by Tom Kratman
“Get dressed and call in your girl to do up your face, my love. Then let’s go talk to Janier.
“By the way, where are the two surviving subs now?”
“Out at sea several hundred miles; maybe even five or six hundred. Once they managed to break off from the Balboans, they didn’t stop until they were safe enough to come up close to the surface to get a message out.”
BdL Dos Lindas, Mar Furioso, Terra Nova
The classis moved as a single unit, with two Volgan-built frigates in the lead, zigzagging across the line of travel, pinging mercilessly for submarines. Mercilessly? The number of cetaceans damaged or killed by the sonar argued for a certain lack of mercy, yes.
Two corvettes worked the sea closer in shore, while three more, among them the Inez Trujillo and the Jaquelina Gonzalez, under the control of another frigate, swept the sea to starboard. The ring was closed by several more ships, grouped behind, while within the ring, the Tadeo Kurita, the Dos Lindas, and a few nondescript replenishment ships sheltered. Below several Meg-class SSKs patrolled, among them the Meg, herself, and the Esox. Two of Dos Lindas’ ASW helicopters, along with some of those carried by the frigates, took turns in dipping their sonar into the sea or laying passive sonar buoys to the northern flank. Overhead, a half-dozen Turbo-finches fluttered, their normal ordnance replaced by a half-dozen air-to-air missiles, each. Nobody, least of all the pilots, really expected the ’Finches to do any real good if attacked by modern aircraft.
The radar down in CIC, and on the bridge, too, showed at least a hundred non-naval aircraft. Given their speed they were unlikely to be anything but Mosaic-Ds. Besides, Fosa wasn’t exceptionally worried about the air threat.
And besides, he thought, looking glumly at his fleet from Dos Lindas’s bridge, as the entire crew sailed towards the Santa Josefinan port of Puerto Bruselas, currently the main port for supplying the Tauran Union in the country, it’s not like we have huge ambitions.
Fosa felt a sudden pressure, then felt a wave of sound as a brace of Mosaics buzzed the flight deck at no very great altitude.
Fosa nodded. “As expected and just about right on time.” Turning to his air boss he ordered, “Call the ’Finches back to the ship. And radio those fuckers in the fighters and tell them if they buzz my ship again I’ll have their balls tacked to the figurehead’s pretty little bronze hands.
“Oh, and get the correspondents from the First Landing Times and Global News Network up here, with their cameramen. I want them to start broadcasting soonest.”
Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Santa Josefina,
Rio Clara, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Marciano ran from his quarters, his boots untied and him still tucking his shirt in. The panic in his AdC’s voice moved him just as fast as the emergency warranted. The Balboan fleet had sortied and seemed intent on coming to and smashing the TU’s remaining major port. Without that? Well, it was eventual defeat by the guerillas, no matter the success Marciano had had so far.
When he arrived in the headquarter hut, the staff was in full-fledged panic mode, such as his AdC’s demeanor had only hinted at. Only Oberst Rall, the Sachsen, seemed to have his head about him.
“What’s going on, Rall?”
“Damned if I know, Herr General,” answered the Sachsen. “Suddenly, with no advance warning, we get reports of a mass of Balboan fighters swarming by the border and out to sea. The regiment of—we are pretty sure—Santa Josefinans on the border, less one battalion, starts marshaling for what looks like an assault across the border. But worst of all, their fleet sank a couple of Zhong subs and sortied toward our port. Sir, we’re screwed if they destroy the port.
“The only good thing is the guerillas to the south are quiescent.
“I’ve sent for the—speak of the devil.”
The Anglian commander of the fighter-bomber squadron, Squadron Commander Halpence, looked ghastly pale. He wasted no time, but simply reported, “Sir, we’re on the ass end of nowhere for parts. Of my dozen Hurricanes, three are down for maintenance or in for service and, to some degree or another, bloody disassembled. I can keep maybe two or three aircraft up continuously for the next couple of days. After that, I make no promises.”
“Can you attack a fleet?” asked Marciano.
