by Tom Kratman
Shortly after he had left her, Menshikov returned to the Ocelot. "Mrs. Carrera, it's over. Come now, quickly."
Lourdes dismounted and saw a few Volgans being treated for minor wounds. A couple of others were plainly dead. Others still were dragging Balboan bodies out of the way, perhaps twenty or so of them. Lourdes began to cry as a squad of Volgans clustered around her to shield her from even the chance of fire.
Menshikov led Lourdes upstairs. A number of civilian clad Balboan television workers were cowering on the floor when they arrived in the studio.
"On your feet, all of you!" Menshikov shouted. "Who's in charge!"
A wide eyed man, fortyish, identified himself timidly as the station chief.
"I want your hairdresser and makeup man," Menshikov said. "I want anybody necessary to run this studio. And I want any file shots you have of any of the projects to help the people Carrera and Parilla have started." Menshikov pointed towards Lourdes. "She's going to make a speech and if I think for a minute you're not doing everything you can to make it perfect, I'll hang you by your balls 'til they drop off. Clear?"
The studio chief's eyes grew wider still. He nodded emphatically, but said, "But the President of the Republic—well, President Rocaberti, anyway—is supposed to speak soon."
"Not over this fucking channel, he's not. Now move!"
The studio head began to issue orders to his people.
Old Presidential Palace, Balboa City, Terra Nova
The President leaned back in his chair while camera makeup was applied to his face. His mental rehearsal of his coming speech was interrupted by an aide.
"Mr. President, we have received a report of shooting, a lot of shooting, over by the Channel Seven studio."
Without moving from his position the President asked "Did you investigate."
"Yes, sir. I tried calling the studio but the phones were out. Over the satellite link, when I was able to use that, they said some drunken soldiers were firing their guns into the air in celebration. The person I spoke to seemed very nervous though."
"Well, send someone to investigate."
"Yes, sir."
* * *
Make up job finished, the President turned to face into the waiting camera's. Television workers huddled over monitors behind the cameras. He began to speak:
"Citizens, countrymen, it is my sad duty to . . ."
"What the hell?" shouted the man who was overseeing Channel Seven's monitor. He pushed his chair back as if struck. The President's eyes opened wide to see Lourdes' face on the screen. She looked very sad.
Forgetting where he was, the President shouted "Get that damned bitch off the air." The man leaning back in his chair just shook his head helplessly. "No way," he answered. "It's originating at the Channel Seven studio. I can't control it from here."
The President turned to the Seventh Legion Commander. "Then shut the studio down."
"Too late, I think," answered Pigna.
"Not too late to limit the damage," Rocaberti insisted. "Send a full regiment, if that's what it takes."
Nodding, Pigna left to issue the necessary orders.
* * *
Looking into the camera, Lourdes began to speak:
"Most of you won't know me. I'm Lourdes Carrera, Duque Carrera's wife. I've come to talk to you today about two men. One of these I love like a father. The other is my husband, Patricio Carrera."
"As much as I love them, I must tell you I know these men love all of you more than they love me. How do I know this? I know the heart of the man I share my bed with. I know how much time my husband gives to me . . . and how much he gives to you.
"You know too, in your hearts. Think back a dozen or so years. Where were we? Our economy was bankrupt by a hostile foreign power. Our unemployment was almost universal. Our cities were in ruin and chaos. Crime and the Federated States ruled our streets. Many . . . too, too many, of our best young men were killed or crippled by an unprovoked invasion.
"And who caused that invasion? Don't bother to blame the Federated States; they acted in their own interest, as they always do. Do not blame the shark for being a shark, he knows no other way. Blame instead the man who would speak to you on the other channels. Blame too those selfish, immoral advisors and helpers who abetted him in his scheme to reintroduce colonialism to Balboa.
"Now, of course, the scars of that time are healed. Crime is almost gone from our country. Our people are back to work. More fine young men have risen to take the place of those fallen in battle. Our cities are clean and safe. The future has never looked brighter for us.
"Despite troubles, you are happier than you have ever been. At least, those of you who have always been shut out by the oligarchs are happier. Plainly, the oligarchs themselves were displeased with your new prosperity. They feared that if you weren't starving, you might be thinking . . . thinking of them and the stranglehold they wish to have over your lives.
"How many of you have jobs now better than any you ever dreamed of? Better places to live? How many have children in free schools? How many of your children have been treated in clinics without charge? How many have sons and daughters being trained even now for the bright future ahead? Even for those who don't have these things yet, you have at the least the hope of them . . . a hope you never had before.
"And who gave you back these things? Do not look to Rocaberti or his co-conspirators. They would have you all groveling in the dirt—you, your children, your children's children—through eternity if they could.
"Only two men had the vision and the love to help you to these things: Raul Parilla and Patricio Carrera, my husband. Please join me in prayer for them, wherever they are, if they are even still alive. For, you see, last night evil, wicked men came and took them away from you. I, myself, barely escaped with my children, mine and Patricio's, and my life."
