A Desert Called Peace-ARC

by Tom Kratman

"I see. Well, what can be done without a change of government?"

  Hennessey leaned into his left hand and rubbed his temple. After a moment he answered, "Staff work. You can prepare Tables of Organization and Equipment. If you have money, you can buy some equipment and hide it, possibly at sea. You can send people to work with other countries that have armies. You can prepare programs of instruction and plan to set up training facilities even if you can't actually set them up. Perhaps a military high school – another one, I mean – might help."

  "How would you prepare for something like that?"

  "Me, Raul? I couldn't. Not any more."

  Parilla cut him off. "Oh, horse shit, Patricio. You live here. Your roots – new ones to be sure, not as deep as they might be – are still here. Here is where your blood rests. And we need you. We've got "Progressivist" Santandern guerillas from FARS and the SEL pressing our western border. We'll have the homegrown variety soon enough, too, if we don't do something. We are the trade route for the world. And the same people who killed your family will eventually figure that out and come for us, too. That is, they will if they aren't already here and waiting. I suspect they're just waiting."

  Hennessey's eyes were pained. There had been a time when . . . ah, but it was too late now. "I still can't. Look . . . Raul. I'm just . . . broken. I'm not good for anything anymore. I just don't have it. And even if I did, without Linda I am . . . not to be trusted. I don't really trust myself."

  Parilla muttered, "Bullshit," then stood as if to leave. He turned, paused, and then turned back. "You know, Patricio, we need you. I told you; no one in Balboa has ever even been in a real army. The nearest to one we ever had your country crushed and you helped them do it. We could offer you much no one else can: a new home, a life worth living, useful work to do. We would not be ungrateful for the help; you know that."

  "I still can't. I'm not the man I was." Without Linda to control me I am afraid of what I am capable of.

  "Well . . . think it over some, at least."

  Hennessey shrugged. After Parilla left, Hennessey went back to twirling the ice in his drink, occasionally glancing toward Linda's grave.

  His blank look was suddenly replaced by a deep and lasting frown. Could it be possible? There is a framework here, the Civil Force. There are some good people, men like Xavier, in it.

  He debated within himself. But, no. Twelve years have gone by since they thought of themselves as infantry. Riddled with corruption, Xavier has told me. No recent training in heavier weapons. No experience in combined arms or higher staff work.

  But . . . couldn't I give them some of that? Surely I could. And I have friends still, good soldiers, who could help.

  Money? It always comes down to money. And even if Uncle Bob's estate does end up in my hands, it's a pittance compared to what's actually needed. I am no Crassus and I'm not going to be, either.

  Not enough to maintain an army. Enough for a staff? Yes . . . at least enough for a staff. And then . . . maybe someone else could pay to maintain an army if one were raised.

  Ah, no. Forget it. It was true what I told Parilla. My heart and soul are gone from me. They died with Linda and the kids. I just can't.

  Can't? Why not? I was a good soldier before I met Linda.

  Good? Yes. But she made me a human one. Before I met her? I was near to being a monster.

  So be a monster. This is the time for monsters again; monsters have already arisen.

  Hennessey's frown cleared. He remembered how very damned good it had felt to shoot men who'd cheered the murder of his family. He wondered, How good might it feel to kill the men actually behind killing my family? Might the nightmares stop then?

  Heart began thumping and stomach churning with the excitement of the possibilities. With his left hand he reached over and poured his drink onto the ground outside the porch. Then he walked into the house, hugged his mother-in-law, shook his father-in-law's hand and left.

  "I need to do something at the house," he announced as he walked out the door.

  Hennessey Residence, Cochea, 2/8/459 AC

  The sound of Jinfeng squawking miserably at Linda's statue came through the window. Hennessey heard it only dimly.

  Instead, there was music, Old Earth music, playing in the background.

  "I see a red door and I want it painted black . . . "

  At the casa's front door, Hennessey met Parilla and shook his hand warmly before leading him to his library. Parilla had an electronic slate tucked under one arm.

  Hennessey began, "It was good of you, sir . . . "

  "Please, Patricio; 'Raul'."

  "Raul. I thought since this was a formal mission . . . oh, never mind. "Raul." It was good of you to return to see me. I think, maybe, I can help you now." Yes, I can help you . . . .and I can help me . . . now.

  Parilla positively beamed. "Ah! Wonderful. How?"

  Hennessey had already thought about it enough. He had spent days thinking about it. "I will collect a small staff, house them somewhere out of the way, and put them to work on some of the things I mentioned before. While I am doing that, you need to be setting up the government to knuckle under for rearmament. You can do this?"

  Parilla thought about it for a moment. "I can do some of it."

  "Well . . . that's a start. Perhaps some propaganda can do the rest. In any case, soon the Federated States will need an ally; an ally that doesn't blanch when the body bags start coming home. If a way can be found to hasten that day, so much the better."

  Parilla pointed a finger at Hennessey. "Could you do that kind of preparation for rebuilding a Balboa Defense Corps that really mattered outside of Balboa? Really?"

