The courage of your enemy honors you.
—Arab saying
It took two days to contain and clear out the remnants of the spoiling attack Sada had launched. When it was finally done, the legion was pleased to discover that about half the century that had been under assault had managed to hold out in a stout adobe building and beat off all attacks. Even the wounded who had not made it to the building were found, as often as not, neatly laid out and, to the extent practical, cared for, in nearby structures. The sergeant in charge, though wounded, was still ready to fight when the first relieving troops reached him.
He didn't have a bad word to say about the Sumeris, but he had more than a few for Manuel Rocaberti. After hearing the sergeant out, Carrera had returned to the command post and had a long conversation with Parilla.
Parilla and Carrera were still talking as Manuel Rocaberti entered the legion's command post. A private, looking very frightened, stood to one side under a guard supervised by McNamara. The Dux and legate immediately stopped whatever the conversation had been and turned to face the tribune. The private was the same one who been stopped and arrested for desertion under fire.
"Manuel," Parilla began, "The legate and I were just discussing what to do with this man. Carrera wants him shot before the legion. I think maybe we should be kinder, under the circumstances. You're still officially his commander. What do you think?"
Rocaberti had been surprised that he had not been arrested when he'd shown up to report the destruction of his century. He assumed, then, that they must have all been killed but for this private. It was either that, or the position of his uncle, that was acting to save him. Perhaps it was both. Still, that also made the private the only possible witness against him.
"Shoot him," Rocaberti answered. "Court-martial him and shoot him. Discipline ought to be maintained."
Though it jarred his half-healed wound, raising a wince, Parilla's fist lashed out of its own accord, catching Rocaberti on the jaw and knocking him to the floor. He was surprisingly fast for someone nearly in his sixties.
"That was your last chance, Manuel," Parilla said. "Sergeant Major McNamara, arrest this man. He is charged with desertion under fire. And release the private back to his unit."
The sun was up enough to cast long shadows across the streets and parks of the town.
Carrera sighed, a bit wistfully, looking from his high perch down onto the grounds of the university below. Be a shame to destroy it; it's the only bit of decent architecture I've seen since coming here.
The University of Sumer at Ninewa was smoothly white and surrounded on three sides by a three-meter high wall that, but for the bullet marks, would have been equally smooth and equally white. The river bank made up the fourth side. A green strip of park, fed from the waters of the river, framed the university. Two-lane, one-way boulevards ran to either side of the park.
Because it was older than most of the smashed city behind him, Carrera knew that the University predated the current dictator of the country and so hadn't suffered his megalomaniac urge towards heroic monumentalism or outsized construction. It was low-lying, for the most part, and tasteful in the way that traditional Arabic architecture almost always was, all high windows and graceful arches, with geometric decoration on the walls where those walls were not smooth.
There were three gates into the compound, one in the center facing to the southwest and two more flanking that one to the northwest and southeast at a distance of about four hundred meters. Another broad boulevard led from the town directly to the main gate.
"Patricio, I think you're insane," commented Parilla, standing next to Carrera and looking out over the same scene. "Let someone else go. Send me."
Behind the two, Soult added in, "Goddamn straight."
"Besides," Parilla continued, "you don't know you can trust this man."
Not turning his head to address his friends, Carrera insisted, "He's fought like a soldier so far. No tricks . . . well, no dirty tricks. He's been a tricksy enough bastard in every permissible way though; that I'll give you."
Clasping his hands behind his back, Carrera began to pace. "Raul, we can't send you," he said. "Your English is, at best, so so. Fahad doesn't speak Spanish. I'm the only one with the right combination of languages and rank. And I don't think it's right to insult this man by sending anyone lesser."
"We could just blast them out, you know," Parilla objected.
"Yes," Carrera agreed slowly. "But then how would we get any future use of them? And I think we're going to need them in the future. I think we've got the best group of Arabs on Terra Nova, right here."
The party went silent then as two assault teams composed of mixed armor and infantry moved into firing position and spent five minutes or so each blasting two large gaps in the university walls. A "practicable breach," Carrera had called it.
"Order the troops to cease fire except in self-defense," he commanded. "Get the air ala circling overhead."
"Amid, there's a white flag showing near the main gate," Qabaash informed Sada. "Just three men, one holding the flag, another with a small loudspeaker, and the last standing there with his arms folded. You suppose they want to surrender? The loudspeaker asked for you, personally."
Sada looked around at some of the remnants of his filthy, ragged command and answered, "Somehow I doubt they intend to surrender to us."
"Are you going to meet them, Amid? If so, I need to have the barriers at the gate cleared away."
"Can't hurt to talk, I suppose," Sada answered. Every minute we gain . . . gains us . . . nothing. "Have someone shout to them that I'll be along in thirty minutes. And, yes, open the gate."
It had begun hot enough, standing there in the open and waiting for the Sumeris to respond. As the sun arose, it grew hotter still, despite the wide swath of pockmarked greenery on which they stood. Sweat poured off the faces of Carrera, Soult and Fahad. Their uniforms, and Fahad's civilian clothing, grew soaked with it even though the dry, dusty air sucked it away almost as fast as it formed.
