A Desert Called Peace-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  Those teams, two of them of three men each, came in on a single large yacht that anchored at one of the country's many yacht clubs, debarking their hidden passengers at night.

  Moreover, the passengers fit right in once they were ashore. It was elegant, really. There were a dozen good Salafis from Castilla who spoke Spanish and needed to get out of the country. There was a job for half that many men skilled with explosives in a country where one needed to speak Spanish. Sometimes problems had a way of solving each other.

  The men had escaped from Castilla barely ahead of the police and hidden out in Bilad al Sham for some weeks. From there they'd flown via that nation's national airline service to Farsia. Once in Farsia they'd languished for a bit, their informal leader, Muhammad Ouled Nail, doing his best to keep their spirits up after the ecstatic excitement of the attacks.

  While they'd languished, however, the Farsian intelligence service had been very busy, preparing identification and passports. Properly documented, the six chosen reboarded an airplane, the first of a series that ultimately saw them arrive in San Vicente, not far from Balboa. There they were met by a representative of some local import-export business known locally as M-31. This business imported money and exported illegal drugs. They imported a bit more money, some small portion of what was paid for Senta Westplatz, for seeing the six by sea to Balboa and providing them with certain useful materials and implements. Business was business, after all.

  Kaboom! Kakakakakaboomoomoomoomoom!

  Camp Balboa, Sumer, 26/10/461 AC

  Carrera found Fernandez weeping quietly and staring at the photo of his daughter. A faxed message sat, crumpled on the desk, alongside a color newspaper page from home showing the carnage.

  Beautiful girl, Carrera thought. She must have resembled her mother. What a goddamned fucking waste.

  He placed one hand on his Intel Chief's shoulder, in sympathy. "I just heard, Omar. There are no words . . . "

  Fernandez looked up, not trying to hide his tears. "She was all I had after her mother died. And then these . . . "

  " . . . bastards," Carrera supplied. "We'll get them, if we can, Omar. I wish I could promise you . . . "

  "It's for me to promise you, Legate. We'll get them, all of them, no matter what it takes."

  Of all men, Patricio Carrera probably best understood Fernandez's suffering. And one had to be impressed with the conviction behind his promise.

  Aeropuerto Internacional Herrera, Ciudad Balboa, 3/1/462 AC

  You had to be impressed. The fund-starved and despised armed forces of the various states of the Tauran Union had never managed to deploy much of anywhere without the FSC not only footing the bill but providing the taxis . . . and the lunch counters . . . and the fuel . . . and the bulk of the ammunition . . . the administration . . . .the medical support, the . . . ah, but why be petty? Nonetheless, in what was lightning speed by TU standards, the first troops of the Kingdom of Castilla and the Republique de la Gaule arrived in country within a fortnight of the second series of attacks.

  These had been directed away from infrastructure and towards people. This focus was not exactly unusual, for the terrorists, but it was critical here. Had they actually succeeded in destroying the Balboa Transitway, the above-sea-level canal that connected Terra Nova's two major oceans, there might not have been a reason to deploy. Moreover, killing people (and they killed many in attacks on churches, especially) was much more likely to garner sympathy.

  Best of all, from the Tauros' point of view, was that no one at home could object to sending soldiers to protect Balboa. This was as plainly a nonaggressive move as one could conceive of. Even the pacifists approved.

  The FSC had very mixed feelings, of course. The Transitway was theirs. They'd paid for it, built it, defended it, and even once invaded to make sure the Balboans didn't soon forget who really owned it. On the other hand, the FS really didn't have available the troops required to defend it, what with running two campaigns in Sumer and Pashtia. Even worse, with the growing insurgency in Sumer, the legion couldn't be released to defend their home turf.

  There wasn't much to do but acquiesce.

  Las Mesas, Balboa, 3/1/462 AC

  Jorge would never surrender to being a mere cripple.

  But your problem, old son, is that there is only so much you can do that's fun. Mendoza laughed at himself. OK, there's only so much you can do...period. The fun part could wait. Seriously though, I can't take her swimming outside of a pool. And I'm not comfortable in a pool. Movies are less than ideal for me and so she doesn't enjoy them as she should. The worst are the ones in English with Spanish subtitles. Long walks are out for the next few years. But this horse has advantages over walking anyway.

  Actually, thought Mendoza, my body - what there is of it - isn't so big a problem as the fact that I am scared to death of Marqueli...or rather of losing her. I'd love to tell her how I feel, but what if she just ran away from me? A cripple for a friend is one thing. But for something more than a friend...?

  It was Marqueli who hit upon the idea of horseback riding. She had gone to her uncle who raised horses and asked him if he could provide a couple of gentle ones. The Uncle, being told of Carrera's interest in Mendoza and eager to stay on Carrera's and the legion's good side, had agreed immediately.

  So Marqueli asked the doctor in charge of Jorge's recovery if a car and driver could be provided, telling him why when needed them. "Piece-o-cake," the doctor had answered, snapping his fingers.

