by Tom Kratman
Campbell shot him a dirty look. “You mean it’s a ha-ha on the surface, so they don’t feel compelled to shoot us for refusal to work on an antitank ditch?”
“See, that’s why you’re an officer and I’m just a—”
“Can it, Kris.”
Smiling, satisfied with the jab, the sergeant major shut up. In the silence, Campbell continued studying what she could see of the defensive line.
“Formidable enough,” was her judgment, a judgment in which Hendryksen largely concurred.
“Hard to flank, too,” he said, “being anchored on the lake, I imagine, at one end and probably with a refused flank off in the jungle somewhere, at the other.”
“Take it from behind?” she asked.
“Maybe, if in force, especially on the ground. I wouldn’t count on the chances of an airmobile assault doing the job; the Balboans appear to be pretty much death on people who try to get fancy with them.”
“They’re not above getting ‘fancy’ themselves,” she observed.
“True,” Hendryksen agreed, “but they’ve definite limits.”
“Why this?” Campbell asked. “When their major enemy, us, was bound to come from the Shimmering Sea side, why have this line facing the Mar Furioso?”
“It’s still just an educated guess,” he answered, “but my guess is port capacity.”
“Huh?”
“There’s essentially no way that an invasion coming from the Shimmering Sea side can get to the capital city until the port of Cristobal falls. Though they haven’t let us see it, I’d bet a month’s pay against yours that Cristobal can also be turned into a fortress, or is being turned into one, in short order. Thus, there is no real threat from the south. They think.”
“We’re no logistic slouches, ourselves,” she said, “even if we won’t commit the resources to it the Federated States will.”
“Right,” he agreed. “We probably could isolate Cristobal and supply over the shore a large enough force to besiege that city and take this line from behind. But I don’t think they know that.”
Jan was skeptical. “Why not?” she asked.
“Because Carrera’s not a Marine nor, so far as we’ve ever been able to determine, has he ever done any major Logistics Over The Shore work.”
“Oh.” Though she was loathe to admit it, Jan had never done any LOTS work either.
“Wouldn’t have to be just LOTS,” said a nearby, tall and beefy, ruddy-faced Sachsen in a pause for breath between lifting shovelfuls of dirt to a sandbag. “There’s a good port at Puerto Lindo, and one almost as good at Nicuesa to the west. Can’t really use that last one, though.”
“Why not?” Hendryksen asked.
“Add fifty miles to the supply line and need three divisions to guard the route,” said the Sachsen. “I doubt the port could support more than two, with the increased need for trucking, so it would be a net loser. Even if the Tauran Union could muster the extra divisions, which it probably cannot. Worse, the road from Cristobal to Nicuesa is dirt, which is to say mud, most of the year. It may not be even theoretically possible to supply much of anyone from there without putting in an entirely new road.
“On the other hand, two brigades could probably secure the place to use as a supply dump, from which we could support a fair force further east by small boat and hovercraft.”
“And you are?” asked Hendryksen. He already knew the Sachsen wasn’t from his and Campbell’s group. Since the Sachsen was also shirtless, he had no clue as to rank.
“Kapitänleutnant von Bernhard, at your service,” said the Sachsen, dropping the sandbags and reaching out one hand to shake. “My friends call me ‘Richard’ or ‘Rich.’ My ship, the Z186, was in for a lengthy refit, so I was available and got volunteered by my service to work logistics for the TUSF-B. I hadn’t been here six weeks before the war started, then I got caught up in the fall of the Transitway. I was almost halfway to the coast where I might have been able to steal a small boat when they caught me.”
“Farther than we got,” admitted Campbell. “They snagged us in a drainage ditch by the northern end of Brookings Field.”
“And we were lucky, at that,” said the Cimbrian, “that the group that caught us wasn’t feeling bloody-minded.”
The foot of Second Cohort, Second Tercio, struggled up the central cordillera laden like pack mules, bent over like old, old men. Appropriately, they sang an old song as they climbed:
. . . Si mi cuerpo se quedara roto,
Formaría en la legión de honor,
Montaría la guardia en los luceros,
Formaría junto al mejor . . .
