by Tom Kratman
The umbrella stood by the hotel room door. Meanwhile, Khalid, his hair lightened and green contacts covering his own brown eyes, studied the picture in the folder he'd been given. The picture was of one Ishmael ibn Mohamed ibn Salah, min Sa'ana, a very minor scion of Mustafa's clan, currently attending school in First Landing. The boy was only twenty and lacked both the finely developed paranoia of the older members of his clan, as well as their money to hire guards and drivers.
Boy, thought Khalid. Boy, I don't know why you have to die. Nor do I care. But enjoy the morning, even so. You will not see the sunset.
With that, Khalid closed the file and stood, walking to his bag to place the file within it. He closed and locked the bag. With that he left, taking the umbrella with him and placing a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the room's door.
Outside the hotel, Khalid hailed a taxi which brought him to the corner nearest Ishmael's small, student apartment. He waited a short time, then saw the boy leave, smoking a cigarette.
Which is why I chose this method. It will take a while for them to notice the outrageous amount of nicotine in your system. With doctors in the Federated States as they are now, they may not even care to look. After all, you are one of those utter unmentionable, those vile untouchables. You smoke, boy, and it's going to be the death of you.
The boy, Ishmael, disappeared into a nearby subway entrance. Khalid followed him down, neither so closely as to be obvious nor so far behind that he couldn't run to catch the train should his target enter one.
There was no train. There was, however, a fair crowd. Using the crowd as cover, Khalid moved to within two feet of Ishmael. Then he settled down to wait for a train.
Unfortunately, the next train entered the subway on the other side. Khalid really wanted not just the noise, in case the nicotine caused the boy to cry out. He also wanted everyone's attention focused on the train's arrival, and movement to begin in the crowd, to cover his own withdrawal.
As expected, the next train arrived on his side, with a tremendous rattle. Nearly everyone but Khalid turned their attention to the train, and about half-lurched forward half a step, as if to gain an advantage for boarding.
Khalid was prepared to make a similar half-lurch, if his target did. This proved unnecessary. He pointed the tip of his umbrella at the boy's calf. At the same time, he reached the other hand over and gave a squeeze to the snot sucker. As little sound as the popping cork made, there was no chance of it being heard over the sound of the train. The nicotine sulfate sprayed out, soaking the target's cloth-covered calf. Khalid immediately turned away, and walked into the mass of humanity gathering by the edge of the platform.
When Khalid turned and looked through the window of the subway car, there was a small crowd gathering around a prostrate, quivering form.
4/7/467 AC, St. Ekaterina Caserne, Fuerte Cameron, Balboa
The stiffly marching Volgans sang in voices designed to knock birds dead at a mile.
"Pust' yarost' blagorodnaya
Vskipaet, kak volna
Idyot voyna narodnaya,
Svyaschennaya voyna!"
"Catchy," Carrera complimented. "What's it mean?"
Samsonov, the Volgan colonel of paratroopers Kuralski had contacted and hired—along with the bulk of his regiment—some years back, puzzled over the translation for a moment before answering, "Comes from Great Global War . . . but maybe older than that. Not sure. Means . . . mmm . . . something like, 'Let waves of righteous fury . . . Swell up as never before . . . And spur us to the victory of . . . Our sacred people's war.' You like?"
"It's excellent. Can you have one of your men make a translation and send it on to Professor Ruiz. Maybe send him a small chorus to demonstrate, too."
Samsonov, old, stout and blond where he wasn't balding, answered, "Easy . . . not those men singing now, though." He gestured at the company marching by. "Those men aren't bad but . . . regimental chorus much better."
"As you prefer."
The Volgans, roughly thirteen hundred of them, weren't on the Legion's official strength. Rather, they were employees of Abogado's Foreign Military Training Group, a subsidiary of Chatham, Hennessey and Schmied, that had provided training expertise to the Legion since the beginning. Most of FMTG now was, in fact, Volgan since the Balboans and other Latins were long since capable of conducting Initial Entry Training and most specialty training, along with the Cazador School and other leadership courses. With the bulk of the aircraft being Volgan and a fair number of the ships of the classis likewise, those departments were staffed almost entirely with Samsonov's countrymen, as well. Even for the aircraft bought from the FSC, the instructors were a mix of qualified Volgans and Balboans.
