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Chapter Fourteen

 
"Your opponent can't talk when he has your fist in his mouth."

—President William Jefferson Clinton

UEPF Spirit of Peace, 35/3/468 AC

Transfer between ships was always a pain for someone. Given the nature of the cargo, it was critically important that whoever it was a pain for, it not present the slightest difficulty or discomfort for the hereditary marchioness of Amnesty, Lucretia Arbeit. One of the crew of the shuttle already had a bright red welt rising on her face from the Marchioness's leather riding crop. Arbeit was an absolute stickler for protocol and the unfortunate Class IV had regrettably failed to go belly down in full proskynesis as Arbeit passed through the shuttle's portal.

There were two ways to make transfers when two spinning ships were involved. One was very difficult, involving lining the ships up stern to stern, killing rotation in both, docking and then recommencing spin, with one spinning opposite to its usual direction.

That was almost never done. Instead, shuttles were used, the receiving ship taking control of the shuttle and matching its spin to that of the ship. This was the method used to bring Arbeit aboard the Spirit of Peace.

The hangar deck could only accommodate a few dozen in the reception party. They, excepting only High Admiral Robinson, executed full proskynesis as the Inspector General emerged from the shuttle. Proskynesis was for lowers; among Class Ones a broad equality reigned. He and the imperious marchioness settled for shaking hands as the crew ungracefully arose from their supine positions of homage.

"Lucretia, how truly delightful to see you once again," Robinson said with no obvious insincerity. Then again, Old Earth's elites learned to mask their feelings quite young.

"Martin, dear boy, you cannot imagine what a simply ghastly trip this has been and how pleased I am to see you at the end of it."

Robinson smiled warmly. "May I present my staff and crew?"

"Please."

Turning, Robinson introduced Wallenstein first. She bowed, saying, "At your service, madam." Then, as she lifted her head, she also licked her lips slightly just in case the IG had any doubts as to how completely at her service Wallenstein intended to be.

"Charmed, Captain," Arbeit answered with a nod and a subtle swipe of her tongue across her own lower lip.

"My ship's sociologist, Lieutenant Commander Kahn."

Kahn the wife practically quivered in anticipation of the pleasurable beatings she expected the IG to administer. "I'm sooo thrilled to meet you, Admiral," she gushed.

"My operations officer . . ."

 

Later Robinson said, "What I don't understand is why you are here, Lucretia. The IG practically never visits the fleet here. It's been over a century."

"Yes, I know, Martin," Arbeit agreed in the intimacy of the guest VIP suite. "The Consensus sent me. They've heard things are going badly here. Things are not going so well at home, either. We might need you to bring the fleet back."

"The reverted areas?" Robinson asked.

"Yes . . . but not the way you might expect, Martin. There was a raid on Buenas Aires from some barbarians in the Pampas reversion. The city was taken and sacked. For three days it was sacked."

"My Annan!" Robinson exclaimed. "Buenas Aires? That's—"

"Inconceivable?" Arbeit supplied. "Impossible? Nonetheless, our last outpost in southern South America is gone. We've had to pull out of everything south of Montevideo."

"But . . . well . . . Lucretia you can't take any of the fleet away. You just can't. Let me explain."

Robinson proceeded to lay out the situation on Terra Nova and the long-term threat it presented to the ruling caste on Old Earth.

"I had no idea things here were so dangerous for us," Arbeit said.

"Some of my staff think I'm being optimistic in believing we even have a chance to eliminate the Terra Novan threat, long term," the high admiral answered glumly.

"Be that as it may, I may still have to take some of the fleet back home with me. What good does it do to eliminate a threat here and lose our home and position there? And even if I decide I can't do that, I'm going to need some excellent reasons for not doing so when I report to the Consensus."

"I can understand that," Robinson agreed. "I'll even escort you down below, myself, so you can see."

"Will you escort me through my little games, too, Martin?" Arbeit asked with a smile.

"Sorry, Lucretia, but they're not to my taste. Wallenstein will take care of that."

"Your lovely ship's captain? What is she, a Class Two? She looks like fun."

"Oh, she's great fun for a lower," Robinson agreed. "Just don't damage her. I need her too much for that."

"Don't worry, Martin," Arbeit assured. "I never damage a playmate over Class Four. Now if you have some slaves you don't need . . ."

"Already taken care of, Lucretia. Though they haven't yet been told they're lost souls."

"Not a problem, Martin. I love explaining to lowers that their future has become grim."

BdL Dos Lindas, Sea of Sind, 1/4/468 AC

Xamar was lost to view behind them. The weather above and around the ship was foul, winds howling through the wires of the ship's island and white-capped waves pounding the hull. Only a few crew stood watch above and those took care always to have a hand grasped to something, lest a freak wave wash them over the side. The aircraft were struck below. Rather, they were struck below and more or less compressed to one end of the hangar deck; the space thus freed being filled with several hundred of the crew, all that could be spared from necessary duties.

The forward elevator was lowered almost flush to provide a speaking platform. On it, where they could be seen by that portion of the crew assembled, stood Kurita, Fosa, and a few of the staff, each man, like the assembled crew, unconsciously swaying with the roll of the ship. There was a large wooden box to one side, marked as being an engine for one of the Crickets. There was nothing unusual in there being a major assembly for one of the aircraft sitting on the elevator that joined the flight and the hangar decks.

The ship's senior centurion, Sergeant Major Ramirez (for—except for the position of captain and honorary rank of commodore—the legion's classis maintained the same rank structure as the ground and air components), stood in front of the Cricket engine crate. Above the crate and the deck, above the captain, commodore, sergeant major and staff, an aramid fiber tarp stretched taut over the elevator to keep out the wind and keep off the rain. Rain still dripped in places, causing the men standing on the elevator to adjust their positions to keep dry. Ramirez barely kept a smile off his face, for he was the only one on the ship besides the mail clerk who was in on Kurita's little scheme.