Taking up the rear of his cohort’s column, as it struggled over the ridge to the south, Sergeant Major Ricardo Cruz, Second Cohort, Second Tercio, wasn’t at first sure he should believe his eyes. But there weren’t too many blondes in his country, and none with quite the proportions of the woman he saw standing with a couple of other Taurans. One of whom was—
“Well, hell,” Cruz said to Hendryksen, clapping the latter on the shoulder. “I am very pleased you made it.” He turned then to Jan Campbell, remembered to salute, and said, warmly, “And you, too, ma’am.”
“It was close,” said the Cimbrian POW, a sentiment echoed by the Anglian woman.
“Were you on Cerro Mina?” Cruz asked in whisper. When they nodded, he said, “It was closer than you know.”
“It’s true then?” asked Campbell. “Your people killed everything living?”
Cruz shook his head. “No, ma’am, not quite everything. I was able to save a couple. And some of the others kept their heads. Still . . . still . . . it was pretty bad.”
“But why?” Hendryksen asked. “Your people are death on the law of war.”
“It was what happened to the women, the Amazons, who went in before us. You think you know a group of men . . . but you don’t, not until you see them after they see ‘their’ women shot up. And before you ask, no, it’s unlikely anybody is going to be court-martialed over it. Temporary insanity would be the plea, and no jury of ours would convict, while no jury of yours could be trusted.”
Cruz turned around then, to see the tail of his column disappearing into the jungle. He dropped his pack, then pulled a can out. This he passed over to Hendryksen who shook it.
“Legionary rum? To what do—”
“Oh, just shut up and take it, you damned Viking!” said Cruz, slinging his heavy pack back across his back. “No promises, but if I get the chance I’ll look you up again.”
“Thank you, Centurion,” answered Campbell warmly. Why is it the really good ones are already taken?
Kaiserswerth, Sachsen, Tauran Union, Terra Nova
Khalid, Fernandez’s chief assassin, maintained several homes in the parts of the Tauran Union that fell under his purview, as well as two safe houses, that were out of that purview. One of the safe houses was in Kaiserswerth.
And will it remain safe after I do this? wondered Khalid. “This” was something Khalid found truly, nay epically, bizarre, the preparation and placing into the mail of several hundred letters of condolence from the president of the Republic of Balboa, to the next of kin of Sachsen and Gallic soldiers recently fallen in battle in Balboa, along with—What the fuck are they thinking?—checks in the same amount, six thousand Federated States Drachma converted into Tauran currency, as was given immediately to the families of Balboa’s fallen to tide them over until the regular system of family support and insurance could catch up.
No real question about how they came up with the information, though. They’ve got the bodies and they’ve got the records. Indeed, they know better than the nations of the Tauran Union . . . ohhhh . . . now I get it. Well, best get on with doing up the letters and having the computer sign the checks.
Khalid, a man more than ordinarily religious in a nation and armed force themselves more than ordinarily religious, looked Heavenward and said, “Allah, I appreciate it that, being a bad man myself, I am, by Your grace, allo
wed to work for men even more wicked than I. It demonstrates that if there is hope for them then surely there must be hope for me.” Then, laughing softly, he began churning out the letters of condolence.
Over the grinding of the printer could be heard, in Arabic, “Wicked, wicked, WICKED men!”
On the plus side, at least they haven’t forged letters on official stationary ordering widows out of their military housing . . . ummm . . . yet.
