The Amazon Legion-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  “Good-bye and good luck, Centurion Fuentes.”

  “Godspeed, Warrant-Pilot Montoya.”

  He began to climb into the cockpit.

  “Wait,” I said. Then I ran over and gave him a quick hug and a chaste little peck on the cheek. “Take care of yourself. Who knows, maybe we’ll see each other again when the war’s over, maybe after we’re out of the legion.” I whispered, “I hope we do.”

  “I hope we can,” he whispered back, a wistful smile on his face, before finally seating and strapping himself in. “But, yes, Centurion, I’d like that.”

  In a few minutes his glider began to rise almost straight up, pulled by the balloon. Ah, clever, I thought, as I waved good-bye.

  To the smirking girls with me I said, “Not one bloody word. Understand?”

  Interlude

  Movement attracts the eye. Where there is none, the eye often closes, goes to sleep. Movement in one area will attract the eye and the mind away from lesser movement in another. This is human nature.

  Though the ships of the United Earth Peace Fleet, the satellites, the spy planes, and their sensors continued to watch over the whole of Balboa, movement was attracting the eyes and minds of the human beings who analyzed the data the sensors sent back.

  Thus, the area where the Amazons conducted their partisan campaign had begun to attract a great deal of notice. Radio messages were intercepted at an unusual rate. Small squads and platoons were sometimes glimpsed moving by the uncaring satellites’ unwavering eyes.

  Aircraft were ordered in, fighters, bombers, gunships. As they left destruction behind them, still more attention was directed onto the area to measure the effects of the destruction. This greater attention found even more signs of activity. More aircraft were sent.

  Back at their bases, back on their carriers, the aircraft began to show signs of failure. A transistor would burn out in testing, sometimes. A rubber wheel would show signs of excess wear, sometimes. Parts would be used, more parts ordered. Bombs would be used, too, and these were more time-consuming to replace.

  When the maintenance and logistic loads had grown to alarming proportions, it was proposed that the scale of the effort be reduced…to save the aircraft for the main assault over the Gamboa River. A phone call from Zhong general to his commander, and from that commander to his old Academy buddy, the president, led the president to call the president of Gaul. Gaul, being a key part, perhaps the key part, of the Tauran Union, some wheels, political wheels, were set to spinning. The aircraft continued to fly. Still, their numbers grew fewer with time and those that flew began to show signs of serious maintenance issues. Accidents increased noticeably.

  With so much effort, so much analysis, being directed at the Amazons, much less was left for the rest of the country. Thus it was that no one took notice of minor changes in vegetation north and south of the Rio Gamboa. No one observed the occasional column of troops that could have been glimpsed breaking cover as they moved forward. Tanks long hidden underground were not noticed as they were dug back into the open. The few human beings still at the task often missed what the sensors often found.

  Much concerned with numbers, with the measurable, the Zhong and Taurans began releasing estimated body counts from the aerial effort.

  Occasionally, these bore some relation to reality.

  Wiser heads eventually interfered. They pointed out that, if there were to be an attack, and if all the aircraft were down for maintenance as they were likely to soon be, there would then be no air support for the troops on the ground.

  Neither a president, nor any government whatsoever, could change that.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By oppression’s woes and pains!

  By your sons in servile chains!

  We will drain our dearest veins,

  But they shall be free!

  Lay the proud usurpers low!

  Tyrants fall in every foe!

  Liberty’s in every blow!

  Let us do or dee!

  —Robert Burns, “Scots wha hae”

  By the Rising of the Moons.

  —Irish Traditional Song, Terra Novan version

  “What are you so fucking cheerful about?” Marta asked Zamora, appending, “Ma’am.”

  Zamora did seem positively cheerful about the orders, once she’d had time to digest them. She’d even managed to chop her drinking to a reasonable amount, with dinner. She still chain smoked whenever she could, though.

  “Oh, just ready for a change, I guess.”

  “A change? From living, if you call this living, to dead, you mean?”

  “Shut up, Bugatti,” Zamora said without rancor. She didn’t bother to deny the charge. “Now as I was saying, the main effort is going to be for Fifth Mountain Tercio to attack the two ports in the east. Two battalions each, with their support, are going to go after Puerto Armados on the Mar Furioso side and Capitano, on the Shimmering Sea. One battalion will stay behind to partially secure their base area. The Lempiran Mountain cohort with one of ours is going for Capitano. The Valdivian Mountain cohort, also with one of ours, attacks Puerto Armados. I understand a couple of batteries each of light artillery have been degaussed and buried within range of each port. There are also supposed to be some light tanks well hidden within range of each port, though I have no idea where. So, at least, the Montañeros have some chance of getting to their assault positions undetected. They surely would be detected if they had to try to move their heavy equipment forward. Still they are going to be vulnerable to air attack.

  “Carrera doesn’t want that. In fact, he wants them to have the best possible chance. He also wants them to have skies overhead as nearly free of enemy aircraft as possible. That’s where we come in, us and Fourteenth Cazador Tercio.”

