by Tom Kratman
The speed of exit was a bare crawl, and, thought Liu, could perhaps have been better done by towing machines—perhaps on rails—than by the sub’s own power. In any case, the bare and rough rock walls sliding by at less than a slow walking pace were a necessary frustration; it was a dangerously tight fit.
Looking ahead, Liu saw the hint of a wider area, though still not very wide. This was where the half water filled tunnels that led to four other pens joined up to form the main exit—the only exit for submarines—to the sea.
Maneuvering through that bend in the otherwise straight tunnel system took some finesse. Again, Liu mused on the possibility of using some kind of automated system, perhaps if they ever got the alternate entrance and exit tunnel carved out. At thought of that, the captain scowled. Supposedly that alternate exit would be dug; the beginnings of it already had been. Liu would believe it when he could take his sub out through it. As it was, it appeared to be yet another boondoggle, full of sound and fury, and being dug . . . or not . . . by a well-known idiot with impeccable connections to the imperial palace.
Corruption will be the ruin of us, the skipper thought. Already our trade is being crippled by the foul and contaminated, sometimes murderously contaminated, products put into the stream of commerce by those pirates masquerading as the guardians of the people. “To each according to his ability to steal, from each according to his inability to get at decent goods.”
What has become of the revolution my ancestors thought they were fighting for?
Liu, who loved his work, was always careful to keep such thoughts purely private.
In the deep interior, the lights above the sub had been quite bright fluorescents, bright enough not to be able to see the small guide lights along each side of the tunnel. As it neared the exit, the tunnel’s bright overheads gave way to diffuse normal daylight from the tunnel’s mouth and the minor red guide lights. For a nighttime exit, it would be all on the little guide lights, those, and night vision devices, to get the sub to sea.
At the point where the guide lights took over and the fluorescent lights ended, an antitorpedo fence—because, yes, some of the Zhong Empire’s enemies could guide a torpedo or mine right into the underground base—was pulled into the walls to permit the sub to leave.
The guide lights were each a single bulb, with parallel quad slit openings, designed to let the viewer gauge his rough distance by the tendency to blend into one when processed by the eye and brain. Too far away and all four slits would present one light. Too close and the viewer would see all four. Only if two were seen was the distance just right.
The lights were protected by rubber guards, which also served to protect the boat and its anechoic tiles from the rock. Liu didn’t have an excess of faith in those; his was a seven thousand ton displacement vessel. He thought the odds were poor of the rubber stopping his boat before it did damage to itself, or the lights, or even the walls, even at the current snail’s pace.
As the sub lined itself up in that wider, hangarlike section where the tunnel bent, Liu saw two more subs behind his, awaiting their turn. There was another, he knew, that had already passed out of the base and made its way to sea.
I wonder why the daytime exit? To intimidate the Balboans? It might be. Let’s hope they’re easier to intimidate that the bloody Cochinese. Nothing intimidates them, the ungrateful shits.
Ahead the rough semi-circle of light widened and grew. Soon enough, in this easy and straight final passage, the sub’s bow was graced with sunlight. The line of natural illumination passed down the sub’s forward length, over the sail, and then down the stern to where the asymmetric screw lightly frothed the water. From there buoys marked the safe passage out. Liu followed that marked path for several hours, on a zigzag course, threading his way around the numerous peninsulas and islands that jutted out into and up from the Sea of Zhili. At last with that inlet from the Mar Furioso behind him, he ordered his command down into the dark depths of the Mar Furioso. From there, the course was generally east-northeast, to Balboan waters.
IYN Akizuki, Sea of Hangkuk, Terra Nova
Xing Zhong Guo’s Dynasty class of nuclear submarines outweighed Yamato’s largest submarines, of which class Akizuki was a member, by a factor of more than two. The Zhong had greater range. They carried more weapons. In an underwater knife fight between any Zhong Dynasty class and Akizuki or any of her sisters, the smart money would still have been on the Yamatans.