Port of Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
Several ships tied up at dock had disgorged little and were not counted among the twenty that had brought in that half-million tons. Oh, they’d given up something, of course. The one labeled Queenie on her stern, for example, had vomited up a hundred thousand containerized sacks of rice, then had taken on several hundred other containers before sailing off to Yamato, there to link up with another, similar vessel, the Quernmore, where some cargo would be transshipped. Another, a substantial cruise ship that just happened to be in the area—where Carrera, who owned it, had ordered it to be—had been “commandeered,” then filled to bursting with young children and a fair complement of adults and older boys to care for them. This ship, the Emerald of Hibernia, Balboan registry, was heading to a port in Valdivia, Saavedra, the narrow, mountainous country on the eastern coast of Colombia del Norte. This was partly for the children’s safety, partly to reduce the logistic burden within Balboa should the war kick off again, as everyone really expected, partly to get a ship in position to bring back to Balboa the thousand superb mountain infantry Valdivia had offered to help defend Balboa against further Tauran aggression, plus another four national contingents that were of about the same size, equally elite, but less specialized. There was another reason for the trip, entirely, but that playing itself out would take some time.
Once that trip was complete, the Emerald of Hibernia was to make a trip down the other coast of Colombia del Norte, and through the Shimmering Sea, to pick up another six contingents, in size ranging from cohort to tercio.
With mothers weeping and rather more dry eyed, and often uniformed, fathers waving, that cruise ship began churning the waters behind it, backing up slowly to where tugs could take over and reorient it to make passage out of the port.
Herrera International Airport, Balboa, Terra Nova
The bodies, of which there had been very many, were gone, at least. Yet the bloodstains of shattered cadets and fallen Gallic paratroopers remained in the carpets of the terminal. Idly, Carrera thought that, following the war, and assuming they won, those carpets should be collected, preserved, and put on wall display for the enlightenment of future generations. The message? See here the courage of Balboa’s children. Will the sons of her sons show less?
If the bodies were gone, so were the windows. And with them gone, air conditioning was an exercise in futility. With that gone, the place became an oven and, worse, frankly reeked with the iron-coppery smell of a slaughterhouse.
Screw this crap, thought Carrera. Beckoning his sergeant major, Martinez, and his AdC, Santillana, he stomped out of the terminal to the tarmac to await the arrival of a very special contingent of volunteers. Over one shoulder, Martinez carried a case-covered silver eagle on a spiral-carved staff. The Balboans and Sumeris, especially these Sumeris, had a mutual admiration society going on and going back to the year 461.
The side of the first of the big airships read, “Republic of Sumer Airlines,” in both English and Arabic script. Likewise did the next two. They were painted green, with the lettering white. The last two read differently, for Sumer had only the three airships of its own. They said, “Aerolineas Balboenses,” and didn’t bother with any other language.
There were different kinds of airships in use across the planet of Terra Nova. Some required extensive ground support to make landing. Others, the most modern types, needed nothing but a flat surface. The two Balboan airships were of the former type. The three Sumeris, funded by lavish oil reserves, were of the latter.
Thus, while the Balboans dropped cables that were picked up by super-heavy vehicles, that dragged the airships to hollowed out docking bays, the Sumeri airships used maneuvering thrusters to come down more smoothly and neatly than perhaps any helicopter was capable of.
Got to get us some of those . . . when we can afford it, thought Carrera, admiringly. Fortunately, Sada said I could hang onto these three until just before the shooting starts. And I do have some uses in mind.
There was a small parade stand set up a hundred meters from the terminal. On either side of the stand, cameramen from TeleVision Militar stood by.
The stand had a sheltering awning and was on wheels so it could be pushed out of the way when not needed. It had already been used three times, to welcome in a cohort of Lempiran Mountaineers, another of Atlacatlan Cazadores, and the entire Atzlan Parachute Brigade.
The Lempirans and Atlacatlans thoroughly detested each other. Fortunately, the former, like the Valdivians, were most suitable for attachment to Balboa’s Fifth Mountain Tercio while the latter could be sent, and had been sent, to Seventh Legion in Third Corps.
Onto the stand Carrera and his entourage stepped, with Martinez placing the staff of the eagle in a special holder built into the stand. Then they waited, but not for so very long. Nor had they expected to. Qabaash, the commander of this brigade—now this tercio—of the Sumeri Presidential Guard Division, was an old friend, quite well regarded. If anyone could be counted on to have rehearsed his troops for a snappy exit from the airships and a snappy parade across the airfield, it was him.
