Carnifex cl-2

by Tom Kratman

  Mustafa shrugged. Ships and mujahadin were replaceable, hence expendable. He had twenty-seven ships and nearly a thousand seamen, all dedicated to the cause.

  "We would need to load the ship with explosive—I am not sure of the best mix—and ram the carrier."

  "I don't have anything that fast," Mustafa answered.

  "I know, Prince. We would also have to attack the carrier's propellers. I found a short bit on the GlobalNet that said the carrier has AZIPOD drive. This is very good but also, I think, more vulnerable if we can detonate a ton or two of explosive near the carrier's stern. If we can, we can jam, or perhaps even totally destroy, the drives. This would leave it vulnerable to ramming. Still, Prince, this in only an idea . . . almost off the top of my head. I need to plan more, much more. But before I can plan, I need to know if you are willing to expend a freighter, several smaller fast boats, and perhaps ten or twenty million FSD for torpedoes and missiles . . . and for something else, too."

  "Define 'something else'," Mustafa said.

  "It occurred to me, Prince, that one way to get a ship close to the enemy carrier would be to pay them for protection as some other shippers are doing. Our ship could be 'running from' Abdulahi's men toward the protection of the carrier. Or, at the very least, pretending to keep close under protection of the infidel ship. The small fast boat could be lowered over the side when they got sufficiently close. Torpedoes and missiles could be fired to add to the confusion. This is all very rough, of course."

  Finished, Aziz bowed his head, awaiting Mustafa's decision. The chief thought hard for some time, in silence. He smoked two cigarettes, sipped absently at his coffee. In the end he decided.

  "Make your plan carefully, Abdul Aziz."

  29/6/467 AC, El Hipodromo, Balboa City

  Parilla had retired the week before. There'd been a parade, Carrera serving as Commander of Troops for the event to honor his friend. Speeches had been made, and more than a few tears shed. Lourdes and Mrs. Parilla had cried. Indeed, Raul Parilla, himself, had had to wipe a few unfeigned tears away at leaving the finest military force he'd ever been part of, and the only one with which he had shed his blood.

  His final comment had been, "If I didn't feel I had to do this, both for the Legion and for Balboa, you would have had to carry me off this island feet first."

  Running a presidential campaign from the island seemed like a bad idea from any number of perspectives. On the other hand, Parilla's old home in Ciudad Balboa was too dangerous a place for him to stay anymore. After all, the government still hated his guts. The Tauran Union's pet creature the Cosmopolitan Criminal Court—in effect a Tauran court, masquerading as a world court, for the prosecution of non-Taurans—still had a warrant out for his arrest. There were Tauran Union troops along the Transitway to execute that warrant, too, if he ever grew sloppy.

  Carrera had turned the original "home" of the Legion, the Casa Linda, over to Parilla and his wife, rent-free. It had stood empty for the last several years, ever since the Legion's Headquarters had moved out to the Isla Real. It, and Parilla, would be the better for it being occupied again. From there, and with a couple of maniples of legionaries around it for security's sake, Parilla would run his campaign for President of the country.

  * * *

  The city's racetrack was one of only two places in the country that would really do for Parilla to announce his candidacy. Capable of seating upwards of fifty thousand, or perhaps even sixty in a pinch, the hippodrome was surrounded by open fields and parks, as well as a broad series of parking lots.

  The other potential spot, the Furiocentro convention center, was not as scenic and was also in an area a bit too built up for safety. After all, that CCC warrant was still hanging around out there. The real advantage of the Furiocentro, that it was easily reachable by public transportation, could not outweigh that disadvantage.

  There was no sense in running for President once the country was already plunged into a civil war. One way to prevent civil war, or rather to prevent a skirmish with the Taurans that might degenerate into foreign invasion and perhaps then civil war, was to present a threat too great for the Taurans lightly to risk confronting it. That way came in the form of one hundred and sixty-four helicopters, a mix of IM-71s and heavy-lift IM-62s, carrying three full cohorts, two infantry and one Cazador, to the Hipodromo's parking lots just at dawn. These landed and disgorged their roughly three thousand troops, then lifted off to various points around the country from which they would bring in about five thousand prominent supporters of the legions, and avowed Balboan nationalists, to help fill the racetrack's stands.

  Some of the Legion's naval assets, in particular the dozen large Volgan hovercraft used to transport recruits to the island for initial training and legionaries to the mainland for R and R and leave, were set to bringing in campesinos from outlying provinces. Still others would meet any of the several hundred buses chartered by the Legion at various spots within the city and the Transitway Zone. Fixed-wing aircraft, as well, were sent to pick up supporters from outlying airfields.

  Just to cover all bases, the Legion had further paid to have on hand thirty-four hundred off-duty police to help with crowd control. It never hurts to have the cops on one's side.

  By ten a.m. the troops and police had a cordon around the area, one tercio was formed up inside to parade, the stands were filled past capacity, and the television studios had their news and camera crews waiting for Parilla to emerge.

