by Tom Kratman
The model showed the rough curved-tail, tadpole shape of the Isla Real, plus a fair amount of the surrounding water. From each side two strips of blue-painted "water" leading almost to the island were marked "Mined." There were crude wooden ship models on each side of each strip. In addition, arcs were drawn in the blue and marked with artillery calibers: "122mm . . . 152mm . . . 160mm . . . 180mm . . . 180mm ERRB."
"It isn't my job," Sitnikov said, "to worry about the geostrategic endgame. That's your problem. Mine—half of mine, anyway—has been to design the defense of this island and the closure of the Transitway."
Sitnikov walked to a corner and picked up a very long pointer. When he returned, he set the edge of the pointer on the gap between the naval minefields and the island. "These minefields, as long as they're not cleared, close the Transitway. Note we left gaps within artillery range so that we can let through whomever we might wish to." The pointer moved to the wooden ships models. "We don't need anything too very special to lay the mines. Any old ships will do. They simply need to have the mines on board, a means for hauling them to the top deck, a crew to arm them and push them over the side, and maybe someone to record where they were dropped. The mines will have to be on activation timers. There are four ship models because we think we can lay these barrages in about three days, using four.
"The mines can conceivably be cleared, of course. No obstacle is worth much unless covered by observation and fire." The pointer began to touch on various turreted fixtures, all around the perimeter of the model. "These are to be taken from the turrets of the Suvarov Class cruisers you never restored."
"Those are only six inch guns," Carrera objected. "They won't range the extremes of the minefields and any fortifications to cover those extremes, being landbound or close to land, are vulnerable."
Sitnikov gave an evil grin. "They don't have to cover them. The things won't even be manned, except for skeleton crews to traverse the turrets and look threatening. Instead,"—the pointer shifted to a set of what were obviously models of ammunition bunkers behind the turrets—"each of these will hold an eighteen centimeter gun which will fire reduced bore, sabot shells, with laser guidance packages, the laser beams doing the painting coming from"—the pointer made a circular motion around the top of Hill 287—"here and a few dozen other likely spots. OZ ran the math and a lengthened 122mm shell, surrounded by a sabot, fired from a 180mm gun will range over eighty kilometers. This will allow coverage of both mine barrages as well as, by the way, any amphib ships or combatants engaged in trying to take the island."
"Those guns will only unmask, though, for a major push. For individual mineclearers, we'll put in some fixed torpedo firing installations, spaced around the island." The evil grim returned. "Mineclearers are notoriously slow."
Carrera nodded his head up and down, slowly. "And so to clear the Transitway the enemy would have to clear the mines. To clear the mines he needs to get rid of our guns and torpedoes. To do that he has to clear the island . . ."
"And to do that," Sitnikov finished, "he must land. If he lands, he bleeds. He bleeds oceans."
Carrera noticed several other ship models around the island. "What are those for?" he asked.
"Those are derelicts," Sitnikov answered. "We'll take older freighters and outfit them for fighting positions. Then we'll anchor them, unmanned, around the island, in shallow water, at all the best beaches. We'll make them look as if they're carrying supplies for the defense. Maybe, even, they will. An enemy, if he attacks them will sink them, but in shallow water. If he doesn't attack them, we'll sink them during an attack. Then we can shunt infantry out to take up the fighting positions. They'll make a landing a bloody endeavor."
Carrera had a sudden image of infantry, wading through the water to get to a beach while an unseen machine gun behind them chopped them down. "Good thought," he agreed. "Best for the people in the derelict ships not to use tracer, though."
"Well, of course," Sitnikov said.
"Have you worked up a table of organization and equipment for the defense?" Carrera asked.
"Yes. In broad terms it will take a standard infantry legion—new form, not the old hexagonal counter guerilla organization—reinforced with another infantry tercio, a coastal artillery tercio, a fixed fortified defense tercio, some extra air defense, engineer and other support troops. In all, about twenty-four thousand men. If we have to defend the island from an invasion emanating from the mainland you would have to add quite a bit to that."
