by Tom Kratman
"You won't have any of what I need in your brigade," Fernandez began to explain. "But, given your former position, you'll have connections to what I need."
"And that would be, Tribune?"
"Interrogators," Fernandez answered, simply. "And I have my own budget. I'll pay better than normal rates for what I have in mind."
Ninewa, 12/3/461 AC
It was hard, if not quite as hard as the decision to surrender his command had been. What do I do? Sada asked himself. What do I do about the special . . . packages. I don't have a use for the weapons. I don't even want my country to have the filthy things. The funds? I can see better uses for them than they're likely to receive if Saleh's people get control of them. And what about if they get control of the weapons? Allah, that's a horrible thought.
But to turn them over to the enemies who just conquered us? Is it treason? Is it treason when the government that I swore an oath to has ceased to exist?
On the other hand, the Balboans have hired me. Wouldn't it be treason to my new bosses to fail to give them the weapons? God, I don't know.
After two days of thinking about it, Sada asked to see Carrera and Parilla again. Standing orders were that he was to be given every possible leeway and privilege. The MPs guarding the camp accordingly escorted him to headquarters, which had been moved to the fairly undamaged University. The gate guard had apprised Carrera that Sada was coming.
"There is a reason I was here," Sada announced without fanfare.
"Well, of course . . . "
"No. Another reason. Your men wouldn't have found it, not yet. Can you assemble a guard, a very reliable guard, quickly? They'll need flashlights."
That took a bit, perhaps an hour. When the guard was assembled Sada told Carrera, "Follow me, please."
He led the party to a building in an isolated part of the university compound, almost at the surrounding wall. There, he continued on down into the basement by way of a wide staircase. At the base of the stairs Sada opened what looked to be a gray metal circuit breaker box. He flicked a few switches and a hidden door opened up in the wall, moving out of the way with an irritating screech.
Sada took a flashlight from one of the legionaries and led the way through the door.
"None of my men knew about this," He explained, waving the light from side to side of a long, broad corridor. "Just me and a few Mukharbarat I had shot before the battle."
Sada and Carrera walked to one of the open doors that fronted the corridor. There, the Sumeri turned the flashlight into a room and played it about. "That's money," he said. "I don't know how much but I'm guessing it's at least several hundred million, maybe a billion. Maybe more. Mostly it's Tauran Union currency, with some FS drachma and Anglian pounds. Come on, there's more."
"More money?" asked Carrera, incredulously. "It's already more than we can easily funnel into rebuilding the country."
"No, not money . . . other things."
"Those two lead to chemical agents and the makings for more," Sada said, as they reemerged into the corridor. He flicked the light from one of two further doors to the other. "I wouldn't open those, not until you have men equipped to deal with a possible leak." He flashed another door and said, "That one's bio. Small pox and anthrax. Scares the shit out of me and if you can figure out a way to destroy it without opening the doors I'll be very grateful."
Sada's light came to rest on a final door. "This is the important thing I wanted to show you," he finished, as he turned himself and the light toward a door marked with radiation symbols. He had to open another box and flick several more switches to make that door open.
Inside, Carrera saw twenty-one plastic cases, each about the size of a foot locker. Some, but not all, of those were likewise marked with radiation symbols.
"Jesus Christ!" he uttered. "Are these . . . ?"
"Yes. And it's more like Shaitan," Sada corrected. "There are seven of them here. I think that was all there were. They're in sets of three cases to a weapon: nuclear material, conventional explosive, and control device. Only three have been reconditioned to work. The others could be, but there was no time. They were supposed to go to another place, I don't know where – for safekeeping and possible future use. You must take control of them."
"I must, indeed," Carrera agreed.
Ninewa, 15/3/461 AC
Drums beat and bagpipes skirled as the legion marched onto the field from a hidden position behind the sand dunes. Carrera, Parilla, most of the cohort commanders and a party of about sixty Sumeris stood on a reviewing stand that had been bulldozed up out of the sand.
Sada asked, "Where the hell did you get those pipers, anyway, Patricio? I wouldn't have picked Balboa for a place where bagpipes would be popular."
Carrera chuckled. "It's a funny story actually. The Balboans love the horrid things to the extent they know about them. But you're right. They're not that well known in the country. We got these by a sort of roundabout route. A lot of our people emigrated to Secordia during Piña's time in power. Even before that, too, as a matter of fact. Often they eventually return. One of our women, living down there for a few years, married a Secordian who was a reservist in their army.
"She got homesick, so she and her husband left Secordia and came to Balboa. The husband took over her father's ranch. When the call was sounded to come here the husband couldn't resist joining up. He brought his pipes with him to training.
"I heard him playing out on the parade field at Fort Cameron one night – that's where we did our initial training – and went to ask about it. He said he learned in the Secordian Army. So I asked him if he could teach a few others to play. He thought he could. We ordered a few dozen chanters, some instructional materials, and the dozen pipes you see.
