A Pillar of Fire by Night

by Tom Kratman

  “Anyway, if Raul is going to make it, let’s not borrow trouble. Things will continue on for a bit without his hand at the tiller. On the other hand . . .”

  “On the other hand,” Fernandez continued, “you can now visit our mole. Even though we both know it’s box of rocks stupid.”

  “Yeah; set it up, would you?”

  “Sure. Now what do we do about rumors?”

  “Rumors? Do? Why, we stoke them,” Carrera replied, slyly. “But not until I am back.”

  There really weren’t any great options for getting Carrera out of Balboa. The safest was to use one of the medical flights that took some of the more seriously wounded to Santander, La Plata, or south to Atzlan or the Federated states. But that would have been a violation of the laws of war, in Carrera’s opinion, a subject on which he was something of a legalistically minded stickler. There were still Meg Class coastal defense submarines not interned with Fosa. But that would have been slow and, since they couldn’t really use the Global Locating System all that well when submerged, somewhat uncertain. Fernandez had considered a helicopter, flying nap of the earth, but, what with the sheer numbers of Tauran aircraft hanging about, that was right out.

  “And,” Fernandez said, “we can’t really risk you to an international flight even if we could get you to someplace not directly involved with the war. Your eyes we can cover with dark contacts, and we will, anyway. Your hair we can dye, and we will, anyway. We can and will teach you to walk like an old man with a cane. What we cannot do, or cannot be certain of doing, is beat facial recognition. Hence, the international system is right out. I cannot charter you a plane, either, because they are probably more carefully watched even than public flights. Mind you, it’s by no means certain you would be caught, but since I cannot measure the risk I have to assume it is too high.”

  “And so . . . ?” Carrera had a dread deep in his chest over the answer.

  “And so, I’ve told our handler for the girl, Miss Cass Aragon, to get the girl to go back to Aserri, in Santa Josefina, and to check into a particular hotel near a particular bar. It’s a not a whores’ hotel but the bar is a whores’ bar. Thus, it is frequented by some of our troops there. They can provide security.”

  That sense of dread grew. “And I get there exactly . . .”

  There was a knock on the door. In popped a familiar head.

  “Legate Fernandez, you sent for me?” asked flight warrant Rafael Montoya.

  Oh, thought Carrera, I am so fucked.

  “It wasn’t my fault, sir,” Montoya insisted, “that time we got splashed near the Isla Real.”

  “No, son,” Carrera agreed, “no, it wasn’t. It was just bad luck, only salvaged by your excellent flying. But it was bad luck. And, based on some things you said, you have a lot of it.”

  “That was women, Duque; I have bad luck with women. Well . . . good luck, by some measures, but it never seems to last.”

  “Yeah, we call that ‘bad luck.’”

  Fernandez interjected, “I hate to say anything that will go to this young man’s head, Duque, but he is probably the top Condor pilot—”

  “I can fly anything,” Montoya insisted.

  “—as I was saying, the top Condor pilot and very good in any of our aircraft except the fighters.”

  “I was scheduled for those, sir, before you pulled the plug on me.”

  “Too valuable to risk,” Fernandez insisted. “Too dangerous to risk, too, on anything less than this.”

  “So, what is your plan?” Carrera asked.

  “You and Montoya get into a two-man Condor. They’re stealthy enough. Indeed, sir, we know that neither the TU nor the UEPF can see them with anything but the—speaking of luck—occasional lucky set of eyeballs. Montoya will fly dead reckoning to a certain point, then switch to the Global Locating System which, be it noted, nobody in Santa Josefina is interfering with. He will bring you down in a field where you will be met by a platoon from Second Cohort, Tercio Le Virgen. They will dispose of the Condor. They are also charged with renting young Montoya, here, an airplane. It will come with a pilot, but you can get rid of him at pistol point and Montoya can fly . . . say, can you fly multi-engine turboprops like a Pfeiffer Senator?”

  “Yes, sir; I can.”