For his part, Fosa's own face bore something of a clueless expression. Kurita had asked for permission to address the crew and, while the captain had had no objections, he also had no idea of why the Yamatan would wish to. Congratulations from the Zaibatsu that had hired them?

Why bother? We've got what we need with the expansion of the contract to the Nicobar Straits. Decidedly odd.

At a nod from Kurita, Ramirez walked from in front of the crate to the edge of the elevator. He called the crew to attention, then turned and reported to the commodore, "Sir, ship's company present or accounted for."

Kurita returned the salute. Ramirez dropped his own and walked back to his post by the crate. Stepping forward, Kurita began to speak, his left hand resting lightly on the tsuka of the sword thrust through the sash about his waist.

"Somewhere in Uhuru," Kurita began, "a child sleeps tonight with a full belly. A year ago the odds were good that that child went to bed hungry to the point of pain and with no guarantee of awakening the next morning. That belly is tonight full—the child can be sure of waking up tomorrow—for one reason; that commerce again flows uninterrupted. Commerce flows to and from Uhuru for one reason; that you have destroyed those who would prey upon it, interrupt it and destroy it.

"This day we sail to another theater, to continue the good work we have left completed behind us. For know this, my comrades of the classis; there are children in Sind who will go hungry tonight for the inability of their parents to send the product of their hands overseas to purchase food. There are children who will go hungry because the oil that powers the farm machinery that helps grow their food is also cut off or bought too dear.

"You have done this, my friends. You will do this. Both things, what you have done and what you will do, you have done under the command of Roderigo Fosa."

Kurita went silent for a moment as Ramirez quietly lifted the top from the engine crate and removed from inside a long, silk-wrapped package. This he handed to Kurita.

Taking the package firmly in the center with his right hand, Kurita used his left to remove the wrapping. Silk cord and silken wrap fell away to reveal a sword, its scabbard gracefully curving from the tip to where it met the handguard, or tsuba. A low gasp came from Fosa, the staff and the crew, minus Ramirez and the mail clerk, both of whom smirked broadly.

"Capitán Fosa, front and center," Kurita ordered.

Gulping, Fosa moved to stand in front of the Yamatan. Kurita drew the sword. Its gleaming surface shone in the lights of the hangar deck, drawing Fosa's eyes down. He saw inscribed in miniature upon the blade a gold-filled eagle, a tiger, and a shark. Guessing what was to come, Fosa's eyes began to mist.

"Your organization grants broad rights to its units to establish their own traditions. Captain-San. You—though I think you did not realize it at the time—established one such when you granted me permission to wear my family sword here aboard your ship."

"This sword is newly made. Well, all traditions must begin somewhere. New or not, it was made by a master smith, working in the old ways. That is, he worked in the old ways except to memorialize upon the blade the forces you have commanded in the service of the commerce that binds man and feeds his children. Thus you see the eagle, for the air wing of this vessel, the tiger, for the Cazadores who dominate the land, and the shark for the ship and fleet."

Kurita expertly returned the point of the sword to its scabbard and deftly slammed it home. Taking Fosa's left hand with his own, he turned it palm up and placed the new katana into it. Fosa's hand closed automatically.

Leaning forward, Kurita whispered, "The sword is the soul of the samurai. Draw your new sword, Captain Fosa."

Stepping back, Kurita drew his own and raised it high overhead, his left arm likewise rising. Fosa, still in shock, mimicked the action.

"Banzai!" the Yamatan shouted, his cry ringing through the hangar deck.

Behind him, Ramirez also shouted, "Banzai!" throwing his own hands up.

"Banzai!" Kurita again shouted, this time extracting a weak, "Banzai," from the crew.

"Banzai!"

A little louder, the crew answered, "Banzai."

"Banzai!"

Still louder, "Banzai!"

Ramirez piped in, in his sergeant major's bellow, "Banzai, motherfuckers!"

"Banzai!"

"BANZAI!"

"BANZAI!"

Thus did the classis and Tercio Don John acquire a new tradition. Banzai, motherfuckers.

 

University of Balboa, Ciudad Balboa, 15/4/468 AC

The plaza rang with shouts. "Viva Parilla! Viva la Republica! Viva los Legiones!"

Part of the crowd, Jorge and Marqueli joined in the shouts. It was, after all, their legion, too, just as Parilla was their candidate.

There'd been some question about whether they'd attend the rally. The streets weren't precisely safe for the politically involved of late. Of course the incumbent government condemned the violence, even while President Rocaberti plotted it with his political cronies and the Gaul general, Janier, even while they drummed up radical students (not to say that Parilla wasn't himself radical, after a fashion), and hired thugs with Tauran Union money.

It was to be noted, though it almost never was by Terra Nova's Kosmo press, that the government, the Tauran Union, and the World League only condemned the violence that occurred when the reservists in the legions were out in enough force to pound silly the students, the thugs, and the dregs hired by Rocaberti and Janier. When the thugs had the numbers—and they needed a lot of numbers to outnumber trained men, even reservists—there was nary a word.

This rally the dregs weren't supposed to have the numbers, what with two entire reserve infantry maniples—four hundred men, almost unarmed, but mean and very, very willing—standing by, mixed in with the crowd. Still things sometimes go wrong, intelligence fails, threats arise suddenly and . . . 

"Oh, crap, Jorge; it's starting."

