by Tom Kratman
“On that note,” said Fernandez, “I’ve got some unpleasant news. Firstly, the Taurans have taken our restraint as a sign of weakness. They are going to begin to fuck with us in eight days. ‘Operation Carbuncle,’ they’re calling it.”
“Define fuck with us,” the president ordered.
“Just what you would expect, Mr. President; midnight alerts, troops massing in assault positions, overflights of armed aircraft…pretty much anything that will cause us to get troops out of bed, anything that will cause those troops to get out of hand and do something stupid, so that they can justify an attack.”
Parilla shook his head. “I don’t get it. We had them cowed. What’s changed?”
Though his baser nature might have tried to pin the blame on Parilla’s newly found sense of restraint, Carrera had to answer, honestly, that that wasn’t it. “They haven’t had time yet to even realize how far we’ve backed off so that they could be emboldened by it. No, I think it’s that bitch of a high admiral.”
Parilla shot a glance at Fernandez.
“That’s his guess,” the latter said, “not mine. I frankly don’t understand it at all. We know she’s been down here, though, so the Duque might be right. I’ve been trying to get someone in the house they assigned her but, so far, all I’ve been able to do is get a groundskeeper on the next street over.
“There is something I want to try, though, gentlemen, and it’s something that might serve my purposes as well as your own, to the extent those differ tactically.”
As Fernandez’s weasel face split in a grin, Carrera asked, “What?”
“You recall the large breasted Tauran who put on a display for you and your son, Patricio?”
“Hard to forget.”
“It wasn’t hard to find out who she is, a Captain Jan Campbell, an Intel type, seconded here from the Anglian Army. I want to invite her and a male escort of her own choosing to spend a full annual training period with one of our fully mobilized infantry tercios. We’ll let her see everything to do with that tercio, just as it is. If there’s anything I can think of that would incline the Taurans to peace, it’s full realization of just how much blood we’ll draw, even if they come against us with everything they have.
“Then, too…it’s just possible we might be able to turn her if we got close contact with her.”
Parilla, who was by no means a starry-eyed, pacifist fool, asked Carrera, “What will that do to your plans, if it still comes to war?”
Carrera shrugged, “Nothing really. We’re pretty good—better than Helvetians or Zionis, anyway—and the proof that we are is there for anyone with eyes to see. If they don’t see it, it will be because they don’t want to. If they do see it, it might, as Omar says, lead to fear which might lead to peace.
“In short, while I am not enthusiastic, if you order it, Raul, I won’t object or interfere.”
Parilla thought in silence for a few minutes, then announced, “I think it’s an acceptable risk for peace. But Patricio? Make it a really frightful regiment that we show off.”
Isla Real, Balboa, Terra Nova
For most things that most armies on the planet would have used a helicopter for, the legion usually used Crickets. These were very short take-off and landing propeller-driven, fixed wing aircraft that could do ninety or ninety-five percent of what a small helicopter could at a still smaller fraction of the cost. The things could actually hover if facing into a stiff breeze. They had to be staked down in high winds—that, or have their wings folded back—to prevent them from taking off on their own.
Carrera’s Cricket landed on the main parade field at what had once been the entire legion’s island home. The pilot taxied in under trees to where a small and unobtrusive vehicle waited. As Carrera was boarding the vehicle, the Cricket pilot was already folding and locking the wings.
Carrera gave the driver, a corporal provided by Eighth Legion (Training), the building number he wanted to go to. It was a small research facility that mostly served to mask the entrance to one of the island’s major underground forts.
* * *
When the legion had purchased five Suvarov Class cruisers for eleven million FSD—Federated States Drachma—from the Volgan Republic, it had insisted on them retaining all arms and equipment. The Volgans had at first balked, being too weak and poor at the time to lightly risk the wrath of the Federated States or even the gentler Tauran Union. But when one cruiser was delivered and promptly cut up for scrap, they had decided they could plausibly deny they were selling major warships to Balboa.
The sixteen turrets of the four scrapped cruisers, each mounting three 152mm guns, had not been cut up. After delivery of the last ship the legion had had the turrets mounted in concrete positions. Some of these were mounted inside of, or on, old Federated States coastal artillery positions.
Left undecided was the fate of each Suvarov’s laser range finders. These were powerful—much more so than tank laser range finders—and extremely dangerous to human eyes. The lasers sat in a warehouse for some years, gathering dust, until at length the section of Obras Zorilleras responsible for developing air defense doctrine and equipment had decided that there was much merit in attacking the pilot if one couldn’t attack his plane with impunity or effectiveness.
Then someone remembered the old Suvarov lasers. It was known, in some circles, that the former Volgan Empire had been far ahead of the west in directed energy weapons—lasers, charged particle beams, and possibly masers.
Tests were carried out on otherwise condemned prisoners, before they were hanged. At six thousand meters the men were blinded, instantly and irreparably, even if they were looking to the side. If the victims were directed, under duress, to look directly in the direction of the unseen lasers, they were blinded at a much greater distance. Mercy killings followed each test, killings far more merciful than the now harsh Balboan law typically dished out.