"There he is," Fahad said. "Magnificent, isn't he?"
Carrera agreed, though he said nothing. The man approaching under flag of truce was caked with sweat and dust, but tall, well built, and walked like a man of fierce courage still.
Carrera's party stood in place while the Sumeri approached. Sada stopped only once, gaping at Fahad from just recognition distance. Fahad made a small bow, Yes, my general, it is me.
"How may I be of service?" Sada asked in polite, Anglian accented English. He looked at Carrera's eyes and thought, Creepy, like the Blue Jinn. Glancing at Fahad again, he added, to Carrera, "I gather you know who I am."
Taking the hint, Carrera offered his hand, which Sada took, and introduced himself, adding, "Your men have fought well, as have you."
"Thank you, Liwa Patricio." In the Arab way, Sada used rank and first name. "And, might I add, they're ready to keep on doing so."
Carrera bit his lower lip, doubtfully. "For a while," he conceded. "But the rest of your army, elsewhere, has folded. These are the only men who've made a good stand. It would be a shame to rob your country of them now, don't you think?"
Overhead, six NA-23s and a like number of Turbo-Finches circled in two separate groups. Reinforcing these, ten helicopters, ostentatiously bearing rocket and machine gun pods, hovered. Carrera didn't have to point them out; their noise reached the ground with a low, steady thrum.
"The other thing is . . . you can surrender to me or you can surrender to the Federated States Army which, now that it has nothing better to do, is sending a division this way to reinforce us. You'll get better treatment from me. So will your men."
Seeing that Sada was still full of fight—Fahad was right about this one. A wonderful enemy. Even in defeat he's got pluck—Carrera put in a sweetener. "I've got medical teams standing by, just behind the line, to go in and see to your wounded." His eyes swept around the grassy strip. "We can medevac them from right here."
"I have a lot of wounded," Sada answered, wavering slightly.
"I know. And not much food and not much ammunition. And no medicine. Friend, this is the best thing you can do for your men, hurt or unhurt. For reasons I'll explain later, it's also the best thing you can do for your country and your people."
Sada's shoulders, previously proudly squared off, sank just a little. "Terms?" he asked.
"The usual," Carrera answered, "except that I'll want officers to take their sidearms even into captivity to maintain order."
"We don't have enough nine millimeter ammunition left to maintain order."
"No problem; we'll give you enough." That was an almost unprecedented offer of grace.
Sada nodded, then let his face hang downward.
"And I'll want your men to march out under arms, like honorable soldiers, colors flying and band playing."
"I don't have a band," Sada objected.
"That doesn't matter. I do."
Sada looked . . . well, he looked ripped up inside. "This is hard. Hard. I've never surrendered my command. In three wars I've never given up."
"I understand," Carrera commiserated. "It's the hardest thing one can do. But is your pride worth getting the only part of your army that consistently fought well destroyed? Your country is going to need these men. Is your pride more important than that?"
Sada inhaled deeply. When he gave up that breath his shoulders slumped even more than they had been. "When? How do you want it done?"
The sun was high overhead and the PSYOP cameras were rolling when Sada reappeared at the gate. From above, confirmed by both observation teams and the still circling aircraft, the remnants of his command were formed up behind him. Medical teams from the legion were already inside the compound, triaging the wounded and treating them where practical. Fahad and Soult had accompanied the medics and doctors to translate. The three-way translation was slow and awkward, but ultimately effective enough.
Precisely at noon Carrera reappeared in the green strip fronting the gate. This time he was accompanied not by a mere two men. Instead, he had the dozen each pipers and drummers of the legion, their Secordian-born pipe major, plus an honor guard of one century from the 1st Cohort. The pipes and drums stood to Carrera's right, the honor guard to the left. Well behind him, on the far side of the boulevard, Parilla and the legionary staff stood on a makeshift platform raised above the rear decks of two tanks. The one gold and eleven silver eagles of the ground and air elements of the legion were drawn up, held aloft by their bearers, in front of the stand.
Sada appeared within the gate. Behind him were his staff and his brigade colors, a splash of green against the white background.
Carrera looked right and nodded at the pipe major who raised his baton and lowered it. Immediately the drums began a marching beat. Four beats later the pipes joined in with "The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre."
Qabaash looked terribly forlorn and depressed, slumping behind Sada. He turned his head and gave the order to "Mark time, march." The men began to march in step, lifting their feet in time to the beat. This was followed by, "Forward . . . march." Sada, the staff, the brigade colors, and the first group of soldiers stepped off.
Four abreast the Sumeris flowed out of the gate. Weary as they no doubt were, still the pipes and the drums gave them a bit of energy they'd perhaps not known they'd had. They came forward, dirty and ragged but in good dress and step, until Sada reached a point six meters in front of Carrera. There Qabaash gave the order, "Brigade . . . halt." The pipes and drums ceased.
Sada and Carrera exchanged salutes. Then Sada walked forward, unbuckling the sword—a great prize and artifact of his clan—to present to Carrera. Carrera held up his hand in refusal, saying, "I am not the commander." He turned and pointed to Parilla, standing on the platform, and said, "Your sword and your colors go to him. Have your command follow me and then peel off in line along the grass."