  A few days later Mendoza and Marqueli found themselves staying in separate rooms on her uncle's ranch. Every day began with a ride. Marqueli took along a picnic lunch. As she and Jorge rode she described the scenes they passed and warned him of any undulations in the ground that would affect his horse. Sometimes they just rode in silence.

  He's remarkable, thought Marqueli. He never complains, he never whines. How many men would take such a beating from life and still be trying?

  She asked, "Jorge, what are you going to do now?"

  Mendoza didn't answer immediately. When he did, his answer came slowly, as if he were still thinking. "There's the beca the legion is offering to badly wounded troops. It's generous, much more so than the one being offered to regularly discharged legionaires. I've been thinking along the lines of taking them up on that offer...going back to school, to the University."

  The girl clapped her hands together, startling the horses slightly. "That's wonderful. To study what, do you think?"

  "History, maybe. The Legate and Dux have said they'd need teachers at the schools they're starting. It would carry a warrant-officership when I finish. I'll keep drawing my regular pay until then. Only problem is...how do I write a paper when I can't see the typewriter?"

  "Oh, Jorge don't be silly. I'll type your papers for you, once we're married."

  The girl said it so matter of factly that Mendoza didn't at first realize what she had said. He answered "Well, of course you could...did you say married?" He reined his horse in tightly.

  "Yes, silly. Do you think I spend all my available time with you because I hate you? "Married." Why not?"

  "Pity?" Mendoza asked.

  "When you start feeling sorry for yourself, maybe I'll feel sorry for you, too. In the interim, since I do plan on children, and since I plan on them being yours, and especially since my family would disown me if they were illegitimate, then "married." To you. Or don't you want me?" She leaned over Mendoza's horse and kissed his cheek.

  Speechless for the moment, Jorge just inclined his head at an odd angle. "Married. Señora Marqueli Mendoza. Children. Oh, wow....I love you 'Queli."

  "I know. I've known for months. Though why you never said so...well!"

  "Married." He whooped and gave a nudge to his horse's midriff. The horse picked up to a trot, heading down the road.

  Marqueli followed, reaching to grab Jorge's horse's leads. "You damned fool. A broken neck might be a little bit too much, don't you think?"

  * * *

 
; Marqueli, being not much past sixteen, needed her family's permission to marry. This was forthcoming once Jorge explained to her uncle that, despite his injuries, he would be able to maintain a wife and family. Following that step, the next had been to introduce Marqueli and his mother.

  His mother had wept, of course, at first. She'd wept, too, when she'd first heard the news of his loss and then again when she'd seen him at the hospital. The image of her fine strong son, bedridden and crippled, had been just too much. However, where before she had wept in despair, now it was with relief and even happiness. And married? To such a fine girl?

  While the driver had taken Marqueli to her family's house, not too far away, Jorge and his mother were left alone to talk.

  "Oh, she's a wonderful girl," Mama Mendoza said. "a beautiful little thing. How in the world did you ever find her?"

  "She found me . . . sort of, Madre. It seems she's the cousin of the . . . to be honest, the mistress of Legate Carrera."

  "Really? Well . . . she's not only beautiful but she has a very nice singing voice," the mother said, innocently.

  "What?"

  * * *

  "You're the girl?" Jorge asked, as his horse sauntered besides 'Queli's mare.

  "The girl?"

  "You sang in the choir, didn't you? You wore a white hat and a yellow print dress."

  "Sometimes. How did you know?"

  "I didn't, I had no idea until my mother mentioned it. I always stayed in the back and I used to watch you, you were so beautiful."

  Marqueli's heart leapt. He remembered.

  Interlude

  Continent of Southern Columbia, Balboa Colony, Isthmian Region, Terra Nova, Earth date 16 May, 2104 (Terra Novan year 45 AC)

  The raiders had come before, though not to Belisario Carrera's newly founded settlement of Cochea. Still, even with word of mouth and jungle telegraph, he was not surprised when one of the village boys ran to the center of the spread out, ramshackle town to breathlessly report that a helicopter was disgorging armed men.

  Taxes? Belisario wondered. No, not that. We have nothing much to take. These are looking for something else.

  At that moment Belisario's beautiful wife – she would one day have a multi-great-granddaughter named Linda who would be her very image – emerged from their hut. He knew then what the armed men were coming for.

  "What is it, husband?" she asked.

  "Trouble," he answered. "Raiders. Gather up all the women and children, except for the boys over twelve. Take them to the caves downstream from here to east. Send the men and the older boys to me. Tell them to bring their guns and bows."

  * * *

  Trade is all well and good, Kotek thought, but why trade for what you can take?

  The base was already well established. Command of the Amistad took little of his time; after all, he had "people" to do that sort of thing for him. So Kotek spent much of his time hunting. He'd already bagged half a dozen saber-tooths, well over a score of impressively tusked mammoth, and sundry other bits of wildlife useful for their pelts and feathers (the anti-fur fetish on Earth – as with all such fads – having long since passed into mere quaintness).