“Not that one,” said Halpence. “Not with any real hope of success. They’ve got three immensely powerful lasers mounted fore, aft, and in the tower. I understand they have no qualms about using them on aircraft. My men would be blinded before we got in range.” The Anglian seemed to relent slightly. “Well . . . we would if we went straight in at them. The terrain here’s complex, so maybe there’s a place we can get a shot in before they know we’re there. I confess I don’t know where that place might be.”
“Fine,” said Marciano, “find it. Find one. The Balboan fleet is sailing for Puerto Bruselas. If they wreck that, we can probably forget keeping any aircraft up for long.” When the Anglian didn’t move immediately, Marciano grew unusually harsh. “What the hell are you waiting for, Squadron Commander? Move.”
The Anglian dismissed, Marciano returned his attention to Rall. “What about the carriers in the Shimmering Sea?”
The Sachsen half-snarled, “They’re still cowering either on the south side of Cienfuegos or in the port of Caimanera.”
“Why still?”
“The Balboan submarines. They know the Balboans took out a Zhong carrier recently and, a few years back, one of the Frogs’ subs, plus a destroyer. They don’t know how and it has them . . . a little timid, shall we say?”
Marciano rolled his eyes. “What is it about we military types that we invest in our enemies superhuman powers if they beat us once or twice? Are we so arrogant as to believe we could only be beaten by supermen?
“I know the Balboan legion. I know their commander and, under different circumstances, would count him a comrade. I still count him a friend. But a superman, he is not.”
“He’s pretty good though,” said the Sachsen, with a wry grin.
“Well . . . yes,” agreed the Tuscan, with a complimentary shrug. “Good, that is. But a superman? No.”
“Kingdom of the blind,” said Rall. “Makes him look better than he is. Makes his troops look better than they really could be, too. Almost like Zion and Yithrab.”
“We need more aircraft,” said Marciano, “and the only place to get them in a hurry is from the fleets.”
Rall inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, then exhaled. Getting the navies to cooperate? Tough, very tough. Even so, “I’ll get to work beating the navies into submission to get in position to support us here.”
“Don’t hesitate to ask for help, Oberst,” Marciano said.
“I won’t. Oh, and one other thing, General.”
“Yes?” asked Marciano.
“We still have a modest HUMINT capability on the other side of the border,” said Rall. “It seems one of the Santa Josefinan infantry battalion—cohorts, if you prefer—has turned in its arms and come home. Just walked across the border in civilian clothes, last night. Showed their passports and sauntered across, a whole battalion of them. Do you suppose the junta down in Balboa is losing its grip?”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Marciano. He raised the inevitable quizzical eyebrow. “And we didn’t arrest them because . . . ?”
“Because our status of forces agreement gives us no domestic powers of arrest, and because the office of the president of Santa Josefina thought it was just ducky that her wandering sons were coming home.”
“And the arms for this battalion,” asked Marciano, “when do we expect those to arrive? So they can attack us from behind, I mean.”
“We’re working on that one, sir.”
“I need a helicopter,” said Marciano.
“Already standing by at the pad,” answered the very efficient Rall. “And if you hurry you can see their fleet rounding the Burica Peninsula.”
“How did you . . . ah, never mind.” Turning t
o a troop who seemed underemployed at the moment, or perhaps simply a bit more calm than most of the rest, Marciano ordered, “You! Yes, you. Map, pen, notebook, field uniform. Come with me.”
On the way to the pad, Marciano noticed, Goddamned progressivines growing back around the perimeter. Note to self, get the engineers to work cutting them back.
The Octaviana 602B helicopter, a four-seat job intended primarily for scouting and command and control, made it to Sour Gulf, one of two major gulfs on the Mar Furioso side of Santa Josefina, in about twelve minutes. It flew well above the surface of the planet, straight and level. Then Marciano’s stomach heaved as, without warning, it dropped down to maybe ten meters above the waters of the gulf, moving generally northwest and keeping close to the coast for camouflage. Popping up over the trees of the Burica Peninsula, it turned north, shielding behind the peninsula’s central range of hills, then dropped down almost to the beach fronting the Mar Furioso. There, still blending into the tree behind it and high enough to avoid raising a cloud of sand, the Octaviana hovered, giving Marciano an excellent view of the passing fleet, a bit over twenty kilometers out to sea.