From where the couple stood, on some broad steps leading down from street level to the flat, Marqueli saw a crowd of not too well organized, rather scruffy looking types (though there were also a couple of hundred better dressed males of college age and demeanor) entering the plaza from two sides.

 

Cruz had the nearly fifty men of his reserve platoon around him, none of them uniformed except for the uniformly grim looks on their faces. Half the men had wives with them, as did Cruz. All of them had small clubs, truncheons, concealed under their working shirts and guayaberas.

"Second Platoon, Third Maniple! To me!" shouted Cruz. Instantly the men shuffled the women to form a cluster behind Cruz and formed themselves in a thick line between the women and the swarming thugs and students. Cruz pushed Cara to join the rest of the women.

"Stay with them, miel," he said. "They won't get through us."

Parilla's followers at the edge where the thugs swarmed went under more or less quickly, though the legionistas took a few, or rather more than a few, down with them as they fell to the ground, bloodied and broken.

Cruz's eyes swept over the crowd, following the progress of the thugs and opposition students. Some of his men turned to look at him. What do we do, Centurion? In answer he just spat at the ground and removed a small club from under his shirt, holding the club up to advise his men to do the same.

The mass of the people at the rally, caught by surprise, ran away from the swarm. Like water they parted and passed around the solid seeming mass of reserve legionaries. Some drew their own clubs, brass knuckles and a couple of knives and fell in with Cruz's men. Some fell in with the double line brandishing only their fists and the sneers on their faces. Still others, from well behind the skirmish line, ran over to join. In moments Cruz found himself commanding the equivalent of a full maniple, over two hundred men.

"I'm Centurion Ricardo Cruz," he shouted to be heard over the panicked sounds of the fighting and the crowd. "Hold your position until I give the word."

He was pleased to see the newcomers turn and nod. Most of them were also soldiers, he suspected. He took a moment to look behind him. Cara nodded. I trust you to defend me, my husband.

 

"There are some soldiers forming a line, Jorge," Marqueli said.

"Lead me to them," he answered with grim determination.

"Don't be ridiculous—"

"Woman, obey your husband. Lead me to them. For this I don't need to see. I just need to be able to hit."

Marqueli started to object, then stopped herself with her mouth still open. He's still a man, still a legionary, eyes and legs or not. I can't take that away from him.

With a deep sigh she took his arm and said, "This way. You fool."

 

"Warrant Officer Mendoza reporting for duty," Jorge said to Cruz as Marqueli stepped back out of the way.

"Cruz. Centurion. But . . ."

"I can still fight," Mendoza answered, his chin lifting proudly, before Cruz could finish the objections.

"All right," Cruz agreed. He'd rather have a blind legionary with him than any other dozen sighted men. "Stand by me. And Miss . . ."

"I'm his wife," Marqueli answered.

"If you would stand with mine and the other women then, Mrs. Mendoza."

Reluctantly, fearfully, Marqueli turned away even as Cruz turned his attention back to the thronging political thugs. Her head kept twisting back to look at Jorge even as her unsteady feet carried her to where the other women waited.

 

There really wasn't a set of commands to govern this situation, so Cruz made it up as he went. "Look at me, you assholes!" he shouted, pointing at Mendoza once he had the men's attention. "This man is one of ours. Blind, and not afraid to fight. Blind, and still able to see that it's better to fight than to run. Now . . . maniple . . . attención. Dress right . . . DRESS. Prepare to engage in melee . . . move."

The stiffening of the skirmish line to attention likewise caused the mixed group of students and hired street rumblers to stiffen and stop for a moment. Cruz took advantage of their loss of momentum by ordering, "Charrrge!"

Instantly his little command lunged forward, leaving Mendoza behind. Not to worry, though, as within seconds the sound erupted of breaking bones and teeth, ripping flesh, and the screams of the beaten. Mendoza, with his keen hearing, followed that. He could have followed it easily enough with normal hearing.

He heard someone very close shout, "Death to the fascists!"

That's identification enough. Jorge's fist lanced out precisely at the origin of the sound, catching a student in the face and sending him to the concrete of the plaza. Jorge's keen ears picked up the sound of his foe landing. He grunted with satisfaction and advanced . . . right into the flailing fist of another hireling. Mendoza blinked, was struck and then dropped like a sack. He never heard Marqueli's scream.

 

Cruz had to admit it; he was having the time of his life. Why, there were no end of targets, no end to the opportunity to work off his frustrations. He was squatting over one victim, a student he thought, alternately throwing lefts and rights—his club was lost somewhere behind him—at the young man's rapidly disintegrating face—and laughing maniacally the whole time.

"Motherfucker!" Wham. "Piece of privileged shit!" Kapow. "Pampered momma's boy!" Crunch.

 

Teary-eyed, Marqueli knelt with her husband's head on her lap, cradling his head and sobbing his name repeatedly. Frantically, one hand tried to wipe away the blood that poured from a gash on his head. She nearly burst from inside with relief when she saw his eyes flutter open.

It took him a few moments for his head to clear. When it had he looked up directly into her face.

"I thought you were beautiful when I first saw you singing in the choir in church back home," he said, groggily. "You've improved."

 

The Tauran Kosmos were out on the streets of Balboa in force and with all their normal self-righteousness intact. Was there a street brawl in the course of the campaign? (And there were many.) Rest assured, the progressive, TU-supported incumbent regime partisans were the innocent bystanders in every case. Such, at least, was what was reported in the cosmopolitan progressive press. Moreover, no less a personage than the former president of the Federated States of Columbia, Johnny Prince Wozniak, was on hand to give his stamp of accuracy and approval to every claim of the press that tended to put Parilla's followers in a bad light or elevate the standing of the incumbent faction. Wozniak had never met a corrupt politician, dictator, or terrorist faction from the undeveloped parts of Terra Nova that he hadn't instantly loved.

