by Tom Kratman
“The Cordoban ‘workers’?”
“Paid off and sent home.”
“Those men worked hard for us. I hate to have paid them in worthless—”
“We didn’t, sir,” said Rall. “Instead, we sent them home with a rifle and about two hundred rounds, each. They seemed happy with that.”
Suddenly Gold was there, standing to one side of the two Taurans, his Hordalander RTO in tow.
“That’s it, sir,” Gold said, “we’re next.”
Marciano looked east to see the first glimmering of sunrise flickering on the clouds overhead. He, too, could smell the soup he’d denied himself and his men. “Seems like I haven’t eaten in days. How’s the food on your ship, Captain?”
Muelle 81, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa
The mess sections for the prisoners had put out a very impressive spread for the event, in about two dozen different cuisines.
Given that about ninety-eight percent of what they had to work with came from cans, thought Carrera,I’m genuinely impressed.
A huge tent, one which, on another planet at another time, might have been called an “Oktoberfest tent,” had been raised over a section of the parking lot north of the pier. Some hastily nailed together but solid-looking stairs led from asphalt to the trailer. There were also a couple of microphones on stands, with wires leading off to various controls, amplifiers, and speakers.
On chairs and benches, alone or at tables, some six thousand senior officers and noncoms were gathered. Nearly all had disposable plates either in front of them or balanced on their legs or held in one hand. Guards, mostly pro forma, formed a ring around the tent. At one end, a stake and platform trailer did stand in service for a rostrum.
“IF YOU WOULD ALL SHUT THE FUCK UP NOW?” intoned RSM Ayres, standing atop the trailer. He didn’t need the speaker system that had been set up to fill the tent with sound. The noise immediately died down to a whisper.
Still scorning the use of the microphone, Ayres announced, “Our gracious captor would like a word with us.”
Carrera, himself, was as chipper as could be. And why not? I went into that conference with the Zhong ambassador expecting to have to order my son to surrender—which order the little bastard might just have disobeyed—and let the Zhong go scot-free. Instead, I let Task Force Wu go scot-free, which I wanted to do, anyway, get paid fifty percent of the hostage cost of the Taurans, for people we haven’t even captured yet, get a score or so of Zhong, and a few attached Tauran, intel types to hang on war crimes charges—oh, they’re guilty as sin, but then, so am I—to mollify the people. And all I really had to trade over it was Wu’s boys and dropping the demand for an admission of guilt. Better still, my boy’s mission is a complete success.
But they had us. I still don’t fully understand—personal failing, to be sure—why they knuckled under at all. Maybe Lourdes will.
Carrera, who had been sitting next to the Mendozas, Jorge and Marqueli, stepped up, climbed the steps, walked to the microphone, and began, “I couldn’t possibly think to outdo the RSM in sheer, unenhanced volume.” That got a laugh, one somewhat lost on some of the attendees who either hadn’t grown up with English as a first language or were terribly, terribly innocent. Ayres understood the double entendre perfectly well, of course, and unconsciously preened a bit.
“We have a problem,” Carrera continued. “Many states have already agreed to the fee we’re charging to send you guys back and have made arrangements to send it. That’s been not as hard as expected, since so many of them keep their gold, or most of it, in a vault in First Landing in the Federated States. Had you guys known that? I hadn’t, actually.
“But others have not. I sense that this isn’t because they’re unwilling to ransom you, as that the rebellions that broke out when you and your men were so unwisely sent here have simply overturned your societies; hence, that there’s no one in a position to pay.
“And why do I insist on payment, since I’m sure you’re wondering about that, especially given how well you’ve been treated and the excellent chance that, once you go back and set your countries to right, we will find ourselves bosom buddies, in a long and fruitful—hell, maybe perpetual—alliance.
“It’s simple: our cities are in ruins from bombing or fighting or both. Our infrastructure, barring only the Transitway, is a mess. And the Transitway, too, took enough near misses that it needs work before we can use it again.