  Indeed, he'd grown rather tired of the game. There really wasn't much challenge in shooting stupid animals and the rewards, while reasonable, were far off in time. What Kotek wanted was more immediate satisfaction.

  Besides, while he had purchased a couple of female slaves from a reputable Yithrabi dealer, they were poor, drab and miserable things. Anything beyond bending over or kneeling down and quietly accepting was beyond them. No, Kotek wanted some females with a bit of life in them. And for those, he had to go hunting himself, as his ancestors in distant Ghana had hunted to feed the slave markets of Virginia, Panama, Cuba and Brazil.

  Then, too, it was reputed that there was a great deal of gold found in these parts and that would be even more negotiable upon his return to Earth than matched pairs of mastodon or mammoth tusks.

  The helicopter had landed Kotek and two squads of UN Marines, nineteen men in total, not far from a small village set in this mountain-fringed part of Balboa Colony. One squad of Marines Kotek sent sweeping south of the village to set up a cordon while he and the other prepared to drive the inhabitants out of their village and into the net. The Marines were armored and armed with both lethal and non-lethal weapons, the better to take worthwhile females and young boys alive.

  I might get a decent price on some of the boys, too, Kotek thought, or at least be able to trade them to the Yithrabi for a better class of female.

  Kotek Annan stood up when he and the Marines had reached a line within two hundred meters of the village. They began firing immediately, but only over the heads of the villagers. They assumed the sound would panic the people into running into the cordon. It was a great surprise for Kotek when, instead of panicking, the people disappeared and began returning fire with their primitive rifled muskets. His accompanying Marines looked, if anything, more surprised. But the next surprise, a few minutes later, was better, as two dozen or more clouds of smoke suddenly bloomed to Kotek's right flank.

  Even so, the best surprise was the .57 caliber ball that smashed into Kotek's right thigh, rending the flesh and smashing the bone. It also nicked the femoral artery but not so badly that Kotek didn't have the chance to see a hard, hate-filled face, lighter than his own but still quite dark, that came up to glare down at him. The face spoke some words in a language Kotek didn't understand.

  * * *

  Belisario was no soldier. Still, he had three great assets, common sense, knowledge of the lay of the land, and the sure knowledge that he had to kill these raiders or see – or rather more likely not live to see – his wife and daughters dragged off to serve foreign masters. This much he had learned on Old Earth; the progressives who said they came to do good only came to do well.

  It also didn't hurt that his enemies were clumsy, being unused to genuine field work. He heard their twin columns, even as small as they were, before he ever saw them.

  "One coming from the north, one from the south. They won't attack from two directions at once; that might cause them to shoot each other. So . . . one's a driving force, the other's a net. We hunt that way, sometimes, after all. But which is the net? South, I think, on the other side of the river."

  South of the town there was a river which ran east to west. It was down this Belisario had sent his wife and the other women, girls and very small boys. His wife had carried her own escopeta, or shotgun, as had some of the others. The town itself was a mere twenty-three huts holding perhaps one hundred and fifty people of all ages.

  Belisario counted heads at the people assembled around him, their faces looking frightened but determined. Sixty-one men and older boys with rifles, another dozen with home made bows and arrows. All right. The raiders are . . . not many, based on little Pablo's report, but they'll be better armed.

  Dividing his men into three groups, Belisario explained his plan quickly. No one interposed a better one. Leaving one group – about a quarter of the total – behind at the village, he sent another quarter down stream to cross the river at a ford he knew and which the raiders were unlikely to. The others he, himself, led to a tree line to the northeast.

  "Keep low, dammit," he whispered. "For your lives, your wives and your children, for God's sake keep low."

  The men following Belisario through the woods lay down along the edge and waited. Surely enough, ten men, nine of them armored and all of them armed, emerged into the open and began firing generally at the village. The group that had been left there went low and returned fire, generally ineffectively.

  That doesn't matter, Belisario thought. I don't want you to be effective. I want you to be enticing.

  The skirmish line advanced toward the village, their own rifles firing low now to suppress the defenders. Belisario waited . . . waited . . . waited . . . . "READY . . . Fire!"

  Over the sound of their own fusillades, the raiders didn't hear him. Thus, it was
with considerable shock that the heavy bullets slammed into them, knocking half down immediately. Some of the villagers had climbed into trees to fire down on their enemies. Soon enough, there was not a single man left unhurt among the UN Marines.

  "Reload," Belisario ordered before leading the men with him out. "Kill them all, then we'll go after the other group." Desultory firing to the south told him that the cordon, too, was being engaged.

  One man, differently clothed from the Marines and less well armored, lay on his back trying to staunch the flow of blood which poured from a shattered thigh. Belisario walked up to him, kicking the man's expensive looking rifle away from his reach. The man put one arm up, either begging for mercy or trying to fend off the machete Belisario drew from a scabbard at his waist.