"Doable," was Carrera's judgment. He thought for a while, then said, "Leave me here and go round up the commander of the Training Legion. Bring him to me."
"Any particular reason you want him?"
"Two of them," Carrera answered. "It's a good news-bad news kind of thing. First, I'm going to promote him to Legate III. Then, we're going to show him this model, you're going to brief him, I'm going to brief him on how to turn the Eighth Training Legion into the Eighth Infantry Legion, quickly, at need. And then I'm going to send you back to the cadets and stick him with preparing this defense.
"And Sitnikov? Hurry, please. I have to meet Siegel after dinner at the Casa. After that, later this evening, I am meeting with select committees from the new Senate and from the Legislative Assembly."
Chapter Five
The military mind, and the force those minds create, is innately rapacious, security obsessed, and covetous of power. That said, the civilian political mind is likewise rapacious and covetous of power, and may well be security obsessed. All this can be more or less tolerable. Woe to the state and people, however, that fall under the sway of civilians who are security indifferent . . .
The military mind is rapacious, but that rapacity has limits. It may force life to subordinate itself to the practical needs of war; it will rarely or never, on its own, force life to subordinate itself to mere fantasy or high sounding theory . . .
The need for civilian control over the military is not, in any case, based on any presumption that the civilian mind is, on average, wiser or more creative or more moral than the military mind. Indeed, human history provides no unambiguous evidence to support any such proposition. Rather, the moral imperative of civilian control is based on two related factors. One is that, will they, nil they, civilians will be affected, will suffer, from the decision to go to war. This, if nothing else, entitles them to a say in some form, though that say may be no more than the option to have a say, with conditions. The second is that, without adequate civilian support, every serious war effort that is not immediately successful is ultimately doomed to failure. Failure in war is, of course, the height of immorality.
In any case, civilian control of the military does not mean that those who never served are best suited to exercise control. Rather, those who have never served are not clearly morally fit to control the military. Neither are those who have enjoyed it and made it a life. Conversely, those who have served and, duty done, left service, have shown a willingness to do that which they do not like, for the common good . . .
—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,
Historia y Filosofia Moral,
Legionary Press, Balboa,
Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468
Casa Linda, Balboa, Terra Nova
Carrera still used the Casa for business, and would eventually return to it full time, once the legions had finished deploying from the island to the mainland.
"Sig" Siegel caught him on the upper back balcony of the house, the balcony that looked out over the sea. Carrera was yawning so deeply that he wasn't aware of Sig's arrival until Siegel gave forth an artificial cough.
Carrera stifled the yawn and looked up at the slightly portly, teddy bear look alike. "Oh, sorry, Sig," he said.
"You all right, boss?" Sig asked, his voice full of concern.
Carrera nodded. "For certain values of 'all right,' I am. I'm just tired all the time. You would think a year of fucking off and doing nothing would have been rest enough but . . ." He let that sentence die, incompl
ete, then said, "The funny thing is I'm slightly less tired since I got back to work."
Siegel noticed a four pointed sort of jack Carrera was twirling in the fingers of the hand he had not used to stifle the yawn. "Caltrops?" Sig asked. "Is that what this is about, boss? Caltrops."
Carrera tossed the thing, casually, to the table top, next to a closed notebook atop which was a manila file folder. One sharply pointed arm ended up oriented directly upward. Given the shape defined by the points, it was the only possible orientation.
"That, and a few other things I want you to take charge of."
"I'm listening, boss."
"We need something to erect a wide area, instant obstacle. Scatterable mines are out, since the Tauros watch sales of those closely. Besides, I'm not at all sure that scatterable mines can't be remotely sensed, given a sophisticated enough set of sensors." Carrera's eyes shot upward, toward the United Earth Peace Fleet.
"We suffer from a serious dearth of reliable allies, Sig," Carrera said, conversationally. "I trust Sada in Sumer. Pashtia is sort of"—Carrera stuck out one hand over the table, palm down, and wriggled it—"reliable. I don't trust the Federated States past any given election. And the Taurans are, of course, the enemy. Zhong Guo might be.
