by Tom Kratman
Cruz sat on the wet ground opposite Porras. Two radios were propped against the tree between them.
Out in the kill zone, among the smoldering tracks, a dozen Balboans searched for survivors. The sole remaining medic gave what aid he could. The horrible burns and ripped guts he found were beyond his small skill and lesser equipment. Already, on more than one occasion, he had felt compelled to administer a fatal dose of morphine to a hopelessly burned gringo. It was a cleaner end than letting one of the infantry put a merciful bullet in their brains.
The dial light on the radio lit up. Cruz picked up the microphone. He heard the cohort commander’s call sign and another that Cruz didn’t recognize. The speaker reported the imminent arrival at the train station—“within ten minutes, probably less”—of the rest of the Gallic mechanized infantry battalion.
Cruz thought he recognized the speaker’s voice. “Montoya? That you?”
High above, Montoya laughed to himself. “‘Oh, Cazador buddy.’ Cruz, we have got to stop meeting like this.
“Anyway, how you doin’, pal? You the one toasted those tracks I see?”
“Okay,” answer the sergeant major. “And yes. Well, I mean, the people I’m with did.”
“Looks like good work from here. Anyway, compadre, you’ve got company coming. Good luck . . . and out.”
Cruz relayed the warning to Porras, who wearily arose from the tree and began to issue orders. The platoon, instead of retreating, moved forward a few hundred meters. The oncoming Taurans should not expect them to do that. The cohort commander, maybe two miles away, approved the move. The maniple commander piped in, giving some orders to his other two platoons that would put them in position to support each other across the northern end of Brookings Field.
Tauran News Network, Headline News Studios, Lumière, Gaul, Terra Nova
“Newsflash! Heavy fighting in the Republic of Balboa. More in a moment.” The camera cut out to allow the newscaster to mop his brow and collect his thoughts over the advertising break. When the camera returned, the ’caster reported, “Heavy fighting in the Republic of Balboa between Tauran Union Forces and the Balboan Legion del Cid, the mercenary organization that has taken over the country. Reports indicate that this is a localized battle, centered on the area between Avenida de la Victoria and Brookings Air Base.”
A map showed behind the ’caster, a marker for an explosion superimposed on the image. Though the name, Avenida de la Victoria, was rarely used, the map did, in fact, show the old name given the avenue by Belisario Carrera.
“Casualties, to both sides, are said to be heavy. TNN has also been able to obtain this exclusive video of the outbreak of the fighting. We turn now, to Brent Strider in the Republic of Balboa. Brent?”
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is Brent Strider reporting from the Republic of Balboa.” The camera backed off to show Strider standing next to a diminutive, elderly Balboan. It also showed ambulances carrying away the many wounded, as well as a long line of the plainly dead, lying side by side under ponchos along the sidewalk. “I have here Señor Eduardo de la Mesa. Mr. de la Mesa was an eyewitness, a video eyewitness, to this morning’s unfortunate events. Señor, if you please, tell our viewers what you saw happening this morning at about quarter to three.”
As de la Mesa spoke, a simultaneous translation was dubbed over his words. “I was woken up at about midnight by the sound of many engines and a funny squeaking. It—a Tauran unit taking up position near my apartment—has not happened in some time and so I thought I would videotape it. I was filming the tanquito nearest where I live when suddenly it turned its guns and began firing a machine gun. I turned my camera to record what the machine gun was shooting at and saw several dozen Balboan soldiers lying helpless in the street.”
Strider asked, “Señor, do I understand you correctly? Tauran forces opened fire first.”
“Yes, sir. That is what I saw.”
A technician caught Strider’s eye and gave a thumbs up signal. “We turn now to what Mr. de la Mesa saw through his video camera a few hours ago.”
Strider’s image cut out, to be replaced by a grainy, erratic video shot, illuminated initially only by street lights, then only by muzzle flashes. Those Taurans awake and watching saw an ARE-12P’s turret rapidly turn and begin to fire. The camera swung to follow the tracers. A lone Balboan, without a visible weapon—his pistol was hidden by his far more prominent aid bag—ran across the street. On the videotape his medic’s armband, white with a red cross, stood out. A burst of fire, heard but unseen by the camera, was made plain by the medic’s “Spandau ballet.” The image died, as the medic had, spinning to the end.