Samsonov's regiment, and it was a reinforced Volgan parachute regiment in organization, provided both the Controller-Evaluators and the opposing forces at the Legion's Centro de Entrenamiento para el Ejercito Expedicionario, or CENTIPEDE. The CENTIPEDE had served to put the finishing touches on cohorts just before they deployed to the war. Even without a contract, for the nonce, training continued. Being elite soldiers from an Army with an impressive tradition, this suited the Volgans just fine. It suited them even better that they weren't in Volga, anymore.
It was possible that there was a more anti-Tsarist-Marxism leaning group in the world than Samsonov's paratroopers, indeed someone had once suggested as much. No one had ever proven it, though. Samsonov's men loathed Marxism as only those who'd lived under it could. They likewise didn't much care for the corrupt rump of the Volgan Empire that still lived.
One reason they were pretty content to be in Balboa was that they earned standard legionary wages—for the enlisted men about fifteen times more than Volga paid its army—and lived and ate, oh, much better.
Many had married into the locals and some had even transferred over to the Legion. In turn, there were now to be found the odd Garcia and Gomez, seconded from their home tercios and standing among the Gureviches and Gregoriis of Samsonov's regiment. In time, Carrera expected something like complete assimilation. The notion that FMTG was anything but an arm of the Legion was rather fictive, anyway.
"These dirty rotten Fascist pigs
We'll shoot between the eyes.
The garbage of humanity
Is headed for demise."
"What's the title?" Carrera asked.
This time the translation came more easily. "We call it . . . 'Holy War' or . . . maybe better, 'Sacred War.'"
"Oh, yeah" Carrera smiled. "I want that in the Legion's song books."
By the time the marching company of Volgans had passed out of earshot, Samsonov was leading Carrera into the regimental headquarters. They passed by banners more or less dripping with battle honors from the Great Global War, the Volga-Pashtia War, and everything in between. Carrera stopped to finger the streamers, respectfully.
"An honorable regiment," he whispered.
Samsonov answered the whisper. "Was my father's regiment . . . uncle's before him. Eventually . . . fell to me but in worst of times. When your man, Kuralski, found us we were reduced to raising corn and pigs to eat. That would be fine for some non-entity motorized rifle regiment but we . . . paratroopers. Even at that, government going to close us out. They begrudged us . . . cost of our uniforms . . . and of heating oil for winter."
The Volgan colonel spat.
Reluctantly, Carrera released the battle streamers. "How many of your men are veterans of the war in Pashtia?" he asked.
"About three in ten, or perhaps bit more," the Volgan answered. "Why?"
"I'm not just operating off faith, here," Carrera said, "and I am reasonably certain that we'll be rehired soon to go to Pashtia. It's a different environment from Sumer, one my men aren't used to. We're capable of doing the mountain training and such ourselves—"
"And better than we could," Samsonov interjected.
"—but I don't know how the Pashtun act and think and neither do my men."
"We can help there. Quite lot; truth. But have
you considered Pashtun? They're . . . first class . . . mercenaries and, if well treated, loyal to salt."
Carrera nodded. "I've got someone over there looking to do just that. But it's hard, he told me, to sort out the worthwhile ones from the infiltrators. Actually, he said it's impossible and I told him to forget it and concentrate on buying up land and pack animals, while collecting intelligence."
Samsonov rubbed his nose. "I can help with that. Some tribes trustworthy; some not. And I know mullah, name Hassim, who is very learned, very scholarly, and—fortunately— utterly corrupt atheist."
"Can you send a recruiting team over to help my man and to round up this Mullah Hassim?"
"Sure . . . what else you want?"
"I want you to restructure to prepare us for Pashtia. Abogado knows."
