessey admitted. "Clearly. But the difference between legitimate and illegitimate oversupervision is in the end game. Once I had them in the habit of finding and using time, I let them run with it. It worked . . . oh, quite well. We had an individual training test a few months later. They call it the MIB—Master Infantry Badge—test. The rest of the brigade shut down for three weeks to prepare for it. My battalion rolled to the field, doing any number of things that had nothing to do with the test.
"We came in the day before we had to take it. I told the boys to get a good night's sleep. We'd take the test in the morning and clean equipment the day after.
"When the smoke cleared I had something over seventy percent of my battalion max the test. This had never been done before. Normally it's just a couple of percent of any given unit that maxes. Pissed off my boss to no end."
"I do not understand," Parilla interjected. "You do something that well . . . surely it makes your boss look good."
Listening through an open window Martina heard Patricio laugh and felt a sudden relief that her son in law was still at least capable of mirth.
Hennessey answered, "Uh . . . no. Surely it does not. The rest of the brigade failed miserably by comparison. Made him look bad, in fact."
Parilla's eyes widened. "Ohhh . . ."
"'Ohhh,' indeed. A commander can stand having nothing but mediocre units under his command. What he can't stand is having mostly mediocrity and one very superior unit. Makes him look bad, by comparison, you see.
"But that wasn't the worst of it. A couple of months later the brigade had an organization day. Lots of athletic competitions and trophies, things like that. Well, my boss volunteered my battalion at the last minute to be the duty battalion—picking up trash and such— for the division, for that day. So I went out with about one-sixth as many men as the other battalions, a fair number of mine being people who had been hurt in training."
"Jesus, he really did hate you, didn't he?"
"That was my guess," Hennessey muttered. Then he added, "We beat the rest like we owned them too, cripples and all. Why, for one competition I didn't even have enough people to field a complete team and we won anyway. My brigade commander was so pissed about it he stormed off the parade field just before awards presentation."
Parilla snickered. "Surely he couldn't relieve you over that?"
"No. That came later. And, in a sense, tubby little turd or not, he was right.
"You've got to remember, this was in the most intensely leftist and pacifist years of the Gage Administration in the FSC. Peacekeeping and Operations Other Than War were the big thing. Everybody had to play along. Not that I think Gage ever really believed in any of it . . . or even cared. But he was beholden to his base and they did believe in it.
"Raul, I couldn't. I just couldn't do it. I looked at my boys, thought about the way the world really was . . . and I could not, not, not train them to pass out multiculturally sensitive, vegetarian rations to starving refugees in the hinterlands in a multiculturally sensitive manner. I kept training them to fight, orders to the contrary or not.
"That was the last straw. The brigade commander fired me. I resigned my commission. And so, here I am. And so, my wife and kids were in First Landing on 11/7." Hennessey's voice broke at that last and it was a long moment before he could look up.
"What a damned waste," Parilla said. "I've known you had real talent for this sort of thing since I first met you. What a waste you can't do it anymore."
Parilla leaned forward with an almost conspiratorial air. Speaking softly, he said, "Patricio, you know I am part of a group—we probably don't deserve the name 'conspiracy,' more like a debating club for now—that would like to see Balboa fully sovereign again, which means rearmed. But we haven't the faintest idea of how to go about such a thing, you see. I thought, since you're about the only man in the country outside of the FS Marines who guard the embassy, who has ever even been in a real army, that you might be able to tell us."
Recovered, Hennessey answered, "Go ahead and ask. I may be able to help a little."
The direct approach? Parilla wondered. Yes. "How could we rearm ourselves?"
Hennessey thought about it for just a few seconds. Looking from the same window through which she had seen him before, Linda's mother saw the first sign of any interest in anything since he had returned to Balboa.
Hennessey gripped the lower half of his face in his right hand, thinking hard. "Much would depend on the attitude of the Federated States. If they were hostile, then you're likely screwed . . . although there are a number of techniques you can use to hide an armed force if the legal government will help. For one thing, you can use front organizations: boys' and girls' youth groups, civilian labor groups . . . unions, fraternal organizations, police and fire departments. I'm assuming here that the Morales government wants nothing to do with that."
A sneer crossed Parilla's face. "That is unfortunately correct. The traitors actually had the gall to legislate away our ability to defend ourselves; like San Jose did." Parilla spat with contempt.
Parilla paused, then admitted, "Well, that's not entirely true. The new Civil Force is in most respects a blurry mirror of the old Balboa Defense Corps. But it is a singularly ball-less version of the BDC."
Hennessey nodded. "Then it will be almost impossible unless you can either change the government or change its mind . . . or fool it."
"I see. Well, what can be done without a change of government?"
Hennessey leaned into his left hand and rubbed his temple. After a moment he answered, "Staff work. You can prepare Tables of Organization and Equipment. If you have money, you can buy some equipment and hide it, possibly at sea. You can send people to work with other countries that have armies. You can prepare programs of instruction and plan to set up training facilities even if you can't actually set them up. Perhaps a military high school—another one, I mean—might help."