  Marta gave a snort at the mention of the Fourteenth. That snort was not without reason. The Cazadors had grown—maybe better said, regrown—considerably since the first dark days when they stood alone against the Zhong Marines. Most of their higher leadership, however, was gone. Also, most of their new soldiers were pretty poorly trained in comparison to what their earlier soldiers had been.

  Not everybody who graduated Cazador School ended up in a leadership position. Many of them, in fact, proved themselves to be great soldiers, tough as nails, determined to a fault…and completely incapable of leading others, lacking that little spark that no training program can give but that makes all the difference in the world in combat.

  Some of those ended up in the Aviation Legion Jan Sobieski. Montoya was one of those. Others went to man the small ships and submarines of the classis. Still others ended up as “tropitos” in the Fourteenth or one of the other special tercios or cohorts.

  “We can’t count on the Cazadors,” Marta insisted. “They have a lot of men who are just fine soldiers but who can’t, can’t, CAN’T lead.”

  Zamora sighed. Her happy expression vanished. “Yes, I know,” she agreed. “And those men have been forced to become squad leaders, platoon centurions, and platoon leaders for a bunch of troops many of whom are little more than rabble.”

  “It isn’t as bad as all that,” said Maria. “Some of those men are learning things about themselves they never suspected. Some of them are turning out just fine.”

  “Most are fucking not, Maria,” Marta said. “And you know it. Not the ones in our area.”

  These were being led by a former corporal named León whom Maria had brevetted to staff sergeant, the same rank as Marta.

  “Look, Maria,” Marta continued, “León may be a great guy, a really nice guy. He’s…okay-at-best, for the merely routine things. He can teach his boys all the skills and tricks of the trade. But he just can’t keep his head together in action.”

  “So what do you propose, dear?” Zamora asked.

  “León has this sixteen-year-old boy working for him,” Marta said. “Maria brevetted him to sergeant. Now that boy, Robles, has all the earmarks. He’s a little fucking tyrant, too, arrogant and ruthless. E
ven so, the rest of the Cazadors, new and old, worship the little shit. That’s no surprise because when León freezes up, as he usually does, young Sergeant Robles carries him through. And, no, I do not like Robles, not a bit. If he were my child, I would put him up for adoption. But the little bastard is good. He’s a natural, in fact.”

  “What? You want me to fire León?”

  “Frankly, yes. He’ll fuck it all up.”

  Though looking directly at Zamora, Maria answered, “I won’t do that to the man, Marta. I just won’t. Besides, with Robles’ help, I think we have a chance to carry out the mission.”

  Marta threw up her hands in disgust.

  Zamora continued, “Now that I have your attention…again…Our mission is simplicity itself: take the town and the camp…destroy same. No one is saying this. But it is true anyway. You—all of us—are to get the enemy to use their aircraft on ourselves so they’re not available to use on anyone else. Anyone like Fifth Mountain.”

  “All you have to do, Maria, is assemble your—what is it; forty-seven women and thirty-one men?—link up with myself and the maniple’s third platoon, plus Weapons, then we will assault two or three hundred well armed and well dug in, most likely desperate, Zhong troops. And all of this under artillery and mortar fire, while half an air force scours the ground from the air. Oh. Joy.”

  Zamora laughed a little. In a way, that was comforting to the others. “Fortunately they’re mostly support troops. If they were infantry, we wouldn’t have a prayer. As it is, we do.”

  Again, Marta burst out, “A prayer? A fucking prayer? Sure, we do: Our Father, who art in Heaven… The only simple thing is going to be the burial afterwards…because the enemy won’t likely bother to bury us and there aren’t going to be enough of us left over to do it for ourselves.”

  “Shut up, Bugatti, and listen for a change. I have a plan.”

  Zamora pointed with a stick to a sand model dug out of the ground. The end stick circled several marked areas, then traced routes that were also marked with yarn on the dirt.

  “The first trick,” she said, “assembly, isn’t going to be that hard. We travel in small groups, using the refugee camps as way points, hiding among the civilians until nearly the last minute. Where there are no camps we have dugouts we prepared months ago. Sure, we can expect to lose some, and the civilians are going to take it hard when the enemy starts dropping random artillery fire and air strikes around, maybe even on, the camps…most likely on the camps.

  “Rehearsals in our assembly areas are going to be a problem. We can’t really do a full dress rehearsal. If the enemy sees us—and they would see us; their aircraft are prowling constantly—they’ll cream us, with air and artillery, both.

  “So, the maniple XO is going to have to go for the nearest fire base and at least keep their heads down for some hours. Ex, you get one of our platoons for that, plus a couple of sections of the Fourteenth. You also get a package of the jammers that attack the enemy’s satellite navigational systems, their GLS. I don’t want their artillery to know that their asses are lower to the ground than their heads are.”

  The XO looked dubious. “Ma’am, It’s damned unlikely that the enemy is going to let us just waltz over their artillery. I’d expect anything from an infantry platoon to a battalion to come to the rescue. I can handle a platoon. I can’t handle three maniples, plus.”

  Zamora shook her head. “Not indefinitely, no. But you don’t have to. If they come…okay, when they come, they aren’t likely to come by truck, so you’re going to have to use some of the Cazadors to pin any reinforcements down right on their landing zones.”