  Hennessey didn't hesitate at all. "Yes. Really. Only . . . let's not call it the BDC. Too politically correct for my tastes. Also too much of an image marred by defeat. As a matter of fact, I think we should partially detach the force from Balboa. Your government is very sensitive to world opinion and very fond of the Tauran Union, the World League, and the UEPF."

  "La Armada," Parilla suggested.

  "Maybe that. But maybe not, either. The people who legislated away the name while leaving a shadow of the reality are plainly people more interested in image than facts. Call it an army openly and they'll be more likely to resist."

  Parilla pushed Hennessey's objections aside for the time being. "Patricio tell me, what would you do specifically? Wait. Let me fire up my slate to write with."

  "No," Hennessey said. "If it's electronic it can be tapped. At this point let's stick to old fashioned."

  * * *

  Terra Nova's levels of technology were approximately those of very early 21st Century Earth. Like that place and that time, too, the levels were very unevenly distributed across the planet. Uhuru, outside of the Republic of Northern Uhuru, for example, was little advanced in some places above the neolithic level.

  Even in those areas – the Federated States and Secordia, Yamato, the Tauran Union – which enjoyed the highest levels of technology available, there were some differences from the world of Man's birth in its twenty-first century after the birth of Christ.

  Terra Nova had no truly and completely peaceful use of space. The Global Locating System put up by the Federated States had some peaceful uses, true, and it had been permitted by the UEPF because of those presumptive peaceful uses. But it was there, the Feds had paid for it, for its use in war. As much could be said for the communications satellites that circled the planet.

  The major use of space, however, was manifest in the extensive system of systems set up by the Federated States of Columbia to engage and destroy the UEPF if the latter ever again had the temerity to try to dictate terms to the former. And that sat unused but threatening.

  Medical technology was somewhat less, in particular with regards to epidemiology and infectious diseases, generally. They had their diseases there, of course, but most of those Man had brought with him to the new world he already had considerable resistance to. The planet itself had none of im
portance.

  Given its sad history of war and massacre, however, the planet's medicos were quite capable of dealing with trauma.

  Militarily, the planet was on a rough par with 21st century Old Earth, as well, much to the delight of medical interns who wanted the practice.

  In electronics Terra Nova was perhaps a bit further behind, being at the level of Old Earth just before the close of its 20th Century. For example, small personal computers were common, but somewhat slower, larger and heavier than might have been expected based on the level of military technology. Personal computers and mobile communication devices – cell phones – small enough to surgically insert were still the stuff of dreams and fantasies there.

  One area where Terra Nova was far ahead of where one might have expected was in hacking. This, perhaps driven by the endemic warfare, was very advanced. Indeed, it was so advanced that no one was safe, ever. It was so advanced that the Globalnet, the equivalent of Old Earth's Internet, was far less well developed. Hacking on Terra Nova could be said to have retarded every other aspect of information technology.

  It was suspected, in some circles, that the UEPF was responsible for much of the hacking.

  * * *

  Hennessey swiveled in his office chair and took from the top of his cluttered desk a pen and notebook which he handed to Parilla. The older man considered this, considered the subject matter, considered the effects of what they were about to discuss on those who might object, and decided that using his electronic slate might be a bad idea after all. He took the pen and notebook.

  Moments later, notebook in hand, a beaming Parilla prepared to take down Hennessey's thoughts.

  Hennessey pulled a pack of cigarettes from a breast pocket. He took one paper tube out and stroked a match to light it. With smoke curling about his head in an infernal halo, he began, "I have friends who were once good soldiers in the Federated States Army . . . some other armies, too, but who despite being good soldiers – very good, actually – never made any great success of things. In some cases this was precisely because they were superior soldiers. They have left the service early or have retired. I would hire some of them to come here to do the staff work."

  Half turning his head away, Parilla focused one eye on Hennessey. "Could you trust them to be discreet?"

  "They are my friends. Yes, I would trust them." The one's I will pick? Oh, yes.

  Parilla asked, "How much would this cost?"

  Hennessey didn't need quick calculations. Those were long since made. "For the first year a fair figure might be about one point eight million FSD" – Federated States Drachma, also legal tender in Balboa and much of the rest of the planet – "not more than two point two million; plus perhaps a lump sum of about four million to start up. The annual figure could go as high as three million or even four but I really don't think it will cost that much, not before we start to recruit and expand."

  Parilla took a deep breath before telling Hennessey, "Patricio, I would like you to take charge of this project, to make all possible preparations for Balboa to have its own armed force again, in truth as well as in name. Will you do it?"

  "I'm sure I can't afford the whole thing on my own. My uncle's estate is tied up for now. I have an income, and it's comfortable, but it wouldn't pay for anything like this, not even with the insurance from my family." But what I have, this project has.