"How would you prepare for something like that?"
"Me, Raul? I couldn't. Not any more."
Parilla cut him off. "Oh, horseshit, Patricio. You live here. Your roots—new ones to be sure, not as deep as they might be—are still here. Here is where your blood rests. And we need you. We've got 'Progressivist' Santandern guerillas from FARS and the SEL pressing our western border. We'll have the homegrown variety soon enough, too, if we don't do something. We are the trade route for the world. And the same people who killed your family will eventually figure that out and come for us, too. That is, they will if they aren't already here and waiting. I suspect they're just waiting."
Hennessey's eyes were pained. There had been a time when . . . ah, but it was too late now. "I still can't. Look . . . Raul. I'm just . . . broken. I'm not good for anything anymore. I just don't have it. And even if I did, without Linda I am . . . not to be trusted. I don't really trust myself."
Parilla muttered, "Bullshit," then stood as if to leave. He turned, paused, and then turned back. "You know, Patricio, we need you. I told you; no one in Balboa has ever even been in a real army. The nearest to one we ever had your country crushed and you helped them do it. We could offer you much no one else can: a new home, a life worth living, useful work to do. We would not be ungrateful for the help; you know that."
"I still can't. I'm not the man I was." Without Linda to control me I am afraid of what I am capable of.
"Well . . . think it over some, at least."
Hennessey shrugged. After Parilla left, Hennessey went back to twirling the ice in his drink, occasionally glancing toward Linda's grave.
His blank look was suddenly replaced by a deep and lasting frown. Could it be possible? There is a framework here, the Civil Force. There are some good people, men like Xavier, in it.
He debated within himself. But, no. Twelve years have gone by since they thought of themselves as infantry. Riddled with corruption, Xavier has told me. No recent training in heavier weapons. No experience in combined arms or higher staff work.
But . . . couldn't I give them some of that? Surely I could. And I have friends still, good soldiers, who could help.
Money? It always comes down to money. And even if Uncle Bob's estate does end up in my hands, it's a pittance compared to what's actually needed. I am no Crassus and I'm not going to be, either.
Not enough to maintain an army. Enough for a staff? Yes . . . at least enough for a staff. And then . . . maybe someone else could pay to maintain an army if one were raised.
Ah, no. Forget it. It was true what I told Parilla. My heart and soul are gone from me. They died with Linda and the kids. I just can't.
Can't? Why not? I was a good soldier before I met Linda.
Good? Yes. But she made me a human one. Before I met her? I was near to being a monster.
So be a monster. This is the time for monsters again; monsters have already arisen.
Hennessey's frown cleared. He remembered how very damned good it had felt to shoot men who'd cheered the murder of his family. He wondered, How good might it feel to kill the men actually behind killing my family? Might the nightmares stop then?
His heart began thumping and stomach churning with the excitement of the possibilities. With his left hand he reached over and poured his drink onto the ground outside the porch. Then he walked into the house, hugged his mother-in-law, shook his father-in-law's hand and left.
"I need to do something at the house," he announced as he walked out the door.
Hennessey Residence,
Cochea, 2/8/459 AC
The sound of Jinfeng squawking miserably at Linda's statue came through the window. Hennessey heard it only dimly.
Instead, there was music, Old Earth music, playing in the background.
"I see a red door and I want it painted black . . ."
At the casa's front door, Hennessey met Parilla and shook his hand warmly before leading him to his library. Parilla had an electronic slate tucked under one arm.
Hennessey began, "It was good of you, sir . . ."
"Please, Patricio; 'Raul.'"
"Raul. I thought since this was a formal mission . . . oh, never mind. 'Raul.' It was good of you to return to see me. I think, maybe, I can help you now." Yes, I can help you . . . and I can help me . . . now.
Parilla positively beamed. "Ah! Wonderful. How?"
Hennessey had already thought about it enough. He had spent days thinking about it. "I will collect a small staff, house them somewhere out of the way, and put them to work on some of the things I mentioned before. While I am doing that, you need to be setting up the government to knuckle under for rearmament. You can do this?"
Parilla thought about it for a moment. "I can do some of it."
"Well . . . that's a start. Perhaps some propaganda can do the rest. In any case, soon the Federated States will need an ally; an ally that doesn't blanch when the body bags start coming home. If a way can be found to hasten that day, so much the better."
Parilla pointed a finger at Hennessey. "Could you do that kind of preparation for rebuilding a Balboa Defense Corps that really mattered outside of Balboa? Really?"
Hennessey didn't hesitate at all. "Yes. Really. Only . . . let's not call it the BDC. Too politically correct for my tastes. Also too much of an image marred by defeat. As a matter of fact, I think we should partially detach the force from Balboa. Your government is very sensitive to world opinion and very fond of the Tauran Union, the World League, and the UEPF."
"La Armada," Parilla suggested.
"Maybe that. But maybe not, either. The people who legislated away the name while leaving a shadow of the reality are plainly people more interested in image than facts. Call it an army openly and they'll be more likely to resist."
