by Tom Kratman
After a sigh he said, "Arti, Mac's a fine man, but he's old enough to be your father . . . maybe your grandfather, if he was precocious."
Am I that obvious? Or am I only that obvious to my older male relations?
"I don't care, Uncle. Ever since I saw him at the hippodrome, I've been fascinated."
"He's not rich, Arti, though I have no doubt that Patricio would fix that if he ever saw a reason to, or Mac asked. And he is old, nearly sixty. There's no guarantee he could ever father children on you."
Artemisia sniffed, pointedly. "Trust me, Uncle; women can tell. He could still father a score of children. Give him ten women and he could father two hundred. Uncle, the Sergeant Major is a man."
Jimenez smiled at his niece. "Well . . . yes, I suppose he is. But what makes you think he might be, or even could be, interested in you?"
Artemisia didn't have to blossom for her uncle. A simply tilt of the head and half pirouette sufficed.
"Well," the legate conceded, pulling on one ear ruefully. "I suppose he could be at that."
Jimenez's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Young lady, you go hurting McNamara's feelings and you will find you are not too old, not too high and mighty, to find your old uncle pulling you over his knee and paddling you so that you cannot sit for a month."
Horrified, the niece shook her head. "Hurt him, Uncle? No . . . oh, nonono. I'm serious about this one. I intend to make him the happiest man in the world. Don't you see? He just . . . smells right. He's the right one. I swear; I'll never hurt him."
Still looking suspicious, Jimenez had to concede that Arti seemed sincere enough. "Very well then. You can hunt him, my little Diana. Though I foresee much wailing and gnashing of teeth from the Bachelor Officers' Quarters."
"Will you help, Xavier?"
"Brazen hussy. What is it with you and older men?"
"They're real men, Uncle Xavier, not boys. Besides, I was in love with you when I was a little girl and I guess that just typecast me for impossibly old men."
Slightly embarrassed, Jimenez thought about that, his head bobbing from side to side. At length, he had to agree. God knows, he'd been not nearly as much of a man at age twenty-five.
"Well . . . I suppose that my own sergeant major could use a little more advice . . . and perhaps I could, as well. And then there's the whole . . . well, never mind. I suppose I have been underutilizing this most impressive training asset. Niece, please invite Sergeant Major McNamara, Sergeant Major Escobedo and his wife, and Legate Guttierez and his wife to dinner, next . . . mmm . . . let's say next Friday. Mess dress? Yes, that will give us an opportunity to show off your not unimpressive . . . assets and give you a chance to see just how impressive Sergeant Major Mac can be in full regalia."
With a yelp of joy—with her uncle on her side, poor McNamara didn't stand a chance—Artemisia launched herself to wrap her arms around Xavier and squeeze him tight enough to collapse lungs. After a moment she backed up and looked at him seriously.
"Xavier," she said. "If you had not been my uncle, I would have gone after you."
Interlude
7/6/47 AC (Old Earth year 2106), Terra Nova, Balboa Colony
The shuttles came down in broad daylight, the better to intimidate the population.
Belisario Carrera, watching from a jungle-shrouded perch overlooking the ciudad, counted them as they descended. Multiplying by twenty-four, he came up with a number of new opponents that set his teeth to grinding and his stomach to churning.
Still, there's no way to tell from here, Belisario thought, how many are actually aboard, what their equipment is like, or what kind of soldiers they are. Hmmm . . .
"Pedro?" Belisario called, summoning a short, stocky and dark, loincloth-clad fighter.
"Si, jefe?" Pedro asked when he had crawled up to his leader's observation post. He massaged a sore shoulder as he lay upon the ground, gift of a captured UN rifle with altogether too much kick.
"I want you to . . . " Belisario began and then stopped. Pedro was a cholo, an indian, but he was also very nearly the brightest of Belisario's followers. He was among the bravest. If Belisario asked Pedro to go into town and spy, Pedro would certainly do it. But the risk?
I must risk it. I must risk him.
"Pedro," Belisario continued, "I need to know what we're facing. Can you go into town and look around for me?"