  Parilla answered, "You won't have to. I never thought you should." He shrugged his shoulders and looked heavenward in mock shame. "We do have certain sources of funds...not always aboveboard but also not often traceable." Parilla's hands spread in helplessness at the wickedness of mankind. "Piña wasn't, sad to say, the only ruler of the country ever to have a foreign bank account. I can have a reasonable down payment on the start up amount – say, FSD 450,000 – tomorrow. The rest will take a couple of weeks. As for greater amounts for actually recreating a force? Well, Piña took two hundred and seventy-five million a year in unofficial taxes from the Cristobal Free Trade Zone. Most went to line his pockets; his and his cronies. But we could raise probably four hundred million per year now without hurting trade overmuch. And we are not that poor a country. Our gross domestic product runs nearly twelve billion. A couple of hundred million more could be squeezed out of government revenues. That's not small change. That all assumes, of course, that the government can be made to see reason."

  Even while thinking, I don't want the government to pay for it. I want to pay for it, to maintain control of it, and to use it to destroy my enemies, Hennessey nodded agreement. "Then I will go back to the Federated States in two days to begin."

  Saulterstown, Shelby, FSC, 5/8/459 AC

  Military installations bred military towns. Saulterstown, right outside of and dominated by Fort William Bowen, was typical, from "Sarge's Used Auto" to "Post Pawn Shop." Typically also, the military town was full of ex-soldiers. Hennessey had come here to find and recruit one in particular.

  He knew couldn't make his plan work alone, that he would need help. So he had drawn up several lists of people that had worked with or for him over the years who might be available. Most of these he eliminated as unsuitable. Forty-nine remained. He stood now outside a firearms store owned by one of them. It looked depressed. A few posters of guns decorated the walls. Through the windows he could see rifles and pistols in glass cases. Still, this was much the most bedraggled looking gun store he had ever seen. He walked in.

  "Is Terry Johnson here?" he asked the sole clerk on duty.

  The crop-haired, wiry man behind the sales desk put down the rifle he was inspecting and instead looked at Hennessey. Something about the civilian clad man in front of him suggested, rank . . . serious rank; dunno why he's in mufti but it shines through in civvies or not.

  He answered, "Nah, sir, Terry's not here. He's supposed to be in later, sir."

  "Do you know where I can find him, sergeant?" The sergeant – that was as obvious to Hennessey as his own, former, status had been to the other – serving as a salesman didn't know that either. He returned his attention to the rifle.

  "Well, if you don't mind, I'll just wait." Hennessey amused himself by walking around the store, examining some of the guns on display, reading the few posters on the walls. As he walked and looked, he tapped impatient fingers on the glass cases.

  One of the items on wall display caught Hennessey's eye. It was apparently a plaque from Terry's former Direct Action team in the 5th Special Service Group. The plaque showed a picture of Terry's team members behind a burning red smoke grenade. It was inscribed: "To Captain Terrence – 'Terry the Torch' – Johnson From his Team Mates of Det 3, Co B, 3rd Bn, 5th SSG." Hennessey looked at the men in the picture and realized that the sales clerk was one of them.

  "Did you leave Group, too?" he asked, pointing to the picture.

  Again the clerk, laying the rifle aside, returned his attention to Hennessey. "No, sir, I'm still with Group. We all – all the old team, that is – pitch in from time to time to help Terry make a go of this. Doesn't seem to be working though."

  Won't do to have an active member listening in when I talk to Terry. We'll go elsewhere. Even if the kid would keep quiet, no sense putting him in a conflict of interest. Sure, the FS is likely to approve what I'm planning in the long run, but in the short they might be . . . difficult about it. Especially might those assholes at State be difficult about it.

  He continued to pace about the shop. Asking to examine a Zhong Guo-made copy of a Samsonov assault rifle with a folding triangular bayonet, Hennessey filled the time with small talk about weapons. The sergeant-clerk was a particular fan, Hennessey learned, of some unusual calibers—.410 Kiowa, .34 Suomi, and 6.5mm Jotun.

  * * *

  Terry Johnson muttered a curse as he yanked the wheel of his decrepit pickup truck to avoid a newly loosened piece of the road fronting his shop. He turned into what passed for a parking lot, all gravel and mud, turned again and rolled to a stop beside the blank brick that made the place's southern wall. />
  He noticed first a high end rental car parked outside. This suggested a well-heeled customer inside, a rare enough event. Hell, it's a unique event. Even so Johnson went first to check the mailbox that stood by the juncture of the highway and the concrete walkway leading to the front door.

  "Bills," he muttered with disgust. He flipped through the little stack quickly. Overdue, past due, past due, overdue, overdue, cancellation . . . shut off notice . . . .Fuck! FEB – the Firearms and Explosive Bureau – wants to inspect me? Fuck.

  Life used to be a lot better than this. It used to even be worth living.

  Shaking his head, Johnson walked to the door, opened it, and stepped in. The customer he had seen turned around. He was wearing a smile and what looked like an expensive suit.

  Johnson stopped and looked at Hennessey. It had been years since last they had met and Hennessey had aged a great deal since. For a few moments he puzzled over the familiarity.