Parilla pushed Hennessey's objections aside for the time being. "Patricio tell me, what would you do specifically? Wait. Let me fire up my slate to write with."
"No," Hennessey said. "If it's electronic it can be tapped. At this point let's stick to old fashioned."
Terra Nova's levels of technology were approximately those of very early twenty-first century Earth. Like that place and that time, too, the levels were very unevenly distributed across the planet. Uhuru, outside of the Republic of Northern Uhuru, for example, was little advanced in some places above the neolithic level.
Even in those areas—the Federated States and Secordia, Yamato, the Tauran Union—which enjoyed the highest levels of technology available, there were some differences from the world of Man's birth in its twenty-first century after the birth of Christ.
Terra Nova had no truly and completely peaceful use of space. The Global Locating System put up by the Federated States had some peaceful uses, true, and it had been permitted by the UEPF because of those presumptive peaceful uses. But it was there, the Feds had paid for it, for its use in war. As much could be said for the communications satellites that circled the planet.
The major use of space, however, was manifest in the extensive system of systems set up by the Federated States of Columbia to engage and destroy the UEPF if the latter ever again had the temerity to try to dictate terms to the former. And that sat unused but threatening.
Medical technology was somewhat less, in particular with regards to epidemiology and infectious diseases, generally. They had their diseases there, of course, but most of those Man had brought with him to the new world he already had considerable resistance to. The planet itself had none of importance.
Given its sad history of war and massacre, however, the planet's medicos were quite capable of dealing with trauma.
Militarily, the planet was on a rough par with twenty-first century Old Earth, as well, much to the delight of medical interns who wanted the practice.
In electronics Terra Nova was perhaps a bit further behind, being at the level of Old Earth just before the close of its twentieth entury. For example, small personal computers were common, but somewhat slower, larger and heavier than might have been expected based on the level of military technology. Personal computers and mobile communication devices—cell phones—small enough to surgically insert were still the stuff of dreams and fantasies there.
One area where Terra Nova was far ahead of where one might have expected was in hacking. This, perhaps driven by the endemic warfare, was very advanced. Indeed, it was so advanced that no one was safe, ever. It was so advanced that the Globalnet, the equivalent of Old Earth's Internet, was far less well developed. Hacking on Terra Nova could be said to have retarded every other aspect of information technology.
It was suspected, in some circles, that the UEPF was responsible for much of the hacking.
Hennessey swiveled in his office chair and took from the top of his cluttered desk a pen and notebook, which he handed to Parilla. The older man considered this, considered the subject matter, considered the effects of what they were about to discuss on those who might object, and decided that using his electronic slate might be a bad idea after all. He took the pen and notebook.
Moments later, notebook in hand, a beaming Parilla prepared to take down Hennessey's thoughts.
Hennessey pulled a pack of cigarettes from a breast pocket. He took one paper tube out and stroked a match to light it. With smoke curling about his head in an infernal halo, he began, "I have friends who were once good soldiers in the Federated States Army . . . some other armies, too, but who despite being good soldiers—very good, actually—never made any great success of things. In some cases this was precisely because they were superior soldiers. They have left the service early or have retired. I would hire some of them to come here to do the staff work."
Half turning his head away, Parilla focused one eye on Hennessey. "Could you trust them to be discreet?"
"They are my friends. Yes, I would trust them." The ones I will pick? Oh, yes.
Parilla asked, "How much would this cost?"
Hennessey didn't need quick calculations. Those were long since made. "For the first year a fair figure might be about one point eight million FSD"—Federated States Drachma, also legal tender in Balboa and much of the rest of the planet—"not more than two point two million; plus perhaps a lump sum of about four million to start up. The annual figure could go as high as three million or even four but I really don't think it will cost that much, not before we start to recruit and expand."
Parilla took a deep breath before telling Hennessey, "Patricio, I would like you to take charge of this project, to make all possible preparations for Balboa to have its own armed force again, in truth as well as in name. Will you do it?"
"I'm sure I can't afford the whole thing on my own. My uncle's estate is tied up for now. I have an income, and it's comfortable, but it wouldn't pay for anything like this, not even with the insurance from my family." But what I have, this project has.
Parilla answered, "You won't have to. I never thought you should." He shrugged his shoulders and looked heavenward in mock shame. "We do have certain sources of funds...not always aboveboard but also not often traceable." Parilla's hands spread in helplessness at the wickedness of mankind. "Piña wasn't, sad to say, the only ruler of the country ever to have a foreign bank account. I can have a reasonable down payment on the start up amount—say, FSD 450,000—tomorrow. The rest will take a couple of weeks. As for greater amounts for actually recreating a force? Well, Piña took two hundred and seventy- five million a year in unofficial taxes from the Cristobal Free Trade Zone. Most went to line his pockets; his and his cronies. But we could raise probably four hundred million per year now without hurting trade overmuch. And we are not that poor a country. Our gross domestic product runs nearly twelve billion. A couple of hundred million more could be squeezed out of government revenues. That's not small change. That all assumes, of course, that the government can be made to see reason."