“What did you do then, señor?”
De la Mesa looked at Strider as if he were stupid, or crazy, or both. “Then? Then everybody in the world started shooting! I ducked and ran to the back of my apartment. What do you think I did?”
The camera closed again on Strider, cutting de la Mesa out of view. “Back to you, Guillaume,” said Strider.
Estado Mayor, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
Sitting in his wheelchair at Headquarters, watching television, Fernandez smiled as he watched one of his better agents. You’ve earned yourself a hefty bonus, de la Mesa.
Roughly halfway between Balboa City Train Station and Avenida de la Santa Maria, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
“We can’t hold ’em much longer, Top,” said Porras. Blood seeped out from a bandage that bound the lieutenant’s chest, courtesy of a near miss from an IFV’s cannon. Air gurgled, frothing the blood; it was a sucking chest wound. Of the seventy-seven men the platoon had started with, assigned and attached, fewer than thirty remained. Many of those were wounded, some badly. The dead, and some of those wounded too badly to risk moving had—reluctantly—been left behind.
“Yeah, but they can’t attack much longer either, sir. But . . . well . . . we’re down to less than a magazine per man.”
Porras nodded agreement. He spoke in a voice no louder than his collapsing lung permitted, “Pass the word, Top. Fix Bayonets! Pass it loud. Let the bloody Gauls hear.”
Cruz smiled what he fully expected would be his last smile. “Maniple . . . Fix! Bayonets!” He reached to unsnap his own bayonet.
In the relatively open area here there wasn’t nearly as much reason to keep the infantry in the fight. The bulk of the killing, on both sides, was being done by the armor, Puma Tanks, SPATHA tank destroyers, and Ocelots, on the one side, Roland tanks and ARE-12P infantry fighting vehicles on the other.
With real surprise lost, the fight had been much more even. Meter by meter, the rest of the 420th had pushed the Balboans back. Both sides had paid dearly, the Taurans for every meter gained, the Balboans for each minute.
Against the frontal armor of the Tauran tanks the main guns of the Pumas proved useless, although a lucky side shot had left a sixty-ton behemoth dead in the road. Even less effective were the 100mm guns of the Ocelots. Only the “demo guns” of the SPATHAs had been able to deal with the frontal armor of the Rolands. Better said, they had proven able to smash the crews; the armor remained mostly intact. In all, five Rolands had been left, burned out or smashed hulks. All twelve pieces of the Second Cohort’s little armored force that had made it to the vicinity of the fighting had paid the ultimate price for those kills.
With the Balboan armor crushed, the Rolands had pushed on alone. The IFVs were too lightly armored to risk keeping up. So, when the Taurans had closed to within range of Porras’s infantry, the recoilless guns and RGL launchers had had their own fight of it. The tanks had won, but at the cost of two more of their number—one to a mine, another to a side shot from an RGL. Porras’s infantry had paid a higher price—a dozen men dead or wounded, but the tanks had pulled back, calling for the infantry to take the lead in the tightening terrain.
Under cover of the remaining tanks’ fire, the Tauran infantry had cut left and right, one company each going after the platoons the maniple commander had pushe
d up to support Porras on his left and right. In vicious close fighting they had driven the Balboans back from one hastily chosen defensive position to another. Still, each mechanized infantry company could dismount no more than sixty foot soldiers. The lonely grunts had bled equally along with the Balboans once outside of covering fire from their IFVs.
They had bled so much, in fact, that a further advance was almost impossible. Still, they were Gauls and, as such, they were willing to try.
The Tunnel, Cerro Mina, Balboa, Terra Nova
Inside, inside where it couldn’t be seen, Janier bled with his troops. And that surprised me more than anything. I thought I was above all that silly sentimentality. Does this carnage bother Carrera, I wonder? Do people mean anything to him? I’ll be they do. I’ll bet he bleeds as I do.