  * * *

  Carrera and McNamara sat in the private room in the Hippodrome while Parilla went through his paces calmly.

  "You're not the least bit nervous, are you, Raul?" Carrera marveled.

  "Nervous about what?"

  Parilla really didn't understand the question. There was a crowd; he was going to speak to it. He'd done it a thousand times before. Hell, he'd been dictator in all but name before. What was to worry about making a speech?

  Carrera smiled and shook his head. Some people had the political bug and the talent to pull it off. He didn't. Though he liked to teach, he hated making speeches and rarely finished one, on the few occasions he had, when he didn't feel like a fool. Even when he had to talk to troops—and those were the only crowds he was remotely comfortable with—he kept his words short and to the point, the better to get off stage as quickly as possible.

  Then Parilla understood. "God doesn't give everything to one man, my friend. You're a soldier, unquestionably the finest I've ever known. I'm not half the soldier you are and I never could have been. But politics? That I can do."

  I'm glad one of us can, Raul, Carrera thought.

  Turning to McNamara, Carrera said, "Sergeant Major, let's take our place outside so the future President of the republic can make a proper grand entrance."

  Meanwhile, the opening show was beginning.

  * * *

  She was as black and as glowing as high quality anthracite. Her color was made the more remarkably and beautifully striking by the large red blossom she wore in her wavy, midnight hair and the long dress that matched the flower. With huge brown eyes, high cheekbones, a body to die for and a smile that made one think of Heaven; she was Miss Balboa, 466. Today was the day she repaid the Legion for funding her win of the national crown and her almost successful attempt at the Miss Terra Nova title.

  Artemisia Jimenez, legionary Legate Xavier Jimenez's niece, was going to repay her debt by her presence, her speech and her singing, today. She would add her support later on and throughout the campaign. Her voice, clear and sweet, had been her talent for the beauty pageants.

  Professor's Ruiz propaganda department had come up with the song. It was not new, by any means, but had, like many others in the legionary repertoire, been scavenged from the history of Old Earth. In its translated form it was called "Mañana Sera Mejor," Tomorrow will be better.

  The band played a medley of legionary tunes as Artemisia mounted the dais. The selections included small excerpts from Juventud Adelante and Canto al Aq
uila, the Hymno Nacional and El Valle de las Lunas. The tune from Mañana Sera Mejor was interwoven with the others to accustom the audience to it and, with the program sheets that had also been passed out, make it easier for them to follow along and join in.

  Artemisia gracefully removed the light shawl she wore and draped it over a microphone stand after she removed the microphone. As she did she saw two uniformed men emerge from a side door and enter the stand. Her breath caught in her throat.

  The crowd hushed; even at a distance her flesh exuded an aura of untouchable, ultimate femininity that one could only admire, desire, or aspire to.

  Stealing sidelong glances in the general direction of the men in uniform, Artemisia began to speak an introduction for Raul Parilla that either came from the heart or was a first-class imitation. She could have been reading the menu from any given restaurant and the people listening would have been as rapt.

  * * *

  "That fucking bastard," President Rocaberti fumed at his short, pudgy nephew. "That miserable fucking peasant piece of low class shit. The filthy swine."

  The President's nephew, Arnulfo, another Rocaberti and cousin of that same Manuel Rocaberti who had been shot for cowardice in Sumer six years before, answered, "Sex sells, Uncle. And Artemisia Jimenez is about as sexy as it gets. Clever of them to use her. Cleverer of them to have supported her ambitions early on. Why didn't we think of that, Uncle?"

  "We didn't think of it, Arnulfo, because politics in this country had always been the province of the good families, of those with the dignity of position and wealth. Who ever thought we'd actually have to fight an election rather than simply coming up with an agreement among those who mattered as to which clan would have the honors this time around?"

  "Parilla and his pet gringo thought so," Arnulfo answered. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to have brought in the Taurans, after all. I doubt that either of them, Parilla or Carrera—"

  "And that's another damned thing," the President interrupted. "What goddamned business is it of this fucking imported maniac how we run our country? He's not even a citizen."

  Arnulfo shrugged. At heart he was an honest and fair-minded sort, or as honest and fair-minded as someone raised to care for family above all could hope to be. "His blood's buried here, whatever could be found of it. He's remarried back into us. All his friends are here. Nearly everything he owns, and apparently he owns a lot, Uncle, is here. As I was about to say, when you brought in the Taurans, you threatened all that."

  "Spilled milk," the President retorted. "And you don't know that we wouldn't have had to face an election, anyway, a real election. Parilla has wanted to be President for decades and was only kept from the office by the machinations of Piña. Besides, all the money they have gained using our citizens as cannon fodder is rightfully ours."

  "They seem to have redistributed quite a bit of that money, Uncle, a lot more than we would have in their shoes. Have you any idea how much they've plowed back in to the Republic? It's in the billions; schools, clinics, factories, banks, parks, job training. The list goes on. They even put some into producing a real competitor for Miss Terra Nova, and, let me tell you, that earned them a lot more in good will than they paid for it."