  “Good, because that’s what they’ve rented.”

  Fernandez grew a bit contemplative for a moment. “It’s funny, you know,” he said, “that amidst the war we launched in Santa Josefina, the economy there is still mostly carrying on. Of course, their level of war is less than ours, but still.

  “Anyway, the platoon . . .”

  San Miguel, Santa Josefina

  In the midnight gloom of an open field, now somewhat freshly plowed by a legionary Condor, Centurion Mora was all business as he personally helped Carrera out of the gutted aircraft. “Follow me, please, Duque. Second and Third Squads, obliterate that thing and dispose of the residue completely. First squad; get the pilot out and then escort.”

  “Do you have a medic?” Carrera asked.

  “Yes, a regular medic,” the centurion answered.

  “Well, my pilot is not the sniveling sort, but I believe he took some damage when we flew over what was probably an element of Tercio la Virgen.”

  “Wasn’t my fault, Duque,” Montoya insisted through gritted teeth.

  “Yes, Montoya, I know . . . and, got to hand it to you, it was some great flying that got us this far after we took a few hits.”

  “Hits?” Mora asked, after summoning the medic.

  “Just a couple. Okay, maybe fifteen or twenty.”

  Montoya must have hit whatever was injured when Mora and the medic attempted to extract him for the rapidly disassembling glider. “One of them went through my foot, a part of my leg, and is, I think, buried in my ass.”

  “How . . .”

  Carrera explained, “Clouds were covering Hecate and Bellona for most of the trip, but there was a break in them at just about exactly the wrong time. Jut bad luck, like he said. Somebody on the ground with a machine gun—most likely our own—must have seen us silhouetted in the moonlight and opened up. It was so close when it started that we ended up flying right through it. I had an armored plate under me, but Montoya here said it was too much weight to put one under him.”

  From the Condor came, “Oooow, Jesus, be careful.”

  “Oh, stop being such a baby, Montoya,” Carrera said.

  “We’re going to have to carry him facedown, I think, Centurion,” said the medic. “I’ll get a stretcher made up.”

  “I’m on it with my boys,” piped up Esteban Sanchez.

  “Okay,” said Mora. “Now, Duque, if you’re satisfied that your man will be cared for, will you please come with me so we can get you the hell to shelter?”

  “Sure,” agreed Carrera, then, holding up an index finger, he said, “Oh, one last thing.” Turning back to the Condor, he extracted a walking stick.

  The return trip had been much easier for Cass, even with Esma in tow, than the trip out. For one thing, she’d had more time to plan, so had been able to get a better flight to Managua Nueva. That included a first-class seat for Esma, as the girl’s boss would have wanted her to have. Then, too, she’d been able to rent a car and driver—oh, the danger pay had cost something—to ferry them direct to Santa Josefina and the hotel. She could have taken a bus, too, for anonymity’s sake, there being very few people trying to get into a war zone.

  The speed and certainty of a single car was better, Cass had thought, not long after crossing the border. She cast a sideways glance at Esma, sleeping with her head propped against a window. I suppose I should be mad at you, for putting me through all this trouble, and for endangering my side in a life or death war, but I just can’t be. You’re too nice a girl and you’ve been hurt too much in your life. And, frankly, if it had been my friend stood against a wall and shot I’d be pretty upset, too. Okay, I’d be more than just upset; I’d be murderous. I just hope Carrera, who I never really expecte
d to agree to show up, can explain it to you better than I could.

  The weary looking old man, a bit stooped, trudged around the corner, leaning on his cane to keep himself upright. An intermittent breeze plucked at his steel-gray hair, which seemed a bit wispy. The gray of the hair stood in stark contrast to his dark skin and brown eyes.

  Surprisingly enough, within days of the embassy attacks, the city had returned to about ninety-nine percent of normal. Indeed, the sidewalks were crowded enough that the old man had to dodge, more than once, to keep to his feet.