Even while thinking, I don't want the government to pay for it. I want to pay for it, to maintain control of it, and to use it to destroy my enemies, Hennessey nodded agreement. "Then I will go back to the Federated States in two days to begin."
Saulterstown, Shelby, FSC, 5/8/459 AC
Military installations bred military towns. Saulterstown, right outside of and dominated by Fort William Bowen, was typical, from "Sarge's Used Auto" to "Post Pawn Shop." Typically also, the military town was full of ex-soldiers. Hennessey had come here to find and recruit one in particular.
He knew couldn't make his plan work alone, that he would need help. So he had drawn up several lists of people that had worked with or for him over the years who might be available. Most of these he eliminated as unsuitable. Forty-nine remained. He stood now outside a firearms store owned by one of them. It looked depressed. A few posters of guns decorated the walls. Through the windows he could see rifles and pistols in glass cases. Still, this was much the most bedraggled looking gun store he had ever seen. He walked in.
"Is Terry Johnson here?" he asked the sole clerk on duty.
The crop-haired, wiry man behind the sales desk put down the rifle he was inspecting and instead looked at Hennessey. Something about the civilian clad man in front of him suggested, rank . . . serious rank; dunno why he's in mufti but it shines through in civvies or not.
He answered, "Nah, sir, Terry's not here. He's supposed to be in later, sir."
"Do you know where I can find him, Sergeant?" The sergeant— that was as obvious to Hennessey as his own, former, status had been to the other—serving as a salesman didn't know that either. He returned his attention to the rifle.
"Well, if you don't mind, I'll just wait." Hennessey amused himself by walking around the store, examining some of the guns on display, reading the few posters on the walls. As he walked and looked, he tapped impatient fingers on the glass cases.
One of the items on wall display caught Hennessey's eye. It was apparently a plaque from Terry's former Direct Action team in the 5th Special Service Group. The plaque showed a picture of Terry's team members behind a burning red smoke grenade. It was inscribed: "To Captain Terrence—'Terry the Torch'—Johnson From his Team Mates of Det 3, Co B, 3rd Bn, 5th SSG." Hennessey looked at the men in the picture and realized that the sales clerk was one of them.
"Did you leave Group, too?" he asked, pointing to the picture.
Again the clerk, laying the rifle aside, returned his attention to Hennessey. "No, sir, I'm still with Group. We all—all the old team, that is—pitch in from time to time to help Terry make a go of this. Doesn't seem to be working though."
Won't do to have an active member listening in when I talk to Terry. We'll go elsewhere. Even if the kid would keep quiet, no sense putting him in a conflict of interest. Sure, the FS is likely to approve what I'm planning in the long run, but in the short they might be . . . difficult about it. Especially might those assholes at State be difficult about it.
He continued to pace about the shop. Asking to examine a Zhong Guo-made copy of a Samsonov assault rifle with a folding triangular bayonet, Hennessey filled the time with small talk about weapons. The sergeant-clerk was a particular fan, Hennessey learned, of some unusual calibers — .410 Kiowa, .34 Suomi, and 6.5mm Jotun.
Terry Johnson muttered a curse as he yanked the wheel of his decrepit pickup truck to avoid a newly loosened piece of the road fronting his shop. He turned into what passed for a parking lot, all gravel and mud, turned again and rolled to a stop beside the blank brick that made the place's southern wall.
He noticed first a high-end rental car parked outside. This suggested a well-heeled customer inside, a rare enough event. Hell, it's a unique event. Even so, Johnson went first to check the mailbox that stood by the juncture of the highway and the concrete walkway leading to the front door.
"Bills," he muttered with disgust. He flipped through the little stack quickly. Overdue, past due, past due, overdue, overdue, cancellation . . . shut off notice . . . Fuck! FEB—the Firearms and Explosive Bureau—wants to inspect me? Fuck.
Life used to be a lot better than this. It used to even be worth living.
Shaking his head, Johnson walked to the door, opened it, and stepped in. The customer inside turned around. He was wearing a smile and what looked like an expensive suit.
Johnson stopped and looked at Hennessey. It had been years since last they had met and Hennessey had aged a great deal since. For a few moments he puzzled over the familiarity.
Recognition dawned. Johnson wrapped Hennessey in a bear hug, planting a sloppy kiss on his forehead. "Pat! How the hell are you?"
"Lemme go, you nasty fuck!"
Disentangling himself, Hennessey calmed immediately and answered, not quite truthfully, "It could be worse, Terry. Yourself?"
Johnson lifted and dropped one shoulder. "A long story. It could be better. What the hell are you doing here in Saulterstown?"
"I came to see you, Terry. Let's go have a little chat."
The two left Johnson's gun store in his beat-up old truck and drove to a nearby restaurant. They spoke of old times in Balboa and traded information on every mutual acquaintance they could think of. This continued throughout lunch and on into the drinks that followed. Then Hennessey began to probe Johnson for his own history since he had left Balboa in 447.