7/7/467 AC, War Department, Hamilton, FD
Kenneth O'Meara-Temeroso squirmed in his chair in Malcolm's plush office. He couldn't, he just couldn't, do what the secretary was demanding of him. Besides, it was Malcolm who had sent him to Sumer expressly to fire, hurt, and humiliate Carrera. How could he go back and beg for help now?
"It won't even work," O'Meara-Temeroso objected. "It's a waste of time. That bastard will never forgive us for trying to stiff him. And he won't take the pain he caused us by pulling out so abruptly as sufficient payback, either."
Malcolm smiled warmly. His tan seemed particularly orange today, to match. "I don't care if you have to suck his dick. I want troops for Pashtia and I want them fast."
Whatever his failings, and they were many, ranging from obesity to a remarkable arrogance coupled with stupidity, O'Meara-Temeroso was still, at least arguably, a man. This was too much. "You suck his dick. I'm resigning."
And with that he stood, abruptly turned, and walked out.
One worthless, arrogant bureaucrat gone, mused Malcolm. Hmmmm; who might this Carrera person listen to? Hmmmm . . .
"Suzy," Malcolm said pleasantly into the intercom, "get me General Rivers, would you?"
* * *
"I remember his last words on the subject very distinctly, Mr. Secretary. He said, 'We'll keep track and when you come looking to hire us again everything you've cost us will be added to our fee, with interest from today.' Are you prepared to pay that, Mr. Secretary? The bill is going to be enormous. And since we tried to send funds Carrera considered due to his organization to another, the national government of Balboa, he's not going to give us credit."
"What do you think he'll charge us?"
"As much as he can squeeze. In fact, as much as he thinks it takes to hurt us. We pissed him off pretty badly and he is not the . . . forgiving type."
"But he needs money," Malcolm objected. "He doesn't have a national tax base to pay for his war machine."
"Someone—we think the Yamatans—are funneling a great deal of money to him right now. And he already had quite a lot. I don't think he's hurting."
Malcolm sighed, bleakly. It was so . . . frankly inconceivable, that a mere mercenary should be so difficult. Ah, well. Needs must . . .
"General Rivers, I want you to go see him and see what he'll take. Don't commit us to anything yet. See what he might take that isn't in the form of dollars. The President doesn't want to go to congress over this. Maybe we have something he wants . . . weapons . . . gold . . . I dunno. But the President wants him and what the President wants—"
"I'll leave day after tomorrow, Mr. Secretary. But I can't promise anything."
9/7/467 AC, Motor Yacht Suzy Q, Xamar Coast
The storm trick wouldn't work more than once. At least, it wouldn't work twice in a row. The classis needed something else, rather, several somethings else.
The Suzy Q was one of those things. Oh, she was a real yacht, all right, one hundred and ten feet worth of outrageous luxury. Even the girls aboard were luxury models, hookers taken from the Wappen von Bremen and paid a hefty bonus for sunning themselves topless on the forward deck. Everyone had been surprised that so many of the girls had volunteered when asked. Six had been needed, thirty-two had volunteered, and that was even before the danger bonus was mentioned. Who knew; perhaps they had begun to think of themselves as legionettes.
Whatever the motivation, they did a very impressive job, sunning and stretching, nonchalantly showing off their assets to the fishing boats they passed. The classis assumed, not unreasonably, that at least some of those boats reporting directly to Pirates-R-Us.
In anticipation of that, the boat was not quite so yacht-like under the surface. Both sides and the stern had been heavily reinforced with resinated aramid-fiber armor plates. Three .41-caliber machine guns were positioned, each side, to fire outward, as was a seventh to fire astern. The machine guns had been modified with a special jacket for water cooling. They could fire for half an hour or more before the barrels overheated. As a matter of fact, the half hour was about as much as the testing committee had cared to check. No one really knew how long they could fire without a let up. Besides the .41s, under the forward deck a single front-shielded 20mm was poised to be raised by hydraulics. An additional seven Cazadors and an equal number of sailors posed as crew in civilian dress, over and above the hidden seventeen slotted to man the machine guns and 20mm.
The Cazadors didn't get the girls' danger bonus, though they drew normal combat pay.