Marciano counted aloud, “Twenty-four jets in the air for cover. Pilot?”
“Concur, sir, though it’s not clear how many are staying and how many are relieving. Or who by whom.”
“Good point, but if I order the fighters in, twenty-four appears to be a likely—or at least possible—number of opponents.”
“Good point, sir,” the Tuscan pilot agreed. “But that doesn’t account for the other ones the Balboans might send in.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” snarled Marciano. “We can take some pounding on the ground, if full-fledged war breaks out. We can’t survive if they smash the port. Speaking of which . . .”
Marciano continued calling off the ships as he identified them. Some he was questionable about. Were the Lycosa-class corvettes better classified as large patrol boats? There were enough small ones, after all. Why was a forty-four-hundred-ton frigate a frigate while a thirty-eight-hundred-ton destroyer was a destroyer? Makes not a bit of sense to me.
About two ships he had absolutely no doubt; the seventeen-thousand-ton Tadeo Kurita, with its dozen six-inch guns, was a cruiser by anyone’s standards, while no one could mistake the Dos Lindas as being anything but a carrier.
He remembered reading an after-action report of some of the mayhem inflicted by Kurita on the Nicobar pirates. They’re so going to trash my supply port, fretted Marciano, And outside of some pretty good but badly outnumbered aircraft I have not a thing to stop them with. If I had my artillery battalion overlooking the port but, no, the 152mm guns outrange the hell out of my 105s. And the 100mm guns the cruiser mounts are almost as bad, and fire faster.
So . . . no, the artillery wouldn’t do me much good, even if I pulled it out of supporting the troops along the border and the ones at and around Pelirojo. I wonder if that’s what Brother Patricio had in mind; sortie his fleet to pull my artillery out of position so his guerillas—and no one but the stinking press believes the guerillas on the Shimmering Sea side are anything but his—can attack.
And they’ll be in range of the port in nine hours, give or take. Well . . . that little bit of grace is something, at least.
“I’ve seen enough,” said the Tuscan. “Take us back to Rio Clara.”
FSS Oliver Rogers, Mar Furioso, Terra Nova
The skipper was, everyone agreed, cutting it a little fine. He’d already reported in to Hamilton, the capital of the Federated States, that the shooting had started at sea and the Zhong had started it. This had started something of a row between the Navy and War departments, on the one hand, and, on the other, the Department of State, which loved the Zhong Empire with a deep and abiding adoration, and wanted the Federated States to come into the war on the side of the TU, which they loved even more than they did the Zhong.
The boat’s captain wasn’t privy to any of that, in any detail; it was easy enough to guess at, though. The loathing between the military and the diplomatic corps was as abiding as was the diplomats’ love for all things elitist.
The tougher problem—“and one way above my pay grade,” as Meredith had said, while waltzing the one-eyed widow—was that the Federated States had made a tacit pledge to Santa Josefina to allow them to continue with their experiment in moral welfare and to defend them while they did so from all foreign threats.
From the FSC’s point of view this made perfect sense. The average army of Colombia Latina was, and had been for over a century, just a junta on the hoof, awaiting only the moment and the opportunity to kick out the latest bunch of Tsarist-Marxists, Anarchists, Socialists, Fascists, or corrupt oligarchs, and at the same time creating civil wars that the FSC wasn’t always able to stay completely out of. As far as the FSC was concerned, since they had to maintain a navy able to dominate two oceans and engage a star fleet, overhead, anyway, it was cheaper by far to promise to defend Colombia del Norte from anyone else than to have to continually get involved in the petty domestic squabbles their own armies typically caused. And this didn’t even address the poverty that maintenance of large military forces in the area tended to exacerbate, which poverty led to or magnified all the other problems the Colombianos faced.