"Well, I got married. That was a really big mistake. We did not get along. We got divorced about eighteen months ago." Johnson raised his beer in a unilateral toast. "Free at last; free at last; praise God Almighty . . ."
Hennessey was unsurprised. Johnson had never had any real sense when it came to women. That Johnson had been married, Hennessey knew through the grapevine. That he was now divorced was a plus.
Hennessey asked, "Is that how you ended up out of the army?"
"No. I know what you're thinking. 'Bad woman drives good man to drink' or something like that. Actually the divorce didn't bother me all that much." Johnson paused. A painful memory caused him to scratch at the tabletop. "Pat, do you remember how you told me to stay away from SSG?"
Hennessey nodded and shrugged. He couldn't see any sense in bringing up that whole thing again.
Johnson continued. "I should have taken your advice. It was everything you warned me about, only worse. 'Good people in a shit matrix'; wasn't that what you said? In short, my battalion commander lied to me, then screwed me for following the order he gave me himself."
This sounds interesting, Hennessey thought. He made a hand motion—come on—for Johnson to continue.
Johnson raised a quizzical eyebrow. "You really want to hear this? Okay. My team and I were on a deployment to the Yithrab Peninsula, one of those trivial but rich little oil kingdoms. Exactly where doesn't matter; it's secret anyway. I got orders from my motherfucking, son- of-a-bitch battalion commander to do a blank fire attack on a police fort. It was a training mission so I didn't think anything of it at the time. When I went to the police fort to recon it, however, it did not, repeat not, look like a good place for a blank fire raid."
Johnson put up his right hand and raised one finger for each reason he had thought the raid a bad idea. "These guys had serious security out; machine gun bunkers, even a few anti-tank weapons, all live ammunition so far as I could see. They did not look to me like they were planning to take part in any blank exercises. They did look like they were expecting the Army of Zion to roll over the ridge at any moment.
"Anyway, I got on the SATCOM and told my battalion commander that I didn't think this exercise was a good idea and why I thought so. He went ballistic on me over the radio. Insisted that it was all laid on and coordinated, etc., etc, et-fucking-cetera. That, and that he wouldn't come in my mouth. I said I still didn't want to do it. He ordered me to." Again Johnson clenched a fist at a memory that still rankled.
"So we did the raid. I couldn't use live ammo on the cops and I didn't want them to have a chance to use live ball on my guys. So I improvised. We attacked with more pyrotechnics than you have probably ever seen used in one place. We had hundreds and hundreds of grenade and artillery simulators. Smokepots, signals. The works. The attack went just fine. God, it was pretty." Johnson sighed with pleasure, then frowned. "Only thing was . . . the police fort sort of . . . uh . . . burned down. To the ground. Must have been more wood in the place than I'd thought."
Hennessey laughed. He could just see it. "You and Kennison and fire. It just doesn't mix."
"Anyway, it turned into a big international stink. I claimed I was following orders, which is not a bad defense if you haven't committed a war crime. My battalion CO denied ever giving me any orders, the cocksucker. My word against his, and he was an SSG 'good old boy.' I had a choice of resignation or court-martial. I resigned. I should have listened to you," Johnson summed up.
"So, Terry, since you don't owe much to the army anymore what are you going to do with yourself for the rest of your life?"
Johnson shrugged. "I don't really have any plans. I get about ten thousand a year from a family trust fund. I'm a part-time sheriff for this burgeoning metropolis. I load a bread truck three days a week. I had really hoped to make something of the gun store but it's costing me more than it's bringing in. That's even with free help from my old team. There are a surprising number of obstacles the government throws in your way if you want to run a gun store. I really don't know what I'm going to do, Pat."
Hennessey nodded with understanding. Toss the bait . . . plunk. "Would you like to get back into uniform again, Terry?"
Johnson shook his head vigorously. "With the army? No thanks. Sure, I miss the army . . . or I miss the old days in the army, anyway. I thought about joining the Territorial Militia but they're as fucked up as can be. I don't think I could stand it. In any case, no, I don't think there's a place for me there anymore."
And good bait must wriggle, must never stop being bait. "Answer the precise question, Terry. Would you like to get back into uniform?"
In the open question there was an implied one; Hennessey's tone said as much. Just what was being implied . . .
Johnson thought about the implications for a moment before answering, "Okay. You win. Like I said, I miss the service something awful. Yes, I'd like to soldier again."
"Can you follow orders; my orders?"
"You've always been senior to me, Pat. You taught me more about training and fighting than all the military courses I've ever had . . . in less time, too, come to think of it. Why do you ask?"
Set the hook. "Remember, Terry, how we used to bullshit from time to time about having our own army; what we would do to make it a great one? Well, there is a chance we can do just that over the next few years. I have come into a large amount of money recently." Which was true; even if his cousin Eugene prevailed in court, Hennessey still owned a huge chunk of the family business—"It's enough to get the ball rolling and keep it going for a while. It could be parlayed into an army with time and a little luck." Reel him in.
Johnson didn't hesitate. "I want in."
"We'll be going back to Balboa."