The Yamatan Navy wasn’t out for a fight at the moment, though they wouldn’t have ducked one, either. They simply took a keen interest in everything the Zhong did, anywhere near Yamato, the Zhong being, at the moment, the only real threat Yamato faced. In this particular case, with a major invasion fleet obviously assembling, and the cutting edge of the Zhong submarine fleet at sea, Yamato’s interest in Zhong goings about was extremely high. It would remain so until that invasion fleet went elsewhere, as expected.
Where it was going? Well, everyone in the know already knew. It was going to Balboa to punish those arrogant upstarts for sinking an, in fact innocent, Zhong aircraft carrier.
What was Yamato going to do about it? That had been a matter for considerable debate in the secretive bowels of Yamatan government. Some, albeit not many, were persuaded to help Balboa, openly or clandestinely, because of the Balboans creditable performance in opening up the oil routes between Yithrab and Yamato. Others, not unreasonably, said, “Screw them; they were well paid for their efforts.” Still another party thought, “Screw the Balboans, indeed; but wouldn’t it be in our interest to put a couple of torpedoes up the asses of the Zhong submarine fleet, letting the Balboans take the blame?”
Unfortunately for all but the first group, the emperor had the final say. That boiled down to, “We wish the Balboans well. Indeed, we wish them so well we are going to share any intelligence we have with them. But we’ve had enough of wars that do nothing good for us; the Balboans will have to be content with our well wishes and our good intelligence.”
Which explained why a Yamatan submarine was waiting as, ultimately, four of Xing Zhong Guo’s Dynasty-class nuclear submarines departed their base, passed through the Yellow Sea, and began the long trek across the Mar Furioso to Balboa’s coast. It didn’t explain why a Yamatan submarine named Akizuki stopped off at a Federated States naval base on an atoll in the middle of the ocean to replenish fuel and stores, then departed without another word. It didn’t explain why that same boat surfaced with some regularity to send encrypted data back home. And it certainly didn’t explain why that same data was then forwarded to Fernandez in Balboa.
But then, while the emperor had said “share intelligence,” he hadn’t said, “but don’t actively gather it.”
Hotel Cielo Dorado, Aserri, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Though there was, by definition, no head or foot to the round conference table, there are still certain grouping and axes, not always apparent except to the participants. Starting at what one arbitrarily might call “twelve o’clock” was the UEPF, Wallenstein at the center flanked by one of the two Khans and the local ambassador to Santa Josefina. To her left was the Tauran Union, Monsieur Gaymard, who still seethed with obvious hate, General Janier, and General Marciano, who got along surprisingly well. Moving further clockwise was the Zhong delegation, the empress and one or two of her military advisors, whoever could be spared from planning the invasion with those Taurans of Janier’s staff who weren’t at the table. Then came the Federated States, an ambassador and four flunkies. On the other side of the FSC contingent were the Santa Josefinans, usually Calderón and a civilian advisor from the diplomatic office. There might have been a military advisor, but Blanco was as senior and experienced as those got in the country and he was too laughably junior and inexperienced. Then came a small delegation from La Plata, followed by Esterhazy, Lourdes Carrera, and Triste. On the other side of those were three from Atzlan. The last two were not technically at war but, since they had already loaned Carrera their two most cap
able and fanatical brigades, it could be said that they were in a conditional state of war with the Tauran Union, and quite possibly with the Zhong.
There were also sundry newsmen present, by common agreement, though no cameras were permitted. There was also a mixed group of security guards provided by Balboa and Marciano’s command.
Lourdes glanced right, at Esterhazy, and nodded. He stood up and said, “Copies of what I am about to say will be provided to the press as well as to all parties to the conference.
“The republic of Balboa is aware of the massive invasion fleet now assembling in the ports of Xing Zhong Guo. Indeed, it was in part due to the threat presented by that fleet that we agreed to attend this conference. A peace conference, however, is supposed to be about peace, not a cover for renewed war. Moreover, while a fleet is port in not so great a threat, a fleet that has begun to sail is a threat.”