“Powerlines and waterlines are cut, bridges down, roads cratered, and with a burgeoning mosquito and other insect population that is very likely to bring all kinds of disease upon us.
“Moreover, I have to set things up to care for tens of thousands of wounded, hundreds of thousands of widows and orphans, or the dependents of the crippled, and rebuild everything. I bear you—hell, all of Balboa bears you; we know you were sent here by stinking Kosmos who despised you even more than they despised us—well, we bear you nothing but good will. I say it again: we bear you soldiers nothing but good will. But I’ve got to have that gold. No, cash won’t do; the Tauro has become effectively worthless, and you’re going to need the Federated States Drachmae you already have.”
He paused for a bit, letting the need sink in.
“So, could I let you go on credit? I certainly would like to. Here’s the problem: any of you who swear out a bond, payable to Balboa, to cover your release, will then no longer be fighting for your own countries. Oh, no; you would be, and—more importantly—would be seen to be, fighting for me. I wouldn’t do that to you or to your cause.
“So why don’t I let go those whose countries have paid? As long as you’re part of the Tauran Union, you have to answer for all the Tauran Union.
“Why don’t I let go those countries which have paid and which have seceded from the Tauran Union? I don’t know that you’re enough, on your own, to liberate your countries.
“RSM?”
“Sir?” Ayres replied.
“There are anywhere from a couple of hundred thousand to a half a million Moslems who’ve risen in rebellion in Anglia. And by that I mean only the men; there are probably two or three times as many women, girls, and boys, providing support. Can the Anglians here liberate, say, your capital, against those odds? Can they even besiege it?”
Ayres did a bit of military math in his head, divided the result of that by stone and brick, and came up with, “NO FUCKING WAY, SIR.”
“General Janier”—Bertrand Janier, still wheelchair bound as his bones continued to knit, was sitting with the mass—“your country had the largest single contingent here. Can you liberate Gaul on your own?”
Someone from the Psychological Operations Tercio hurried to Janier’s side with a microphone. “Not a chance, Patricio. The Anglians’ half million are about three times that size in Gaul.”
“So, you see,” Carrera continued, “I cannot, not in good conscience, let these individual national contingents go. It would be futile.”
“IF YOU LED US, WE COULD DO IT,” shouted Ayres. That got a considerable murmur of what certainly sounded like approval. Indeed, it was likely a strong majority of the Taurans who thought that a rather splendid idea.
“Can’t do it. Same problem as mentioned: you would be fighting for me, the great enemy, rather than yourselves. Although . . .”
“YES, SIR?” asked Ayres, for the crowd.
“Personally, I think your best bet is General Janier. No, before you start, just shut up. RSM?”
“THE CROWD WILL, ONCE AGAIN, SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
“He did as good a job, given the hand he was dealt, as anyone could be expected to. He’s used to commanding you, and you’re used to him. He knows his business. Therefore, I nominate Bertrand Janier to command you. RSM?”
“ALL IN FAVOR?”
The “Ayes” were somewhat subdued . . .
“OPPOSED?”
. . . but the “Nays” were an obvious minority.
“I BELIEVE THE MOTION CARRIED, SIR.”
Down on the f
loor, with tears in his eyes, Janier thought, Thank you, Patricio, from the bottom of my heart, for this chance to redeem my reputation and honor. You are the best enemy a man could have.
Janier, like Ayres, had been in on the choreography for this event for some days. They’d even rehearsed it. Even so, he blinked a few times, to clear his eyes, and swallowed hard, to clear his throat, then beckoned the PSYOP type with the microphone over. “A suggestion, Patricio?”
“Yes, Bertrand.”
“What if we, here, declare a New Tauran . . . no, not Union . . . aha, a new Tauran Confederation. Just us soldiers; we do it. And then we sign it, on our own behalf. What if we created a confederational constitution, here, to which we append our signatures and pledge—how did that phrase go? Aha, I remember—‘our lives, our fortunes, and our scared honor’.”
