by Tom Kratman
"That is all for now. This evening, after chow, I'll give you your immediate work priorities. If you have questions, hold them until then. The sergeant major will show you to your rooms and offices. They're a mess but at least they're furnished. You can thank Lourdes for that. You'll also be doubling up until I can have quarters prepared for the married folks. When you figure out what you need to fix your rooms up, drop a request with Mr. Clinton."
It was a festive time. After all, how often do a group of men get together with a real prospect of renewing their wonderfully misspent youth?
Lourdes and the domestic staff had done a fine job. The dining room- Why did Patricio insist on calling it the mess? she had wondered. It's not a mess at all.- was bedecked with flowers and wreaths. Candles burned unnecessarily in sconces.
Table space had been a problem. Hennessey's old dining room table, his and Linda's, had been large enough for twelve with chairs to match. Lourdes had brought in a card table suitable for four, and moved in another one from the kitchen that could handle eight or even ten in a pinch. Crystal, silver and china had had to be a mix of three different sets each.
Still, as Hennessey admitted to himself, the girl has done wonders. Note, though, we need to knock out a wall, expand the mess, and get regular seating for thirty-six to forty-eight.
Daugher took one look at the tables and announced what they all thought. "This is some good shit."
The table was garlanded with tranzitree flowers the women had picked from a patch growing halfway from the house to the sea to the north. The flowers were harmless. Bluegum wax candles burned in sconces in three spots along the walls, centered and at both ends. Many people liked the smell of bluegum candles. The aroma they gave off was something like, although milder than, myrrh.
This being an occasion of some celebration, dinner centered on a frightfully large turkey, roasted and stuffed, an equally large prime rib from the Finca Carrera, and an impressive ham from the same source. To the usual trimmings for these were added some typical Balboan dishes: empanadas, a sort of meat turnover, fried yuca, a fibrous tuber, poisonous if not properly prepared but superior in taste to potato, and maiz rojo, which was not corn though it was red.
From the market the cook had obtained half a dozen steaks from a freshly caught baby carcharodon megalodon. These she'd soaked in milk and then broiled with butter and garlic. Next to the meg steaks sat a tureen of sancocho, or stew. The meat in the stew was a mix of normal beef with several kinds of reptile not to be found on Old Earth and becoming rare on Terra Nova.
The bread was made from a seed taken from a plant that resembled an orange-colored sunflower, except that unlike the sunflower it never grew above two feet in height. The plant, like the maiz rojo, the tranzitree and the bluegum, was one of those that were either native to Terra Nova or had also been transplanted by the Noahs from somewhere besides Old Earth. Before being ground the seed resembled nothing so much as very tiny corn kernels. Once ground they made quite a good bread though, because of the flour's high gluten content, nothing that resembled cornbread. The bread tended to a buttery yellow color. The plant and its flour were called "Chorley."
As it was a sort of Thanksgiving for people who had never again expected to be able to do the work they felt they were born to, wine was served, along with the beer. When dessert was finished, and plates cleared away, the sergeant major lit a candle, the "smoking lamp." The cook brought in a tray of single malt scotch with glasses just as the smoke began to curl to the ceiling.
Standing, Hennessey began to speak:
"Everybody moved in, all right?" he asked. Seeing the general assent, he continued. "Notebooks ready?" He paused to allow the men to get out writing materials. For the few who pulled out electronic ones, he said, "No E-Slates. Security. Take a notebook and pen."
He waited until they had and began, "Good. We have two initial tasks, one minor, and one major. The minor one is ourselves. You've all had a chance to see what your quarters and offices need. You'll fix them yourselves on your own 'copious free time.'"
That was a joke that spanned solar systems and centuries. It received the laugh it deserved.
"A little more complex is the question of arms, equipment, and uniforms. Uniforms will have to wait. We couldn't wear them for a while yet, anyway. Sorry. For arms, we need enough to defend ourselves against minor threats and possibly to take out a minor target ourselves. Let me make clear here that, no, I have no one and nothing in particular in mind. It just pays to be prepared."
Hennessey focused his attention on Bowman and Daugher. "So, no, you two, it is extremely unlikely I will be asking you to kill anyone any time soon. Calm down."
Hennessey turned his gaze to Harrington. "Greg, I'm going to put you in touch with my brother-in-law, the guy who eased your way through customs. He's in the Civil Force. Good kid. Have him put you in touch with a black market supplier. I believe he knows at least one. I want two antiarmor weapons and a fair supply of ammunition. Get us two light machine guns, it doesn't matter which, and a dozen and a half rifles, Samsonovs would do but don't feel bound. Make sure that the rifles match the LMGs, whatever you buy. Get starlight scopes for each. Also get four or so pair of night vision goggles. Don't buy Volgan for those. I also want two sniper rifles, Dracos, M-12s, or even bolt-action hunting rifles. Oh, yes, get us a machine gun the caliber of which matches the sniper rifles. Don't buy a Federated States MG-6, no matter how cheap it is; the odds of it being just plain worn out are too good to risk. Get a forty-five and shoulder holster for each man. If the dealer has silencers for the pistols, get one for each and have the pistols threaded.
"Also, the day after tomorrow I'll give you a check to go to town and get a pickup and three passenger cars. You'll also need to pick up the Phaeton I ordered a few days ago. Task the One shop as needed for drivers.