With that, Carrera executed a letter-perfect about face and once again nodded to the pipe major. The drums and the tune picked up as the honor guard marched forward to insert itself between Sada's colors and the bulk of his brigade. Following Carrera, the Sumeris advanced into the boulevard to just before Parilla's reviewing stand. Behind Sada the remaining units peeled off right and left to form a line of columns. They were few and took up comparatively little of the space.
At the reviewing stand Carrera saluted Parilla, reporting, "Al Sada Brigade, present and accounted for and ready to surrender after a gallant defense." The pipes and drums automatically cut out.
Parilla returned the salute and answered, "Continue with the ceremony."
Carrera turned and nodded at Sada. Sada, in turn, gave the orders in Arabic for his colors to follow him. They marched in time, pipes silent and drums only beating a slow march. There Sada once again unbuckled his sword belt and gave it to Parilla, who took it and passed it to Sergeant Major McNamara. Parilla then, followed by McNamara, walked gingerly down some rickety steps that led to the flat below the stand.
Sada turned and took the brigade colors from their bearer. Oh, this hurts. He turned once again, in place, and offered these to Parilla who took them as well. Parilla held them in his hand, momentarily, savoring the ultimate battlefield commander's high, the capture of the enemy's soul. Then, smiling, he gave them back to Sada.
"I don't understand," the Sumeri said, in English.
McNamara translated to Parilla who answered, through him, "You've earned t'e right to keep t'em."
Sada felt unmanly tears begin to form. He bit his upper lip and, nodding gratefully, returned the colors to their bearer. He saw Qabaash the Fierce suddenly lose his dejected demeanor and stand tall. By the time Sada turned again, Parilla had retrieved his sword from McNamara and was offering that back as well.
The tears began to course then in truth. Sada hung his head in embarrassment. Parilla just smiled broadly and slapped the Sumeri's shoulder, saying something in Spanish that Sada had no clue to.
McNamara handed a small hinged box to Parilla, who took from it a medal on a ribbon. This Parilla hung about Sada's neck while his head was bowed.
"What?" the surprised Sumeri asked.
"Can you identify forty or fifty men—officers, noncoms or enlisted, makes no difference, except I'd prefer some of each—who just did a really good, really courageous job here?" Carrera had asked. "I mean soldiers that everyone in your brigade would recognize as being number one fighters, first-class men?"
"Forty or fifty? I could probably give you four or five hundred." Sada had answered with pride, standing there on the green strip as the two worked out the final details of surrender.
"No . . . let's not be too ostentatious. Forty or fifty will do, for now."
"Follow t'e commander," McNamara said to Sada, as Parilla walked to the group of fifty Sumeris who had followed just behind the colors and were centered in middle of the remnants of the brigade. Sada did so, with the sergeant major following. Another legionary followed the sergeant major, bearing a scrounged metal tray on which were laid out fifty Steel Crosses.
"What the hell is he doing?" Sada asked of the sergeant major.
"T'ere is no bar in our regulations," McNamara answered, "to decorating for bravery an enemy who has fought well. As a matter of fact, if you read t'em t'e right way, it is required, at least where possible."
"No shit?" Sada asked.
"No shit . . . sir."
Well, this was certainly something different. With a very odd mix of feelings, Sada followed Parilla as he walked down the five ranks of ten and hung a medal around the necks of each of the Sumeris Sada had identified as particularly worthy. At each man Parilla shook hands and said a few words, technically incomprehensible but in practice quite clear. "Good man . . . brave soldier . . . it was an honor to fight you . . . wear it with pride."
With the presentation of the last award, Parilla again shook Sada's hand. Again they exchanged salutes. Sada walked back to his position in front of his staff while Parilla went back to the reviewing stand.
Carrera gave the order to Sada, "Have your soldiers ground arms."
Unit by unit, starting from the right of the line as they faced, the remnants of the Sumeri units grounded their rifles and machine guns on the grass strip, the men bending at the waist to carefully lay the weapons down before recovering to attention.
When the last unit had disarmed, Carrera ordered, "Have your brigade follow me." With another head nod, the pipes and drums picked back up again. The Sumeris began to march, first marking time in place and then, as the way cleared, wheeling left or right and moving forward behind the colors following their commander who, in turn, followed Carrera.
The honor guard from 1st Cohort stepped out to stand beneath the reviewing stand, between the eagles and the boulevard. When Carrera reached the stand he turned his eyes to the right and saluted the Dux and the Eagles. The sergeant major ordered, "Present . . . arms."
Carrera dropped the salute and continued on.
Taking the hint, Sada gave the command, "Eyes . . . right," and rendered "Present Arms" with his clan's sword. The colors of his brigade dropped to a forty-five degree angle until he ordered, "Ready . . . front." The silver eagles likewise lowered but to a lesser degree.
As the group of Sumeris Parilla had just decorated reached the stand they, too, executed an eyes right. Parilla saluted and dropped it. Then Parilla began to applaud. The staff on the stand joined him, holding the applause until the Sumeri honorees had passed.