"Balboa? Girls? Booze? Never being fucking cold? Be still my heart. I want in even more than I did before. It will be great to see Linda and your kids again. By the way, how many do you two have now?"
"We don't have any, Terry...Linda and the kids are dead. I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. Terra Nova Trade Organization . . . that's all." Hennessey forced the pain from his voice as he forced it from his conscious mind.
That's a lot worse than a divorce. Poor Linda . . . poor kids . . . poor Pat. Johnson turned his eyes toward the table. "Okay, Pat. There're no words I can say except . . . I'm sorry."
"Thanks. Me, too. But getting back to business; I will be in charge. I am a dick, remember."
"Yeah . . . but you're at least a competent dick. And you've always been in charge; you know that. Now please quit tormenting me and tell me the plan."
Hennessey looked up for a moment, unconsciously rubbed his hands together, then answered. "For now the plan is to recruit a small staff. Half of that will be your job, the recruiting I mean. Carl Kennison—you remember him?—is going to do some of it too. I'm going to go look us up an old friend to be our sergeant major. His name's McNamara. You don't know him. Good man, though; you'll be impressed, trust me. I'll also be going to First Landing, Anglia and Sachsen for a few other people I've worked with over the years.
"Mac and I will go on ahead to Balboa to set up a headquarters. You and Carl will recruit and round up the rest of our group. Most of them you don't know either. I'll give you a list of names, addresses, and personal histories when we get back to the car. The list also has the pay scale I'm willing to offer."
Johnson interrupted. "Speaking of that, what is the pay?"
"In your case it's forty-eight hundred a month, tax free, plus room and board. Is that acceptable?"
"Very. Please continue."
Hennessey pulled out a checkbook. "I'll be turning forty thousand over to you. With that, you'll need to get around to where these people are, swear them to secrecy, sign them up, and get them, and yourself, flown to Balboa. I'll expect an accounting except for five thousand, which is your personal flat rate for expenses. You want to live like shit and save some of it, go ahead and live like shit.
"I don't expect you to make any sales pitches. I'll be giving you a personal letter for each man you're to recruit. The letter will explain the deal generally. I've noted on the list the duty positions I'm offering, with the priority of assignment for each one. By the way, you are to keep control of the letters. Let them read them, then get them back.
"There are twenty-two people on your list and as many for Carl. I don't need or want that many. They are prioritized, also. As soon as you have filled all the duty positions I've assigned you to fill, stop looking."
Hennessey paused again. "Do you have a decent car, Terry?"
"No, not really. I had one but I had to get rid of it when I left the army. I just have the beat-up old pickup we drove here in."
Hennessey tapped a finger against his nose a few times, thinking. "That's just as well. You won't have a lot of time to drive from place to place. I'll tell you what; I'll add eight thousand to that forty thousand. I want you to fly to each city or the nearest city you can get to with an airport or airship field. Use rental cars to get around once you get in the right general location."
"Might be cheaper to buy a beater"—a beat up, used automobile— "and have it flown or carried along with me by airship, barge or train," Johnson observed.
"Mmm . . . no, Terry. I don't think you'll have time. Just fly and rent if that's at all possible."
"Your drachma."
Desperation Bay, Lansing, FSC, 7/8/459 AC
The city had partially taken its name from a disaster that had overtaken an early group of settlers to this part of Terra Nova. The broad freshwater bay that provided the other part could be seen from the airport control tower. The monument placed at the spot where most of the settlers had, ultimately, died could not be seen for the city that had grown up along the forty miles of shore.
In an uncomfortable chair overlooking the airship arrival gate, Dan Kuralski waited impatiently for the stranger who had spoken to him over the telephone two days prior. The stranger had identified himself as Terry Johnson. Johnson had said that he would be arriving today and was carrying with him an employment proposal from a mutual friend, Pat Hennessey. At first, Kuralski had been only mildly interested in the proposal. He was doing well enough financially as a computer programmer. He didn't really need the work. But then the stranger had said that the work would be soldierly. Kuralski was reminded of Kipling's words; the lines that went, "The sound of the men what drill. An' I says to me fluttering heartstrings, I says to 'em Peace! Be still."
Okay, OKAY. I make decent money as a programmer; let's not pretend that I like it, though.
That was why Kuralski was at the airport today to meet a total stranger. He had heard the sound and it had made his heartstrings flutter. Kuralski flat hated being a civilian.
From the window of the waiting area, off in the distance, Kuralski caught sight of a huge cigar shape turning nose first to the terminal. From the dirigible fell, almost as if thrown, six heavy cables. These swung freely below until each was caught by one of six special trucks, each with a grasping crane mounted above it. Even as the six trucks took command of the cables, the motors—forward, after and center—rotated as if to push the ship broadside into the wind. Their combined pushing was enough, apparently, to hold the ship fairly steady while the trucks carted the cables off to mules—super heavy locomotives—that sat on twin tracks leading to the terminal. The dual tracks ran in a wide figure eight so that the mules could be positioned wherever the dirigible might find minimal cross wind.