Lourdes paused to shed a tear. "I . . . I had to kill a man to bring you this word."
"But do not just take my word for what these two great men have done for you. Look for yourselves."
Lourdes' voice continued, but her face was replaced with a series of shots of newly built schools, clinics treating children, and factories full of busy, smiling, often sweating, workers.
From outside the studio came the sounds of more heavy gunfire as the Presidentially ordered 'investigation' reached the Volgans' perimeter. On screen, before a nation, Lourdes visibly shuddered, but continued even so "They accuse my husband and General Parilla of running drugs. I know, and you know, that could not be the case. Yes, they take money from the Santanderns, a lot of money, all of which they use for your good. But the operative word is take. They give us money because they're afraid of Presidente Parilla and my husband. No one in the world has fought harder against the drug lords than has Patricio Carrera. Listen to the words of this foreign born officer. Foreign born he may be, but he is Balboan by blood given if not by blood received." The Camera panned to show Menshikov sitting next to Lourdes.
Still speaking, she asked "Tribune Menshikov, would you please tell the people where you were and what you were doing on the first night you were in battle with Duque Carrera?"
"Why, we were in Santander, Mrs. Carrera," Menshikov said, "fighting to put an end to the terror the Santandern drug chiefs had inflicted on Balboa . . ."
* * *
As Lourdes and then Menshikov spoke, all over the city units of the Seventh Legion began turning themselves, and command of themselves, over to local forces, even as those local forces grew with reservists and militiamen showing up armed and accoutered for battle. Before noon, the first elements of Third Legion were crossing the demarcation line that had separated out Rocaberti's Old City from the rest of Balboa, killing all who resisted and stood in their path.
Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa Transitway Area
Janier's face was ashen, in stark contrast to the blue and gold of his unofficial dress uniform. "What went wrong?" he asked, of nobody in particular.
"Two things
," de Villepin said, his voice low with worry, "Muñoz and the woman. We might have succeeded if either of those had gone right, the woman kept incommunicado and the Castilian kidnapped and killed, with the other side being blamed for it. As is . . ."
"Can we extract the two companies of commandos at the Gatun River?" Janier asked.
De Villepin shook his head in negation. "When he wants to move fast, Muñoz plainly can. The commandos are trapped and the pickup zones we could have used for helicopter extraction under heavy mortar fire. And, after we tried to have him kidnapped, I doubt he'll be in a reasonable mood."
"Don't you have a contact there?" the general asked.
"The Castilian shot him."
"Merde! What about the Twentieth Mechanized?"
"They're clear for now," de Villepin said. "I can't for say how long that will be the case. The Balboans are swarming like ants. I think we should pull them back while we can."
"Any sign the Balboans are crossing into the Transitway Area?"
De Villepin shook his head again. "Not 'crossing,' no. But . . ."
"Go on."
"Their Tenth Artillery Legion, which, as near as we can tell has something approaching two hundred guns, heavy mortars, and rocket launchers, is taking up positions from which they can level this post."
"Why haven't they opened fire, do you think?" Janier asked.
De Villepin laughed. "Because their commander hasn't given them the word to. And is still alive, so far as they know. If he were dead, or gave the word . . ."
Officer's Mess, Santiago Air Force Base, Santiago Santander, 16 January, 0920 hrs
Lieutenant San Martin looked at Captain Hartmann incredulously. "You were giving us the straight word? I don't believe it. I can't believe it."
Hartmann, San Martin, and most of the pilots of their squadron were listening raptly to the Global News Network's rebroadcast of Lourdes' speech. When Menshikov began to speak, however, all eyes turned to Hartmann. He tried to, but couldn't, look smug. That bastard, thought Hartmann. He was Balboan all along. Working for them, anyway. And he convinced me to lie, by telling the truth . . . by lying.
Everyone present thought Hartmann's laugh was in self congratulation. He didn't try to disabuse them of the notion.
Hamilton, FD, Federated States, Terra Nova
Karl Schumann, the President of the Federated States, was livid. Those miserable fucking spics, he thought initially, then with more immediate practicality, How do I squirm out of this one?
By the time the first reporter was put through to the White House, the President of the United States had his answer. "Well, Dan, you see it was like this. We and the Balboans both had good cause to hit the drug lords. But they just weren't able to stand up to Santander if the Santanderns retaliated. So they did the job, with our tacit support. And we took the 'blame' because Santander can't hope to hurt us."
A more objective reporter might have pointed out that 'tacit support' really means no active opposition, even if one didn't oppose because one didn't know. However, with an election year coming up, few, if any, of the press would have done anything to hurt their candidate, not when he was expected to run against a 'rabid' conservative Federalist.
Presidential Palace, Ciudad Balboa, Terra Nova
There was firing—all small arms, so far—around the perimeter of the old city enclave. That was the two companies of civil police still loyal to the Rocaberti's. They had the advantage of fighting from buildings but neither the arms nor the training to do so with any long term prospects for success. From the old Palace, the firing seemed to be growing ever closer.
