A Desert Called Peace

by Tom Kratman

  "We won't have to charge them anything like their own cost," Hennessey said as he flicked an ash onto his plate. "We can pay the Balboans maybe forty percent of what a soldier from the FS gets and they would still consider it princely. Lourdes?"

  "I don't know," she answered. "What is the pay for a soldier in the FS?"

  "A new private receives about twelve hundred drachma a month," Hennessey answered. "Plus room and board."

  The girl did some quick calculations in her agile mind then said, "We have unemployment here that fluctuates between fifteen and twenty percent, and most of that is concentrated among young men. Their unemployment rate is over fifty percent. Four hundred and eighty drachma a month would be considered, along with room and board, very good, yes. And those boys are not unemployed because they are lazy or untalented. In fact, our literacy rate is almost one hundred percent, considerably higher than in the FS," she added, not without some pride. "People here are unemployed because they lack connections, not because they lack ability."

  "I know. So, gentlemen, we can pay a lot less and still be considered generous. Food is cheap here, too," Hennessey added, pointing to the remains of the bird. "That turkey you just massacred cost about a third of what it would have in the FS. Moreover, our troops will not have the expectation of the best, most cutting edge, equipment. In all, I think we can pay for a corps of fifty or sixty thousand, with a division deployed and fighting, for about four to four and a half billion a year."

  "If that's true, Pat," observed Esterhazy, "then you could charge the FS nothing more than the cost of one of their divisions deployed, say sixty percent of their total cost, and still make a fortune."

  "Even at half," Hennessey corrected, "we can make a fortune."

  "Where's all that money going to go, Boss?" Daugher asked.

  "Mostly we'll plow it back into Balboa," he answered. "This war will last a very long time. Ideally, I would like, before I die, to set things up so that the force we build can continue that war indefinitely and independently, without having to ask for help from anyone.

  "Anyway, enough about fuzzy finances. Back to the concrete. Dan, do the whole Table of Organization: numbers, equipment, ranks, individual gear, training base, et cetera. Maximize ground combat forces. Design, to the extent that is possible, for things the FS Army is either not good at or lacks the capability for. For example, they are always short infantry, so design for primarily infantry missions: counterinsurgency, city fighting, reduction of complex fortifications. Plan for a very austere logistic and admin tail. I have a preference for Volgan equipment, where it will do. With them having gone about half belly up I think there will be a lot of useful military equipment for sale in the near future for cheaps. Nonetheless, consider a mix of Volgan, FS and Tauran Union equipment. Zion may have some useful stuff, too."

  Kuralski looked up from note taking and asked: "What kind of fire support? What kind of control system? ATADS?" This, the Advanced Tactical Artillery Data System, was a digitalized system for controlling and massing artillery fire. No one entirely trusted it.

  "No, Dan," Hennessey answered. "How's the quote go: 'Real soldiers don't trust ATADS'? Number of guns and throw weight are the semi-developed world's solution to the artillery battle. Now that you mention it, though, put the forward observers in the combat support/ weapons company of the maneuver battalions. I've never liked the idea of people who have to fight together being strangers to one another."

  Hennessey continued. "Assume that we will never be able to afford a high tech battlefield communications system. No microwaves, few or no frequency hopping radios. Regular radios and wire are what they need."

  Kuralski observed, "I'll need a computer to keep track of all of this. It will save months of work."

  "Fine. Have the log shop get you one, the best available. And don't scrimp on computer security. On second thought, Greg, better make it about six. This isn't our only concern."

  Hennessey turned to Rudel. "Dutch, don't worry about NBC"— nuclear, biological and chemical—"warfare beyond defense, individual protective masks and suits, recon, and some decontamination capability. This isn't that kind of country. Worry about defensive training.

  "Nauseating as the thought is, I half expect to have to call whatever force we build 'Military Police.' Don't let the name fool you. It's to be a combat organization, having within it all arms and services. And it has to be ready to deploy and to fight by early 461."

  Everybody looked doubtful about that. A mere year and a half to go from a standing start to something resembling an army in battle? Ridiculous! Absurd! Impossible!

  Except they'd seen Hennessey do impossible things before.

  Hennessey paused briefly, then added, "In the back of your minds, I want you to keep the concept of a 'nation in arms' . . . just in case.

  "A last word before we adjourn for the evening. For various reasons I have found it useful to go by my wife's maiden name, 'Carrera.' It's a name of some local importance. It also became one of mine— here, at least—the day I married her. Mostly it may help to allay suspicions about our obviously gringo origin. Force yourselves to think of me that way from now on: Carrera."

  Hennessey tossed off the dregs of his drink, then grinned evilly. "The fucking wogs are going to remember it, I promise you."

  Casa Linda, 5/9/459 AC

  "Sir, there are four Civil Force officers and an NCO here to see you."

  Jamey Soult stood at a respectful attention, a habit Carrera had never succeeded in breaking him of. "Shall I have the rest of the boys stand to?"

  "Quietly, Jamey. Have Sergeant Major collect up five or six of them. Silenced pistols. You stay with them. Have them keep out of sight and earshot. I'll call if I need you."

