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Chapter Ten

Among other evils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised.

—Machiavelli, The Prince

Casa Linda, 29/9/459 AC

If one picture was worth one thousand words, how many words were saved by half a dozen, in living color? The pictures fronted a newspaper that lay unopened upon the desk. There was no need to open it. That front page said everything necessary with its display of dismembered arms and legs, broken bleeding children, and people burned and blasted almost beyond recognition.

They have given me what I asked for, thought an inexpressibly saddened Patricio Carrera. But I will not thank them for it. I wish they had not.

His eyes wandered down again, down to a picture of a little girl. This one, at least was alive. Bloody, she was; covered in blood from head to foot. In the picture her skin showed through only at the twin tear tracks on her cheeks. The little girl was standing perfectly well. She was quite unhurt.

The baby's mother, however, was a ghastly, exsanguinated ruin— torn and bloody meat—lying on the street before her.

Though Carrera was saddened, an element of celebration charged the air of Casa Linda. Men passing in the hallways of the house spontaneously lifted their hands to "high five" as they passed. The Boss can do it now! We're going to war! Daugher and Bowman butted heads, literally and for the sheer violent joy of the thing, every time they passed in a hall.

Carrera, himself, was rather more restrained. He had a plan. He had all the diagrams. He had tables of manning and equipment, pay scales, grade requirements, training schedules . . . 

And I have guilt. Is it my fault, my doing, that these people were attacked? Or would it have happened eventually, anyway? I suppose I'll never know.

Lourdes interrupted his thoughts with a cup of coffee. She pretended not to notice as he quickly wiped a forming tear from his own eye. "What happens now, Patricio?"

"I don't know, not for sure. I don't yet have the authority. I don't have the money; I don't have the equipment, I don't have the men. I don't have the land to train on. I don't have the uniforms, the ammunition, the barracks . . . even tents we lack. All I have is a plan and control of some money, with more on the way . . . that, and a few connections."

Lourdes glanced down at the newspaper, then back to her boss. "But you and General Parilla have an appointment with the acting president in just three days, Patricio. Isn't that about getting all those things?"

"Yes. But Parilla and I both have our doubts about how easy it will be. Even after this," he said as his hand gestured towards the paper.

"I have faith in you, Patricio. You will get what you need."

He sighed. Maybe the girl was right. "Lourdes . . . you're a reasonable girl, as reasonable as anyone in the country. Do you believe we . . . Balboa should go to war over this?"

Lourdes' eyes flashed pure Castilian fire, glowing hot with rage and hate. This fire would have been commonplace during the Reconquista, the centuries-long drive to rid Spain of the hated Moslem. On Cortez's march to Tenochtitlan to conquer the Mexica a similar flame had lit the eyes of his conquistadors. Aboard the ships of the Holy League the night before the bloody naval battle at Lepanto, Don John's sailors' and marines' eyes had shone so. It was the very fire that had once made Spain "the nation with the bloody footprint."

"Oh, very much, yes. Yes, yes, yes." Her foot stamped. "You must make them pay for this!"

Carrera nodded, satisfied. A hand reached out for a cigarette. "Lourdes, would you get Professor Ruiz on the phone for me? Then call Parilla's secretary and see when he will be available."

 

Saint Nicholasberg, Volga, 30/9/459 AC

Smoke curled up from half a dozen vile Volgan cigarettes to gather and congeal along the ceiling and walls of the room. A small buffet— and that was not vile at all—sat pillaged on a table near the room's only door. Inside, men no longer young argued over their state's future.

"Stefan Ilyanovich, I tell you for the last time there is no more foreign exchange to be had." The speaker, Pavel Timoshenko, a sub- minister of finance for economically moribund Volga, spoke, on behalf of his chief, to an assistant to an industrial minister.

A note of something like hysteria crept into Ilyanovich's voice. "Our factories are crumbling. We are losing even the ability to extract our own oil. We are in desperate need of the technology that only the East, the FSC and the TU, or Yamato can supply us. And you tell me we cannot even buy it." Ilyanovich looked despondent, almost crushed. He hung his head in despair.

Timoshenko, not wanting to appear unsympathetic, said, "My friend, it is not that we would not buy it if we could. It is not even that the East will not sell to us. Since the Reds"—for the tsar who had instituted Tsarist-Marxism in Volga had, like his philosophical predecessors, chosen that color to symbolize his social revolution— "have been gone, the East, most of them at least, are quite willing to sell. But they will not give it away. Welcome to the free marketplace." He reached over to squeeze Ilyanovich's shoulder.

Ilyanovich looked up. "Then sell something, before we have nothing left to sell."

Timoshenko shook his head sadly. "That's just the point. We have nothing but the very raw materials to sell. And no one wants to buy. The world is glutted. Even the price of gold is down, what with all the precious metal the UEPF has dumped, or we would sell that."

"Weapons?" Ilyanovich held out his hands in plea.