No one on the planet really understood Wozniak's thought processes. Many, indeed, denied he was even capable of thinking. Whatever the case, incapable of higher thought or not, he was all too capable of speaking. Which he did. At every possible opportunity. Moreover, he was terribly bitter that he'd been rejected by the people of the FSC after a mere one term. If he could support cosmopolitan progressivism, support terrorism, support totalitarianism and kleptocracy, while at the same time undermining the long term interests of the Federated States, so much the better.

A very embittered man, was our Johnny Prince Wozniak.

 

"I loathe that man," commented Parilla, at seeing one of Wozniak's more inane pronouncements carried on the airwaves.

"He gave us back the Transitway," Ruiz objected.

"Yes, he did," Parilla agreed, "And thereby deprived us of the pride we would have had if we had fought to get it. And thereby led directly to the dictatorship of Piña. Which thereby led to the invasion. Which led to the destruction of the only force in the country with the prestige to, at least potentially, fight the corruption of the Rocabertis and their ilk.

"Ah, never mind," Parilla continued. "There's nothing to be done about the do-gooding weasel, except to note that the harm he does all over the planet is in exact but inverse proportion to the good he claims he's doing."

Ruiz shrugged. "I think Patricio loathes the man even more than you do."

"It's possible. When our comrade, Carrera, hates someone he doesn't do it halfway. Never mind; no one is persuaded by Wozniak except those convinced in advance."

"That's really not true, Raul. In this country, the man enjoys considerable status. Some people really are being converted by him."

"Enough to matter to the election?" Parilla asked. "Enough to overcome the good will Patricio is buying us through public works and expanding the force?"

"Part way, at least."

"Chingada."

"Fernandez isn't worried at all, you know."

"I know, and I don't understand it," Parilla answered.

"He says our models are all wrong, that our analysts are contaminated by patterns of voting in the Federated States and Tauran Union. He says that people there will vote to preserve the welfare states they have. He insists that people here will not vote to create a welfare state where we don't have one. He says that they're not weak and spoiled like the Taurans and the Columbians."

"Is he right?"

"God, Raul, I don't know. I do know that he has his own sources."

Parilla contemplated that for a moment. Yes, he has his own sources and they are generally good ones. I wonder . . . Nah.

"Has the government budged any on the question of voting on the Isla?" he asked.

"No," Ruiz answered. "They insist that any vote taken there by any but the few civilian residents would be inherently suspect. All our men, those who are citizens, must return to their normal home to vote."

"Which breaks up our unit cohesion for the one legion we have left here," Parilla observed. "And deprives us of perhaps twenty-five thousand votes from those deployed to Pashtia and at sea."

"Is there any chance of Patricio returning the bulk of the force prior to the election?" Ruiz asked.

"Essentially none. He's just about to fan out from the temporary base he established at the north end of the Kibla Pass and he'll need every man he has in order to establish control over the area. And he's already short because of the Cazadors he sent to Xamar to guard the pirate chief."

"In some ways, he's really an idiot, you know, Raul? The job he does there won't make a lot of difference if we lose our base here."

Fire Support and Logistics Base Belisario Carrera, Pashtia, 18/4/468 AC

The base was north of the line where mountain turned to relatively flat desert. The ambient temperature was a lot higher. And there wasn't a really good source of water, though the engineers were drilling.

Least of my problems, thought Patricio Carrera.

He was short Cazadors and he was short Pashtun Scouts. They were the most useful troops he had for keeping open the Kibla through which virtually all his supplies must pass. Thus, that's where roughly two-thirds of them were, hunting down the remnants of the Ikhwan forces that had escaped the slaughter in the mountains. He was especially short Cazadors, what with having sent two maniples of them to watch over Abdulahi in Xamar as he rebuilt his local force.

Of course, they're not only watching over and out for the bandit, they're also watching him to make sure he keeps his end of the bargain.

He could have made good some of that lack by stripping off the individual cohorts' scout platoons, Cazadors in all but name. Somehow, he didn't think that would work to anyone's benefit. He'd have had to also strip off some of the combat support maniples' headquarters as well, that, or overtask the Cazador maniples' headquarters he already had. And besides, what would the cohorts do for recon then? It would be an organizational nightmare.

Note to self: Check on progress with the Ph.D. candidate who's writing up "Organization and Task Organization for War." Soonest.

Carrera had one thing to help make up for the loss of Cazadors and Scouts, as well as the lack of aircraft for the main effort with the number that were supporting the lighter forces in the mountains around the Kibla. The Anglian-built lighter-than-air recon platform had arrived the week prior and was already sending back useful intelligence. For now, it was only useful for spotting. Even so, Lanza's crew was thinking on ways to rig up bomb racks and even downward firing gun pods so that it could act itself on the intelligence acquired without having to wait for airmobile or air forces to bring in combat power.

But I'll have to buy it and crew it myself to do that; the Anglian company is firm that their crew is not allowed to take part in offensive combat missions. In any case, while the recon the LTA ship provides is good, it is awfully weather dependant around these mountains. I'm not convinced this is a good buy for the legion.

That said, if the limeys' semi-autonomous small LTA jobs can be made to work, I can mount cameras in them capable of tracking the ins and outs of every stinking village in our area and I can do it for a fraction of what it costs the FSC to put a satellite up.

Carrera let out a small sigh. If, if, if. "If ifs and buts were candied nuts . . ."