  “Now, when you tell me that the artillery is neutralized, we—Maria and I—go in after the town.”

  “Cristina…what if the XO never tells you?”

  “Then we go in anyway, Maria.”

  * * *

  The Amazons had a chance of surprising the Zhong as to what they were going to do. There was no practical chance of surprising their enemy about the fact that they were going to do something. Some weenie in one of the Zhong or Tauran intelligence sections was sure to notice an increase in the number of civilians moving out of the area on their own. Even though the Amazons would tell the civilians nothing, word tended to get around anyway.

  Then there was the high tech problem. Not too hard to beat in small numbers and while stationary, it could be expected that their remote sensors would pick up an increase in urine traces in the air where there hadn’t been much before. No doubt, too, the spy satellites and aircraft would start showing more heat signatures moving through the jungle at night.

  The potentially biggest give away, though, would have been any detectable increase in Amazon reconnaissance activity. There wasn’t any increase, though. Maria and the others had been sacrificing men and women all along on recon missions—just as they’d been trained to do—so that when patrols really were sent out to find out important things, it wasn’t out of the ordinary.

  Still, whatever they saw, and however they saw it, the enemy was soon blasting at random throughout the entire area—air, artillery, mortars…

  “I think they may even be using naval gun fire on us,” said Marta as she watched a distant hill erupt in a volcano of flame and smoke. “My God…”

  “Cheer up, dear. Mostly they’re missing.”

  Marta shivered. “They don’t always miss.” She shivered again, remember a squad of Cazadors as they’d approached a link up point the previous day. Two enemy fighter-bombers had dropped out of nowhere and laid eight napalm canisters right on top of those men. Where there had once been nine human beings became an instant inferno highlighted by nine human torches. Marta couldn’t hear even them scream, not over the roar of the flames. She saw them burn to ashes, though. Even their bones were consumed.

  Thank You, God. Thank You that it wasn’t me or mine.

  * * *

  Marta and Maria listened as the radio reported an unusual calm over the City and the Gamboa Line. Few Zhong or Tauran aircraft were to be seen. Some of that was, no doubt, the pounding the Amazons were taking. That couldn’t be all of it, however. They were being hit, but not that hard.

  “Maybe the enemy is saving their aircraft to support a major push.”

  Maria thought about that but countered as being just as likely, “Maybe they’ve all come down with maintenance problems. Montoya told me that, even with his simple Condor, an airplane spends many hours in the shop for every hour in the air.”

  “I hope. I hoped to fucking hell they aren’t saving all their aircraft for us.”

  * * *

  Someone once said that there’s nothing like a death sentence to clear the mind.

  The women’s minds were pretty clear. When everybody expected that the night was to be their last full one alive their minds were clear enough to know that they might never have a chance to show any kindness to their friends again. They would touch, gently, on the slightest pretext, maybe just a hand on a shoulder, maybe a pat on the head. Sometimes they didn’t even bother with an excuse at all. They were trying to say “good-bye” and “I love you, sister.”

  With Zamora’s permission Maria broke open a number of cans of the legionary rum, just enough for everyone to have a decent drink. Since it was a sort of farewell dinner, they used the canned rations lavishly.

  It was so sad to see old friends together, probably for the last time. It was sadder still to watch one of the new girls with one of the older ones who had taken her under her wing.

  Maria, Marta, and Zamora sat together. They were the last three left in the unit from the old maniple, that first maniple at Botchkareva. It was some comfort to sit with old friends while choking down canned shoe leather and “undifferentiated meat with differentiated sauce” as three of the canned main meals were not-too-affectionately known.

  As dinner neared completion, Zamora cautioned Maria, “You be careful, hon. Make it back to your little girl.”

  “I’ve been trying not to think
too much about Alma…Cristina, why don’t you have any kids of your own?”

  Zamora looked as if she were weighing an imponderable decision for a moment. Then she looked at Maria very seriously and said, “Because I’m a lesbian.”

  Maria’s eyes widened. Marta’s became saucers.

  “I had no idea,” both women said simultaneously.

  Zamora nodded, sucking in and biting both lips together. “I’m pretty discreet. ‘Nobody’s wife, nobody’s girlfriend, none of the help.’ And I wanted to be important, to matter. That would have been a lot harder in the lesbians’ unit. I’m also not the ‘marrying kind.’ ”

  Maria knew. Zamora has no intention of surviving the operation. She would never have admitted to it if she had.

  Marta looked at Zamora carefully. Zamora looked back, questioningly. Then Marta stood up, took Zamora’s hand, and began to lead her out of the bunker. “I’d invite you to join us,” she said to Maria, over her shoulder, “in a heartbeat. But you’re straight as an arrow and you wouldn’t like yourself much in the morning.”

  * * *

  “Incoming!” All the women hugged the ground closer than any lover as a dozen mortar shells walked across their assault position. When the shell-fire lifted, someone was screaming nearby, crying out for her father. “Daddy! Daaaaady!” The cry broke off in deep sobs.

  “Who is that?”

  “I don’t know who…MEDIC!”

  A body flopped to the ground next to Maria. It was Zamora.