Days of Burning, Days of Wrath

by Tom Kratman

  Maybe worse, the air was alive with mosquitoes, their numbers swollen beyond reason by the stagnant water collected in innumerable shell craters. While there hadn’t been an outbreak of the worst Terra Novan jungle diseases, a good quarter of the Zhong ashore had malaria.

  After the pasting they’d taken the previous night, the men of the task force, mostly Zhong Imperial Marines, breathed a sigh of relief that the shelling had dropped to nothing more than an occasional bit of harassment and interdiction. Some of those shells were monstrous so the sense of relief was limited. They were entrenched, of course, and had been since shortly after arrival. A shallow, scraped out trench was fine for the snipers their enemy used so plentifully. For a nearly three-hundred-pound shell—as many of the mortars on the island were fired—with a payload of seventy-five pounds of high explosive, the shallow and thin trenches were fairly useless for anything like a near miss, let alone a hit.

  The headquarters itself was not in a trench, nor in one of the ramshackle bunkers the Marines had thrown together using whatever local materials could be scrounged. Instead, former Major—now Colonel and perhaps soon to be General—Wu had taken over one of the very stoutly built bunkers the Balboans had so liberally dotted the landscape with. The redundant tank turret above even worked, after a fashion, though it had had a rough enough time that the mechanism squeaked and screeched outrageously whenever anyone tried to move it.

  Outside, a handful of simple wooden crosses, tied together with communications wire, marked where most of the previous occupants, a few boys with Down Syndrome, had been buried.

  Wu’s senior noncom, though in practice something more like his executive officer, Sergeant Major Li, shook his head every time he passed those simple grave markers. More than once Li had stopped to render a hand salute.

  There wasn’t any time for any such dramatics at the moment, though. Li burst into headquarters carrying a parcel of newspapers from the Federated States. Some Balboan had passed them over under the protection of a white flag.

  “It’s true,” Li announced, tossing the papers on Wu’s makeshift desk. “The Taurans have been knocked out of the war. We’re on our own.”

  Wu picked up the first of the papers and read the headline. Good thing I studied English in school. He wasn’t actually surprised at the news of the crushing of the Tauran Expeditionary Force. Though the lodgment was blocked from a direct view of the mainland, they’d all been treated to the sound of what was probably the greatest artillery bombardment the planet had seen since the Great Global War. There had been some doubt—be honest, thought Wu, a lot of wishful thinking—that maybe it had been the Taurans pounding the Balboans.

  But, no, not a chance. The Balboans are the only ones who use artillery like that anymore. As we should well know from our own reception here.

  “Maj . . . uhh, Colonel?” asked Li.

  “Yes, Sergeant Major?” Wu was pretty sure he already knew the question that was coming. He’d been asking himself the same thing.

  Li hesitated, then asked, “Can our country take these people on, on our own? Can we fight the war to a successful conclusion on our own? If not, what’s the point of sacrificing the boys who’ve done so much already?”

  Ordinarily, Wu and Li would have worried about one or another of the three branches of the secret police, and especially of the Juntong. There had been members of that organization in the landing. Somehow, none of them had seemed to survive.

  “Are you counseling surrender, Sergeant Major?”

  “No, sir. I’m really just asking what we should do?”

  Wu drew in a long breath of air tainted with too much high explosive. “Top, I just don’t know.”

  Estado Mayor, Sub camp C, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa

  It was cool down there, in the thick-walled concrete of the briefing room. Even so, it smelled musty, as if some of the jungle fungus was preparing to colonize, or had already colonized, the nooks and corners of the place. A thin whine told of filtered air being pumped in from above.

  Even filtered and chilled, the air was damp.

  Above the stage was a screen showing what those in the business called a “TPFDL,” or “Time Phased Force Deployment List,” matching troops to be moved with assets anticipated to be available to move them, over time.

  Carrera had left his staff out of the briefing, for the most part. They were all busy as could be just redeploying troops to face and eliminate the main Zhong lodgment in the east. The only man in the audience besides the Duque was Omar Fernandez, the paraplegic chief of intelligence. And he stayed on a landing in the back where his electric wheelchair could safely travel.