That night, Sada met with Parilla and Carrera in a large and tacky office in one of the local municipal buildings that had been mostly spared in the fighting. The cheap but ostentatiously gilded furniture glinted in the now dim and then flaring kerosene lamps.
Fahad was in attendance in case translation should be needed.
"Your men? Settled in? Fed? Watered?" Parilla asked in his marginal English.
"Yes, sir," Sada answered. He was still in mild shock at the decent, even gallant, treatment he and his men had been accorded. Indeed, back in the wire-ringed temporary camp in which he and his troops were housed under first class Misrani tents his staff was still scratching their collective head.
"I have to apologize for the food," Parilla said, through Carrera. "Frankly, we're not eating all that well, either. We're supposed to have a somewhat improved supply situation in a few days."
"That's fine," Sada said. "After a week of boiled camel and rice, and not much of that, the men are happy just to be full."
"Drink?" Carrera offered, indicating a mostly full bottle and some mostly clean glasses.
"Please. We Sumeris are not, generally speaking, Salafi fanatics, you know."
Fahad poured for the four. There was no ice so it was scotch, neat.
They sipped, in silence and contemplatively, for a few minutes before Carrera began to speak.
"The FSC-led coalition has ordered your entire army to disband, the fucking idiots," he said heatedly. "Allegedly they'll provide a month's severance pay, at least to the officers."
Sada laughed, low and deprecatingly. "I can't even begin to tell you what a bad idea that is. You're going to suddenly unemploy several hundred thousand young men, all trained to arms, and—my brigade excepted—with every reason to hate your guts. Oh, my. Saleh, wherever he's hiding, must just be coming in his pants over that one."
"Not us," Carrera corrected, "the FSC. Seems some civilian, never- heard-a-shot-fired-in-anger-idiot there, decided for the military that troops who had run away and surrendered were just not worth keeping around. Mind you, the money was all allocated to keep them under arms and employ them. But, no, this dipshit civilian with never a day in uniform thinks he knows better."
Sada shrugged. "Well," he admitted, "they're mostly not worth keeping around for the good they can do the FSC. At least not any immediate good. They're worth keeping around for the harm they might do if left to their own devices."
"We agree," Carrera said. "That's why we don't want to let your brigade go."
Seeing Sada bridle at the thought of his men spending some uncountable amount of time locked up behind wire, Carrera hastened to add, "Wait. I don't mean we want to keep them as prisoners past the time we must. I mean we want to hire them. And you."
Well . . . that was different. "So that's what all that pageantry was about."
"Partly," Carrera admitted. "But only partly. You and your men deserved it, too. What we have in mind, what we need, is three things. We want to hire about one hundred and fifty of your men as auxiliaries. They'll go to school to learn Spanish for about four months. Then they'll be assigned right down to century level to act as guides and interpreters for our units."
"That's . . . do-able," Sada agreed. One hundred and fifty men was only a fraction of the men he had who would need employment.
"The second thing we want is for you to reform a regular brigade of three or four infantry battalions. Call it two to three thousand men. You and they will fall under command of the legion and, frankly, be used."
"I don't have that many men," Sada objected, "not unhurt anyway."
"We expect you to recruit. We expect you to recruit very carefully because this brigade must be really first rate."
"Assuming you're paying, I suppose I can recruit. But I'll have to be very careful who I recruit."
"We know," Carrera agreed. "We expect you to take your time about it. It's going to be a few months before the insurgency we expect to come about can really kick off. You have to be ready by then."
"The insurgency is in place," Sada answered. "It's been in place. And with the FSC letting all those soldiers go, it's going to grow fast."
"Yes, but not here, not in our area."
"Maybe not," Sada said, noncommittally. "But it will spill over even so."
"That's the third thing we need. After you subtract for the translator-guides and the cadre for your new brigade, we want . . . watchers."
"In the towns?" Sada asked. "To spy and report?"
"And assassinate," Carrera added. "And to terrorize, if and when that becomes necessary. But the whole thing has to fall under your command. For any number of reasons, but mostly financial, we can't do some of the necessary dirty work. Some of that dirty work involves . . . well . . . let's say it involves information control."
Sada held out his glass to Fahad, who automatically refilled it. "Shokran, ya Fahad," he said, while using the moment to think.
"You realize, then, that no one can rule this place except through fear. I always despised the dictator except for one thing; he was able to hold us together. No one else could have. Carrot and stick is all well and good, but the donkey has to be able to see the stick."
"We understand that," Carrera answered.
"Pay?" Sada asked, more curious about whether it would be enough to keep his men and their families fed than out of any sense of greed.
Carrera handed over a sheet with pay scales. "It's about half what we pay our own, and about thirty or thirty-five percent more than the pay rates under the dictator. Plus there are some bonuses and extra pay for translators and the watchers. And we can work out special event bonuses for some utterly necessary but distasteful actions."
Sada put the sheet down. It was enough not to need to quibble over. More importantly, "How many of my wounded are expected to recover?"
"About six hundred," Carrera answered. "Maybe a few more."
"So . . . two thousand men to be your translators, form a secret police network, and cadre for a brigade. It's . . . possible, but only just possible."