“General,” said Malcoeur, “it’s the Union Security Council, in the form of Monsieur Gaymard.”
“Janier, here,” said the general, after taking the ancient black phone. “No, sir, it isn’t possible to defeat the Balboans with the force I have on hand here. It isn’t possible to defend the Transitway with the forces I have here. . . . No, sir, I don’t think the Balboans intend to attack the Transitway, unless we escalate the fighting. . . . I didn’t give air support to the soldiers engaged because I had reason to believe that Arnold Air Force Base would have been shelled to ruin if the Balboan commander had been told we were getting ready to do so. . . . Yes, they did shell Brookings rather badly. . . . If you will recall, sir, I asked for two aircraft carriers to support us before we started the Green Monsoons again. . . . Monsieur, the Balboans had aircraft in the air and didn’t use them to support their troops. . . . Mr. President, it was on your orders, yours and the rest of the Council’s, that I began the provocations again. . . . Yes, sir, I do have copies of those orders. . . . No, sir, I will not destroy them. . . . Of course you didn’t mean to suggest anything illegal, sir.
. . . “No, it’s not possible . . . I have eleven maneuver battalions in Balboa now. One is practically destroyed. One is scattered across the Jungle School and can’t be collected for some hours yet. One is a commando battalion uniquely ill-suited for heavy combat. For the remaining eight there are another twenty uncommitted battalions of Balboans mobilized and ready to fight immediately. There could be another fifteen here in a matter of hours; at most a day. And against my four battalions of artillery I am facing the equivalent of fifteen or twenty from Balboa immediately, thirty or forty in time. . . . Yes, I think that’s right. If we escalate the fighting we will lose, badly. No, ‘badly’ isn’t strong enough. We’ll lose stinking. I think the Balboans have proven they can and will fight, sir. . . . Yes, sir. It is a pity they’re not like the Sumeris. . . . No, sir. If you try to send me reinforcements from the Tauran Union in any form I will be ass deep in the Transitway before they get here. Our plan was only good if the Balboans were not mobilized. They are certainly mobilized now.
“Very well, Monsieur. I will order the 420th Dragoons to withdraw to base.”
Roughly halfway between Balboa City Train Station and Avenida de la Santa Maria, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
“This Second Platoon, Second Company?” asked a dirt smudged senior centurion. In the dim light he didn’t recognize either Cruz or the unconscious Porras, lying beside him. Unable to speak at the moment, Cruz just nodded his head. A rifle with a blood-stained bayonet lay across his legs, the bayonet beginning to shine a faint pink by the light of the just rising sun.
“Sergeant Major,” asked the centurion, incredulously, “is that you?”
Again, Cruz could only nod.
“Sorry we took so long, Sergeant Major. Had to help this maniple’s first platoon before coming here. Their CO’s hit, but he’s going to make it. We’ll pass through you and move to contact as far as the boundary. There’s ambulances coming for your wounded . . . and the Taurans.”
“Good . . . good,” answered Cruz.
The centurion said, “Hell of a job these guys did, hell of a job. How many they got left?”
“Twelve that I can count,” answered Cruz.
“‘Second to None.’” quoted the other centurion. Then he gestured for his men to advance.
Tauran News Network, Headline News Studios, Lumière, Gaul, Terra Nova
“General Bigeard, what does this all mean?” asked the vapid faced host.
“It means,” answered the retired Gallic four star, aged, bald, with just a thin patina of the strength and force that had once carried him to the top, “that we can’t have our way in Balboa any longer. It means that the Tauran Union has actually lost its first and only battle in history. It means that any pretense to Balboa needing us to defend the Transitway is just that, a pretense. It means that the pernicious safety constraints imposed on all Tauran armed forces by Marine R.E.S. Mors du Char the Fourth have come to fruition. We can’t fight anymore.
“On the other hand,” continued Bigeard. “They can obviously fight on their own.”