 

This FSLB was temporary, though the gringos had given some hints they might want to take it over. And why not? Since the legion had come they'd put in an all weather airstrip, excavated a foss and with the spoil built an earthen wall to keep off sniper fire, and mined the living shit out of the one place from which an enemy might look down on the camp, with every mine well booby-trapped. And hadn't that pissed off the Kosmos?

Carrera smiled at the memory of outraged progressive sensibilities. It wasn't like I made a secret of it. Rather, I had the troops march the villagers closest to the mined area and then witness while goats were driven in. None of the goats survived more than a few steps past the marking wire. Perhaps a few less kids will be tempted to cross the areas concerned after the demonstrations.

It was a matter of some small debate whether the Kosmos were more angered that they were held in such scant regard or by the sheer fact of the mines, themselves.

Fuck 'em. As if I care. As if anyone who matters really cares what the progressives think. As if they're capable of any higher purpose than constraining the overly enlightened and the weak to leave them even more vulnerable to the strong and the ruthless. Cultural Human Immuno-deficiency Virus; that's all they are. And to think, my parents tried to raise me to be one of them. Blech.

The mines themselves were quite sophisticated, each being on an integral timer. Within a month after the legion made its planned departure ninety-eight plus percent of them would make a joyful sound unto the Lord on their own. The rest—the defectives—would experience battery failure within a few days of that.

This area wasn't important anyway, not to the legion. They were here only for a short time before moving on. While here, they intended only to weaken the insurgency before moving to the border to establish a series of bases from which they could block infiltration of Ikhwan fighters and their supplies. It was up to the FSC, Secordia and Anglia to destroy the insurgency once it had been weakened and once the one legion that would remain for the next contractual period had established an effective block of the infiltration routes from Kashmir.

In the long run, though, who knows if that matters? Half the infiltrators come in on perfectly open passenger flights. Half the supplies they use are sold to them by the locals. And that's not even counting the food. I wonder why the FSC can't bring themselves to use food as a weapon? The Tauran influence over the Anglians and Secordians and their influence on the FSC? Silly; but they'll never win until they're willing to control the food.

Speaking of food . . . 

Carrera caught sight of a maniple of infantry, with a train of two dozen mules in tow. They were apparently waiting for the word to move out and were otherwise just sitting around. He walked over briskly, took the report of the tribune commanding the maniple, then proceeded with a barrage of questions.

"How long have your men been waiting here in the sun? . . . Why did you bring them out early?" Voice rising, "What do you mean your medics haven't shown up yet? Didn't you coordinate with the cohort medical platoon? How long have you known they would be late? Why did you bring your men out into the hot sun if you knew you wouldn't be leaving for two hours?...Come with me . . . Break down that mule's pack. . . . Can't you see it's overloaded, you dumb ass?"

By the time he was finished with the tribune, that worthy had been turned to a quivering mass of protoplasm and Carrera felt ashamed for going too far in chastising a subordinate.

He walked off in vast inner turmoil himself. And I'm doing it more and more often. What the hell is wrong with me? Where's the patience of which I was once so proud? Where's the humanity? Christ! I never lose my temper.

All of which could be summed up in the word, "Fuck."

Santissima Trinidad, 20/4/468 AC

The boat advanced at the speed of the classis, a stately and sedate twelve knots. The speed was set by that of the slowest vessel in the flotilla, the steamer, BdL Harpy Eagle, which served as safe berth for the patrol boats. At that speed, the bow needn't lift nor the engines strain. The forward gun was manned, as was the con, radar and sonar. Most of the crew were unemployed for the moment, even so, and hung out on the rear deck behind the con, drinking some of their ration beer and eating lunch from paper plates.

"Watsa matter, Santiona, tired of fishing?" Pedraz asked.

"Fuck that shit," the heavyset sailor answered. "I'll never toss a hook in the water again as long as I live. If I ever fish again, it'll be with hand grenades or big nets."

"Pity," said Pedraz. "I'll bet that meg is still following us hoping for a chance at your plump ass again."

Santiona suddenly looked to the stern, fearfully. "You don't really think so, do you, Chief?"

"Nah," Pedraz answered, lightly. "You're fated to die at the hands of a jealous husband, young seaman."

"All things considered," Santiona answered, "I'd rather not. But that still beats being eaten by a fish."

"I think they're dying out," Francais said, from behind the wheel. "Fish that size, it's got to be hard to keep fed. Especially with the loss of whales and such over the last couple of hundred years. It would need a lot of space to hunt in. That would make it hard to find mates."

"Good riddance," answered Santiona. "When the last one is dead and washed ashore I'll be all that much happier."

"Oh, I dunno,' answered Francais. "They're magnificent, for all they're dangerous. Be kind of sad when there're no more."

"Hah!" Santiona snorted in reply. "You haven't been looking into the maw of one with no more than ten feet between you and its teeth. You haven't smelt its breath."

"Oh, puhleeze! Besides, they don't breathe."

"As a matter of fact," Santiona continued, unfazed, "I've decided I hate all fish. So when I take my discharge, after this tour, I'm gonna use my vet's benefits to get a fishing boat. Then I can kill the slimy scaled bastards wholesale."

Guptillo snorted. "Not me. When this is over I'm heading to dry land and, God willing and the river don't rise, I'll never get my feet wet again."

"Farmer?" asked Pedraz. "My people were farmers. Hard work and you're an awful soft city boy."

"Used to be soft, Chief. Hard to stay that way on a patrol boat."

"True enough," Pedraz agreed. "It's still awful hard work."

"No matter, I didn't want to be a farmer. I was thinking about the university and maybe taking up agronomy."

"That would be easier," Pedraz nodded. "Pay better, too."