Nor did the Sumeri disappoint. On cue—Carrera was certain it was on cue—every ramp on each of the five airships dropped, disgorging one or a few Sumeri guardsmen. Six of them bore colors and about thirty had guidons. He could see Qabaash emerge, too, followed by his immediate staff and his command’s colors. Carrera’s eyes were beginning to get old and difficult, and the heat shimmer off the tarmac didn’t help a bit, but he was pretty sure he saw someone with a radio on his back, too.
Well, just decent planning, that.
Again on cue, and again from every exit, the rest of Qabaash’s command surged, only this time it was like a mosque—or thirty of them—opening the doors following Friday services. A veritable wave of armed, uniformed Sumeris rolled across the airfield before beginning to separate out into the six major cohorts of the about to be formed Forty-third Tercio. It was all visually rather impressive. It was all also being recorded for later broadcast by Professor Ruiz’s organization, which was broadly concerned with morale and propaganda, along with certain aspects of education.
Though the troops and organization certainly had extensive baggage still in the holds of their airships, little beyond packs and rifles was in evidence. That little included a bagpipe band, with some drums. At Qabaash’s order, that band picked up a tune the Sumeris had learned from the Legion del Cid, in and around the town of Ninewah, “Boinas Azules Cruzan la Frontera.” Then, on a drum signal, the entire mass marched forward on line until Qabaash was within speaking range of Carrera.
Halting, Qabaash saluted, then quoted an old proverb, loud enough for all of his officers and most of his men to hear, “ ‘If a pot is cooking, a friendship will stay warm.’ Thank you for inviting us to the feast, Duque! First Brigade, Sumeri Presidential Guard, Forty-third Tercio, Legion del Cid, reports for duty!”
CHAPTER TWO
The first principle of deception is to aim to strengthen an opponent’s preconceptions.
—Anthony Clayton,
Forearmed: A History of the Intelligence Corps
Tauran Defense Agency, Lumière, Gaul, Terra Nova
The air of mourning hadn’t gone away yet. Janier wondered if it ever would. Officers and noncoms walked sullenly and silently through the marble corridors of the headquarters, heads down, and fearful as if they expected something like clawed arms to emerge from the walls and drag them off to perdition. Even the head of the agency, Elisabeth Ashworth, was making herself scarce, and she was univer
sally believed to be far too ignorant to understand even the obvious aspects of the disaster.
Janier had, if anything, even more to mourn. His reputation was in ashes, true, but worse than that, his self-image was utterly cast down. He felt so low, so inadequate, so much the crux of an elaborate lie—My whole life a lie!—that not only had he not donned his reproduction uniform and baton of a marshal of Napoleonic France, he had, just this morning, burned both on a pyre outside his window. Even now, looking out the window, he could occasionally glimpse a swirling fragment of smoldering cloth or a bit of wood ash, spiraling up with the breeze.
Janier’s much-abused aide de camp, Malcoeur, had actually shed tears as flames had begun to race across the gasoline-soaked blue cloth, with its elaborate embroidery of hundreds of gold oak leaves and wavelike piping. The jacket alone had cost Janier forty-six hundred Tauros. The baton, with its thirty-two fourteen karat gold eagles had cost more.
And then, wonder of wonders, after the fire had done its main work and a stiff and bitter Janier had left the scene, the AdC had gotten on hands and knees to recover the gold that had dropped down from uniform and baton. To keep? No. He placed the misshapen lumps in an old black lacquered box he’d apparently paid for himself, then left that on Janier’s desk.
Why would that toad, Malcoeur, care? Janier wondered. It’s totally inexplicable and illogical. I treat him worse—much worse, as a matter of fact—than my dog. And he weeps for my pain? I do not understand it. Worse, if after all that, and all my failures, the toad still cares for me . . . then I am even more unworthy than I had thought. Shit.