Timoshenko shook his head, shrugged. "Ordinarily we could sell our weapons. But all of our former clients deserted us as fast as we deserted them. It doesn't matter; they have no money. And those who can buy don't want what we have. They want newer, more modern, Columbian or Tauran arms."

The men present looked to the representative of the ministry of defense. After finishing off the caviar-laden cracker in his fingers, and wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin, Vladimir Rostov answered the unspoken question.

"We make good weapons," he said. "Yes, they're different from the East's but, in the main, about as good—in some cases better, used properly—and always much, much cheaper. How could they not be when we pay the workers who produce them about ten percent of what their western equivalents earn? But after decades of selling "chimp models"—they look the same as the best equipment but have all of the really good features taken out—no one wants to buy who can afford better. Forty years of our arms, in Moslem hands, being bested by Zion and the FSC hasn't helped matters. We have managed to sell some heavy rocket launchers to al Jahara, true, but that is all. When they wanted tanks they went for FS models. When they wanted infantry vehicles they bought Anglian. They could have good, top of the line, T-38s—hell, I would sell them T-48s!—for what they can afford to pay. But they aren't even asking."

This was a bad sign indeed. For forty years the old empire had bartered its weapons for hard currency, needed raw materials, and political influence. Now its successor, the Republic of Volga, couldn't sell them even without the political strings. And weapons were about all it had to offer. Millions upon millions of tons of finished arms and munitions sat rusting, unused and unwanted, in military storage yards all over the country. The times were bleak.

Rostov tapped the table top in anger. "It is worse, even, than the picture I have painted. The FSC are already beating the Salafi fanatics in Pashtia like they own them. As soon as that is done they'll be going after the next state on their list; quite possibly Sumer again. Then they'll go after another. Then another. In a few years, not more than six the General Staff thinks, most of our former ex-clients are going to get the living shit kicked out of them by the Federated States-Kingdom of Anglia Alliance. The Sumeris still have almost exclusively Volgan heavy equipment. Even what we didn't build ourselves is mostly based on our systems; closely enough that few can tell the difference from the outside. They're almost all "chimp models," but who will care about that? When the FSC and the Anglians are through, our reputation for making arms will be destroyed for a century. Two centuries!"

Rostov rubbed a chin perplexedly. "Hmmm. I wonder if . . . no, I suppose not."

Ilyanovich reached for a glass of hot, overly sweet Volgan tea. "Is there no way to save that reputation? We have the arms, thirty thousand tanks in storage or more, enough possibly to see us through some of the hard times ahead if we could sell them for even a fraction of their value, at something better than scrap metal value anyway."

Timoshenko held up his hand to silence the others. He had studied and traveled in the East, even during Imperial days. During that time he had picked up a few decidedly un-Volgan ideas. One such was coming to him now.

"Comrades, it occurs to me that there is one chance. If we can somehow show that our arms are second to none—okay, okay . . . at least good enough—we can sell them in the future. The money we get from that will give us the ability to buy some high technology, enough to continue getting our oil and other minerals out of the ground. That will bring more hard currency and a favorable, or at least less unfavorable, trade balance. We must have positive advertising. Can we not get our forces to Pashtia?"

It was the representative of the Foreign Ministry's turn. "Forget it, Pavel. We are definitely not invited in any major way. Border and convoy guard maybe. Probably not even that."

"Not even that." The one soldier in the group added, "It wouldn't make much difference even if we sent in the Guards. Since we left Pashtia and since the breakdown of the government, our army is a wreck, good soldiers—some of them anyway—in a broken organization. Besides, the point Pavel wants us to make is, I think, that our weapons are good in rich undeveloped world hands. This point cannot be made if they are in Volgan hands."

Timoshenko ended the discussion by suggesting, "Comrades, let us await developments a bit, shall we? Perhaps the horse will learn to sing after all."

 

Las Mesas, Republic of Balboa, 30/9/459 AC

Young Ricardo Cruz looked into and past the television screen. It cannot be said he really even saw the images. He had no need to. He had seen them before, or others much like them, over and over, perhaps one hundred times in two days.

 

Cruz's girlfriend, Caridad, sat next to him. He had his arm around her. Unlike more usual occasions, now she had to make no effort to keep his pawing teenaged hands away. She really liked Ricardo so she didn't always fight very hard. But even token gestures were important and she was a little disturbed that she needn't make any.

He was a good looking boy, was Ricardo, his appearance marred only by somewhat unevenly prominent ears. Olive of skin and brown of eye; at five feet, seven inches, Cruz was a bit taller than the national norm. He towered over Cara's five, one.

"Ricardo," Cara insisted, "stop fretting so. You are only seventeen. There's nothing you can do to help. Only the gringos can avenge us."

Cruz said nothing, but his mind seethed and stomach churned at the harm done his country and his people. The idea of some other country doing the job that he felt deep inside was his own didn't sit well either. He'd always been a boy to take personal responsibility for things.