  Soult left quickly to summon aid. Those people go after the boss and there'll be hell to pay; I promise.

  Carrera walked down the stairs to meet the men who were very likely there to arrest him. Why the hell didn't David let me know this was coming? He should be in a position to know.

  When Carrera entered the living room where the Balboans waited, he relaxed immediately. They all had the look of men with no intention of arresting anyone. They stood up when he entered the room.

  Taking the Balboans in with a single glance, Carrera saw that they were a major, about as high a rank as existed in the Civil Force that had replaced the BDC, two captains, a lieutenant and a sergeant major. He knew none of them by sight, however their uniforms all bore name tags that identified them.

  The major's name was Fernandez. He was small, slight and mildly stoop shouldered. Withal, he looked like nothing so much as a pharmacist. Certainly, his appearance gave no hint of the frightful reputation of which David Carrera had warned.

  After shaking hands, Fernandez asked, "Señor, are you the same Carrera that has been supporting the families of those killed in the 447 Invasion?"

  "I am."

  "May we ask why you are providing for them out of your own pocket? And why now, rather than before?"

  "Now," Carrera answered, "because I only recently acquired the wherewithal to help them. As to why, for no reason than that I thought it wrong for the parents, wives, sons, and daughters of brave men to go in want if I could do something about it."

  Besides, it may be that I am to blame for their loss. In part, anyway.

  "I see," said the major. "An unusual generosity. You are from the FSC, are you not?"

  "I am, though I make my home here."

  Fernandez began a staccato interrogation, pausing to bite on his lower lip between questions. "Why should you do that? Why should you come here now? What do you intend here? We know that you have a small army here on the premises with you. We also know that you were once a military officer, that you were part of the invasion force, and that you lost your family in the Terra Nova Trade Organization attack. I have investigated. And no, I have not yet informed the government."

  Hennessey—no, "Carrera" now—said simply, "Revenge."

  Major
Fernandez smiled. "That is a worthy goal. It was also worthy to plant your brother-in-law in my department. However, though your brother-in-law is a nice kid, he has no business in intelligence . . . so please get him moved."

  "I don't know where else to send him."

  "Major Valdez, from 5th Company of the Civil Force, will take him. He said to me, just a few days ago, 'I'm down one platoon leader, anyway, as soon as I fire the stupid son of a rabiblanco bitch who's wrecking my chingada third platoon now.""

  The other officers with Fernandez tried to control smiles. They failed. Everyone in the Civil Force knew about Valdez, his general loathing of pure whites (though he loathed pure indians, too), and his foul mouth.

  Patricio Carrera agreed, "Okay. Fine. David should be glad of the change. I hadn't intended to offend anyone. I just wanted to keep tabs on things."

  "You didn't offend me. It is impossible to offend me. Unless you're a Piña or someone riding on his coattails or some gringo trying to run our country. That would offend me."

  "You do not care for your former 'Supreme Leader'?"

  Fernandez gave an evil, angry laugh. "No. Not me. Not my men. Not anyone in my department. Piña? When the going got tough that cowardly son of a bitch got going."

  "Oh. I see your point. Major Fernandez . . . I will not run out on you. But I will tell you that in the course of avenging myself on the stinking wogs I am going to help make Balboa free, really free, for the first time in centuries. That . . . and I know what I'm doing."

  Carrera paused, then made a decision. "Follow me, please. Just you. Say nothing."

  With a shrug, Fernandez motioned for his men to remain while he followed Carrera downstairs to the staff area. It was empty at the time, as McNamara and the other on duty were currently upstairs checking pistols and ammunition.

  Carrera flicked on a light. Fernandez saw three entire walls each covered with an intricate diagram of lines, circles, boxes and numbers. There were many gaps in the diagram.

  "This is why I'm here. I don't want to 'run your country.' I just want to help it build an army; like any other country has. This is part of that, though it's a long way from complete. Tell me, Major Fernandez, have you ever even been in a real army? No, I thought not. Not your fault. But you do not, cannot, know what goes into creating one. Do you know what schools you need? What equipment? How many spare parts of what type? Ammunition? How many trucks to operate at a given distance from a port? How many drivers and mechanics? How much does it all cost? How long will it take to do X? Is Y what you should really be doing?

  "I do know. And I'm here to show you . . . you and the rest of the old Defense Corps."

  Fernandez moved closer and looked over one of the diagrams. He noted that there were many blank spaces. This Carrera doesn't have all the answers then. But I didn't even know the questions. He considered this. At length he nodded his head slowly. "Perhaps you do know. Perhaps you do, indeed. How can I help?"

  "In many ways, Major. Notably by keeping the government off my ass and out of my business. And by giving me whatever you can to make them support this effort."

  "My department can help with this."

  "Then viva Balboa, Major. Will you and your men join me for a drink?"

  "Thank you, sir, no. My men are still on duty and I need to get home to my daughter. I am a widower, you see, and I'm all she has."

  Interlude

  1 January, 2050, Brussels, Belgium, European Union

  Margot Tebaf awakened in a strange bed. There was nothing particularly unusual in this; she and her husband had an understanding.