Wallenstein, who knew every important detail of that fleet from her royal lover, cast her eyes Zhongward. The empress shrugged, I have no idea what these barbarians are talking about.
“Six days ago,” Esterhazy continued, “four Zhong hunter-killer”—that was bound to upset the generally ignorant press more than the simple “attack” might have—“submarines set sail from Liaoxi. Those submarines are now within two weeks of entering Balboan waters.
“Given the generally uncivilized intransigence of the Zhong delegation, here”—which got a sputter of indignant outrage from the empress—“and their obviously imperialist designs upon Balboa, the Republic of Balboa makes the following demand and the following announcements.
“First, the demands.” Esterhazy glared straight at the empress, a violation of protocol sufficient to have cost him his head in her own country. “Stop those submarines and turn them around. If they reach our waters they will be engaged without warning.”
The next point was one they’d argued about for over a day. Ultimately, knowing her mission, Lourdes had agreed to Esterhazy saying, with a sneer, “After all, given the losses your fleet has suffered so far, it isn’t like you can afford to lose much more.”
That had the desired effect. The empress stood up and threw a book, which Esterhazy ducked, while one of her underlings drew a wicked looking knife. The latter, in turn, went back under cover when, magnetlike, it drew a dozen rifle muzzles.
“My second demand is to the Tauran Union. You and the Zhong are here together, and cooperating, because you are effectively allies in the persecution of the Balboan people. We will return no more prisoners until those Zhong submarines turn around and until you remove the threat your forces here in Santa Josefina pose to the Republic.”
That set both the Taurans and Calderón to steaming fury.
“Our third demand concerns a subject near and dear to Tauran hearts, and the hearts of cosmopolitan progressives, everywhere. As various nations within the Tauran Union have asserted universal jurisdiction over sundry crimes against humanity, so the Timocratic Republic of Balboa takes this precedent to heart and asserts universal jurisdiction against anyone corrupting the international legal system by launching politically motivated prosecutions. Thus, we demand the extradition to Balboa, to face capital charges, of the Chief Prosecutor of the Cosmopolitan Criminal Court, Ms. Fatima Gamble, of the corrupt judges Isabelle Mussolini, Chile Mmassasisi, and Anita Kraul, as well as various other members of the ruling junta in the Tauran Union, whose names shall be made public at a later time.
“And finally, that is all we have to say. The Republic of Balboa withdraws from this conference until its just demands are met.” Then, ostentatiously, Lourdes, Triste, Esterhazy, and their party closed their files, stood, where needed, and stormed out together.
MV Roger Casement (Hibernian Registry),
Matama, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Matama was hardly a huge port. Indeed, it only had two berths with sufficiently deep water for a container ship of the Casement’s displacement. That saved confusion; the soon to be rebels knew exactly where to go.
The mule train from the Balboan port of Capitano had arrived the week prior, having made not a lot more than five miles a day, and often rather less, going cross country over the mountains. Not all the mules had made it, either. Starting with forty-seven mules, plus the largely unladen bell mare, and not quite five tons of arms and equipment, high quality feed for the animals, and dry rations for the half dozen men of the column, only the men, forty-one mules and the bell mare had made it. This hadn’t meant much of a loss of cargo, since the fodder was consumed regularly, and the arms and ammunition could be reloaded. That said, one hundred and twenty rounds of mortar ammunition had been a complete loss, when the mules carrying it plunged over a cliff and into a broad stream below. That was about a third of all the mortar ammunition carried, so it was not a light blow.