Centurion Rodriguez, admiring the girls from the wheel house, thought, Screw the bonus; watching the girls is bonus enough. Standing next to him the Suzy Q's skipper, Warrant Officer Chu, had much the same thought.
Both were making plans for their next scheduled visit to the von Bremen.
"Sweet duty," mused Rodriguez.
"That it is," agreed Chu. He pointed at the boat's radar screen. "But it's about to get a lot less sweet."
"Suzy Q this is Ironsides; company coming."
Chu picked up the microphone and answered, "We see 'em coming, Ironsides. No problem, just the one boat."
"Shall I have the girls start their routine?" asked Rodriguez.
Chu noted the distance on the screen by eye. He shook his head slightly. "No . . . wait a bit. They won't be here for half an hour. But why don't you have the Santisima Trinidad close it up some?"
* * *
The pirate vessel was crammed to the gills with mujahadin. At least, they liked to style themselves as holy warriors; it gave them a warm and fuzzy feeling to be doing the work of God while filling their pockets.
"And aren't those some bits of divine workmanship?" asked the boat's chief, rhetorically, looking over the exceptionally well-breasted and tanned girls standing by the target's bow and gesturing frantically. "And won't they bring a good price at market."
He'd asked rhetorically but his assistant had been listening even so. "The boat itself will bring a better one," he said, "and anyone who can afford that boat and those girls will probably bring a better ransom still."
"Oh, look," tsked the pirate chief. "We've frightened them; they're running below. Well, that won't matter. Cheat of us our gaze now, we'll enjoy your bodies all the more later."
The chief turned to his assistant. "Fire a shot across their bow and tell them to kill engines and prepare to be boarded."
* * *
Women end up whoring for any of a huge number of reasons. Some, albeit few, actually like the work. Others have no other skills. Some are lazy, and those often do very poorly even at hooking, while others just want to raise a lot of money in a hurry and then retire back home where no one knows what they've been and done.
Jaquelina Gonzalez's reasons were none of those. At the age of fourteen, she'd had the poor judgment to get involved in one of Colombia Latina's innumerable guerilla wars. Worse, she'd chosen the wrong—the losing—side. Undocumented, fleeing for her life, with no assets but those God had given her and no skills that anyone wanted, she'd found herself drifting into whoredom as a better alternative to starvation. Unofficially, she was the leader of the girls on the Suzy Q, and one of the senior hookers on the Wappen von Bremen, as
the girls counted such things.
For the life of her, she could not have answered why she'd volunteered for this job. Maybe it was merely to get away from the von Bremen for a while. Maybe it was something else.
Whatever her reasons, Jaquelina had serious doubts about her wisdom once the pirate vessel got close enough for her to see the men waving their rifles and machetes. Rape? Well, she'd been raped before and survived it. Torture? Yes, she made the mistake of being captured once and so she knew about torture. Come to think of it, though she really didn't like to think of it, the two—rape and torture—had gone together.
"Come on, ladies," she ordered, "time for us to go below."
She waited at the hatch, shoving the other girls ahead of her, before she, too, went below to the armored compartment built especially to house them. Just before descending, Jaquelina heard a familiar blast from forward of the ship.
* * *
The pirate chief saw a portion of the forward deck begin to rise and was very quick to add up two plus two and come up with "Holy fucking shit; it's a trap." When a three meter long section of the port side of the boat swung out he directed an RGL gunner to fire, "For the love of Allah and the hope of seeing your family again!"
The RGL flew true and a gaping wound appeared in the target's side. Dimly, through the smoke from the blast, the pirates could see what had to be a machine gun and perhaps a body slumped over it. Two more shells flew in short order toward the rising 20mm, missing it but hitting the shield and sending the men waiting to man it sprawling. The Xamaris had little time for congratulations as two more openings appeared, even as a much larger gun continued to rise on the deck.
The 20mm sat unaimed and unmanned until a couple of Cazadors could be rousted from below. When they arrived, the larger gun began to toss out its shells, knocking down the Xamari pirates in groups.