  Dan Kuralski turned away from the slide showing on the glowing screen behind him and continued, “. . . so, in summation, Patricio, we can move two infantry legions to the island over the course of about a week, minus a good deal of their heavy equipment, but add to their artillery all the heavy multiple-rocket launchers. Can probably knock the Zhong into the sea in maybe a day, two at the most. They’re not really dug in especially well.”

  “The fortifications they’ve captured all face the wrong way, and they’re on the thin edge of survival anyway. By the time that’s done, we’ll be about two days shy of ready to eliminate their lodgment east of the capital. We can redeploy one of those legions back in time to participate, too.”

  Carrera placed his left hand on his right bicep, then proceeded to stroke his chin with his right hand, thoughtfully. “There’s one problem with that, Dan. Just like I didn’t want to exterminate the Tauran troops here, I want the Zhong available as a weapon to use against their government. I was hoping you would have some means to induce surrender . . .”

  Kuralski shook his head. “They’re not the surrendering kind, really. We get a deserter or two every now and then—well, maybe every few days—but, in the main, they’re hanging pretty tough . . . admirably tough, really.”

  “Any chance they’d accept a cease-fire until certain other matters”—Carrera’s eyes shifted heavenward—“are resolved?”

  Kuralski shrugged. “Wu might . . . or might want to. He’s got nothing to reply to our heavy artillery with, poor bastard, and is losing at least a hundred men a day to it. How long he’d survive the attentions of the Juntong, though, is anyone’s guess.”

  “There probably aren’t any Juntong on the island, except for three we’re holding as POWs,” Fernandez piped in. “Those three and the deserters we’ve interrogated made it pretty clear that the Zhong troops have taken every possible opportunity to get rid of anyone they suspected of being in the secret police. Indeed, that’s how we got those three; they were fleeing for their lives from what was pretty obviously an existential threat.”

  “Any of the other deserters Juntong?” Carrera asked.

  “I doubt it, Duque. Those three made it very clear who they were, right up front, and begged not to be tossed in with the general population.”

  Carrera leaned back in his movie theater − style chair, clasped hands over his belt, and began to twiddle thumbs. He once again cast his eyes generally skyward. “Is Flight Warrant Montoya, perchance, still alive and available, Omar?”

  Headquarters, Task Force Wu, Isla Real, Balboa

  “You want what?”

  A parlimentaire from the Balboan Fifth Corps, Rigoberto Puercel, commanding, stood blindfolded inside the concrete bunker where Wu made his headquarters. The poled white flag under which he’d approached the front line stood propped against a corner.

  The young Balboan tribune—short, brown, and stocky—answered through a Zhong-descended Balboan interpreter. He was as level-voiced as possible given the stresses inherent in his very vulnerable position. “A very important person—no, sir; they didn’t tell me who but my guess would be the corps commander—wants to talk with you under a flag of truce with an eye to negotiating an end to this battle.”

  “We will not surrender.” That was a surprise to Wu, himself, because he had been contemplating just that for some
time. When faced with the reality, though, I just can’t; my men deserve better than to march into foreign captivity.

  “They didn’t tell me to ask you about surrendering, sir,” the Balboan replied, “just to enquire whether you would or would not see our man.”

  “A trap?” wondered Sergeant Major Li, aloud.

  Wu laughed at that. “Top, we’ve been in a trap since we boarded the landing craft to get here. What’s one more?” More seriously he said, “Relax; they’ve played it amazingly straight, so far. I don’t see them tossing that away for a trivial advantage. And besides, Sergeant Major, it’s not like we’re hurting them any here. If they had them they could use nukes to obliterate us and all it would matter to them is that they’d have to decontaminate that part of the island we hold to use the beaches for tourism someday.”

  “So you will see our man?” asked the tribune.

  “Sure; what’s to lose? Let’s work out the details.”