 

A fourteen year old Ricardo heard the girl crying. He heard, too, the predatory laughter of what had to be at least three or four boys. Neither the laughter, nor the jeers, nor the numbers much affected him. The crying, however, did.

He began to walk briskly to the door of the three-bedroom adobe house he shared with his parents and three siblings. On the way he paused to consider taking with him the machete he used to help with the harvest in season. It was a good tool, strong, flexible, very sharp and not too heavy. But was it the right tool?

Better to have it and not need it, he thought, than to need it and not have it.

He took the machete.

On the front porch of the house he saw them standing in the road. There were four, plus the girl. They were well-dressed, rabiblanco- dressed.

Money, he thought. Money come to have a little fun with the farm girls.

He didn't recognize any of the four boys but he'd seen the girl before in a class a grade behind him. He thought her name was Cara and that she lived a couple of miles down the road farther away from town. There were books lying in the dirt of the road, a cheap orange backpack, as well. He thought they must be hers since none of the boys looked the type to care much for schoolbooks.

One of the boys held the girl—yes, Cara's her name—from behind while another unbuttoned her white, schoolgirl's blouse and felt inside. The last two stood to either side until one of them bent down to grab her legs and pick them up. She struggled and cried for help as they began to carry her off to the woods abutting the road.

"I don't think so, maricones."

The three carrying Cara stopped and looked. The fourth member of their party lay face down on the road, blood pouring from his scalp to mix with the reddish dirt of the road. Some lunatic stood over that one, with a bared machete one hand, the scabbard in the other, and a remarkably serene look on his face. The punk with the machete was considerably younger, they thought, and considerably smaller, they could see. This didn't seem to bother him any more than did the fact that they were still three to his one.

"Keep hold of the meat," said the leader of the boys to the one holding Cara's arms. "Come on, Manuel, let's show this campesino piece of shit who he can and can't fuck with."

"Si, Eduardo," answered Manuel.

Little Cruz might have been. But his young arms had been strengthened by many seasons' hard labor with the machete. What work had the rabiblancos ever done much harder than lifting a poor maid's skirt? Young Cruz stood his ground as Eduardo and Manuel advanced on him.

And stopped dead when he didn't run. In that moment's hesitation Cruz sprang forward like a panther. Eduardo was the nearer. Cruz feinted high, then swung the machete around Eduardo's upflung arms and cut inward, below the ribs. The rabiblanco gasped and looked down at where his blood welled out from his deeply sliced side, pouring over the silver metal blade. Eduardo screamed and promptly fainted.

Cursing, Cruz tugged at the machete. Crap, it's caught on the ribs. Shoulda cut even lower. While he was worrying at the machete, Manuel's fist—he was perhaps made of tougher stuff than his chief, Eduardo—struck Cruz beside the head, knocking him to the dirt and causing him to see stars.

With Cruz apparently out of commission, Manuel bent low to see to Eduardo's wound. This was found to be rather a bad mistake as Cruz, stars or not, launched himself directly from the road to crash into Manuel's side. The two went tumbling over in a flurry of punches and kicks, a mix of Manuel's punches to the farm boy's face and Cruz-delivered knees to the groin. Two or three such were one or two more than Manuel's gonads could take. Cruz left him puking in the dirt and walked— staggered, really—to where Eduardo and the machete lay joined.

Using two hands, Cruz roughly pulled the machete from the now moaning Eduardo's side, bringing forth another scream and a renewed flood of bright red blood. Bloody machete in hand, still staggering, Cruz began to close on the last member of the rape party, the one holding the girl. This one lacked Manuel's sense of determination. Having seen three of his friends—all older, bigger and stronger than the little demon who'd attacked them—the last of the would-be rapists simply took to his heels, leaving Cara alone.

She ran to Cruz. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou for saving me!"

"You're welcome," he answered. "But now could you lead me home? My eyes have swollen so badly I really can't see."

 

Cara shuddered, remembering the way she and Ricardo had met. He's the bravest boy I've ever met, she thought. If he goes to war, he'll surely be killed.

Cara took a very personal view of things. She liked Ricardo . . . a great—oh, a very great—deal. She didn't want him killed. She couldn't even stand the thought of him being hurt. And the Federated States could be counted on to fix the problem without Cruz's help. So why should he leave her and risk his life, even if it were possible?

 

Finca Mendoza, Las Mesas, Balboa, 1/10/459 AC

A mere dozen miles from where Cruz had sat with Cara, another Balboan boy, Jorge Mendoza, sat alone in front of a television. In his hand he held a memento, a set of collar insignia, from his brother, Arturo, fallen a dozen years ago in battle against the gringos.

 

To say that Jorge did not like Federated States was an understatement. His brother had been a hero to him, a great smiling, kindly presence. Ever since Arturo's death beside his commander, Captain Jimenez, Mendoza had hated the Federated States, its people, and everything the two stood for.