"In point of fact they really can't play them. Except for the Secordian, they just know about twenty or so tunes by rote."
"I'd like to get some pipes and instruction for my brigade, when we form it," Sada said.
"Consider it done."
By the time Carrera finished his explanations the legion had formed on line with cohorts in blocks. An extra, smaller formation of about one hundred men stood off to one side. Kennison, as the Commander of Troops, reported to Parilla. Salutes were exchanged. Parilla then walked to a microphone and began to speak in Spanish. Sada had no idea what was being said. When Parilla was finished he backed away from the microphone. An announcer began to read a long list of names and places.
In English, Carrera explained to Sada what was going on. "After the invasion of Balboa, fourteen years ago, no one ever thought to reward those Balboan soldiers who had done a good job. We're taking this opportunity to correct that as well as to reward some who, like your own men, fought exceptionally well here. The announcer is reading the list of those killed in action, and their home towns. On the assumption that a man who has died for his country and cause has given and done all he can, each of the fallen is being awarded the Cruz de Coraje in Acero, the Cross of Courage in Steel. A few of those who we know for a fact fought exceptionally well are being given the next step up, the CC in Bronze, as well. You can, if you wish, put in all your dead for CCAs."
After the announcer finished reading the list of posthumous awards Parilla stepped down from the reviewing stand, his feet raising little bursts of dust on the sand ramp. He was followed by a signifer carrying a cloth covered board on which lay rows of medals with ribbons.
The first man to be awarded was Jimenez. After Jimenez had received his award, Parilla quietly told him to move out. He trotted off happily to where another important duty awaited.
Parilla, once the presentation of awards was finished, returned to the microphone.
"Soldiers!" he began, "I join you in the pride you must feel today at seeing so many of your brave comrades rewarded for their courage and service to the country and the legion. Honoring them honors us all. Unfortunately, we have one among us who fell so far short of the standards expected of a soldier of the legion that his continued exist
ence among us would be a shame upon us all."
Parilla then ordered the men of the brigade to stand at ease.
At that command a truck pulled out from behind a row of tents to a place a
hundred meters or so to the left of the reviewing stand. A detail of men threw a
framework from the back of the truck then dismounted to set it up. When it was upright, it appeared to be a heavy pole supported by an even heavier X frame underneath it. The detail then pulled a coffin out of the truck and placed it beside the pole. The truck then left, with the detail of men.
As soon as the truck was gone, the band struck up a dirge. From a place off to the left of the legion ten Balboans began to march, Jimenez leading the party. Behind Jimenez three men marched tightly together. All were in battle uniform with helmets. The middle man was bound hand and foot with only enough slack in the rope around his ankles to take half steps. Behind the three marched another six men, these carrying scoped Draco rifles at port arms.
Jimenez reached a position about fifty meters in front of the reviewing stand and stopped while the rest marched to stand behind him. When they were in position he ordered, "Right face," and reported to Parilla that the firing party was ready. Parilla gave the order, "Proceed."
The announcer began to read off the charges and sentence against Rocaberti while the firing squad marched to a position forty meters in front of the framework. Jimenez and the two guards on Rocaberti dragged him to stand a few feet in front of the framework's upright pole.
Jimenez first removed Rocaberti's Helvetian helmet and tossed it to the sand. Then he loosened the condemned man's web belt and cut away his load carrying equipment. It, too, was thrown to the ground. Next Jimenez tore off Rocaberti's insignia of rank. The shirt was ripped open, buttons falling scattered to the sand. Lastly, Jimenez deftly cut away the Leg. del Cid tape over Rocaberti's left pocket.
As the last insignia to be removed from Rocaberti's uniform fluttered away, the two guards half carried him to the pole. They quickly bound him to it at the chest, waist, and thighs. One of the guards put his head to Rocaberti's chest, then taped a bull's-eye to the bare skin. The guards stepped back.
Jimenez looked toward the announcer who switched the public address system to enable it to pick up from a microphone attached to the framework. From that time on the entire legion was able to listen to Rocaberti's last few minutes. He sobbed.
Jimenez then advanced to stand directly in front of the prisoner. He took a black bag from one pocket. Before placing it on, however, he reached up to slap Rocaberti, once, hard, across the face. Then the bag brought Rocaberti into the night from which there would be, for him, no dawn.
* * *
"Pass in review."
No dirge this time; the band picked up a martial tune. Down the line of cohorts the command echoed. First Cohort, Eagle held high in front, wheeled to make its pass by the reviewing stand. The commander of the "Principe Eugenio" gave the order, "Eyes . . . right!" in time for the men to see the shattered body hanging from the ropes that held it to the pole. The men on the reviewing stand saluted the Eagle as it passed.
By the time the last cohort made its wheel, the band doing a fair job with "Hielen Laddie," Jimenez had rejoined the party on the reviewing stand. The band changed tune to "Blue Bonnets over the Border" as that last cohort reached the pole and corpse.