"Best start now then," Parilla said, after Carrera had translated. "Pay starts as soon as you begin."
Sada was leaving, under escort, when Fernandez stopped him in the corridor. He introduced himself and explained, "I'm the military intelligence section. Rather, I'm the dirty part of it. I know what Carrera and Parilla asked you for. I need something, too."
"Yes?"
"You won't have any of what I need in your brigade," Fernandez began to explain. "But, given your former position, you'll have connections to what I need."
"And that would be, Tribune?"
"Interrogators," Fernandez answered simply. "And I have my own budget. I'll pay better than normal rates for what I have in mind."
It was hard, if not quite as hard as the decision to surrender his command had been. What do I do? Sada asked himself. What do I do about the special . . . packages. I don't have a use for the weapons. I don't even want my country to have the filthy things. The funds? I can see better uses for them than they're likely to receive if Saleh's people get control of them. And what about if they get control of the weapons? Allah, that's a horrible thought.
But to turn them over to the enemies who just conquered us? Is it treason? Is it treason when the government that I swore an oath to has ceased to exist?
On the other hand, the Balboans have hired me. Wouldn't it be treason to my new bosses to fail to give them the weapons? God, I don't know.
After two days of thinking about it, Sada asked to see Carrera and Parilla again. Standing orders were that he was to be given every possible leeway and privilege. The MPs guarding the camp accordingly escorted him to headquarters, which had been moved to the fairly undamaged university. The gate guard had apprised Carrera that Sada was coming.
"There is a reason I was here," Sada announced without fanfare.
"Well, of course . . ."
"No. Another reason. Your men wouldn't have found it, not yet. Can you assemble a guard, a very reliable guard, quickly? They'll need flashlights."
That took a bit, perhaps an hour. When the guard was assembled Sada told Carrera, "Follow me, please."
He led the party to a building in an isolated part of the university compound, almost at the surrounding wall. There, he continued on down into the basement by way of a wide staircase. At the base of the stairs Sada opened what looked to be a gray metal circuit breaker box. He flicked a few switches and a hidden door opened up in the wall, moving out of the way with an irritating screech.
Sada took a flashlight from one of the legionaries and led the way through the door.
"None of my men knew about this," he explained, waving the light from side to side of a long, broad corridor. "Just me and a few mukharbarat I had shot before the battle."
Sada and Carrera walked to one of the open doors that fronted the corridor. There, the Sumeri turned the flashlight into a room and played it about. "That's money," he said. "I don't know how much but I'm guessing it's at least several hundred million, maybe a billion. Maybe more. Mostly it's Tauran Union currency, with some FS drachma and Anglian pounds. Come on, there's more."
"More money?" asked Carrera incredulously. "It's already more than we can easily funnel into rebuilding the country."
"No, not money . . . other things."
"Those two lead to chemical agents and the makings for more," Sada said, as they reemerged into the corridor. He flicked the light from one of two further doors to the other. "I wouldn't open those, not until you have men equipped to deal with a possible leak." He flashed another door and said, "That one's bio. Smallpox and anthrax. Scares the shit out of me and if you can figure out a way to destroy it without opening the doors I'll be very grateful."
Sada's light came to rest on a final door. "This is the important thing I wanted to show you," he finished, as he turned himself and the light toward a door marked with radiation symbols. He had to open another box and flick several more switches to make that door open.
Inside, Carrera saw twenty-one plastic cases, each about the size of a footlocker. Some, but not all, of those were likewise marked with radiation symbols.
"Jesus Christ!" he uttered. "Are these . . . ?"
"Yes. And it's more like Shaitan," Sada corrected. "There are seven of them here. I think that was all there were. They're in sets of three cases to a weapon: nuclear material, conventional explosive, and control device. Only three have been reconditioned to work. The others could be, but there was no time. They were supposed to go to another place, I don't know where—for safekeeping and possible future use. You must take control of them."
"I must, indeed," Carrera agreed.
Drums beat and bagpipes skirled as the legion marched onto the field from a hidden position behind the sand dunes. Carrera, Parilla, most of the cohort commanders and a party of about sixty Sumeris stood on a reviewing stand that had been bulldozed up out of the sand.
Sada asked, "Where the hell did you get those pipers, anyway, Patricio? I wouldn't have picked Balboa for a place where bagpipes would be popular."
Carrera chuckled. "It's a funny story actually. The Balboans love the horrid things to the extent they know about them. But you're right. They're not that well known in the country. We got these by a sort of roundabout route. A lot of our people emigrated to Secordia during Piña's time in power. Even before that, too, as a matter of fact. Often they eventually return. One of our women, living down there for a few years, married a Secordian who was a reservist in their army.
"She got homesick, so she and her husband left Secordia and came to Balboa. The husband took over her father's ranch. When the call was sounded to come here the husband couldn't resist joining up. He brought his pipes with him to training.
"I heard him playing out on the parade field at Fort Cameron one night—that's where we did our initial training—and went to ask about it. He said he learned in the Secordian Army. So I asked him if he could teach a few others to play. He thought he could. We ordered a few dozen chanters, some instructional materials, and the dozen pipes you see.