Not by any means alone among the population of the underdeveloped parts of Terra Nova, Mendoza had been neither shocked nor even particularly disapproving of the attack on the Federated States a couple of months previously. To him, the people killed had had no faces. They were merely the great, opposed, other which had done his beloved big brother to death.

Other people did have faces though, faces as clear as Arturo's. Those faces smiled out at him from the television; faces of men and boys, young and old; faces of mothers and daughters; faces that could have been his own family's.

Mendoza's hatred for gringos ebbed a bit. Only so much hate could a heart hold and his had to make room for the Salafi Ikhwan.

 

Vice-Presidential Palace, Ciudad Balboa, 2/10/459 AC

"That bastard!" fumed Balboa's new president, Guillermo Rocaberti, pounding the tabletop. Rocaberti had taken the oath of office as president, but had not yet had time to move into the presidential palace. The palace needed considerable repair anyway, so he was in no hurry.

 

Surprised at the unexpected bang, the president's aide looked up from the screen. He asked, "Which bastard, Señor Presidente?"

"I'm not sure which one. Whoever put that goddamned 'public service message' on the television."

Rocaberti pointed at a silent television showing row on row of small portrait pictures of the victims of the Constitution Day attacks. Had the TV not been deliberately silenced, a voice would have been heard calling for rearmament and vengeance.

"That is not entirely clear, sir. Ex-General Parilla is reported to have a hand in it, but there is also supposedly some gringo involved."

"Gringo?"

"Yes, sir. There is a small group of them, a couple of dozen or so, we think. They've kept a low profile since they came here a few months back. We don't know much about them except that they have ties to Parilla."

"Soldiers?"

"Maybe ex-soldiers . . . mercenaries, perhaps."

"Why wasn't I told? Are they planning a coup?"

"Told what, sir? They haven't done anything. And Major Fernandez has reported them to be harmless, on extended vacation, actually."

"Wonderful! Fernandez! Do you think for a moment that Fernandez is anything but an outright enemy of this government? Never mind answering."

What's that bastard Parilla's plan? A new Balboan Defense Corps? A new Guardia Nacional? He half won the plebiscite seven years ago, so we were never able totally to get rid of the armed forces. On the other hand . . . hmmm. Maybe this might be a way to get them out of the way for a while. But they'll be back. Eventually, they'll be back. They always are. So, no, unless I can figure out a way to make sure they never come back, I've got to fight this.

"Get me Ford Williams on the phone. Now!" The aide quickly dialed the number of the country's second vice-president.

 

The National Assembly,
Ciudad Balboa, 3/10/459 AC

It had cost Parilla no money but much political capital to arrange this meeting with Guillermo Rocaberti and his Cabinet. This was to the good as, with the cost of the extensive advertising for which he and Carrera had personally paid, immediate funds were beginning to run low. He had no choice but to get the government to agree to send a military formation to the war. Pending funding from Carrera's uncle's estate, neither he nor those who supported him could afford to do this again if the propaganda campaign didn't work. In the president's conference room, richly paneled and decorated, Parilla was being grilled by a very suspicious group of politicians.

 

"General Parilla, what difference does it make if the Federated States wins this coming war with us or without us?"

Parilla turned his attention to the Minister of Police. "Señor, it could make all the difference in the world. If we help with the upcoming war, to the extent of our abilities, we will have a claim on the Federated States. We can expect further aid, possibly money to improve the Transitway, jobs . . . a greater prosperity.

"Leaving all that aside, however, the major reason to help them is that we have been fucking attacked. Our people have been murdered. The blood of our innocents has run in our streets."

Parilla pointed to Carrera while addressing the group. "My friend here believes that the FSC is likely to be generous under the circumstances."

The minister of police looked dismally at Carrera. "No blood would have spilled, most likely, had this man not killed six Salafis."

No more than had Jimenez did Parilla want Carrera to say a word about that. He just might tell the truth; that he had been angry and half mad with grief and so had baited the Salafis into attacking him. Not that Carrera had ever admitted it. Indeed, everyone close to him avoided asking precisely because they were sure he would admit it. That particular truth must not get out.

Parilla merely answered, "That was self-defense . . . so said the investigating officer. So said that officer's commander, Xavier Jimenez."

The policeman lifted a scornful and skeptical eyebrow.

Greasy looking, though said to be an honest man, Balboa's minister of justice, Ruben Arias, turned to Carrera. "You are from the FS, so no doubt you have a claim to understanding them greater than ours. But tell me this; we have a long and unfortunate history of military rule. If we let you and General Parilla bring about this force you have spoken of, what is to keep them from restoring military rule once again?"

Carrera stroked his own face lightly while formulating his answer. "You ask a good question, Señor Arias. I have thought upon it much before coming here today. I think, in the first place, that the lesson of the invasion twelve years ago—that the FSC will not tolerate military rule in this continent—will not soon be forgotten by the soldiers.