The next steps had been to mount the lasers on carriers, install electrical generating systems capable of serving them in action, and determine an acceptable means of target acquisition…without any of that becoming known to the world at large.
* * *
The Project was called “Self Propelled Laser Air Defense,” or SPLAD, for short. They’d had the lasers, stripped out of the Suvarovs, for quite a while. They’d been towed systems, though, obvious as to what they were, incapable of firing on the move, indeed, requiring a fair amount of time to set up, and highly vulnerable, once an enemy knew what to look for.
The holdup in mechanizing them had been power. There was only so much cube inside an armored vehicle, and only so much power generation or storage capability that could be installed therein.
* * *
Carrera’s escort was Balboan, one of a small but growing number of homegrown engineers.
The first stop on the briefing tour was an armored vehicle, indistinguishable at first glance from any of the three hundred or so self-propelled, multibarreled air defense systems the legion had bought from Volga.
The engineer said, “We gave a lot of thought to what should be the chassis of the system. We finally decided that this was our best choice. This was not because it was the most common system in the legion. Of course, it isn’t. But we don’t see the need for a great deal of armor for these, and the air defense units that will use it already have expertise in supplying and maintaining them.
“I’ve got to tell you up front, Duque,” said the escort, as he waved a hand at the squarish fighting vehicle, “that we haven’t beaten the power problem so much as accepted some serious limits.”
“But where’s the laser?” Carrera asked.
The engineer climbed on top, reaching a hand—which Carrera scorned—down to help his chief climb aboard.
“It’s inside,” the engineer said, once his chief was in position to look down into the turret. “The guns are only the barrels. We cut out the receivers and mounted the main laser centered between where they were, with the acquisition laser offset fr
om that. That round plate opens up to fire.
“By doing that, we were able to dump the ammunition and free up a lot of space for power generation and storage. Enough that we can fire the main laser half a dozen times at full power before having to recharge the capacitors to fire again.”
“Do we need to fire at full power?” Carrera asked. “All the time?”
“Probably not,” the engineer admitted.
With Carrera peering down into the dark interior, the escort pointed at a small box mounted above the main laser and offset to the right.
“That’s the low powered acquisition laser, Duque. In use, the gunner will aim that at his target, either visually or via the radar. It, when it gets a bounceback signal that says ‘not clouds, birds, or balloons,’ actually fires the main…gun.
“Sir, if you would climb inside with me?”
The engineer and Carrera crawled down separate hatches, into the interior of the vehicle. Carrera took the rearward-stationed commander’s seat, allowing the gunner’s seat to the engineer.
“Like I said, Duque, we have removed all the ammunition storage except for the top-mounted machine guns. In their place are two generators and a whole shitpot of supercapacitors.”
The engineer turned away from the generator and batteries. He indicated two boxes, one with a control panel, one with a small television screen. “These are a fairly cheap thermal imager and a computer. We bought the imager from the Volgans. They’re just beginning to turn them out in mass…and they’re not all that good. They are rather cheap, however, and good enough to spot an aircraft with no background but sky and space.
“There are three ways to make the system work. One is manual. This way the gunner picks up an aerial target on the thermals. He then manipulates the turret to bring the less powerful laser on line with the target. Of course, the lesser laser must be borescoped to the sight. It is also projected continuously if the gunner so selects. When the gunner has moved the cross hairs approximately onto the target, the lesser laser will get some energy bounced back from its own beam. It will then automatically fire the more powerful laser. And the pilot’s eyeballs will be…well, fried, more or less.
“The second way is more automatic. And we still haven’t perfected it. That’s what this computer is for. We hope to make it so that, when the thermal sight picks up a target, it will notify the computer. Then the computer will direct the main laser onto the target without need of the gunner.”
For the first time, Carrera interrupted. “Can that. It’s a silly idea.”
Undeterred, the engineer answered, “It’s true, we don’t need that feature for now; the manual method works well enough. But what we hope to do someday is to mount the thermal on top, where the old radar dish is, then have it sweep three-hundred-sixty degrees until it finds a target with enough heat to be a possible target. Then the computer will automatically bring the main projector around, the ranging laser will fire to get a reflection that indicates the target is acquired. At that point the main laser will fire to blind the crew. Sir, this would be a much better weapon.”
“Does the thing work as is?”
“Yes, sir, and we have a third way, which is also automatic. It works, but it is risky. That’s to let the radar do the tracking and control the turret and lasers.”
Carrera thought about that and decided, It’s actually a fairly minor mod—gunnery-wise—so it probably does work.
“What about if the pilot is wearing some kind of night vision goggles or extremely thick and dark sun glasses?” he asked.
“We’d burn out the image intensifier tube in the goggles and any set of sunglasses capable of stopping all the possible frequencies we can use wouldn’t just be dark. They would be black.”