"In point of fact they really can't play them. Except for the Secordian, they just know about twenty or so tunes by rote."
"I'd like to get some pipes and instruction for my brigade, when we form it," Sada said.
"Consider it done."
By the time Carrera finished his explanations the legion had formed on line with cohorts in blocks. An extra, smaller formation of about one hundred men stood off to one side. Kennison, as the Commander of Troops, reported to Parilla. Salutes were exchanged. Parilla then walked to a microphone and began to speak in Spanish. Sada had no idea what was being said. When Parilla was finished he backed away from the microphone. An announcer began to read a long list of names and places.
In English, Carrera explained to Sada what was going on. "After the invasion of Balboa, fourteen years ago, no one ever thought to reward those Balboan soldiers who had done a good job. We're taking this opportunity to correct that as well as to reward some who, like your own men, fought exceptionally well here. The announcer is reading the list of those killed in action, and their home towns. On the assumption that a man who has died for his country and cause has given and done all he can, each of the fallen is being awarded the Cruz de Coraje in Acero, the Cross of Courage in Steel. A few of those who we know for a fact fought exceptionally well are being given the next step up, the CC in Bronze, as well. You can, if you wish, put in all your dead for CCAs."
After the announcer finished reading the list of posthumous awards Parilla stepped down from the reviewing stand, his feet raising little bursts of dust on the sand ramp. He was followed by a signifer carrying a cloth-covered board on which lay rows of medals with ribbons.
The first man to be awarded was Jimenez. After Jimenez had received his award, Parilla quietly told him to move out. He trotted off happily to where another important duty awaited.
Parilla, once the presentation of awards was finished, returned to the microphone.
"Soldiers!" he began, "I join you in the pride you must feel today at seeing so many of your brave comrades rewarded for their courage and service to the country and the legion. Honoring them honors us all. Unfortunately, we have one among us who fell so far short of the standards expected of a soldier of the legion that his continued existence among us would be a shame upon us all."
Parilla then ordered the men of the brigade to stand at ease.
At that command a truck pulled out from behind a row of tents to a place a hundred meters or so to the left of the reviewing stand. A detail of men threw a framework from the back of the truck, then dismounted to set it up. When it was upright, it appeared to be a heavy pole supported by an even heavier X frame underneath it. The detail then pulled a coffin out of the truck and placed it beside the pole. The truck then left, with the detail of men.
As soon as the truck was gone, the band struck up a dirge. From a place off to the left of the legion ten Balboans began to march, Jimenez leading the party. Behind Jimenez three men marched tightly together. All were in battle uniform with helmets. The middle man was bound hand and foot with only enough slack in the rope around his ankles to take half steps. Behind the three marched another six men, these carrying scoped Draco rifles at port arms.
Jimenez reached a position about fifty meters in front of the reviewing stand and stopped while the rest marched to stand behind him. When they were in position he ordered, "Right face," and reported to Parilla that the firing party was ready. Parilla gave the order, "Proceed."
The announcer began to read off the charges and sentence against Rocaberti while the firing squad marched to a position forty meters in front of the framework. Jimenez and the two guards on Rocaberti dragged him to stand a few feet in front of the framework's upright pole.
Jimenez first removed Rocaberti's Helvetian helmet and tossed it to the sand. Then he loosened the condemned man's web belt and cut away his load-carrying equipment. It, too, was thrown to the ground. Next Jimenez tore off Rocaberti's insignia of rank. The shirt was ripped open, buttons falling scattered to the sand. Lastly, Jimenez deftly cut away the" Leg. del Cid" tape over Rocaberti's left pocket.
As the last insignia to be removed from Rocaberti's uniform fluttered away, the two guards half carried him to the pole. They quickly bound him to it at the chest, waist, and thighs. One of the guards put his head to Rocaberti's chest, then taped a bull's-eye to the bare skin. The guards stepped back.
Jimenez looked toward the announcer who switched the public address system to enable it to pick up from a microphone attached to the framework. From that time on the entire legion was able to listen to Rocaberti's last few minutes. He sobbed.
Jimenez then advanced to stand directly in front of the prisoner. He took a black bag from one pocket. Before placing it on, however, he reached up to slap Rocaberti, once, hard, across the face. Then the bag brought Rocaberti into the night from which there would be, for him, no dawn.
"Pass in review."
No dirge this time; the band picked up a martial tune. Down the line of cohorts the command echoed. First Cohort, Eagle held high in front, wheeled to make its pass by the reviewing stand. The commander of the Principe Eugenio gave the order, "Eyes . . . right!" in time for the men to see the shattered body hanging from the ropes that held it to the pole. The men on the reviewing stand saluted the Eagle as it passed.
By the time the last cohort made its wheel, the band doing a fair job with "Hielen Laddie," Jimenez had rejoined the party on the reviewing stand. The band changed tune to "Blue Bonnets over the Border" as that last cohort reached the pole and corpse.
"That was very well done, Xavier," Carrera said, later. "My compliments to yourself and the detail. I've already given orders to break out a bottle of 'medicinal' rum for them."