"Nor are we speaking of keeping a large standing force. This will be a one time only event. When the war is over you could disband the force or reduce it down to a manageable size, fold it back into the Civil Force or even turn it into a reserve formation." Carrera brought his hands together to illustrate. Of course, since the war is going to last at least a century, reduction in force is a most unlikely possibility. Besides, You'll get rid of my army over my dead body.

Arias continued on that point. "That is very easy to say, señor. But what if they won't lay down their arms afterward?" He folded his arms, looking triumphant.

Parilla took up the challenge. "Who controls the spending in the country? Surely, Señor Arias, you do not think that the men who volunteer for this expeditionary force are going to want to continue in arms if they are not paid?"

Arias saw an opening. "And that is another thing. How are we to pay for this? We are financially . . . well, if not prostrate, then by no means in good shape."

Without elaborating on Carrera's part in the planning, Parilla answered, "My people have estimated the cost of this operation at just over four hundred million drachma a year over and above the aid we can expect from the FSC. That is, it should be about that if we scrimp a little. Before the invasion Piña was taking almost three hundred million per year in illegal taxes from the Cristobal Free Trade Zone alone. You gentlemen can make that illegal tax a legal one . . . and a larger one, too. That alone would pay for the operation. But it is still very unlikely that we will have to pay for the whole thing ourselves. The Federated States can be expected to provide support if we ask."

Back and forth the argument went. For each objection raised by the Cabinet, Parilla and Carrera had an explanation of a benefit to be derived. As the opportunity arose Parilla dropped narrow hints of the personal gains that might accrue to the men present if they were to approve. "Just think of the benefits to our economy, gentlemen. We'll take several thousand young, aggressive and unemployed—hence dangerous—men out of circulation for a while. They will earn money that they will spend freely, being young men. Soldiers eat a lot! This can only help our many farmers." Parilla knew that many in the room had significant agricultural interests. "Farmers—and they make up much of the country, you recall—will buy more. New shops will be opened and old ones thrive. And gentlemen, one way or another foreigners will pay for it all. Even if we get not one centavo in aid, these are solid gold to us. My own financial interests will advance as will those of everyone here."

Parilla thought, And if I didn't act as if I were in this for my own financial benefit you would all be certain I was planning a coup, wouldn't you? Then you would fight us even harder. Well, believe the worst of me; it's no more than I know is true of you. To most of you bastards there's no good reason to do anything except for a personal or family profit. So if you want to think Patricio and I are in it for the money so much the better. You probably don't know that Patricio himself is on the verge of enough wealth that any petty graft available in Balboa shrinks to insignificance by comparison.

Still, despite best efforts, Parilla and Carrera could see the politicians weren't buying. Parilla turned to Carrera and said in a whisper, "I told you they wouldn't be reasonable. Fortunately we've planned for such a contingency."

Before going in to confront the president and Cabinet, Parilla had insisted on preparing another means of persuasion. As he had told Carrera, "Patricio, you know how to raise, train, and use military forces for military objectives. Trust me when I say that I know how to use them for other objectives. I've had practice. And I've understudied some of the best."

Parilla gave a signal to Jimenez, who had accompanied them to the meeting. Jimenez slipped out quietly to make a brief telephone call. Within twenty minutes the men in the meeting room could hear the sound of singing, the measured tread of booted feet. Marching men approached.

 

Outside of the National Assembly Building two thousand former members of the Balboan Defense Corps, most of them also current members of the Civil Force that had replaced the BDC, marched in formation to positions surrounding the building. They were all uniformed and armed.

At Parilla's orders, Jimenez and Fernandez between them had done all the necessary coordination to bring every conveniently located unit—police and paramilitary, both—into position to threaten the government ministers. To any within sight of the demonstration it looked exactly like an impending coup d'etat.

Parilla had not been content merely to show a greater force at his disposal than the government could muster. A very substantial bribe had insured that the president of the Republic's own guard—constitutionally distinct from the Civil Force—would ostentatiously leave the assembly building and join the rest of the demonstrators. Perhaps if Rocaberti had had longer in office to cement his ties with the Presidential Guard they would not have defected. As it was, he did not have those ties cemented.

Loudspeakers carried by the leaders of the units began to state the demands of the defenders to be sent to the war to crush those who had attacked their country.

Looking from the window of the meeting room the assembled cabinet ministers saw their only supporting military force leave to join the demonstrators. Arias was the first to realize that the men meeting with Parilla and Carrera were now defenseless.

"I suppose you planned this?" he accused Parilla, banging his fist on the conference table.

Parilla shook his head and answered, quite untruthfully "No, señor, I did not plan, though I knew it might happen." None present believed him. He hadn't expected them to. The lie was for politeness' sake only.

"This won't get you anywhere, you know. Even if you force us to approve your plan, we are not the Assembly. They must vote on it."