"Our ability to do things in secret here in Balboa," he continued, "is limited; too many eyes on us. Other states in Colombia del Norte and Uhuru are overrun with Kosmos"—Cosmopolitan Progressives—"who stick their unwelcome noses into everything. Our Volgan contacts are good for some things, not so good for others, and we always have to wonder who's reporting what to whom.
"On the other hand, sometimes the enemy of my enemy really is my friend."
About that Siegel said nothing.
"I've made a deal with Cochin," Carrera said, "to provide us with labor, some manufacturing ability, and testing grounds. What I want you to do is to go there. Make contracts to produce these things, tens of millions of them. Then run some experiments to perfect a way to spread them over a considerable area in massive numbers."
Carrera moved the file folder to one side and opened the notebook, reorienting the latter to show Siegel a sketch drawing of a barrel, stuffed with caltrops, with a linear shaped charge to cut the top from the barrel and an explosive base to expel the contents. The caption on the sketch said, "Briar Patch."
Siegel looked it over and exclaimed, "That's a very cool idea, sir. But there are some problems."
"More, maybe, than you imagine," Carrera said. "These things are going to have to be stored, some of them in the open, for anything up to years. And in one of the wettest countries on the planet."
"That's what I meant," Sig explained. "A high explosive for a projecting charge will damage the contents. And low explosives tend to ruin themselves over time by absorbing water."
"Right. Figure it out."
"Why not hand this to Obras Zorilleras to develop?" Sig asked.
"Fernandez tells me there's at least one informer in OZ, but probably only one."
"Oh. Oh, fuck."
"It's not that big a deal," Carrera said, with an indifferent shrug. "Better one we know about than one we don't. But some things, really secret things, we can't send through OZ anymore."
Siegel nodded. "You said three projects, boss."
"Right. Actually, I said, 'A few more.' Here's another one." Carrera flipped the page to a different sketch, this one captioned, "Sarissa."
"I want you to develop a barrage balloon, to be used in mass, and suitable for making it very hazardous for jet aircraft to overfly an area without going to a height that makes them vulnerable to air defense. Also, I want you to develop a very large fuel-air-explosive mine that can be pre-emplaced, but not filled until needed. And it has to be able to be remotely detonated"—again Carrera's eyes shot upwards—"and not by radio means." The sketch for that said, "Volcano."
"The last thing I want is prepackaged light artillery. Kuralski has rounded up some seven hundred 85mm guns, surplus from the Great Global War and in pretty good—actually depot rebuild—shape. Apparently they've been . . . umm . . . 'lost' from the Volgans' books. I want half of them, a decent load of ammunition for each, plus fire control equipment, packaged for long term storage in shipping containers and put on ships. The rest will be shipped here openly."
Again, Carrera showed Siegel a diagram. "I don't have a name for this project," he said. "The Volgan 180mm started as a naval gun and was turned into a heavy field piece. I've put our friends in Volga to work designing and building a railroad carriage. In some ways it's the simplest thing. We're going to take receipt of thirty-two of them, openly, that we'll mount in the old bunkers the Federated States left behind. I need you to receive sixty-four of these, secretly, break them down into shipping containers, and send them to the Isla Real. Don't sweat ammunition; that's coming separately."
"Sig, these are your babies. Go to Cochin. You don't speak the language, I know, but you do speak French and all the educated Cochinese do, as well. Make whatever contacts you need, pay whatever bribes you must, buy whatever talent and materials are required. Get me those five things. I'll send ships to pick them up when you have a worthwhile load.
"While you're at it, nose around for any redundant military supplies and equipment we might be able to get cheap. In particular I am interested in aircraft."
Siegel looked confused and torn. "Can I bring my wife?"
Sadly, Carrera picked up the manila folder and passed it over. "These are transcripts of some phone calls. Also some events in your wife's recent history. She's been passing on information, too, Sig. To the Tauros. And, yes, Fernandez confirms you didn't know."