The cholo didn't say much, ever. He didn't now, either, but just nodded and began to slither backwards.
Belisario returned his attention to the town below and the parade of descending shuttles. So even here I cannot escape Earth and its corruption. Ah, well, at least here I can fight and have a chance. But I do wish that before I left I'd killed more slowly that UN bastard who wanted to trade me my own land for my daughter.
* * *
The ciudad wasn't really much of a ciudad. Even Pedro, cholo or not, knew that. Only the stone church had any real presence, at least since Belisario and his men had attacked and burned to the ground the local UN offices. It wasn't difficult for Pedro to keep a smile off his face as he passed the ruined UN compound. After all, there was a substantial group of uniformed men busily working to rebuild it.
Looking carefully at the soldiers, Pedro engraved on his mind the image his eyes saw. Big, strong, tough looking. Red cloths wound around their heads. Cloths look pretty neat. Might get one. Keep rifles close by or slung across backs. Hotter than shit and they still haven't taken off shirts. I smell trouble.
Pedro had his basic letters and numbers. He counted, in all, about one hundred and fifty before moving on.
I thought other fucking UN bastards looked tough, he thought, a few hundred more yards down the street. He, like the civilians of the town, rapidly got out of the way of another group of soldiers, marching silently in three files and about fifty ranks, separated into five groups. They short shits, like me. Eyes different, though. Skin lighter. But little fuckers look mean. And them big fucking curved knives they carrying? Scary.
After three-hundred of the toughest looking men he had ever seen, Pedro breathed a small sigh of relief as he got close enough to see the next group, just emerging from the shuttles.
Hah, that more like it. Them look like Botswanan fellahs we kick shit out of while back. Smell worse, though. Jesus, nobody tell dirty fuckers "Cleanliness next to Godliness?" I mean, I know water tight on fucking transport ships but . . . ewwww. It ain't like you sweat any in deep freeze. Them nasty fucks musta been stinky when board ship.
Then Pedro smelled something he had only ever smelt once before in his life. That time had been at Tocumen Airport, in Panama, on old Earth, as he had been about to board the aircraft that would take him to the United States to be shuttled up to the Amerigo Vespucci. He didn't know what caused it. At first he thought it might be the helicopters roaring by overhead.
But, no . . . them too far away . . . downwind, too.
A horn sounding behind him half scared Pedro out of his coppery skin. He turned quickly, and found himself staring into eyes that just emerged above a long, green painted, solid-looking slope. He looked above the eyes, looked further up to what appeared to be a pipe sticking out of a half a trash can stuck on front of the universe's biggest frying pan. Up; a machine gun mounted atop a flat roof, with a soldier nonchalantly resting one hand on the gun, while waving with the other for Pedro to clear away.
Oh, shit; they got tanks.
Chapter Thirteen
We could wait no more
In the burning sands on the ride to Agadir.
Like the dogs of war
For the future of this land on the ride to Agadir . . .
—Mike Batt, Ride to Agadir
28/2/468 AC, Firebase Pedro de Lisaldo, Pashtia
"Sayidi, it's not like they don't know we're coming for them," said Qabaash, in the confines of the conference room tent near the main command post for the Legion's expeditionary force. "And, to a considerable degree of certainty, when. We can choose the exact time and the place and
even the manner, but we cannot choose the fact or the season. The Kibla Pass must be cleared; they know this. They will be waiting and they will be prepared."
"'Prepared' is possibly an understatement, boss," added Triste. "Even if what the FS Army has caught moving into the area represents ninety percent of everything that was sent up there by the Ikhwan, and it doesn't, that other theoretical ten percent is going to be a bitch, taken head on."
"What are we facing?" Carrera asked.
"A reinforced brigade," Triste answered. "I can't tell you exactly how reinforced they might be. Assume more than their fair share of heavy mortars, possibly even a few tanks, lots of RGLs . . . fair amount of anti-aircraft, guns and shoulder-fired guided missiles, both. That's all pretty concentrated on the best landing zones, too. Some of the guns are reported to be in caves that cover the LZs and which are a just plain bitch to see until it's too late.