Parilla didn't answer but looked out the window to where a series of automobiles were disgorging a carefully selected quorum of the National Legislative Council, the seventy-two member body that had the power to approve the essential elements of Carrera's plan. It had taken a fair amount of the time he'd had available to determine who would support the move to send an expeditionary force to the war. Two were members, somewhat distant members, of Carrera's late wife's family. Her father, at her mother's insistence, had persuaded them to vote in favor. Others had been bribed or promised bribes for their votes. A fairly large number hadn't needed much persuading. In all, Parilla had assembled enough legislators to both constitute a quorum, just, and to insure that he would win the vote.

After watching the legislators being disgorged from the cars that had brought them, Parilla turned away from the window to address the Cabinet. Sounding sincere, he said, "In a few minutes we will be able to legally enact the legislation the country will need to shoulder its burden of responsibility to the world community and avenge our own dead. I think that the men outside will not permit much debate on the matter. Mr. President, I suggest that you use all of your political skills to push this vote through as quickly and painlessly as possible."

Arias stood straight. "I, for one, have no intention of permitting this to happen. I will not stand by and make some gringo the commander of the forces of the Republic. You can kill me if you wish," he sneered. "But I will not go along."

Soothingly, Carrera said, "Señor Arias, you wrong me. I have no intention of either harming you or being the commander. For one thing, I was a gringo; for all that I live here in Balboa now. The troops have no great reason to trust me. They don't even know me. Moreover, having a gringo commander will make the whole thing smack of an FSC ploy to keep effective rule over Balboa.

"No, sir, I will not be the commander. I wouldn't accept it, at this time, if it were offered. General Parilla, however, is fully suited to command this force. He has my loyalty. He plainly has the loyalty of those men outside. He is the only former military ruler in Balboa's history ever to voluntarily step down from office to return real rule to an elected civilian government. Señor Arias, you may relax. General Raul Dario Parilla will be the commander of this force." I will merely be his executive officer . . . very executive.

Arias did not, repeat not, trust this gringo son of a bitch in the slightest. He had one last strong card to play to stop him and he used it.

"Gentlemen, there is one little problem," Arias said. "Get the entire legislative assembly to vote for your little project and it still wouldn't matter. It would require a plebiscite to recreate a true armed force for Balboa. That would take months to set up and tally the votes on."

"That is true, señor, as far as it goes," Carrera conceded with a shrug. Thank God for good lawyering. "But it is certainly within the power of the Legislative Assembly to sponsor a nongovernmental organization within the Republic. Much as the Gauls have sponsored Justice Without Borders or Helvetia has sponsored our planet's version of the Red Cross. The . . . oh, for now let's call it El Legio del Cid . . . could even pay to the Republic what the World League pays to contributing states for peacekeepers, one thousand Federated States drachma a month each for troops actually deployed. That is, of course, assuming the FSC supports us as I expect they will. Seriously, General Parilla and I can promise the Republic one thousand drachma per man actually deployed, per month, after operational costs are paid but before any other expenditures are made. Gentlemen, that is, potentially, sixty to one hundred and fifty-six million drachma a year. Where else; how else, could the government increase its revenues by over fourteen percent so easily?" Where else could you find that much extra money to steal?

President Rocaberti scowled darkly. This bastard gringo had been talking to some lawyers, and apparently rather good ones. And the plebiscite had been his next to last card and last really good one. He'd played it and lost. There was only one thing left and he doubted it would work, not if they had serious financing as he had considerable evidence—witness the desertion of his personal guard—that they did.

Looking into Carrera's eyes, the president felt a chill. He's polite enough here, now. But he's got the look of madness about him. One last effort then.

"We cannot tax the Cristobal Free Zone to support what is, in essence, a private activity. The merchants would be up in arms," Rocaberti insisted. "It would be unconstitutional."

Inwardly, both Parilla and Carrera smiled. They'd expected this. Indeed, they'd wanted it. By refusal to fund, the government also gave up any semblance of control. All that blather about controlling the force by withholding funding? Gone now, with the refusal to fund. Moreover, they had a full list of demands to be made. The haggling then began.

By a reasonably large majority the Legislative Council ordered the creation of a nongovernmental organization, or NGO, final name to be determined, of not more than thirteen thousand, five hundred expeditionary troops plus required support back home (and the legislators had no clue as to how much support back home might be required), to secure the Republic from foreign enemies. It further required Raul Dario Parilla to negotiate a memorandum of understanding with the Federated States for the use and support of that force. The NGO so created was to quell the scourge of terrorism wherever it might be found. The legislators passed as well the enabling legislation to facilitate and govern such a force.

 

Casa Linda, 4/10/459 AC

Down in the cool and damp basement of Carrera's headquarters, the sergeant major stubbed out another cigarette as he labored to sort personnel files into a semblance of order. The files had been provided by an assistant to Major Jimenez. Except for meals, hasty ones, and brief periods for sleep, no one on Carrera's staff had taken any time off from their duties since Balboa had been attacked. Carrera was working himself no less than he and McNamara were working the men.