Jimenez shrugged and answered, "Well, I won't turn it down. But, honestly, we don't need it. Every man on the detail was an eager volunteer. We were glad to shoot the miserable son of a bitch."
Then Jimenez told Carrera, "We rehearsed it, you know."
"I assumed so," Carrera said.
"No, Patricio. You don't understand. We rehearsed it with Rocaberti himself. Eleven times in all. Every step from marching him out, to commanding the squad to fire, to my giving him the 'Coup de Grace' with my pistol to the back of his head, to throwing his carcass into the coffin. Every little step we rehearsed. We even buried him once."
Carrera snorted, saying, "You are a vengeful man, Xavier. I like that. You'll go far."
Carrera was staying. Parilla, Jimenez and about half the staff were going back to Balboa, along with a few hundred of the initial cadre and all the badly wounded. Their job, once returned, was to form a second echelon of cohorts to replace the echelon already in country. It was going to be a long war and, ultimately, there needed to be two or, preferably, three more cohorts, some of them mere cadres in school, for each cohort deployed. Eventually, it was intended that the Legio del Cid would rise to division strength, about thirteen and a half thousand men, with another thirty-five to thirty-seven thousand in Balboa forming and training units to replace the ones already there as those units grew understrength and weary.
That was going to take years, not less than four and probably more like six. The plan was to send back up to half the deployed legion, as quickly as replacements arrived. These would go to leadership schools run by Abogado's FMTG. The replacement funnel would then be aimed at the new units, which would fill and come over as cohorts to replace the old ones.
The old cohorts, once back in country, would increase in size by a factor of just over three. These would again be deployed as they were filled and trained. Then the second echelon would go back and do the same. When the first echelon of cohorts returned to Balboa they would split and fill.
Eventually, Carrera hoped to have one division at roughly full strength deployed and fighting for a year, one at slightly over full strength and training as a group to deploy, one still building to just over full strength and averaging about seventy percent strength during that year, and one reduced to a cadre of about forty percent, those being mostly in school or supporting school and training for a year. This would give one year of school, one year of building up and doing low level training, one of higher level and more difficult training, and one fighting.
In actuality, it was going to be a lot more complex than that as not every type of cohort was suitable for replacement at the cohort level. The Combat Support and Artillery cohorts, for example, had to replace by centuries, later to be maniples of roughly one hundred and twenty to two hundred men, while the Headquarters and Service Support cohorts, and the Aviation ala, were best served by individual replacement.
"This is so going to suck for Tom Christian," Carrera had observed, more than once.
The plane coming in, a Volgan-built Nabakov-21 flown by the air ala, stopped at the end of the runway, turned under its own power, and began to taxi to the terminal for the Ninewa Airport. The engines, shrieking in protest, suddenly reversed themselves as the plane neared, throwing up a mass of dust.
The Nabakov dropped its tail ramp once it had come to a complete halt. First off was Dan Kuralski who was followed by—
"Lourdes, what are you doing here?" Carrera asked, trying to keep the anger he felt out of his voice. This was not really all that difficult as, Jesus, she looks good, even after twenty hours in the air. It was made even easier by the fact that she had launched herself at him with a happy squeal as soon as she'd reached lunging range. Some of the troops waiting nearby to go home made a number of ad hoc and mildly obscene sounds. Carrera glared at them but that only seemed to encourage the bastards.
Hard to be angry with a woman in this position.
"You can blame that on both of us, Patricio," Parilla said, trying to hide a smile and failing miserably. "My wife told me how much Lourdes missed you. I suggested she come along on this flight since you are not planning on going home for at least another year. I asked Tom Christian if there was any bar to it under the regulations. Since there wasn't . . ."
"Besides, Patricio," Lourdes pointed out, reasonably enough, "you've lost weight and you stink to the heavens. Obviously no one has been taking proper care of you."
"Proper care of" can have so many meanings, Carrera thought, not without a bit of eager anticipation.
"So be it," Carrera said, defeated. "As long as you're here, you can come with me to see off the badly hurt troops we're evacuating back to the Federated States and Balboa for recuperation. Maybe they'll give you some idea of what a really bad idea it was for you to come here, my stink and my weight loss notwithstanding."
That was an education Lourdes might just as soon have forgone. The troops missing eyes, arms and legs were chipper enough, remarkably so, under the circumstances. She just wanted to cry.
One case in particular was bothersome. That boy, and he couldn't have been over eighteen, was missing both legs and had been blinded to boot. Handsome boy, though, Lourdes thought. What a shame. She immediately cursed herself, inside, for thinking that it would have been any better if the kid had been ugly.
"Hello, Private Mendoza," Carrera said, after he looked at the medical charts to find the name. Mendoza didn't answer, but just nodded to show he had heard.
On the other hand, when Lourdes introduced herself he sat upright and, politely answered, "Hello. Who are you?"
"I'm Legate Carrera's . . . secretary, Lourdes Nuñez. I wanted to see the brave boys of the legion before you were shipped home."
Mendoza's face grew downcast. "I don't have a home. I'll never really have a home, not like this."
"I don't understand," Lourdes said, "of course you have a home. You came from somewhere."