"And no one will be shooting at you," Clavell added.

"That would be a plus," said Guptillo.

"Ah, you're all pussies," said Francais. "Me; I'm sticking with the classis until the day I die."

The Big ?, 21/4/468 AC

The yacht was almost fifty nautical miles ahead of the flotilla. Their cover had pretty much been blown off the coast of Xamar, but there was good reason to expect with a name change and a new paint job that they'd be clandestine enough in the Nicobar Straits. The new name, even now being painted in two alphabets on the stern, was Qamra, Arabic for "moon." Almost, almost, Marta had suggested calling it the Queer, but since the crew had been so understanding of her and Jaqueline's love affair—at least to the point of ignoring it— she thought better of rubbing it in their faces.

MV Hoogaboom, Kolon Thota, Anula, 24/4/468 AC

Kolon Thota was about as neutral a port as one could find in this war. Oh yes, the island of Anula had its share of civil strife and civil war, but neither Moslems—nor the Salafi fanatics among them—nor Christians were implicated. There were, of course, a fair number of Moslems on the island. Enough of them were Salafi, too. But the decision had been made early on by Mustafa to keep the island as neutral territory, a safe harbor and entranceway for the Ikhwan's operatives into the rest of the world. The port was modern, fully equipped, and well staffed by skilled shipwrights and chandlers.

It was, thus, a perfect spot for the Hoogaboom to have made its final preparations for the attack on the Dos Lindas. It was also a perfect spot for Abdul Aziz to intercept the ship with his hand-carried change of orders.

The captain looked terribly . . . disappointed. Abdul Aziz could well understand that. When one works oneself into a mind set to commit martyrdom for the cause, any delay is hardly to be tolerated. For one thing, delay brings with it the doubt that one will have the courage to endure the imminence of death—even with the certain promise of Paradise.

"But there's nothing for it, Captain," Abdul said, sympathetically. "The enemy fleet has moved. There is no real chance of catching them at sea. Moreover, at the Straits of Nicobar our chance of catching them as we have planned is even greater than it would have been off the Xamar coast."

"Success or failure is in the hands of Allah," the captain intoned.

"That's true, of course, Captain," Abdul agreed. "Yet the mullahs are gradually coming around to the idea that Allah cares about how hard we try, and the cleverness we bring to the fight. Mustafa and Nur al Deen are convinced of it."

"Seems impious to me," the captain said. "Still, orders are orders and the Koran enjoins obedience. We shall wait."

After a moment's reflection the captain asked, "Would you care to inspect the ship?"

"Please. Mustafa expressly ordered me to see that you lack for nothing. Indeed, I've brought half a dozen Tauran slave girls for the enjoyment of your crew."

The captain thought on that for a moment. "We appreciate the slave girls, of course, but . . . should we keep them until the day? Sell them off just before? Kill them?"

"Anything but selling them beforehand, Captain, would be fine."

Matera, south of the Nicobar Straits, 25/4/468 AC

Parameswara and al Naquib rested on a fallen log under a deep, dark jungle canopy. Both men were soaked with sweat. For all that, they weren't so wet as the gangs of loincloth-clad slaves struggling under the lashes wielded by al Naquib's company of Ikhwan. A road paralleled the route of the column, about five kilometers to the east.

The slaves' burdens were conexes, or things that looked remarkably like conexes, painted in a mottled pattern and rolling on smooth, even logs cut down from the jungle. Moving the logs left behind as the conexes progressed was nearly all the rest the slaves got from their back- and heart-breaking labor of pulling on the ropes that moved the metal boxes forward.

"How much further?" the pirate king asked.

Al Naquib pulled out a small device, not much larger than a cell phone, and consulted it. "About three hundred kilometers, by the global locating system," the Ikhwan answered. "Call it forty or fifty days . . . if the slaves last through it."

"Do you think I should go ahead and move out to arrange relief crews?" the pirate king asked.

Al Naquib thought upon that. After a few moments reflection, he answered, "That, yes. But not only for us. The people coming from the north, on the other side of the Straits, will need help as much as we will. But I am also concerned that you not leave a power vacuum behind you."

I love this Arab, Parameswara rejoiced. He understands my problems without my so much as voicing a complaint.

Puerto Lindo, Balboa, 26/4/468 AC

Two Suvarov-class cruisers had been subjected to a greater or lesser degree of refit. Neither had been given a new name yet but had to make do with their old Volgan ones. They'd be christened with legionary names later on.

Of the two, one was complete only to the extent of having serviceable guns and being generally livable. Like the second light aircraft carrier, this one would go to the Isla Real and serve as a stationary training vessel. The other was intended to join the classis as a warship.

"Doesn't lack for much, does she?" Sitnikov asked of the chief of the port's shipfitters.

"Well, she really isn't fit to stand in line of battle alone, if that's what you mean, Legate," the shipfitter answered. "Her guns are fine though, along with her armor and her new AZIPODs. Radar's okay, of course, and being old Volgan it's actually better than newer stuff if she's looking out for stealthy aircraft. The sonar's the pits, though."

"Got to compromise somewhere," the Volgan answered. "And she's not sailing without a good escort with better sonar. How about the other three ships?"

"How about the concrete emplacements for them on the island?" retorted the fitter.

Sitnikov put out a hand, palm down with fingers spread, and wriggled it. "Carrera sent me an odd idea that he wants me to think about before we commit to a design for the coastal artillery. I'm thinking about it, too."

"I don't suppose . . ."

Sitnikov considered for a moment before answering, "No; I really can't discuss it. I can say that it won't matter to the ships' turrets; that it won't change what you have to do."