  She risked a glance at the other form in the bed. It was hidden by the covers. Hmmm. Large, so probably male. But who was it?

  Margot wracked her brain frantically. There had been a lot of champagne, stronger drink as well. Well, it was New Years, after all. She'd been talking to someone . . . some expert in demographics and migration patterns. What had he said?

  Oh, yes. It's coming back now. He said that this new planet may be the answer to all our problems. And not just the EU's problems, but the UN's, the progressive movement's. Everything.

  We are losing talented and fertile young people to the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa. They produce there, in the cutthroat, dog-eat-dog competition of the capitalist system. That makes our system look bad by comparison—never mind that it is much the fairest and most gentle system in the history of the world—and pulls even more young people away.

  But if the new planet can be used to attract those tired of Europe and, better still, if it can also be used to attract a number of those stinking Americans out of their own stolen homeland, the drain on us will lessen and they will begin to lose some of their power and their arrogance.

  Margot muttered aloud, "Oh, how I hate those bastards."

  The body next to her stirred. "What's that?"

  "I was thinking about what you said last night . . ." She found, to her consternation, that she couldn't produce a name to go with the body she had spent the night with.

  "Dominique, Margot. It's Dominique," the body answered, apparently unperturbed.

  "Ah, yes. Dominique. Explain to me again, please—I had so much to drink last night—how we can use the new planet to hurt the United States and save ourselves and the Earth?"

  "Well, it would take a lot," Dominique admitted. "We would need . . . oh . . . call it one hundred ships, more or less, each capable of carrying fifty or so thousand colonists."

  "Ships, yes, but how big?"

  "I've asked someone in the navy about that. He told me to think of the size of the United States' supercarriers or the very large ships that carry crude oil. Built in space because otherwise we would never get them off the Earth."

  "We couldn't afford that," Margot said, suddenly looking very glum.

  "No, no, of course not," Dominique admitted. "Certainly we could not ourselves. But we, China, Japan and the United States could, collectively."

  "Why should they participate in a project that ultimately hurts them?" Margot asked.

  "Because in the short term it helps them," the other answered, reasonably. "Have you ever known an elected politician who really thinks long term? No. Long-term thinking requires what we have here in Europe, an elite that cannot be turned out of office over the latest blip in the economic forecast.

  "It's more than that though, too, Margot. If we can get some substantial numbers of the more extreme Moslems to leave Earth— though I confess I have no good idea yet how to do that—the more moderate ones will make life uncomfortable for the extremists who remain. Then they'll leave, too."

  "Wouldn't that be wonderful," she mused aloud.

  "Indeed," Dominique agreed.

  Margot admired such clear thinking. She pulled the covers down and bent her head over to show how much she admired it.

  Chapter Eight

  If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?

  —William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

  Zabol, Pashtia, Terra Nova, 7/9/459 AC

  Even through fifty meters of rock and soil the men below could still feel the bombs going off overhead. They shook the ground, making the lights flicker and raising dust to fill the narrow cramped corridors and rooms. No matter, the cave was deep and safe. Even at its entrance, where the FS Air Force could toss bombs with frightening precision, strong baffles prevented any harm from reaching those lower. Besides, there were dozens of false entrances for each real one, though they were tolerably hard to see. Even the FS had some limits on their ability to bomb.

  Feeling quite safe from the bombing, Abdul Aziz ibn Kalb still withered under the glare of his chief. Not that the glare was directed at him personally; no, not at all. The glare was directed at a report just received from the organization's cell in, of all places, Balboa. Interference on the part of the Ikhwan's great adversary had delayed receipt for some time.
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  "How dare they? How dare they? By the nine and ninety beautiful names of Allah how damned dare they shoot down five believers and beat a sixth to death? How dare they even think of joining this new 'crusade' against us? Little pissants!"

  Aziz forced himself to stand tall and corrected, "They didn't. Just one man killed six Salafis in an outlying town. "Self defense," the local police said. Maybe it was, too."

  "No matter; the lives of any number of infidels are as nothing compared to the life of even one of the true believers. And then there's this other swine trying to raise political support for aiding the Columbians. Well, we'll just have to put a stop to that."

  The chief rubbed worry beads between thumb and forefinger. "What cells do we have in Balboa?" he asked.

  Aziz had an answer ready, of course. He'd expected the question. "We have one 'expeditor' cell, one informational cell, three direct action cells and one command cell. Twenty-three people total."

  "The direct action cells? What are their missions?"

  Again, Aziz had the answers ready to hand. "One of them is trained for ship seizure and pilotage. They were intended to be able to grab a ship and ram the locks of the Balboa Transitway. But it has to be a special ship, one carrying explosives or LNG, or perhaps fertilizer, to really do damage."

  "Any such ship coming through the Transitway soon?" the chief asked.

  "No, Sheik, we really weren't thinking about attacking Balboa for a few years. The other cells are directed at, in the one case, the trans- Isthmian pipeline that sends oil from the State of McKinley to the Shimmering Sea for shipment to the Federated States' west coast. Heating oil mostly. In the others, they are bombers. Their status report says they are capable of detonating two to four truck bombs."