The host turned to face the camera. “For those of you just joining us, as you may have heard already, serious fighting broke out between Balboa and the Tauran Union about six hours ago. It cannot yet be ascertained whether this will result in general hostilities, but word on Tauran casualties suggests that they are very heavy, at least eighty Tauran soldiers have been killed, a larger number wounded in action. Balboan losses are said to be heavier still. I have with me General Marc Bigeard, one time Chief of Staff of the Army of the Gallic Republic.”
The talking head returned his attention to the retired old soldier. “General, what do you make of the videotape we saw a few moments ago that shows Tauran soldiers opening fire first?”
“The tape,” Bigeard pointed out, “only speaks partly for itself. A lot of questions remain unanswered: Why did our soldiers open fire? What were so many Balboan soldiers doing in that place and time? Perhaps most importantly, why were Tauran soldiers sent in harm’s way if the Tauran Union was not prepared to support them? The Tauran Union Security Council has much to answer for.”
Cerro Mina Inn, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
Carrera walked solemnly among the wounded being cared for on the floor of the brothel. Chin and Second Cohort’s Commander, Velasquez, met him and reported.
“How badly off are you, Velasquez?” Carrera asked of the cohort commander.
“Bad, Duque,” Velasquez replied. “My cohort’s been hurt badly.” He gulped before speaking further. “We know we’ve got, maybe, a hundred and thirty, maybe a hundred and forty dead. I think another twenty or thirty are going to die. Wounded? Damn near everybody in First and Second Maniples to one degree or another. . . . But . . . we held ’em, sir. We held ’em.”
“The Taurans?”
Chin answered, “We’ve recovered a hundred and twelve bodies, last I checked. We’ve also got about sixty prisoners. Almost all of them are wounded. They’re being cared for along with our own. Then there are some things, piles of ashes, in some of the tracks, that might be . . . probably are . . . Gallic troops.”
Carrera nodded understanding. “Okay. You and your men were splendid, Velasquez. You may have even bought us peace.” Carrera reached into a pocket and pulled out a set of insignia for the next higher step in rank. He handed them to Velasquez and said, “Put these on, Legate . . . Permanently. And tell your boys, what’s left of them, that the men of Second Cohort, Second Tercio, who fought here today, plus all of their attachments, are to assume their full, mobilization level-three ranks, when on duty, until they retire or are discharged. We’ll work up a citation for the unit in the next few days. Now you have things to do. Go do them.”
Velasquez saluted and was turning to go when Carrera stopped him again. “One other thing. Two-Two will not die. Whatever it takes to rebuild your tremendous cohort so it can continue to serve the Republic will be done.”
“Thank you, sir.” Velasquez left.
Carrera shook hands with Chin and left the building. Lourdes had been waitin
g with Soult outside. He joined her there. She had wanted to go inside but could not bring herself to do so. The cries of pain were just too horrible.
Followed by three radios and a half-dozen guards, Carrera and his wife walked south toward Balboa City’s Central Avenue. Wounded were being treated and dead collected there, with Second Cohort’s Medical Platoon centurion, aided by a doctor from the tercio medical company, overseeing the evacuations.
Carrera’s first impulse was to walk to the wounded. However another scene caught his eye. A woman, no longer young, was searching for someone. A soldier lifted the poncho from the face of one corpse after another. At each the old woman shook her head. Finally, the soldier pulled a poncho from the particular face for which she had been searching. Putting her hands to her face, the woman fell to her knees and buried her face against the blood-stained chest of her only son, her hope for the future. Her body shook with sobs. If she cried aloud, the sound was muffled by her son’s body.
Carrera turned from his intended path to go to the woman’s side. He let her cry a while longer, then, together with the soldier, he pulled her to her feet. Wrapping the old woman in a hug, he heard her ask, over and over “Why? Why?”
Because of me, Old Mother. Only because of me. Your son? I feel no pity for him, he is past all pain. If anything, I feel a certain envy. All my sympathy is for you, left alone in the world as I was once left alone. Mourn, that is proper. But don’t fear. I will take care of you. Or, rather, my Balboa will.
PART V
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Days of quiet for us have come now,
Day of learning and of work.
So that calmly, quietly will bloom
Our villages and towns . . .