"Fair enough. Well, when you say the concrete pads are ready we can tow the ships to the island. I've got crew ready to remove the turrets and a ship with a crane rigged to lift them off and transfer them to land."

"That's all we need of you. The legion will see to the rest."

University Hospital, University of Balboa, 28/4/468 AC

The doctor looked utterly befuddled. He closed the file on his desk and said, "Jorge, I haven't a clue why you can see again. Your records indicate there was never any physical reason for your blindness. If there was no physical reason, then the blow you took in the brawl two weeks ago can't have been the cure, or at least not the physical cure. Your records indicate that your eyes were always able to see but that your mind refused to process the information. Maybe that fist coming at you was threat enough to overcome whatever reason your mind had for blocking off your sight."

"But I never saw the fist coming, Doctor," Mendoza answered. "It wasn't until Marqueli brought me around that I could see." Mendoza didn't remember that he'd blinked.

The doctor removed his own glasses and began cleaning them with a corner of his guayabera. He shook his head with frustration.

"I can't explain it, Jorge. I can only observe and report. If you would like, I can make you an appointment with a head doctor."

"No . . . no, thank you. I've had my share of those."

"Is this going to cost you any of your disability benefit?" the doctor asked.

Marqueli answered, "We've told the legionary disability office. They checked and said Jorge was already maxed out with the loss of his legs. He won't lose anything just for getting his sight back. They even said that he's still entitled to a paid helper—presumptively a wife and therefore me—with vision or not."

"That's generous," the doctor admitted. "But he was taking a doctorate. Will that . . ."

"No, doctor," Mendoza said. "That's a totally separate program. Though I admit . . ." He glanced over at his wife.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I'm going to miss you reading to me."

She smiled, warmly, and reaching over to pat her husband's hand. "I still will if you like. On the other hand, you can read to yourself a lot quicker than I can read to you. I'll bet you, husband mine, that you make much faster progress this way than the old way."

"That's a thought, isn't it?"

 

In another ward, one at the opposite end of the hospital and behind doors continuously guarded, Khalid looked into a mirror at his new face and wondered, What, if anything, is left of me?

Khalid had done his last hit, involving ricin and a pressurized gas projector, on the streets of Hajar, Yithrab. Unfortunately, he'd been made. Only a fast journey to a prearranged spot in the desert, and a last minute Cricket flight from the air arm of Sumeri Intelligence, had gotten him out of the country. His old face was known now and he could never have continued to work as long as he'd kept it.

It was amazing what could be done, though, with some small shifts in the corners of his eyes, a widening of the nose, pulling back of his ears, shaving down of the cheekbones, the addition of a spurious scar, and a change in the shape of his mouth.

The only problem is, it doesn't feel like me anymore. I almost wish—

Whatever thought Khalid had been about to complete, it was lost to the interruption of seeing a small, dark, and rather feral looking man appear in the mirror behind him.

"Legate Fernandez," Khalid said, before turning around.

Fernandez said nothing at first, but just peered intently, trying to match Khalid's new face to his old. Finally, satisfied, the intel chief shook his head and said, "Not a chance you will be identified short of a DNA screening. Very good.

"You know you've been detached from Sumeri Intelligence to work for me for the next two years, correct?"

"Yes, Legate, I understand that," Khalid said. "What I don't know is why."

Fernandez smiled and answered, "Given your work history, that is a fairly stupid question, no?"

Khalid's smile, strange in this new face, grew to match Fernandez's.

From under his left arm Fernandez drew a thick, bound, and sealed portfolio. This he opened and withdrew what looked to Khalid like a score or so of folders.

"These are, for the most part, your targets," Fernandez said, passing them, and the portfolio, over to Khalid. "One is travel documents, another rules of engagement. Still a third has financial information. Specifically, that folder contains a list of smallish bank accounts that will hold, in the aggregate, enough money for several years' independent operations plus operational expenses. The accounts match the travel and identity documents. We'll fill them in the order given and at the times given.

"Your rules of engagement for these will be different from what you have become used to in the past," Fernandez explained. "All of these men are either major reporters, producers, or editors for the media in the Tauran Union and the Federated States; or they are, broadly speaking, politicians; or they are academics; or they are entertainers. There is a certain amount of overlap in those last three. All have given considerable vocal and literary moral support to the enemy. Some may have given more concrete support to the enemy; intelligence, financing, and the like. All have also attacked both the Legion del Cid or President Sada at one time or another. You are not, however, to kill them right off."

Khalid looked interested but at the same time confused.

Fernandez let the obvious confusion pass for the moment. "As I suggested, when you leave here, you will be on your own until your target list has been serviced or otherwise rendered ineffective. It will be rare if we, or Sumeri intelligence, ever contact you, though you will be required to contact us upon successfully servicing a target. We have, you see, learned much from the enemy.

"Whenever one of those editors, reporters, academics, entertainers, or politicians says or permits something to be said against the enemy, or against Islam, or against Salafism, then you may kill them. Given who they are, that something is certain to be very mild. You will leave a copy of whatever it was they said, or wrote, or permitted to be published by the body or near enough to the body that it will be found. You may have to interpret this guidance very liberally. For example, if one of them puts out something in favor of women's rights, or gay rights, that would be considered sufficient to make them active targets. If one of them makes a speech that is not recorded, you may have to write a slogan condemning the speech."

Khalid's confusion grew. "I don't understand this . . ."

It was Fernandez's turn to smile. "We've thought about this for a long time. Our reasoning is . . . complex.

"They will have a choice or, rather, some sets of choices. In one set, they can continue to present only negative views of us, and the war, and thus lose credibility with some of their audience. Or they can be 'objective' and die, with the Ikhwan taking the blame. In either case, their voices will be silenced or, at worst, made ineffective. Eventually, we expect, many will realize they are being killed for expressing their views and simply shut up."