 

Beginning on the night of the 28th the house had been the scene of constant meetings and coordination sessions between Carrera and members of the Civil Force. At some of these the sergeant major had been present. Other members of Carrera's staff attended others.

It wasn't really McNamara's job to be selecting personnel. The Staff's II—the personnel management office, under Tom Christian— should have been doing it. They, however, were tied up in other things, notably coordination between Balboa and Abogado's nascent FMTGRB. So it was left to Mac to fill in the chain of command for the force that Carrera intended to lead into the war. To this end he was currently matching files to positions. The commanders and primary staff had long since been filled. The sergeant major was working on secondary staff now.

Siegel came in burdened by another stack of personnel files. "An action passed on is an action completed,' Top," he announced, dumping the files in front of McNamara. "These ones have been cleared by Fernandez."

McNamara looked at the top of the stack Siegel had brought. There, in plain English, was a summary of each file in the stack. "Sig, what t'e hell are you doing here? You're way too smart for t'is."

"Doing here? You mean with the old man?"

Seeing that this was exactly what McNamara meant, Siegel continued, "Oh . . . I just follow him out of idle curiosity."

The sergeant major tapped his fingers impatiently.

"I'm only half joking, Sergeant Major. Most people are predictable. The boss is not. Just watching him operate is a laugh a minute; always has been. Oh, I don't mean him, so much as watching the people around him. You and me, for example."

"Get out, Sig. And go tell t'e cook to put on more coffee."

"Sure, Top. But don't you ever wonder about why we're here? You know, you can tell a lot about somebody by what he reads; what he thinks is worth reading. I was up at the boss's desk two nights ago and he had a book out, face down. Know what I saw when I picked it up?"

"No and I don't care, eit'er."

"Yes, you do." Siegel closed his eyes, dredging up the memory. "I read:"

 

"I loved you, and so I took these tides of men

Into my hands and wrote my will

Upon the sky in stars . . . "

 

"Lawrence of Arabia, Top. And the CO had it specially marked."

"T'e cook, Siegel. Coffee."

McNamara watched Siegel make his exit, then made a notation on one file and shoved it aside. He reached for another.

Opening it, the sergeant major saw that this file was for a former BDC officer who had been in command of a company during the '47 invasion. For whatever reason, Fernandez had marked it "Politically Necessary." The officer, a Major Manuel Rocaberti, was a graduate of the Federated States Military Academy at River Watch, Class of 438. The file had not been signed off on by Jimenez. This was odd.

River Watch? This, with Fernandez's notation, was enough for the sergeant major. He had dozens more files to check out tonight. The Balboan officer, Manuel Rocaberti, was assigned to an important billet in the Ia, the operations office.

 

Office of the President of the Republic of Balboa,
4/10/459 AC

President Rocaberti made a few last minute notes on the speech he would give the people of Balboa telling them that their country had decided to pledge itself—sort of, in an only semi-official, nongovernmental way—to the war against the terrorists. Ultimately, what had decided him to cease resistance and to cooperate was not Parilla's or Carrera's persuasion, nor even the gutless capitulation of the Cabinet and Legislative Council. Instead, Rocaberti had been persuaded by the very attractive prospect of getting the old guard of the BDC out of the country for a while. Given a bit of time, and relief from pressure by the radicals of Piña's old political party and their BDC minions, Rocaberti thought he would have a much better chance of bringing a lasting democracy—which he defined as an oligarchy of the upper classes—to Balboa. It was the silver lining in this very dark cloud.

 

The president looked up from his note making. It was time to address the nation.

At the signal from the television man the president began.

"People of Balboa, eleven days ago our country was attacked. We were attacked brutally, suddenly, without warning and with no provocation on our part. We did nothing to provoke this attack in which hundreds of our people were murdered. The targets of that attack were not our country's defenders of the Civil Force, but inoffensive civilians going about their daily lives, innocent children, and our women.

"Even now a great army of vengeance and justice is being assembled from all over the world to resist and reverse this aggression, to free the peaceful people of the world from the threat of terror. Free peoples from every corner of the globe have pledged themselves to this worthy and noble task.

"In this desperate hour, the Republic of Balboa cannot shirk its responsibility to the rest of the world. Last night, in a late night session which was attended by myself, my Cabinet, the National Legislative Council, and those men of the Civil Force whose job it will be to carry the fight to come, the government of the Republic of Balboa, by an overwhelming majority, voted to facilitate the sending of an expeditionary force to assist the other democracies to end this plague.

"The patriotic and brave soldiers of the Civil Force will be the vanguard and center of our part of this armada. However, because they are few and the enemy many, because we need to secure our homeland as well as carry the fight to the enemies of civilization, the Legislative Council has authorized only that one thousand and fifty men of the Military Police companies of the Civil Force, exactly one quarter their strength, may transfer to the new. Any men recently retired may also volunteer without cost to their pensions.