"Assume mines and booby traps and major improvised explosive devices. Assume the sides and underbeds of the road through the pass are wired for sound"—milspeak for wired to explode—"and that most of the LZs will be mined and covered by direct and indirect fire."
Miguel Lanza, head of the air ala, usually kept fairly quiet at these little brainstorming sessions. Today was different.
"Jefe, there are half a dozen LZs within six or eight miles of the summit of the pass in which I could set down Qabaash' entire brigade in no more than three or four lifts. Every one of them is entirely unsuitable; I'd lose nearly every bird I tried to set down."
"Fine. What's not unsuitable?" Carrera asked.
Qabaash raised an eyebrow at Triste, who proceeded to produce a photo and a large scale map and hand them over to Carrera. "This one might work, boss."
Carrera's face looked highly dubious. The photo showed a somewhat narrow ledge—no more than fifty meters in width—hunched against a series of cliffs with serrations in them. On the side away from the cliffs was a sheer drop.
"What's this good for? Maybe five or six birds landing at a time. It would take forever to get Qabaash' brigade on the ground."
"I think more like four birds at a time, jefe," Lanza corrected. "And the cross winds coming around that rock outcropping will be very difficult. But no; it won't take forever. Assume we'll have to underload the helicopters some because of the thin air. Okay, so it takes damned near everything I have to get all of the Salah al Din brigade into the air at once. Call it one hundred and twenty choppers, anyway. At four per lift, or one per lift for the IM-62s, it will take just over an hour to get everyone in and out."
"But I can be moving on the pass on foot as soon as I have two companies landed," interjected Qabaash. "That's less than ten minutes . . . "
"Closer to five," Lanza corrected.
"Better still, closer to five minutes after the first chopper touches down and I am already on my way to the pass."
"And then what, Qabaash?" Carrera asked, frowning. "You've got two companies heading into a meatgrinder with at least a battalion dug in strongly." He looked over the map and photo again. "And you've got two, count 'em, two crappy trails from the landing zone to the objective."
"That's only if they all go towards the real landing zone," Lanza said. "I can buzz and false insert at every other good and even remotely possible LZ in the area. They'll never hear or see enough to know which is the real landing. I might lose a couple but . . . really . . . they don't have to commit to a landing, just to buzz the spot. The artillery can prep . . . "
"Not much artillery," interrupted Harrington, the logistician. "If you're moving all of Qabaash' boys at once there'll be nothing left to airlift guns and shells into range. Only the multiple rocket launchers can range to the summit of the pass from where we can resupply by truck."
"Okay," Lanza conceded. "Have a little faith. With the MRLs, the Finches, aerially dropped guided bombs from the Nabakovs, and gunship support we can still put on a good show of prepping enough landing zones that they won't know where we're coming from. That means Qabaash will face at most . . . "
"A company," Qabaash finished. "And the day two companies of Salah al Din can't handle a company of Ikhwan irregulars will be a cold, happy and batless day in Hell." He sounded very pleased at the prospect of demonstrating this point in the near future.
Carrera held up his hand for silence. Immediately the other's shut up.
"We'll do it. As Qabaash and Lanza say. Terry?"
"Here, boss," piped in Terry Johnson, for the nonce commanding the Tercio de Cazadores. His new rifle project was progressing under his assistant, another Volgan enticed away from the Rodina.
"I want you to start inserting teams all over the area within the next couple of days. In particular, get a platoon—a company if you think it needful and possible—into the area of the LZ . . . mmm, what should we call that LZ?"
"Let's call it 'Landing Zone Agadir,' Patricio," Qabaash supplied. "It was a small but lovely fight back on Old Earth, long ago."
"Agadir, then. Dan?"
"Yes, Pat?"
"Work up the orders for review within two days."