Mendoza sighed. "We have a farm. My mom is too old to work it and I am the last boy left. Do you think we'll be able to keep it? No. When's the last time you saw a blind farmer? And a home means a wife, eventually. What girl would marry me now?"
Carrera said, "You can keep the land or sell it, Mendoza. You're a member of the legion until you die and your pay stays until that day, too. It's enough to live on. As for a wife . . ."
"You are selling our countrywomen short if you think that little things like legs will stop one of them from wanting to marry you," Lourdes supplied. "And even if you can't see out of your eyes I can still use them to see inside you. Any woman could. You'll have a wife, trust me. As a matter of fact . . ." Lourdes went silent.
"In any case," Carrera continued, "you'll have legs again. About a million drachma worth of legs. It's going to take you some time to learn to use them once you get home, though. And it's going to be hard."
"That's something, I suppose," Mendoza answered.
"Where are you from, Jorge?" Lourdes asked.
"Las Mesas," he answered. "Why?"
"Really! I have family there," Lourdes said, without quite answering.
From: Legio del Cid: to Build an Army (reprinted here with permission of the Army War College, Army of the Federated States of Columbia, Slaughter Ravine, Plains FSC)
Despite the impressive combat record amassed by the legion, both during the initial invasion of Sumer and later during the counterinsurgency operation there, and still later, in Pashtia and other theaters, the legion became a magnet for criticism. Much of this came from elements within the Federated States. Some of these objected to the cost, though these raised no practical alternative except for sending even costlier Federated States forces, which forces did not even exist at the time to send. Still others insisted on greater reliance on allied troops, with those allies presumably paying their own way. This foundered on the clearly stated objections of those very allies who, to quote the Chancellor of Sachsen, would come, "Not now, not ever, no how, no way."
Moreover, the performance and staying power of most of the coalition troops left something to be desired. Castilla, for example, deserted in less than a year, taking with it the not inconsiderable number of Colombian states that had sent small formations to the war. Etruria and other Tauran forces likewise drew down as things appeared to bog in what the media insisted was a quagmire. Some allies from along the rim of the Mar Furioso sent substantial numbers, and paid for them, but always over strenuous domestic objections and usually at substantial domestic political cost. Moreover, these troops were almost invariably limited in their portfolio to peacekeeping in sectors where there was no great insurgency. They were useful in such places, but only that.
The only really reliable troops proved to be those of Anglia, the Federated States themselves and the quasi-mercenary Balboans.
It was precisely that quasi-mercenary nature to which much of the world objected. Indeed, since approximately half of Terra Nova had signed on to Additional Protocols One and Two to Old Earth's Geneva Convention Four, which barred the use of mercenary troops, the presence of these Balboans was used as an excuse not to send troops. The mercenaries, it was said, tainted the entire enterprise and made it illegal. Curiously, no one claimed that Anglia's and Gaul's use of mercenaries was illegal.
Then again, from the World League to the Tauran Union to every humanitarian activist non-governmental organization on the planet, plus the United Earth Peace Fleet circling overhead, one and all insisted that the war itself had been illegal. Thus, it seems unlikely that any troops would have been forthcoming even had the Balboans been sent packing.
This was the view of the Federated States' Department of War, in any case, and that view prevailed. The Balboans continued to be used and paid for.
In that use, the legion, later legions, became noteworthy not only for impressive combat performance, but also for a ruthless application of the Laws of War.
They were notable, as well, for a more general ruthlessness. This was especially to be seen in their treatment of anyone and everyone associated with the cosmopolitan progressive movement. Humanitarian activists attempting to operate in any zone of responsibility (ZOR) over which the Balboans held sway found that security and logistic support would not be provided. Moreover, any who didn't take that hint were often set upon and killed by parties unknown. Curiously, those who were approved and guarded by uniformed Balboan troops were never given any trouble by the guerillas who were said to infest the land.
The key to being accepted by the Balboans was simple. A humanitarian organization wishing to operate in their area had to meet a simple test. If they were "neutral" or anti (and neutral, in this context, generally meant "anti"), they were not welcome. If they had no substantial assets and expertise to lend to the effort, they were likewise not welcome. If, on the other hand, the groups were willing to help and had the ability, they were welcomed with open arms. A certain number of groups who came willing to provide nothing more than labor were accepted, as well.
If harsh treatment was the lot of many of the humanitarians, this was even more true of the press. With these, not only were unfriendly members not authorized, any found within the Balboans' ZOR were likely to be arrested, tried, found guilty of spying or subversion, and sentenced to death. After the Balboans shot a news team of four from the Arabic news channel, al Iskandaria, newspapers and television networks generally had to pay a substantial, even crippling, fine to retrieve any of their people who had been found, unauthorized, in the BZOR. Others, who toed the line and did not slant their reporting, were made welcome and, generally speaking, treated rather well. Indeed, the Balboans went out of their way to welcome those who engaged in truly constructive criticism.
The Balboans proved not to be above conducting "sting" operations to humiliate and discredit the cosmopolitans. Some of these were very elaborate and, it is clear in retrospect, had been planned well in advance. . . .