  “Dea’ Buddha,” Wu said, “it you! Your messeng’ did’n give hin’  .  .  .”

  “He didn’t know,” Carrera said. “My intel chief insisted on keeping it to ourselves. Silly man thinks it might be worth risking having your troops massacred to the last man to get rid of me.”

  Wu smiled, chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then answered, “A’ one time . . . migh’ ’ave been, to terr tluth. Now? I no see rot of diffelence now.”

  “See? That’s what I said.”

  “I no sullend’ even so,” Wu insisted.

  Carrera shook his head. “Not going to ask you to. Oh, hell, no; the courage of your enemies honors you, so the gallant stand of Task Force Wu is going to enter the ledger of our national mythology, too. Surrender would ruin that. But we’re also not going to give you back any of the trickle of deserters who’ve been feeding us intelligence, either. That’s all very fair, isn’t it?”

  “So you wan’?”

  “A permanent cease-fire, in place. We’ll even stop shelling the shit out of you nightly. But no improvement of position. No bringing in ammunition. Medical supplies unlimited.

  “We won’t dig in further, not that we need to, and you don’t dig in any more than you have. No sniping. Prisoner exchange but not to include deserters.”

  Carrera decided to toss in the sweeteners, the things he was pretty sure Wu couldn’t turn down. “Since it would be safe enough to do so, I’ll move a couple of four-hundred-and-fifty-bed field hospitals up to the front. You can send your men to be treated and they’ll be allowed to go back to you unhindered. Oh, and we’ll give you enough oil and poison to take care of the mosquitoes. They’re a plague on us, too. Plus we can give you quinine or an equivalent prophylaxis for the malaria, and a flock of trained trixies to start to get rid of the antaniae that are probably plaguing you.”

  “I nee’ as’ mah boss,” Wu said. “This no’ smarr t’ing.”

  Carrera nodded. “If he accepts and you accept, send a parlimentaire under flag of truce to this spot. I won’t be here, but a messenger will. The local corps commander has my authority to end the fighting.”

  “Why you do t’is?” Wu asked.

  “I’m sick of killing people whose only fault is being born to a hostile government,” Carrera answered with an unfeigned sigh. He didn’t say, but thought, Especially if I can save them to use as a weapon against that hostile government.

  “If no aglee?”

  “I’m either going to have to destroy you to free up my troops here for something else or destroy that something else to free up troops to deal with you. Please don’t make me do the former. Maybe then I won’t have to do the latter, either. I certainly don’t want to.”

  “Me,” said Wu, “I jus wan’ go home wife.”

  Carrera had his driver take him to a particular fortified position, a concrete hangar, of sorts, carved deep into the central massif of the island. He was met, just past the entrance, by Tribune Aguilar, the commander of the most deeply held secret of the entire Balboan war effort. Aguilar was shorter than Carrera, and much darker, but also broader in the shoulders and with arms that were about the size of most people’s legs.

  “We’re fucked, Duque,” were Aguilar’s first words. “The fucking shuttle won’t work anymore and we don’t know why. And the goddamned ex − high admiral and that cunt of a marchioness of Amnesty don’t have the first clue, even after I tied them to crosses and left them for a day and a half.”

  “Lead on while we talk,” Carrera ordered, then, when they’d resumed their march into the bowels of the island, he asked, “What are we doing to get it up again?”

  “Even the fucking commander of the island doesn’t know about the project,” Aguilar replied, “so we can’t go to him for help. I’ve actually had the boys kidnap one software guy, and we’ve hijacked both a fuel truck—the thing can get by on helicopter fuel or gasoline, in a pinch—and a mobile machine shop. Oh, and an aircraft mechanic who works on the corps’ remotely piloted vehicles. I figured that, as long as there’s no chance of them getting out—and I have them sleeping in cells—I could read them in partly on the shuttle, if not the mission.”

  “They have any clues?”

  “Not really. I took the fuel on principle, but it has an almost full tank. The software guy says it’s a physical issue; the machinists and mechanic say it’s software. Me, I wonder if it isn’t both with one covering for the other.”