  Thought the old man, Goddamned good thing Fernandez insisted on the lessons in walking, and in disguise, and the haircut. And the fake tan. And the contacts. And the dye. And the shoes and suit. I don’t think even Lourdes would recognize me now. Well, with my clothes on she wouldn’t.

  The hotel was only a couple of blocks away. Even at his reduced speed—I fucking hate walking slowly—he made it in less than a dozen minutes. There was an unarmed doorman at the hotel’s door but, since Carrera was in a good quality linen suit and maintained an air of confidence despite the uncertain walk, the doorman didn’t spare the old man a moment’s thought, but just opened the door and gave the greeting of the day.

  On the other hand, if the doorman had recognized Duque Patricio Carrera he’d probably have snapped to attention and saluted. That was to be expected of a soldier of the Tercio la Virgen. Moreover, it would have been disastrous, at least potentially.

  Carrera had been briefed that the hotel staff was infiltrated by the guerillas, but not as to specific personalities.

  I wonder if we’d have been better off with a whore’s hotel. Lots of men go to random rooms in those. Funny the girl’s handler objected. Well . . . after reading her file, I guess I can understand.

  This is also, as Parilla said, really fucking stupid. We think we have secure means of communication with our limited overseas intelligence apparatus, but we don’t know . . . well, I suppose we will know if I get away with this. Yeah, yeah, Fernandez said they occasionally dropped bits of bait into the system to see if the Taurans react, and they don’t. But they’re good at their jobs, too, in general.

  Carrera started looking around the hotel lobby, suspicious and suspiciously, before he caught himself. He though he recognized a couple of men from Mora’s platoon, but couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.

  Best thing to do is get out of sight, he thought, heading as briskly as a worn out old man might be expected to for the elevators.

  There was no secret knock for the door. Carrera just rapped it a few times until it opened, held by a charming, young . . .

  “Aragon?”

  “Yes, Du . . . sir.”

  “Is our . . . ?”

  “Waiting in the next room. There’s a door between the two. I’ll go to her room and get her to come to this one. In the interim, make yourself comfortable. I left a bottle of Ardourgnac and some ice on the table. It’s odd, but the liquor selection here is better since the Taurans came.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said, entering, then standing fully upright, before taking a seat at the table.

  The wait wasn’t a long one. Carrera heard a doorknob or latch click and then she was standing there before him, tiny, brown, and perfect.

  “They told me to be prepared for a shock,” he said, heart suddenly pounding, and breath feeling a little short, “but the warning didn’t do justice.”

  “Sir?” Esma asked, taking a seat opposite his. She noticed immediately that, old-looking or not, she liked his smell quite a bit.

  Carrera reached for his wallet. It had no legitimate—though much fake—identification, but it did have some genuine pictures. He pulled a particular one out and slid it across the table to her.

  Esma took one look and gasped. “How did you get my picture? And how did you get me in a gown the like of which I’ve never worn? And why do I look several years older than I am?”

  “It’s not your picture, girl; it’s my late wife. I’m not sure how you two ended up looking so much alike. Maybe because you’re from the same area, so about the same gene pool, on Old Earth that her multi-great grandfather and grandmother came from. Maybe something else, but I’ll have to ask a priest about that one.”

  “Cass told me she was killed and that’s what began the war.”

  “I’m not sure you understood her.” Carrera shrugged. “Or maybe she didn’t understand. My wife—Linda was her name—was killed along with our children the day the war against the Salafi Ikhwan began. That war led to this war, yes, but they’re not the same war. Well . . . they’re not exactly the same war. The UEPF was up to its rotten neck in the plot to destroy the building my wife and kids were in. So, my war with them is the same war. But the Tauran Union and I . . . and Balboa . . . were on the same side for the most part in the earlier war.”

  “I am . . . I’ve overheard . . . oh, never mind.”

  “Go on, Esma, you can speak freely.”

  She looked doubtful, but then relented and spoke. “I’ve heard things, little scraps and sleep talking, from the high admiral. She regrets her part in that. Yes, she had a part and she is so sorry.”