* * *
Compared to most modern command posts, headquarters for the Legion was really rather sedate. True, underlings scurried about. Maps were updated. Occasionally one might hear a voice or two raised in argument. For the most part, though, it was calm and quiet. And so it should have been. There was little reason for frenzy in a force that placed a premium on individual initiative at lower levels and which rarely tried to manage a battle in too exquisite a detail outside of artillery preparations.
(On the other hand, if one really wanted to see frenzy, one could always go down to a cohort command post.)
Instead, the CP for the Legion was a place for the housing and support of the commander and the staff, a place for planning future operations, and a meeting place for those times when face to face orders to groups of men had to be given. Ordinarily, there really wasn't any reason for frenzy.
Instructing his driver to get a meal and some sleep, Carrera entered the main tent, ordering, "At ease," before anyone had a chance to disrupt work by calling, "Attention." Stopping by the operations and intelligence maps, he took in an overview—updated about three hours previously—of the current operation. There were no surprises, he noted, with satisfaction.
He then grabbed a sandwich from a tray thoughtfully left there by the HQ mess platoon, before retiring to his own, attached, tent to catch up on correspondence.
On the top of the pile of printed off sheets was a missive from Parilla.
Patricio:
That you are willing to fund a major expansion of the reserve components helps us. I am awaiting the right time to make the announcement. Fernandez suggests forcing an 'incident' with the Tauran Union troops here so that we can appeal to patriotism rather than simply looking like we're trying to buy votes. I like the idea in principle, but am concerned that forcing a small fight with the TU might turn into a large fight that we are not ready for. Especially are we not ready while you have eighty-five percent of the force—to include a hefty chunk of the training base returned to their parent tercios—over in Pashtia. Moreover, while you are over there, with your base areas surrounded by Tauran troops, you might be vulnerable. So I think I will not follow Fernandez's advice, at least for a while. Have you any ideas on how best to precede the announcement? One thought I had was not to make it at all, but to start major public works of a defensive nature, hiring fifty or sixty thousand of the unemployed, and making those defensive works plainly and obviously oriented against the Taurans. That might get us the patriotic response, coupled with self interest, and is also do something we ought to be doing anyway . . .
"Note to self," Carrera muttered. "Have Sitnikov brief Parilla on plans for fortifications on the Isla Real and along both sides of the Rio Gatun. Also, check on progress in designing the expansion."
He tapped the side of his nose several times, thinking. "Hmmm . . . I hate to lose Kuralski but I think maybe I need to
send him back to Volga for a bit."
. . . providing you and Fernandez are right—and, no, I don't disagree—about war with the Tauran Union and possibly the Zhong being inevitable.
It is strange to think of us being on our own against the second- and third-ranked powers of this world. Always before we lived under the shadow, but also the covering umbrella, of the Federated States. We never had to worry about defense against anyone but them; and defense against them, as you helped prove almost twenty years ago, was impossible . . .
"It was impossible then, Raul. Now? Now, if the entire force were home? I think the FSC would probably get sick of the bloodletting before they conquered Balboa again." And what would I do in such a case? That's a no-brainer; my loyalty is to my Legion.
Carrera continued with the letter:
There are moments when I seriously doubt the wisdom of the course we have undertaken, moments when I doubt it is worth it for me to become President. But then I think of the Legion, of what we could do for Balboa if we could spread the wealth around without it automatically gravitating to the pockets of the idle, corrupt and useless rich.
In any case, enough of an old man's idle prattle for now. Your time is valuable and, so the newscasts and the intelligence reports say, well spent. Give my warmest regards to the officers, centurions, warrants and men of the Legion. I miss you all very much and look forward to your speedy and safe return home.
"Fine old man," said Carrera, putting the missive aside and picking up the next, from Fernandez.
Duque:
The only good news I have to report is that our friends above are due to receive a visitor that has to be most unwelcome. Apparently the UEPF, too, has an Inspector General and apparently like any IG, theirs is a pain in the ass.
Yes, this comes from our very special intelligence source. How long this source can last is anyone's guess, however. Sometimes I think that the best use of this asset is not in the detailed intelligence we receive, but in what it tells us about the mindset of the UE and the UEPF.