  “Shit, shit, shit! I can’t even begin to tell you how important this is, Aguilar.”

  “Duque, my men and I have given years of our lives to this, years without women, years without rest. You don’t have to tell us how important it is.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Scientists? Do we have any scientists that might know about this kind of thing?”

  Carrera shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Fernandez will know, though; I’ll ask him to find us somebody. For now, though, show me what we’ve got?”

  “Inspect the troops, sir?”

  “That, too. I want to look at everything.”

  The twenty-four space suits hung in a row, each on its own special rack. The base material was a kind of off-white. That could only be seen in spots, though, as each was covered with some black silk for camouflage’s sake.

  Carrera walked down the line, fingering here, poking there, and generally trying to look like he knew something about the suits.

  “We can barely move in them,” Aguilar offered, “and we’re not weak men. We have to load the EVA modules on the shuttle, then load ourselves, and then rig up for extravehicular activity under low gravity. It’s a massive bitch, like inflight rigging for a jump, only worse. But, once we’re inside we can dump most of the weight.”

  “Best we could do,” Carrera said. “I sure didn’t trust the Federated States to sell us any and keep quiet about it. Show me our weapons.”

  “Yes, sir. Over this way, please.”

  Aguilar led the way to a set of weapons racks. Inside them, secured with chains and a rotating irregular bar, were more than a score of shotguns.

  “The trick,” Aguilar said, “is in the ammunition. We don’t really know what the hull can take, up there, so we figured lighter-weight projectiles were inherently better. Not good at range but the range is going to be measured in mere meters, and not many of those. So these are underpowered, can carry a double load of shortened flechettes, thirty-eight of them, of about half a gram, each. We’ve had all the guns tested in zero gravity . . .”

  “How did you manage . . . ?”

  “Firing out the rear door of the plane we used to get used to it, ourselves. We were high enough up that we needed oxygen, so we think they’ll operate in vacuum, too.”

  “Fair enough. You have enough of these and enough ammunition?”

  “More than enough, Duque.”

  “All right; take me to meet the troops.”

  ***

  Flight Warrant Raphael Montoya sat just off the small runway—more of a clearing really—where
his Condor rested. He had his back against the auxiliary propelled stealth glider, enjoying the shade and the cooling sea breeze that was one of the few perks to being stationed on the island fortress. He found himself getting weary with boredom and . . .

  “Enough slacking off, Montoya,” came a roar from the strip. Montoya was young and nimble enough to snap straight to attention.

  “On your feet, son! We’ve got places to go and people to see!”

  Task Force Jesuit, Cordoban-Santa Josefinan Border

  From where he stood, Marciano could see a battle position being built, a long, snaking line of Cordoban laborers—very well-paid laborers, by their own lights—bringing forward the construction materials the men of Task Force Jesuit were turning into their own little Maginot Line in the jungle.

  The corner of Santa Josefina Marciano had picked for his last redoubt was comparatively quiet, but for the whine of saws, the smack of axes and picks, the scraping of shovels, and the ever-present complaints of dirty, sweaty, exhausted, and still cursing men.

  “No goddamned bombing, at least, Rall,” Claudio observed.

  The Sachsen nodded, afraid of jinxing things by openly commenting. Even so, he wondered aloud, “Is it because they’re getting ready to hit us hard, because they’re moving their fleet on—west would be my guess, to take on the Zhong—or because we’re so close to the border they’re on weapons hold lest they add another enemy they don’t currently need.”

  “All of those,” agreed Marciano, “individually or together, in any imaginable part. How long do you think, Rall?”

  “Before the former guerillas of this place catch up to us, invest us, and overrun us?” The Sachsen looked skyward, thinking hard. “The points of their columns will be here in three or four days, I think. They may have eyes on us already. Another week after that . . . no, make it ten days, before they’re completely present here in full numbers. Artillery sufficient to deal with the kinds of field fortifications we’ll have put in by then? Two months after the Zhong landing goes under, and not a day less.”