What that meant, however, was that with a potentially hostile fleet bearing down on one of Santa Josefina’s principle ports, the Oliver Rogers just might have to get involved directly in stopping that fleet lest the country remilitarize, with all the predictable problems that would entail for both Santa Josefina and the Federated States.
Rogers’s skipper had a communications buoy up on a wire. He hadn’t flooded tubes yet, but he was prepared to. So far, though, the only message from Hamilton, FD, on the subject of the Balboan fleet was, “Wait.”
And so, thought the captain, I wait for . . . well, for what?
“Skipper?” said Communications. “I’ve got something on GNN . . . you know we check that, too, because . . .”
Meredith made a can it and get to the point gesture.
“Yes, sir. Sir, my Spanish is not of the best . . .”
“Mine is,” said the captain, walking across the deck to take over the headphones. He listened a couple of minutes, then said, “Holy shit. Why the hell . . .”
BdL Dos Lindas, mouth of the Paquera Gulf,
Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Dos Lindas had offered to make its own facilities available to GNN and the First Landing Times. The newscaster and the writer had both tried to be polite in their refusal. Even so, the unvarnished fact was that they carried better comms in a suitcase than the classis’s flagship ported in several cabins. Only in terms of redundancy and encryption did the carrier have anything on the civilians’ packages.
Fosa had led them on a small tour, himself. It began on the hangar deck where the Turbo-finches were being disarmed and rendered inoperative. Much the same thing was happening with most of the Yakamov helicopters, though the three on antisubmarine duty at the moment were still out and active. The ordnance the planes and helicopters had carried were carted off, some of it literally on carts, to the storage sections set aside for them.
From the hangar deck Fosa had taken the pressies on deck where a crew from Intelligence had two honest-to-God burn barrels going, with flames lancing up from them, the plastic-scented smoke from code books and maps rising to the sky in a trail behind the ship. Their cameras had busily recorded everything, sending it live to their home’s base, in the case of GNN, and in the form of photos and short blurbs, for the First Landing Times.
Then Fosa had brought them to his day cabin via the bridge, letting the cameras sweep around to see walls bare of maps. One of the radio men was broadcasting something in the clear to the Port Authority at Puerto Bruselas. The newsmen spoke Spanish well enough, of course; that’s how they’d gotten assigned to this gig. But they had a hard time crediting what they were hearing. Thus, in Fosa’s day cabin, the one from GNN asked, incr
edulously, “You’re really having your fleet interned? On your own initiative? I can’t . . . I don’t understand.”
“There’s no sense in wasting men’s lives fruitlessly,” said Fosa, for the camera. “The corrupt Zhong Empire and even more corrupt and hypocritical Tauran Union are in cahoots as only the worst conspiratorial thieves can be. I can handle the Zhong. But my fleet has no chance against the four carriers the Taurans are bringing against us, each of them four times the size of mine.
“So, yes, my fleet is turning itself in for internment, voluntarily, in officially neutral Santa Josefina.
“You might make a note for your viewers and readers, gentlemen, that Santa Josefina, whose claim that we were a threat to them brought the Taurans into their country in the first place, giving rise to the guerilla war that has arisen there, will, upon internment, have complete control of the only way we could have logistically supported an invasion such as they feared. Let us see if they see sense from that and send the Taurans home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones,
Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones.
—Lord Byron, Age of Bronze
Headquarters, Tercio la Negrita, Matama,
Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
The few antennas for the headquarters’ radios sprouted up from a school building in town. The headquarters, itself, was a good mile away, connected to those antennas by wire, as it was connected to the generators that provided power to the headquarters by wire. The building chosen was three stories, though the top two stories were empty barring only a set of quarters for Legate Salas and a few key staff. Admission was highly restrictive, though, in truth, Salas thought the restrictions silly. Everyone in the goddamned town knows we’re here. Surely the Taurans have at least one spy. Or maybe the spy’s reporting the air defense, too. It’s possible, I suppose, that when you’re flying two-hundred-million-drachma airplanes, and hundred-million-drachma helicopter gunships that the prospect of losing one to a infantryman’s bottle rocket or even a twin heavy machine gun is just more embarrassing than you can stand.