  “I imagine,” Carrera said, “that she’s not quite as sorry as I am.”

  “No . . . no, I suppose she couldn’t be. She was . . . your wife was . . . oh, never mind that too.”

  Carrera almost laughed. He did smile. “You were going to say that my wife was very beautiful, but you couldn’t because that would be the same as saying you, yourself, are very beautiful, yes?”

  “How do you do that?” she asked.

  “Been around people and studying them a long time, Esmeralda.”

  “Please, just ‘Esma.’”

  “Esma, then. The other part is that your beauty has caused you little but trouble and pain, yes?”

  “Yes,” she answered, simply, letting her delicate chin fall to her chest. “I’d say you have no idea, but I suppose Cass put it in her reports on me.”

  “Yes, though it wasn’t exactly about you; more about the way Old Earth is. Still, it wasn’t hard to figure that Aragon’s witness was you, and that the things described happened to you . . . well, you and your sister. They kill people, hang them or burn them or cut their hearts out, either to appease old, false, barbarian gods, or to terrify commoners like you, or both, yes?”

  Chin still resting on her chest, Esma answered, again, simply, “Yes.”

  “And some of them eat them?”

  “Yes.”

  Carrera saw a single tear form and then run down the girl’s face. He reached out a hand and patted hers. The touch was electric enough—it’s like having my Linda here again, in the flesh—that he withdrew his hand quickly.

  “Tell me, Esma, what would you be willing to do if you could have your sister back?”

  She wiped the same hand across her cheek—she thought, he does smell interesting—sniffled a couple of times, and answered, “That’s impossible.”

  “Yes, I know,” Carrera said, “but if?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are your parents alive?”

  She shook her head slightly. “I don’t know that either, not for sure. The high admiral said they were and that she’d given orders to move them somewhere where they’d be safe from the rulers of TransIsthmia, the Castro-Nyeres. But we’ve been gone a while now, so . . .”

  “So if something were threatening them what would you do to protect them?”

  “Anything.”

  “You’re a good daughter. So tell me, would it be right for someone else to do ‘anything’ if he were trying to protect a lot of people he cared about from what happened to your sister or what may happen or have happened to your parents?”

  “I don’t know.” She lifted her chin slightly and, brown eyes flashing, looked directly at Carrera. “But if you’re talking about the guerillas here murdering my friend, I don’t think that was right. Who were they protecting from what that required her to die? Nobody! Nothing!
”

  “Ah, but they were, though,” Carrera insisted. “No, no,” he continued, seeing the anger writ plain on her face, “hear me out. Your friend was innocent, yes, I can agree to this, at least insofar as she intended no one harm. But let me ask you a question or, rather, a few of them.

  “If you knew, maybe not to a certainty but pretty damned well, that something bad was going to happen, would you have a duty to prevent it?”

  “Maybe,” she conceded, “if I knew how and I could.”

  “Well,” Carrera continued, “we know . . . I know, to a considerable degree of certainty that if the Tauran Union and the Peace Fleet win this war something very bad is going to happen. That bad thing is that we will become a lot like your old home. We might differ in the details, here, but we can be pretty sure that once power is handed over to a bunch of unelected and unaccountable bureaucrats, competent only in corruption and corrupt as a piece of meat left in the sun for flies, things get very bad indeed. You’ve seen it. At least you’ve seen the result of it.

  “The people that will happen to, Esma, those future people, won’t be much different from your sister and your parents, or from anyone else you met in the slave market. And they’ll be innocent, too.

  “So, if those are the choices—totally innocent people suffer or people who have good intentions—I’ll concede your friend had good intentions—that are going to turn out bad, who is better to have to suffer? Whose suffering is most likely to do some good?”

  “But you don’t know those bad things will happen.”

  “Well, no . . . but tell me this, if they do come to pass and I were able to stop it, do you think people will think it was my fault for not stopping it when I could have?”