"That was very well done, Xavier," Carrera said, later. "My complements to yourself and the detail. I've already given orders to break out a bottle of "medicinal" rum for them."
Jimenez shrugged and answered, "Well, I won't turn it down. But, honestly, we don't need it. Every man on the detail was an eager volunteer. We were glad to shoot the miserable son of a bitch."
Then Jimenez told Carrera, "We rehearsed it, you know."
"I assumed so," Carrera said.
"No, Patricio. You don't understand. We rehearsed it with Rocaberti himself. Eleven times in all. Every step from marching him out, to commanding the squad to fire, to my giving him the "Coup de Grace" with my pistol to the back of his head, to throwing his carcass into the coffin. Every little step we rehearsed. We even buried him once."
Carrera snorted, saying, "You are a vengeful man, Xavier. I like that. You'll go far."
Ninewa, 22/3/461 AC
Carrera was staying. Parilla, Jimenez and about half the staff were going back to Balboa, along with a few hundred initial cadre and all the badly wounded. Their job, once returned, was to form a second echelon of cohorts to replace the echelon already in country. It was going to be a long war and, ultimately, there needed to be two or, preferably, three more cohorts, some of them mere cadres in school, for each cohort deployed. Eventually, it was intended that the Legio del Cid would rise to division strength, about thirteen and a half thousand men, with another thirty-five to thirty-seven thousand in Balboa forming and training units to replace the ones already there as those units grew understrength and weary.
That was going to take years, not less than four and probably more like six. The plan was to send back up to half the deployed legion, as quickly as replacements arrived. These would go to leadership schools run by Abogado's FMTG. The replacement funnel would then be aimed at the new units which would fill and come over as cohorts to replace the old ones.
The old cohorts, once back in country, would increase in size by a factor of just over three. These would again be deployed as they were filled and trained. Then the second echelon would go back and do the same. When the first echelon of cohorts returned to Balboa they would split and fill.
Eventually, Carrera hoped to have one division at roughly full strength deployed and fighting for a year, one at slightly over full strength and training as a group to deploy, one still building to just over full strength and averaging about seventy percent strength during that year, and one reduced to a cadre of about forty percent, those being mostly in school or supporting school and training for a year. This would give one year of school, one year of building up and doing low level training, one of higher level and more difficult training, and one fighting.
In actuality, it was going to be a lot more complex than that as not every type of cohort was suitable for replacement at the cohort level. The Combat Support and Artillery cohorts, for example, had to replace by centuries, later to be maniples of roughly one hundred and twenty to two hundred men, while the Headquarters and Service Support cohorts, and the Aviation Ala, were best served by individual replacement.
"This is so going to suck for Tom Christian," Carrera had observed, more than once.
The plane coming in, a Volgan-built Nabakov-21 flown by the air ala, stopped at the end of the runway, turned under its own power, and began to taxi to the terminal for the Ninewa Airport. The engines, shrieking in protest, suddenly reversed themselves as the plane neared, throwing up a mass of dust.
The Nabakov dropped its tail ramp once it had come to a complete halt. First off was Dan Kuralski who was followed by . . .
"Lourdes, what are you doing here?" Carrera asked, trying to keep the anger he felt out of his voice. This was not really all that difficult as, Jesus, she looks good, even after twenty hours in the air. It was made even easier by the fact that she had launched herself at him with a happy squeal as soon as she'd reached lunging range. Some of the troops waiting nearby to go home made a number of ad hoc and mildly obscene sounds. Carrera glared at them but that only seemed to encourage the bastards.
Hard to be angry with a woman in this position.
"You can blame that on both of us, Patricio," Parilla said, trying to hide a smile and failing miserably. "My wife told me how much Lourdes missed you. I suggested she come along on this flight since you are not planning on going home for at least another year. I asked Tom Christian if there was any bar to it under the regulations. Since there wasn't . . . "
"Besides, Patricio," Lourdes pointed out, reasonably enough, "you've lost weight and you stink to the heavens. Obviously no one has been taking proper care of you."
"Proper care of" can have so many meanings, Carrera thought, not without a bit of eager anticipation.
"So be it," Carrera said, defeated. "As long as you're here, you can come with me to see off the badly hurt troops we're evacuating back to the Federated States and Balboa for recuperation. Maybe they'll give you some idea of what a really bad idea it was for you to come here, my stink and my weight loss notwithstanding."
* * *
That was an education Lourdes might just as soon have forgone. The troops missing eyes, arms and legs were chipper enough, remarkably so, under the circumstances. She just wanted to cry.
One case in particular was bothersome. That boy, and he couldn't have been over eighteen, was missing both legs and had been blinded to boot. Handsome boy, though, Lourdes thought. What a shame. She immediately cursed herself, inside, for thinking that it would have been any better if the kid had been ugly.