"Still, the new organization will need several thousand volunteers to bring its units to the size needed for this operation. I call upon the young men of the Republic to give of themselves by volunteering for this enterprise."

 

Like hundreds of thousands across Balboa, Ricardo Cruz, aged seventeen, sat among family and friend in front of the snowy screen of the family television. (For while satellite television was in theory available, the premium tacked on by the Rocaberti family that controlled it made it prohibitively expensive for simple farmers.) Cruz contemplated his immediate plans. Tomorrow I will go down to the police station and sign up.

He thought of Cara and her feelings on the subject. She is so sweet . . . so pretty too. But she'll never understand that I have to go.

 

Manuel Rocaberti, too, watched his uncle's speech. His feelings on the subject were far different from Cruz's, however. Only that morning he had spoken to his Uncle, the president.

"Shut up, Manuel. You owe this to the family," the president had commanded.

Manuel pleaded, "But, Tio Guillermo, I'm no good. I've tried and I just don't have it. I've no business being a soldier."

"You're not going there to be a soldier, boy. You're going there to be a spy, my spy. I don't trust Parilla and I trust his pet gringo with the electric eyes even less. Those bastards forced this fucking under- the-table rearmament down my throat. I don't like it."

"So what can I do about it? Jesu Cristo, Tio, I'm not going as anything or anyone important."

"Watch, report, impede if possible. It isn't likely that they'll really be able to raise this force, not from scratch. Parilla's never been in command of a real army. And this gringo of his was—what?—a lieutenant colonel? All of that? Even you were a major," the president sneered. "But I want you there to make it as unlikely as possible, even so."

Interlude

29 July, 2067, United Nations Starship Kofi Annan

The ship on-screen bore a name in English letters, though that name was Chinese.

 

The Cheng Ho drifted slowly in high orbit around the planet people back home were already calling Terra Nova, or something similar in their own languages. In Arabic, for example, it was "al Donya al Jedida," in Chinese, "Xing She Jie," though the Chinese were as likely to say, "Xing Zhong Guo" which meant "New Middle Kingdom." Then again, for the Chinese, very little could be even of conceptual importance that was not China and Chinese.

The Cheng Ho hadn't sent word to Earth in six years, despite having carried several dozen messenger-bots capable of, and intended to, carry news from the ship homeward.

Like the earlier robotic probe, the Cristobal Colon, the Cheng Ho had taken off, in 2060, propelled by Sol's rays and laser stations positioned on planets, planetoids and in space. The laser stations had, by that year, grown much more numerous and powerful, cutting the time of flight to the rift nearly in half.

There had been much celebration on Earth when the ship had begun its long journey to the stars. Every country, every ethnicity, and nearly every interest group had a reason to be proud. Indeed, each had a stake in the voyage, on an emotional level at least, as the passengers had been carefully handpicked to be the best and the brightest representatives of their respective ascriptive, ethnic, cultural or national groups. As a matter of fact, not only were they the best and the brightest, much care had been taken to ensure they were also the most forward thinking, the least intolerant, persons available from those groups.

The crew members were not quite as diverse, being largely American, English, Chinese, Japanese, Indian and Brazilian with only token members from other nations. But the passengers?

There were three hundred and sixty-four Moslems, one hundred and eighty-one non-Moslem Europeans, a like number of Americans, roughly three hundred each Indians and Chinese, and about eight hundred passengers from other groups and nations. The average IQ was over one hundred and forty and the average adult educational level the Ph.D.

Thus, it had come as something of a shock when, a year after launch, the captain of the ship reported a murder. Moreover, the shock to Earth when he mentioned "rioting youths" was enough to cause an initial news blackout against any further reports from the Cheng Ho as tens of thousand more "youths" rioted in sympathy across the globe The blackout itself was followed by considerable censorship on what news was later allowed, yet clearly the problem of "rioting youths" had remained.

"Well, nobody's rioting aboard her now," observed the captain of the follow-on ship, the UNSS Kofi Annan, an exploration frigate, the first of its class, fitted out to search for and bring back news from the Cheng Ho.

"No, ma'am," answered an ensign manning the remote sensing station as the Annan reached the outer limits of its sensing range. "With radiation levels that high there's nobody alive on board. Only one shuttle missing, too. And its bay doesn't look like it saw many dockings or take offs. Only light burning, you see, Captain."

The captain grimaced and nodded, grimly. Hitting a button on her command chair to activate the on-board intercom, she said, "Marines? This is the captain speaking. I want a recon team ready in thirty minutes, full hardened suits upshielded for heavy radiation. Major Ridilla, meet me in my cabin for instructions. Flight deck? Prepare to bring them to the Cheng Ho. I want you to dock and wait to retrieve them. Captain, out."

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Framed