“Then produce it. Skip the fancy frills on this model. Produce it and I may cut you enough research and development money to continue trying the other, the second, way. But first, show me how this one works in action.”
Chapter Seven
“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,
“’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
And I’ve a many curious things to shew when you are there.”
“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair
—can ne’er come down again.”
—The Spider and the Fly, Mary Howitt
Building 59, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Fort Muddville, Balboa Transitway Area, Terra Nova
“Bullshit,” said Hendryksen to Campbell, as she waved—Fernandez didn’t lack for a sense of drama—a gilt engraved invitation, in good English, for her and a male escort of her choosing to spend a full month with Second Infantry Tercio, during the annual training. “Let me see that.”
She handed over the invitation, then arched her back ever so slightly. Looking down she said, “Aye, lassies, ye did it.”
“I doubt it was them,” said Hendryksen, rolling his eyes eloquently.
“You leave me ma own delusions and I’ll leave you yours,” Campbell retorted.
“Sure,” he said, with bad grace. “You realize you’re going to need de Villepin’s approval, right?”
De Villepin was the Gallic chief of intelligence for the Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, and their local superior. In fact, he had little direct power over anybody not in the Gallic Army, and had to really work at it, as did General Janier, to influence the army for which they really did work.
“Oh, teach yer mither to suck eggs, Kris; I know how a military bureaucracy works, yes. You want to be ma escort?”
“I’d love to,” he said, “but the Frogs are going to want a Frog.”
“Fock!” was all she could say to that prospect.
“It will be all right provided they give you an enlisted man or noncom,” Hendryksen assured her. “Tell you what, though; I will give you a list of questions I’d like answers to. Hmmm…what date did they give you?”
Campbell rechecked the invitation, then did a little figuring in her head. “Thirty-seven days from today.”
“Don’t count on doing it then. His Gribbitzness will be starting Operation Carbuncle before that. About ten minutes after the Balboans realize the rules have changed, and that their current degree of restraint is going unappreciated, they’re going to become rather less open and friendly.”
“So I’d better accept soon, hadn’t I, so that their gentlemanly instincts will kick in and they’ll refuse to disappoint a lady.”
Hendryksen sighed. “There are many words I would use to describe you, Jan, all of them complimentary, but until this moment ‘lady’ probably would not have been among them.”
“Heathen,” she answered, with a sniff of pseudo-hurt.
Casa Linda, Balboa, Terra Nova
It had been easy for Ant to find the direction to Hamilcar’s new school. She’d simply asked one of the compound’s Pashtun Scout guards for the use of a compass so that she could pay proper obeisance to their joint lord daily. That had sounded good enough for the guard that he’d gone to supply and gotten her one to keep, then trained her in how to use it. Thereafter, every evening, she, her co-wives, Hamilcar’s sisters (when they could sneak away), and Alena had all gathered in his bedroom at the casa, then prostrated themselves in the direction of Puerto Lindo and the Sergeant Juan Malvegui Military Academy, praying fervently to be reunited with their god.
Meanwhile, Ant’s swimming lessons, her minor thefts of relatively nonperishable food, and her acquisitions of necessary equipment and information continued apace.
But I’m not ready yet, she sighed to herself in the dark. Not yet. My feet aren’t tough enough yet. I don’t know the dangerous plants and animals well enough yet. I can’t swim well enough yet. And, though I’ve been practicing, I can’t use a map and compass well enough yet.
But soon.
Training Area C, Academ
ia Militar Sergento Juan Malvegui, west of Puerto Lindo, Balboa, Terra Nova
It’s about time to take some of Centurion Cruz’s advice, thought Ham.
It was also dinner time. Better still, dinner was combat rations, rather than the deliberately tasteless crap they usually dished out. Rather, it was combat rations, minus, since the boys were not going to get the rum ration until they were much, much older. The rations had been prepared by the camp cooks, themselves almost all discharged veterans, reservists, or militia. The boys had formed in line to pass through a field kitchen where the cooks had splashed the chow more or less randomly into the trays of their mess kits. Most of the alcohol would probably go into the cooks over the next couple of weeks.
The boys sat on the ground or on fallen logs and upright stumps, wolfing their rations down before the setting sun released a horde of homicidal mosquitoes, some of whom would surely end up stuck in the gravy.
There were eleven other boys in his section. They’d started with fourteen, total, but two were gone already, having left fairly early. The remainder, besides Ham, were Augustino, Belisario—named for Belisario Carrera—Francisco, Jorge, Jose, Oscar, Ramon, Raul—named for the president, though he hadn’t been president back then—Roger, Virgil, and Vladimiro.
Ham knew that was the wrong order to alphabetize them into, but, Screw it. I’m twelve and I think in terms of first names. And it’s a little funny that none of them are named for my father. I would have thought…but maybe he knows what he’s doing by staying out of politics. He’s not the most charming guy on the planet, no matter what Mom may think.