Still, they did manage to bring to the outskirts of Matama three light mortars, with two hundred and forty rounds of mixed ammunition, plus a dozen general purpose machine guns, with tripods and nearly twenty thousand belted rounds. There were one hundred and twenty rifles, as well, along with twenty-two submachine guns, and thirty-six thousand rounds of ammunition. Of antitank weapons there were only a few of heavier versions, with a mere twenty rounds, plus three dozen light weapons. Twenty night vision devices with batteries were there, as well as ten radios, with their batteries, just to keep to nice round numbers so beloved of quartermasters the worlds over. There were also several cases of grenades and pyrotechnic signals, three first rate Sachsen sniper rifles, with match grade ammunition, a truncated demolition kit, and four shoulder fired anti-aircraft missiles, without which no guerrilla movement can feel properly dressed.
They could have carried more but, what with the rains, the dunnage to protect the ammunition really was needed. They brought no uniforms, armor—neither of heads nor for torsos—individual load carrying equipment . . . none of it.
It was, in any case, enough for the roughly one maniple of Santa Josefinan legionaries, all in mufti, assembled within thirty miles of Matama. For the rest of the overstrength tercio in Santa Josefina, the Casement, with a little luck and some planning, would provide.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A nation without defense cannot exist; a people without a military cannot be secure.
—Naval Recruitment Poster,
Commonly seen on walls in the city of Choukoutien,
Xing Zhong Guo
Outside Matama, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
By and large the pattern in Santa Josefina followed that of Colombia Central, generally; most of the population was with the healthier climate and better weather of the Mar Furioso coast or central cordillera, while the Shimmering Sea sides had a single not-too-large port most suitable for the export of fruit, with a single road leading to it. Ordinarily, this lack of a transportation net would be heaven for a guerilla force. In this case, however, since the guerillas were pretty much disarmed, since almost all their arms were coming on a single ship, and since getting those arms issued required a better transportation net than existed, it was highly problematic. It was made more problematic by the dispersal of Legate Salas’s tercio across a quarter or more of the country. The legate himself, with a few guards, radio operators, cooks, half of his staff, and a single Santa Josefinan officer of police, on leave, stood in a bunker about five miles from the port of Matama, waiting for the word that his unit’s sister tercio, La Negrita, had begun its demonstration along the border with Balboa. At a greater distance, Macera’s overstrength maniple of infantry, now freshly armed by the recently arrived mule train, waited in bunkers for the word to move into town.
Would have been nice, thought the legate, if I’d been able to bring all forty-five hundred of them here. Then we’d just have them line up and issue the arms. But, go figure, adding eight percent to the population, essentially all male, almost all strangers, to the town, overnight, would be bound to raise a few eyebrows.
One of the radio operators turned up the volume on the civilian rad
io he was manning. “It’s the signal, sir,” he told Salas.
Salas listened for a few moments as Radio Balboa went into a scathing denouncement of the provocative and—so far as anyone knew, who was actually in a position to know, nonexistent—Tauran maneuvers along the border, then read off a statement from Presidente Parilla claiming that he had ordered some unspecified forces to defensive positions.
Which will, mused Salas, of course, look remarkably like offensive positions, to anyone but the ignorant press. I can see it now; we control the press in Balboa, so nobody’s going to see our preparations there. Poor Claudio Marciano, constrained by the international community of the very, very caring and sensitive, is going to have to ostentatiously scramble to meet our threat. The uncontrolled press here will see that, won’t see that the initial operational provocation was ours, because we won’t let them see that, and will blame him.
Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Santa Josefina,
Rio Clara, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Claudio didn’t have time for the press, what with the task of getting his troops off their asses, out of their billets, and into their defensive positions. Besides, he had a public affairs officer for that kind of thing. The PAO was a Castilian, that being one of the very few positions Castile felt it could fill so long as one of their battalions was aligned with the other side.
“Take care of them,” Marciano told Castilian Major Serrano, on his way out the door, heading to one of the outlying battalion camps. “But remember, while you and I may not like the fucking press, the press sure likes fucking us.” With that little tidbit of advice, Marciano jumped into his vehicle and told the driver, “Take me to the combat support battalion camp.”