“I suppose . . . the old Tauran Union being impliedly declared dead . . . that Balboa would recognize the new confederation. Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza, would you see fit to helping the Taurans draft a new constitution, one—I assume this is what they want—something like ours, but addressing the peculiarities of Tauran circumstances?”
As rehearsed, Jorge and Marqueli exchanged doubtful glances, then leaned in to whisper to each other. The whispering amounted to repetitive “rhubarb and garbage,” but after a prearranged time, they separated and stood up. “We’d be proud to help, sir,” said Jorge, “but we’d need a committee to direct our help toward.”
“General Janier?”
“I will appoint a committee by nations, Duque.”
“Very good,” Carrera answered. “but you look like you have a doubt, Bertrand.”
“Well, Patricio, it’s your rather harsh laws on treason?”
“I see. Well . . . this is different, you know. With us never having recognized the TU as a legitimate country—which it never was—it is impossible to commit treason against it. Those we charged and tried were committing treason, not against the TU, but against Anglia, Gaul, Tuscany, etcetera.”
Janier nodded soberly, just as it had been rehearsed, then asked, “Would Balboa be willing to forgo payment from those states neither in secession nor yet being able to pay until we had liberated those states?”
“Do you object to my holding them until the ransoms are paid?”
“I do,” Janier answered, “and yet I understand, I am sure we all understand your position. Just let us go, hold the ones you must, and we will put top efforts into liberating them as soon as practical. There will, after all, be much hard fighting ahead and we shall need replacements.”
“All right,” Carrera said, “we’ll do it. We’ll take a chance on you to set all things aright. Is there anything else?”
“We are going to need,” said Janier, “a great deal of rope.”
At that the assembly closed, amidst fierce cheering and multinational war cries.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was men who stopped slavery. It was men who ran up the stairs in the Twin Towers to rescue people. It was men who gave up their seats on the lifeboats of the Titanic. Men are made to take risks and live passionately on behalf of others.
—John Eldredge
Thirty-two miles northwest of Leinenfeld, Sachsen
The five naked, dark-skinned bodies swayed gently in the breeze from ropes encircling now very lengthened necks. On their own, these could not have been the giveaway. Like the bodies, the faces of these were blackened and showed swollen, blackened tongues protruding. They—a man, a woman, two boys, and a girl—weren’t obviously Moslem, or Sachsen, or, indeed, obviously anything but corpses. Tim, who was possibly a little more in tune with some of life’s shadier realities than most, looked from the halted car at the largest corpse and said, “Circumcised; they’re Moslems.”
They’d figured out early on that neither back roads nor Autobahnen really would do, on their own, entirely. The roads connected small towns, and it was precisely in those small towns that sundry evilwickednaughtybadbadbad, antiprogressive, doubleplusungood, and reactionary burghers had been ignoring both propaganda and law concerning firearms, religiously secreting and maintaining great-grossvati’s stock of everything from rifles to machine guns to grenades to panzerfaeuste. A good deal, probably most, of the ammunition was unserviceable, but the arms, themselves, were fine.
Sadly, arms or not, there was no chain of command to get the towns together for any purpose higher than point self-defense. Still, under the direction of their local mayor, or fire or police chief, or perhaps a retired officer or Hauptfeldwebel, many of these towns had quickly transformed themselves into hedgehogs on steroids.
With some of these, Alix, sans makeup, had been able to talk them into unhindered passage and even get some help. Others, though, had taken to the “shoot first and ask questions later” approach.
And it was very damned hard to tell which was which before it was too late. That inability lay at the core of how they lost Tim.
“Okay, everybody, this is a non-Moslem town that looks ready for harsh measures,” Khalid said. “Drop your Islamic gear, hide your travel passes, and look Sachsen. Alix, wipe your face of makeup and look as girly and Aryan as you possibly can.”
Once that was done, Khalid started moving forward again. The road twisted a bit, even as it went up and down over hill and dale. After a particularly sharp turn, he slammed on the brakes again. There was another group of hanging corpses, fresher and whiter than the previous set. It was also smaller, consisting of two men, hands tied, necks stretched, and feet just a few tempting inches off the ground.