At the mules the cables were transferred, with each mule taking one. These were then tightened. Kuralski couldn't see it but knew from experience that the airship did the tightening, not the mules. Slowly, the dirigible inched down until it hung not more than twenty meters above the concrete of the field. At that point the mules, centrally controlled by a computer, began to roll the ship slowly forward in a long curving arc. After some forward travel, a switchback guided the mules off the figure eight and onto a twin track that descended and then ended at a concrete cigar shape hollowed out into the ground, just in front of the terminal.
At the terminal the ship winched itself down the rest of the way, easing its belly into the artificial depression. As the ship descended, from each side of the depression emerged a dozen or fourteen steel pillars, erecting themselves in a closing curve and dragging behind them what amounted to windbreaks—though their official term was "sail"—that, coupled with the reduction in cross area and change in aspect, enabled the airship to sit quite safely on the ground.
Shortly after the ship was safely moored, Kuralski saw in the crowd of debarking passengers someone matching the description Terry Johnson had given of himself. He went up to meet the man.
Johnson was the first to speak. "Dan Kuralski?" he asked, putting out a hand.
Kuralski nodded. "And you would be Terry?"
"Yes, Terry Johnson. Pleased to meet you."
The two men shook their introductions. Kuralski gestured toward the door and the parking lot beyond. "Come on. We can use my car."
Both men were graduates of the Federated States Military Academy at River Watch, though of different classes. They didn't know each other. They did tend to know a number of the same people, though. During the drive they traded information on mutual friends and acquaintances just as Hennessey and Johnson had done a few days before. The fact that their classes were three years apart and they had never served in the same location limited their conversation. They drove in silence a while before Kuralski asked, "Where do you know Pat from?"
"He was my Company XO when I was a platoon leader in Balboa. And you?"
Kuralski smiled at a half-forgotten memory. "We've never actually served in the same unit. The way the school schedule worked out we always seemed to end up going to school together. The Basic Course at Fort Henry was where we first met." Dan laughed aloud.
At Terry's quizzical look he elaborated, "My first acquaintance with our friend Pat was when he chewed me out for not keeping my foot in the same fixed position and my mouth shut while standing at ease. You would have thought that in four years at the academy someone would have taught me the proper position for standing at ease. I thought they had. We argued about it, which amused everyone but Pat and myself. Finally he just told me to shut up and do what I was told. It was kind of funny, one shavetail chewing out another. I was more shocked than anything, shocked enough to shut up anyway. You know: rank among lieutenants, virtue among whores? After he fell the formation out I went up to complain. He told me to go look it up. I did. Unfortunately for my self-esteem, he was right. That, and a few other occasions where other people doubted him, convinced me that when he insists something is right; it's right . . . or he wouldn't have insisted."
Johnson chuckled. "That sounds like him; he's an anal bastard, all right. Where else did you go to school together?"
"Ranger School. The Advanced Course at Fort Henry again. Then the Combined Arms Center for the short course."
Johnson said, "You know, Pat taught me a lot about being a combat leader. When he was XO he used to just dog all the platoon leaders out trying to teach us everything from the proper employment of barbed wire obstacles to how to conduct a raid to understanding, and, more importantly, ignoring when required, the principles of war."
Kuralski agreed, "Oh, he's good. At least as near as you can tell from peacetime operations."
"Wartime, too," Johnson answered. Seeing the look on Kuralski's face he half-explained, "Oh, you didn't know about him taking leave from Balboa to go to San Vicente with a Vicentinian pal of his to fight the Arenistas? Big stink, that one. And then, because he knew the country, his mech infantry company from Fort Leonidas was tapped to deploy to Balboa for the invasion. I understand they did quite well."
"I didn't know about those," Kuralski answered.
"He can be pretty closemouthed about such things," Johnson agreed.
Abruptly turning off the road they were on, Kuralski pulled into his driveway. Johnson followed him into the split-level house that stood next to that driveway. Once inside Terry noticed a number of pictures of a woman. Crap. A married man might not go.
Kuralski motioned for Johnson to take a seat in the living room. Johnson placed a briefcase on the couch beside him and took out an envelope. He handed the envelope to Kuralski.
Kuralski opened the envelope, took out the letter inside, and began to read:
2/8/459
Dear Dan:
The bearer of this letter, Terrence Johnson, is representing me. He is well known to me, trustworthy and loyal. You may speak with him as if you were speaking to me.
I am writing to offer you a job, working for me, as a military planner and consultant. The job will be performed in another country. You do not need to know at this time which country. Suffice to say that it is a pleasant, hot and wet but otherwise comfortable place, with a large city and an active nightlife. Do not expect, if you accept this offer, to have overmuch time to enjoy the nightlife.
Your particular job will be as chief of a small staff I am assembling. You will be second in rank after myself. The pay is initially 4,800 FSD per month, plus room and board. All of that amount is tax free. Life and medical insurance will be provided. Terry will arrange transportation.