"When you're downtown it should be possible to buy twenty-four sets of body armor… hmmm… make it twenty-five; get a slender one for Lourdes, too. Don't scrimp on those. Get the best available. Gentlemen, Lourdes, give Captain Harrington your sizes before going to sleep tonight.
"Greg, I also want you to look into the possibility of buying a boat, forty or so feet and fast. Don't commit to it yet, though. Look around a bit. As a matter of fact, we are probably-no, certainly-going to need merchant ships as well. Look into it.
"The maid could probably use another washer and dryer. See about getting a big freezer for the kitchen. It's got to be cheaper than paying someone to do a daily grocery run the way you fuckers are bound to overeat."
Harrington looked mildly distracted as he scratched notes on a pad. "Can I borrow Miss Lourdes for a translator?"
"Sure."
Hennessey turned to Johnson.
"Terrence, you are tasked to help with the making of a propaganda cum recruiting film. We'll discuss that in more detail later.
"So much for ourselves, for now."
Hennessey began to pace around the room as he spoke to the group as a whole. "The major task, however, is to design an army for Balboa for the future. That is what will consume most of our efforts for the next few months. Dan, as chief of staff I want you to direct that. Start with the assumption Balboa could, were the funding available, raise and sustain a force of about thirty thousand regulars, maybe ninety thousand reservists and perhaps three times that in militia. Assume that between Balboa and the rest of Colombia del Norte we can find as many as thirty thousand volunteers a year. The reservists and militia are critical because you just can't politically trust professional Latin soldiers. Eventually, given the fantastic degree of governmental corruption, they will overthrow their governments. The reservists and militia are to counter that.
"That size force is the illogical and unreasonable extreme," Hennessey continued. "Start there anyway. Once you have done that, shrink it to what is possible; a single corps of about fifty or sixty thousand that is capable of deploying one division of eleven to fourteen thousand in support of the Federated States in t
he war now ongoing. Match the huge force to the smaller corps so that if it ever did become necessary the corps could be expanded with minimal confusion, battalions expanding to regiments, regiments becoming divisions, and so on. Again, that's just in case the illogical and unreasonable come to pass."
Everyone present, with the exception of McNamara, Esterhazy and Clean who had heard Hennessey thinking out loud for some time, was a little shocked. Not a few wondered if their boss had flipped. He had, of course, but not in the way they were thinking.
"The corps is the important thing," Hennessey said. "Note carefully, however, that I can't pay for it now and neither can Balboa."
Okay, so he hasn't quite flipped completely… in the way they had been thinking.
"What I want you to do, Dan and the I-Shop, with a big assist from the II, is design it carefully and completely. Then further shrink that. I don't know what I can pay for, not yet anyway. So shrink it in four forms: to a division of about eleven to fourteen thousand, to a large brigade of about eight thousand, to a regular sized brigade of about four or five thousand, and to a combat team of around two thousand. Which we decide to go with will depend on funding."
Okay, that's reasonable… but a frightful amount of work.
"I would have told you to optimize this first force for Pashtia. But I think that is going to kick off within a couple of weeks-"
Triste interrupted. "My sources say three, Pat."
"Fine, three then. It will in any case be too soon for us to have anything to offer to the FS. So the question is, 'Who's next?' Larry?"
Triste didn't have to think. He already knew. "Sumer," he announced with absolute certainty in his voice. "Sumer… but not soon. I am thinking maybe early in 461. In theory it could be summer of 460 but the heat…" Triste's voice trailed off.
"I concur," Hennessey said. "Sumer in early 461. It will take at least that long for the Federated States to build up the logistics in al Jahara for a-what do you think, Larry?-a four division invasion."
"About that," Triste agreed. "Or maybe only three plus maybe two Anglian brigades or possibly even a full division of the Royal Army along with some odds and ends from other contributors. All will, I am sure, be most welcome to help out and there is hardly a country on industrialized Terra Nova that hasn't lost some people to the TNTO attacks. For poorer allies the Federated States will gladly foot the bill, I am sure."
"Mmm… yeah," Hennessey half agreed. "The FS will be happy to pay the operational costs for anyone joining in the fight. I don't want them to pay for us, or not yet anyway. I think our bargaining position, for later on, will be much better if we-if I-can pay the initial costs."
Esterhazy interjected, "You are right about zat, Pat. But have you considered just vhat a fair price would be for the FS to pay for a… oh, say… a full division of Balboan troops?"
Hennessey pulled out a cigarette and lit it. McNamara, and not for the first time, thought that his chief would kill himself young if he didn't cut down.
"I've thought about it and made a few inquiries, Matthias, yes. For the FS to maintain one full division overseas in action, even low intensity action, requires them to keep three divisions on the books. So one division deployed costs three divisions worth of normal pay and operating expenses. That's about fourteen billion drachma a year. The cost of one division at war at low intensity is maybe- frankly no one I spoke to was quite sure-sixteen or seventeen billion a year more. Annuitized retirements, long-term medical care, disability payments to the badly wounded, etcetera, would probably add another four billion to that. I think the total cost is about thirty-five billion per committed division, per year. And that says nothing about the political costs of combat casualties or the benefit, propaganda- wise, that comes from having a strong ally in the fight."
"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.