Carrera sounded like he meant it when he said, "I'm sorry."
* * *
"Sig looked terribly upset when he left, Patricio," Lourdes said.
Carrera didn't answer except to bite his lower lip and nod.
"You're not going to tell me about it?"
Still biting, he shook his head, 'No.'
Lourdes sighed, sadly, and began to turn away.
"It's personal to Sig," Carrera explained, hurriedly. "I've no right to tell anyone, not even you. If it were . . . Lourdes, please sit down."
Carrera hesitated. This was going to be hard . . . hard.
"Lourdes, how much have you guessed about why I collapsed?" he asked.
"You mean besides the obvious, like burning both ends of the candle for ten years?"
"Yes, besides that."
She smiled slightly. "Well, let's see. What am I supposed to make of it when you ask, in your sleep, 'Would you prefer, Mustafa, that I obliterate Makkah al Jedidah and the New Kaaba?' Or when you say, 'Cheer up, old man. You still have one son left: Me'? Patricio, I know you nuked Hajar."
"Oh."
"Oh."
"And your feelings on that?"
"I sometimes think of men like Adnan Sada and women like his wife, Rukhaya, and think, 'They could have been my friends, too, those people Patricio killed.' But then I think, 'could have been is not the same thing as were.' And I think, 'how many people that are my friends have been saved because you terrified the Yithrabis into ceasing their support of the Salafi Ikhwan?' "
"It wasn't just adults like Adnan and Rukhaya I murdered," Carrera said. "There were children in that city, maybe half a million of them." He looked down at the hands he loathed. Holding them out, he said, "There's the blood of half a million kids on these hands, Lourdes."
"And my children and the children of my friends, to include Adnan's and Rukhaya's, are safer because of it."
Lourdes stood up and walked the step and a half to the stone railing around the balcony. "Patricio, if you're asking me for absolution, I can't give it. I'm not only not a priest, I'm not even Catholic. But if you're asking me if I understand that you did what you had to do, that the world is a safer and perhaps better place because of it, then, yes, I do understand that."
"That's not exactly what I'm asking," he said. "I'm asking if . . ."
She
turned around, placing her shapely posterior against the stone and folding her arms across her chest. "Of course, I still love you, you idiot."
Carrera's head sank onto his chest. "Thank you for that, my love," he said, softly.
Lourdes walked to the side of his chair and took his head in her hands, pressing it to her abdomen below her breasts. She said nothing but contented herself with stroking his hair and his cheek. After a time Carrera consulted his watch.
"It's a bit over an hour before the select committees get here," he said. He stood up and took her hand. "Let's go to bed."
* * *
Carrera looked, oh, a lot better on leaving the bedroom he shared with Lourdes than he had for a long time. For her part, he thought the smile on her face might have to be surgically relaxed. Sighing contentedly, he closed the door behind him and walked briskly, with more energy than he'd felt in seeming ages, down the broad steps, around a corner, and down a narrower set into the basement.
Carrera's first thought, as he entered the conference room in the basement, was, I should have held this somewhere else. But where? No place off of the island is as secure. The reason he thought that was . . .
"Gentlemen . . . ladies . . . please. You are not supposed to stand at attention for me anymore." Carrera's voice went low and he sounded wistful as he added, "That's not the purpose of this at all. Now, if you would please take your seats."
Parilla, the only one present who had not stood to attention, tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to contain a wry, I told you so smile. Whether that smile was directed at Carrera, at the Senatorial Select Committee, or at the legislators who had followed the Senators' lead, wasn't entirely clear.
The group was almost entirely male. There were two women from the Legislative Assembly, true, but even some of the legislators tended to be ex-legionaries, hence typically male, since many had run on Parilla's presidential ticket, and been elected on his coattails. Of those, most had volunteered for the select committee. On the other hand, the initial Senate had been handpicked from Legion veterans. Those were mostly male and, of the women who had passed through the Legion, none had really had the chance to shine.