"It's too late, Mr. President," Pigna said, upon his return. "None of my units will listen and the few officers I brought into the plot late have either turned or been shot. We've got to get out of here, now. It's all over. We've lost."
At the word, "lost," Barletta, who was present now, put his head in his hands with despair. Can a man have made a greater mistake? he asked himself.
"No" said the President. "The Taurans will help us. They must. Has there been any word from their general or their Ambassador?" he asked.
An aide answered, hesitantly, "It seems that the Castilian battalion at Fort Williams has defected and is currently engaged in battling some of the TU commandos at Gatun River. The mechanized troops at the Bridge of the Colombias are probably going to be pulling back to Fort Muddville. And General Janier reports that the Charlemagne is pulling back to the docks at the Dahlgren Naval station and recovering its aircraft."
The President hesitated. "Fine. We'll go now. But send the orders to where Carrera and Parilla are being held. I want them and any other prisoners we hold all shot within the hour. They'll not live to laugh over our failure."
"By sea or by land?" Pigna asked. "Forget that, stupid question. With the Frog carrier pulling back the other side owns the sea."
"Yes," Rocaberti agreed. "Our only chance of survival is to get to the Taurans. If we can do that, it's even possible that the Federated States might intervene and force them to give us back this much."
Pigna said nothing, but shook his head.
Rocaberti looked dismally around his ornate office. It was hard, hard, leaving his life, the remnants of his power, and his chance for revenge behind. The rump President waited until the order to kill Carrera and Parilla was transmitted, then left his office for his limousine and safety among the Taurans. Pigna and the Chief of the City's police, along with some few others, followed.
Santa Clara Temporary Detention Facility, Dahlgren Naval Station, Balboa, Terra Nova
Major Rojas, older than most, which explained much, and fatter, which explained even more, was one of the policeman who had remained loyal to the oligarchs when Parilla had won election to the presidency. He looked at a piece of paper slipped into his hand by an underling manning the radio. He looked at it again, crossed himself, and said, aloud, "Pablo, this is wrong on so many levels I don't know where to begin."
"Sir?" asked the radio operator, Pablo, who had passed on the message.
"They want me to kill Parilla and Carrera in cold blood. I can't do that. Turn them over in answer to a legitimate extradition order? Sure. Just shoot them like dogs? No."
"Then what, sir?"
"Then . . . I'm going to try to cut us a deal."
"A deal?"
"Sure. Why not? He and Parilla are both men of their word. But . . . ummm . . . Pablo, do we still have the guards who worked the two over?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Go get a few men and arrest that crew. They might make an adequate sacrificial offering. And after that, see if you can raise someone at the Estado Major to let them know we have their chiefs. Meanwhile, I'm going to see about getting someone's word of honor."
Three Hundred meters north of the Bridge of the Colombias, Balboa, Terra Nova
"I don't understand it," Rocaberti said. "Janier gave me his word that there would be soldiers here to provide us a safe haven and escort if things went to crap. But . . ." He shrugged, eloquently, while gazing in the general direction of a Tauran Union fighting vehicle, legging it trippingly for the demarcation line between the Transitway Area and Balboa proper.
Suddenly the street around the convoy seemed full of soldiers, in the pixilated tiger stripes of the Legion, all armed and looking decidedly dangerous. Their bayoneted rifles aimed steadily at heads and torsos, engines and tires. Perhaps just for emphasis, still other legionaries aimed rocket grenade launchers, or RGLs, at armored limousines.
The forward most of the vehicles in the convoy, not Rocabertis, attempted to run. An RGL armed legionary fired, his rocket impacting on the front windshield. The armor was useless against the directed explosive. That vehicle veered left, crashed into another, and stopped dead, blocking the road.
As the rump president and his staff and collaborators were hustled out and bound with duct tape, three IM-71 helicopters in Legion colors beat through the air overhead, heading in the general direction of Dahlgren Naval S
tation and Santa Clara.
Santa Clara Temporary Detention Facility, Dahlgren Naval Station, Balboa, Terra Nova
Major Rojas was waiting with Carrera and Parilla. Only Parilla was standing, as Carrera's beating had been long and thorough. His face was a swollen, mottled ruin, nose twisted to one side, one ear half detached where a boot had scoured it. His lips were split and a couple of teeth had gone missing.
Volgan infantry poured off the rapidly opened clamshell doors at the backs of three Legion helicopters. Their bayonets were fixed and there was blood in their eyes. Parilla moved directly in front of Rojas, who was trying his best not to soil his trousers.
"Leave this one and his men alone," Parilla shouted. "There are two bound prisoners in the lower level. Bring them to me alive."
Lourdes had followed on the heels of the infantry. One look at Carrera, lying on a stretcher, had her sprinting for his side and throwing herself over him, sobbing and wailing at the damage done to the man she loved.
"What have they done to you, Patricio, my very dearest."
"Nozink . . . goo . . . I t'ink," he got out through bloody, swollen lips. "Lon' tahm wit' t'e den'is' for me, nu."