  "And how many sons were lost in earning that money, would you tell me that?" the President asked, huffily.

  "It seems that a hundred-thousand-drachma death gratuity and lifetime pension and care for wives and parents, plus education for younger siblings and children, go a long way toward stifling resentment for lost sons, Uncle. Especially when our families are large, and jobs and farmland quite limited."

  The President bit back an answer, then sighed. His face assumed a hopeless look. "You mean we are going to lose the election, don't you?"

  "As things stand now, Uncle? Stinking. We haven't a prayer. We'll lose the presidency. We'll lose the legislature; both houses, mind you. And a few months after that we'll lose the Supreme Court. And right after that, you can be sure the investigations will start."

  "Investigations?"

  Arnulfo pointed at the television against one wall. "Listen for yourself, Uncle."

  * * *

  Parilla scowled and pointed directly into the battery of TV camera's facing the stand. "Tell us where, Presidente Rocaberti, tell us where. Where is the money from the cable television deal? Tell us where."

  Led by legionaries scattered among them and dressed in mufti, the crowd chanted, "TELL US WHERRRE."

  "How much was the bribe to your family that turned management of the Transitway over to the Zhong? Presidente Rocaberti, tell us how much."

  "HOW MUUUCHCHCH?"

  "Where are the donatives the boys of the Legion del Cid earned and turned over to the government, Mr. President?"

  "WHERRRE?"

  "How much have the Taurans paid you to let us become their colony?"

  "HOW MUUUCHCHCH?"

  Parilla stopped speaking briefly, to allow the crowd to compose itself. After all, this was a speech to announce candidacy, not an incitement to riot.

  He smiled broadly, then joked, "For the answers to these and a hundred other questions on how the old families have robbed the Republic and the people, stay tuned for election night results, my friends, because today, now, this minute, I, Raul Parilla, am announcing my candidacy for the office of Presidente de le Republica. And I promise you that when I am elected we SHALL HAVE ANSWERS. I promise you, as well, a better, a more honest, tomorrow. So help me, God."

  That was the cue for both the band and Artemisia. After a drum roll, and the playing of the first bars, she began to sing,

  "El sol del verano

  Es renacido

  Libre es el bosque

  Por mi . . .

  * * *

  "O' Patria, Patria, enseña nos;

  Tus hijos esperan por ti.

  El dia viene quando se levantas

  Mañana sera mejor!"

  The President's hand lanced to the remote, to cut off the images shown on the screen as the camera panned along the galleries. They were all singing, all fifty thousand plus of them.

  His nephew stopped him. "No, Uncle, we need to see this."

  "O Patria, Patria, enseña nos;

  Tus hijos esperan por ti."

  "We're screwed," he said.

  "We're screwed without some desperate measures," Arnulfo agreed. He didn't add, but thought, Though sometimes desperate measures might include just coming clean and giving back some of what we've stolen.

  "Mañana sera,

  Mañana sera,

  Mañana sera mejor!"

  32/6/467 AC, Panshir Base, Pashtia

  Every day got a little worse. What had begun with directed terrorism and the distant siege of ambush of roads and blowing of bridges had grown to the point that most of the Tauran Union troops were confined to their bases, under frequent if not quite constant mortar and rocket attack. The Anglians and Secordians fought to keep the roads open, to rebuild the bridges, even to combat the terrorism on behalf of the TU troops that were forbidden by their governments from actively seeking battle.

  In the larger sense, though, those English-speaking men and women were fighting to let the Progressive administration in Hamilton keeps it promise not to commit further Federated States troops to the war, but to rely on their "allies." In the largest sense, they were all fighting to prevent what their governments considered the ultimate disaster.

  That ultimate disaster? It was not that the Salafis should regain control of Pashtia, nor even that they might use it for further attacks. No; the TU leadership—though many around the globe considered that expression to the ultimate oxymoron—lived in desperate fear that the fickle populace of the Federated States might once again elect an administration that quite simply considered the TU, indeed the rest of the world, to be largely voiceless and irrelevant.

  "And even that's not enough to get the bastards to let us fight," fumed Claudio Marciano, as a large caliber mortar round detonated inside his camp, a few hu
ndred meters to the east of his sandbagged command post. Following on the heels of the explosion he heard the cry "Medic!" and the scream of an ambulance siren.

  "'Fighting never settled anything,' Generale," quoted Stefano del Collea, his eyes turned Heavenward in mock piety.

  "Tell it to the city fathers of Carthage," Marciano retorted. "You know what bugs me about it, Stefano?"

  "No, sir. I mean, other than the unnerving blasts, the wounded troopers, the sheer frustration of being here and not allowed to do our fucking jobs, sir, what could possibly be troublesome?"

  Barely, Marciano restrained the urge to slap his cynical aide with his helmet. Instead, he said, "What bothers me is that they're able to keep this up at all. I mean, without the roads—which our masters made us give away—we can still get enough to eat. Our enemies are not only apparently eating; they've got the logistic wherewithal to bring in shells by the ton-load."