You may assume that nothing I will ask of you is illegal, likely to be of interest to the Federated States in the near term, or harmful to the Federated States in any way in any term.
If you decide to join up, let Terry know immediately. I would give you time to decide if I could. I can't. I must ask you not to repeat any of this. Terry will collect this letter, and your decision, now.
I hope you will join me. It's not like I couldn't find someone else to do the job, but I really want it to be you.
Sincerely,
Patrick Hennessey
Kuralski felt a small flush of warmth at that last sentence. He looked up from the letter, toward Johnson. "He doesn't allow much time to decide, does he?"
Johnson answered, "If you think about it, if someone needs a long time to decide something like this, then he probably doesn't need to go. Have you decided?"
Kuralski looked around at the interior of his house. Fading memories, painful ones as often as not. There was nothing there to hold him. "I'll go. Can I have a few days to get my house on the market?"
"You can take fourteen days from today. I'll send you tickets as soon as I finish making arrangements. You'll have to take care of your own passport, if you don't have one." Johnson offered his hand a second time. "For Pat, let me say 'Welcome Aboard.' Ah, what about your wife?" he asked, pointing at a picture.
"Dead. Cancer. It's why I'm not in the army anymore. I had to take care of her and so I missed my chance to command a company. No command; no chance."
"Oh. Sorry. Pat didn't know."
"Thanks. No reason he or you should have. Anyway, it would be worth the trip just to see Linda."
"She's dead, too. Pat said it was on seven-one-one in the TNTO."
Kuralski bowed his head and began to fight back tears.
"You loved her too, didn't you?" Johnson asked.
Kuralski just nodded and said, "Yeah . . . yeah, I did. But, then, who didn't? What a woman."
Johnson smiled grimly. "I know. And pity the poor bastards who murdered the family of Pat Hennessey."
Interlude
31 December, 2049, Brussels, Belgium, European Union
Margot Tebaf's chauffeured limousine passed row upon row of empty, boarded-up shops and unmaintained apartment buildings. It seems like only yesterday, she thought, when those shops were open and vibrant, when there were flower boxes at the windows of the apartments, when the streets were clear. Has it been thirty years?
The driver cursed as one of the front tires slipped into a pothole. Nobody was maintaining the cobblestones anymore. He muttered something unintelligible but ugly sounding as he maneuvered around a pile of uncollected trash, then cut the wheel hard to avoid the charred and rusted ruins of a burned and ancient automobile, parked—if that was the word—so as to jut out into the street and make passage for those still able to afford private transportation more difficult.
Perhaps it was an ambush point; the city's crime rate was so high now that the police hardly bothered taking reports. Outside of the neighborhoods dominated by the European Union's bureaucracy, they didn't bother with enforcing the law even when it was violated before their eyes.
Margot's gaze avoided the street—too ugly—and looked instead at the little towers above, each ringed with green neon lights.
To a viewer of even twenty years before, the streets would have appeared remarkably clear of motor traffic. Instead young, unemployed men wandered aimlessly, followed often enough by black-clad women trailing masses of children. The men glared at the passing limo. Margot might have feared attack except that her auto was armored. It was also preceded and trailed by armed police escort vehicles.
The one-way glass of the limousine's windows allowed Margot to see out without anyone seeing in. Thus, no one saw her shiver when she considered what things might be like if Europe were a democracy in anything but name and merest appearances.
Thank the god that doesn't exist that my ancestors were wise enough to destroy democracy before we had a barbarian majority in our midst, she thought.
That was only one of the many depressing thoughts impinging on Margot's consciousness. Looming even greater than the barbarization of Europe was the continuing, annoying, infuriating prosperity of the United States.
Americans; I hate those bastards. And there are nearly five hundred million of the swine now. While my poor Europe is dying out. And the reason there are so many of the damned Yankees? Not only do their women bear children, just like the Moslems, in unsustainable numbers, but most of the young Euro women willing to have kids went there . . . or to Ontario, or the Republic of Western Canada, or Australia. Others fled east to Poland and Russia.
All our most talented young people left for other climes, leaving what remained to pay for the pensions for the old, the welfare for the immigrants, or the absolutely necessary government that runs things and keeps the peace, that ensures the people are cared for, cradle to grave.
Except that we can't care for them anymore, even with over ninety percent of conscripted youngsters devoted to social issues instead of the military. We have hardly anything to export now, except retired "workers" and Moslem children. And no one wants to buy, or even accept, those.
The limo turned to the right and began to slow. Ahead, the leading police escort pulled off to one side of a guarded steel gate. A guard emerged and questioned the driver of the police escort. Apparently satisfied, the guard turned and signaled to someone inside the small armored shack in front of the gate and to one side. Magically—Margot wondered how long it would be before such things were explained away as the work of magic or of the Jinn—the gate slid out of the way. She wondered, too, how long before the gate, all the security systems, all the technology of Europe broke down, never to be replaced.
She pushed such thoughts aside as the limousine began to move forward through the gate and toward the imposing glass and steel building surrounded by still meticulously maintained grounds that was the Headquarters for the European Union.