Tim looked and began to say, “Those aren’t . . .” when the first shots rang out.
Khalid was quick, very quick, but he wasn’t quicker than a bullet. By the time he had the car in reverse, a bullet had hit the radiator, while another had come through the windshield, struck Tim just above the nose, and sent the top of his skull, along with a good bit of brains and blood, to strike the roof and fall back on Alix, sitting in the backseat.
Alix screamed loudly enough almost to burst eardrums. Fritz just sat, paralyzed with a mix of horror and fear, staring at the remains of Tim’s head. Khalid paid attention to neither, his own head and body twisted one hundred and eighty degrees, as he drove backwards out of the ambush’s kill zone.
He almost missed the turn, screeching his tires on the pavement as the car swerved and skidded, ever closer to a deep drainage ditch by the side of the road. Khalid muttered various curses in Arabic under his breath as he fought the car for control.
As the car sped backwards, it left a cloud of steam, almost like a smoke screen, between it and whoever had fired. This may have even helped a bit.
Once out of line of sight, Khalid executed a deft three-point turn on a road so narrow it should have permitted no such thing. Then, after flipping the shifter back into forward, he sped away, cursing the steam that half blocked his vision every meter of the way.
While Fritz dug a shallow grave for Tim, and Alix stood guard, after having cleaned out the blood and brains in the car, Khalid shook his head doubtfully over his field-expedient radiator repair. They were hidden in a small but dense wood.
He’d taken some chewing gum, some fibers Alix pulled from one of the emergency tampons in her purse, and a screw of about the right size he’d removed from a nonessential part of the engine compartment, specifically one that helped hold on one of the headlights. The gum was for a watertight seal, the fibers to help hold the gum together, and the screw . . .
Well, something’s got to keep the gum in place. If we’re lucky, this might get us halfway to Leinenfeld. If.
Fritz had never officiated at a funeral before, of course, though he sometimes toyed with the idea of bucking for the priesthood. He’d never even attended a Catholic funeral or graveside service. Hence, naturally, his words were, however heartfelt, not necessarily theologically sound. On the other hand . . .
“God, I don’t know what to say, so I can only say what’s in my heart. Take to your heart th
e soul of our brother, Tim. He was a good man and a good agent, one who was driven from every version of Your religion by the attitudes and actions of others. Overlook his atheism, Lord, for he knew no better. Remember, please, that he gave his life doing Your work.”
“Amen,” offered Alix, followed by Fritz and then Khalid.
The dirt from the shallow grave was piled close to the narrow slit in the earth. While Fritz used his shovel to backfill the hole, Alix and Khalid used their feet to push the dirt back. It was the work of several hours for Fritz to have excavated it, but of only about fifteen minutes to fill it back in and pack it.
“Okay,” said Khalid, once the hole containing Tim was filled. “Let’s go. With luck we can reach Leinenfeld by morning . . . if the radiator holds up.”
MV Alberto Helada, Mar Furioso,
a hundred and five miles off the coast of Cordoba
Airships could have four modes of lift. One was by displacement of air with lighter-than-air gas, or aerostatic lift. Another was aerodynamic lift, or lift obtained via the shape of the airship, itself, with a curved surface atop and a fairly flat surface below, like an airplane wing, to create lower pressure above it than below, when it moved forward. A third, usable by some forms, was to employ an angle of attack, with the nose of the airship held higher than the tail. Lastly, the airships could, some of them, use vectored thrust. This is to say that they could direct the fans that propelled them downwards, or upwards, or to the sides, to direct the airship vertically and steer it horizontally.
The airships hired by Carrera, on the sly, to extract the Taurans of Task Force Jesuit from the Helada could use all of these.
One such hovered over the Helada, with two more in echelon left, not especially far away. Marciano couldn’t see the name of the other two, but the one overhead had Pegasus proudly emblazoned underneath.