"Many of them really are too stupid to get that message, I think," Khalid said. "Moreover, most of their target audience is too stupid to understand and accept that the press, the academics and the progressives are simply putting out blatant propaganda on behalf of the enemy. They are all progressives and Kosmos, are they not, these pols, reporters, editors and professors? The target audience cannot even accept that they are held in as much contempt as they are by the people you want me to kill. In any case, under the rule you have given me, some of them will simply stop giving off any message that is remotely critical of the enemy and most of their audience will not even notice."

"We understand this," Fernandez agreed. "That is the other set of choices. For those who will not get the message we will want you to have evidence that the people you killed were assassinated. We can show that evidence, without turning it over, of course, to certain persons among the classes of targets in order to spread the word in an unprovable way. Imagine, if you will, Khalid, that you kill . . ." Fernandez took the folders and rifled through them until he came upon one in particular. "This woman, say."

Fernandez opened the folder to show Khalid a picture of a woman, taken from her own GlobalNet site. She was well dressed in a cream colored suit, and, if a bit overweight, all in all, was by no means unattractive.

"This is Sarita Iapes. She is not only highly critical of the war effort but of the legion and President Sada in particular. She's been a nexus for anti-war effort reporting for years. So, say, someday you wait in ambush in an automobile and simply run her over, a routine hit and run. But you have a camera going so that you can give us a picture of her in the moment before you kill her. We show that picture to, again, say, David Prefer, one of her reporters, and explain to the wretch that she was killed, and, approximately, why."

"Understand, Legate," Khalid said, shaking his head doubtfully, "I merely want to understand the mission perfectly so that I can execute it perfectly. Okay, so you do that. All it does it shut them up. It does not make them report on us favorably."

"We don't need favorable reporting," Fernandez explained. "That would be overreach. The danger with these people is that they are not a neutral asset. They're with the enemy, even if they don't know it. It would be too much to expect them to change one-hundred-and- eighty degrees. It is sufficient that they merely stop harming us and helping the other side; no need to help us and harm the other side. Indeed, if they did that, they'd be in as much danger from the Ikhwan as they are from us and they likely know it. In that case, they'd probably take their chances and continue to support the Ikhwan."

"So . . . we are going for the minimal but achievable goal?" Khalid asked.

"Yes. Moreover, if two years goes by without ever a negative comment from one of them on either us or the enemy, then you may assume they have taken the hint and shut up. In that case, put them on the inactive target list."

"Cle-ver," Khalid said.

"If you are captured, of course . . ."

Khalid snorted. "Allahu Akbar! Long live the Salafi jihad."

"Quite. The Kosmos down there will insist on superior treatment for you as long as you can credibly claim to be on the side of the Ikhwan. Just remember, Khalid, they must be made to feel the hard hand of the war they support."

Interlude

25/7/47 AC, UN Compound, Ciudad Balboa,
Balboa Colony, Terra Nova

"These bandits must be made to feel the hard hand of the war they have brought upon themselves," insisted Bernard Chanet, with the pounding of his fist upon his desk.

Major Dhan Singh Pandey, seconded to the UN Peacekeeping Force for Terra Nova (UNPFTN), from the Army of India's 11th Gurkha Rifles, said nothing. His colleague and discreet lover, Amita Kaur Bhago, 32nd Battalion (Pioneer), the Sikh Regiment, scowled and unconsciously reached for the kirpan, or sword, she wore at her side.

She was not so even-tempered as Pandey. And the sneering look this UN swine had given the work her troops had put into rebuilding the compound already had her tomcat-ready for a fight. Pandey reached out with his own hand to place it atop her lighter one. "Not yet, lioness," he whispered.

"I don't like this greasy bastard," she whispered back. "What does such as he know of the hard hand of war?"

"We'll discuss it later. Now take your hand off of your kirpan."

Chanet noticed the byplay, though he couldn't hear what was said. Especially did he notice Amita looking him over as someone the world would be a better place without. He'd noticed, too, what a damnably handsome woman she was. But seeing the white knuckled hand gripping the hilt of the long dagger she wore killed any lust before it could quite form.

Chanet had shuttled in earlier in the day from the main base at Atlantis, bringing with him the deputy special representative for the secretary general, Tariq Lakhdar, age twenty-four. It was Lakhdar who would see to the local efforts, under Chanet's overall direction. And why not? Chanet had owed a favor to Lakhdar's uncle, after all.

"I don't like the look of the other greasy bastard, either," whispered Amita.

"Later."

The small assembly held the leadership for the entire peacekeeping force for Balboa. Besides Chanet and Lakhdar, the civilian leaders, and Pandey and Bhago, from the Army of India, there were four captains from the Organization of African Unity, one German, seconded from 5th Panzer Division, a Belgian Commando, a Ukrainian aviator major, and David Duff-McQueeg, a British Royal Marine, in overall command.

Amita liked none of them, finding the Africans undisciplined, the German arrogant, the Belgian grotesquely beery, the Ukrainian incomprehensible, and Duff-McQueeg, who . . . "Stupid, rude, limey bastard. No wonder they couldn't hold on to India. I never really understood the American Revolution, or our own resistance, until I met that piece of shit."

"Amita, later!"

Duff-McQueeg stood up and announced, "We've driven off the main guerilla band. But we'll never get full control until we can cut off their food. The first thing we're going to do is to establish ration controls, tight ration controls, here in the city. That means no, you bloody Sikhs will not be giving out food at the temple I am sure you intend to establish . . ."

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