A Desert Called Peace

by Tom Kratman

  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.