A Desert Called Peace

by Tom Kratman

  At the mules the cables were transferred, with each mule taking one. These were then tightened. Kuralski couldn't see it but knew from experience that the airship did the tightening, not the mules. Slowly, the dirigible inched down until it hung not more than twenty meters above the concrete of the field. At that point the mules, centrally controlled by a computer, began to roll the ship slowly forward in a long curving arc. After some forward travel, a switchback guided the mules off the figure eight and onto a twin track that descended and then ended at a concrete cigar shape hollowed out into the ground, just in front of the terminal.

  At the terminal the ship winched itself down the rest of the way, easing its belly into the artificial depression. As the ship descended, from each side of the depression emerged a dozen or fourteen steel pillars, erecting themselves in a closing curve and dragging behind them what amounted to windbreaks—though their official term was "sail"—that, coupled with the reduction in cross area and change in aspect, enabled the airship to sit quite safely on the ground.

  Shortly after the ship was safely moored, Kuralski saw in the crowd of debarking passengers someone matching the description Terry Johnson had given of himself. He went up to meet the man.

  Johnson was the first to speak. "Dan Kuralski?" he asked, putting out a hand.

  Kuralski nodded. "And you would be Terry?"

  "Yes, Terry Johnson. Pleased to meet you."

  The two men shook their introductions. Kuralski gestured toward the door and the parking lot beyond. "Come on. We can use my car."

  Both men were graduates of the Federated States Military Academy at River Watch, though of different classes. They didn't know each other. They did tend to know a number of the same people, though. During the drive they traded information on mutual friends and acquaintances just as Hennessey and Johnson had done a few days before. The fact that their classes were three years apart and they had never served in the same location limited their conversation. They drove in silence a while before Kuralski asked, "Where do you know Pat from?"

  "He was my Company XO when I was a platoon leader in Balboa. And you?"

  Kuralski smiled at a half-forgotten memory. "We've never actually served in the same unit. The way the school schedule worked out we always seemed to end up going to school together. The Basic Course at Fort Henry was where we first met." Dan laughed aloud.

  At Terry's quizzical look he elaborated, "My first acquaintance with our friend Pat was when he chewed me out for not keeping my foot in the same fixed position and my mouth shut while standing at ease. You would have thought that in four years at the academy someone would have taught me the proper position for standing at ease. I thought they had. We argued about it, which amused everyone but Pat and myself. Finally he just told me to shut up and do what I was told. It was kind of funny, one shavetail chewing out another. I was more shocked than anything, shocked enough to shut up anyway. You know: rank among lieutenants, virtue among whores? After he fell the formation out I went up to complain. He told me to go look it up. I did. Unfortunately for my self-esteem, he was right. That, and a few other occasions where other people doubted him, convinced me that when he insists something is right; it's right . . . or he wouldn't have insisted."

  Johnson chuckled. "That sounds like him; he's an anal bastard, all right. Where else did you go to school together?"

  "Ranger School. The Advanced Course at Fort Henry again. Then the Combined Arms Center for the short course."

  Johnson said, "You know, Pat taught me a lot about being a combat leader. When he was XO he used to just dog all the platoon leaders out trying to teach us everything from the proper employment of barbed wire obstacles to how to conduct a raid to understanding, and, more importantly, ignoring when required, the principles of war."

  Kuralski agreed, "Oh, he's good. At least as near as you can tell from peacetime operations."

  "Wartime, too," Johnson answered. Seeing the look on Kuralski's face he half-explained, "Oh, you didn't know about him taking leave from Balboa to go to San Vicente with a Vicentinian pal of his to fight the Arenistas? Big stink, that one. And then, because he knew the country, his mech infantry company from Fort Leonidas was tapped to deploy to Balboa for the invasion. I understand they did quite well."

  "I didn't know about those," Kuralski answered.

  "He can be pretty closemouthed about such things," Johnson agreed.

  Abruptly turning off the road they were on, Kuralski pulled into his driveway. Johnson followed him into the split-level house that stood next to that driveway. Once inside Terry noticed a number of pictures of a woman. Crap. A married man might not go.

  Kuralski motioned for Johnson to take a seat in the living room. Johnson placed a briefcase on the couch beside him and took out an envelope. He handed the envelope to Kuralski.

  Kuralski opened the envelope, took out the letter inside, and began to read:

  2/8/459

  Dear Dan:

  The bearer of this letter, Terrence Johnson, is representing me. He is well known to me, trustworthy and loyal. You may speak with him as if you were speaking to me.

  I am writing to offer you a job, working for me, as a military planner and consultant. The job will be performed in another country. You do not need to know at this time which country. Suffice to say that it is a pleasant, hot and wet but otherwise comfortable place, with a large city and an active nightlife. Do not expect, if you accept this offer, to have overmuch time to enjoy the nightlife.

  Your particular job will be as chief of a small staff I am assembling. You will be second in rank after myself. The pay is initially 4,800 FSD per month, plus room and board. All of that amount is tax free. Life and medical insurance will be provided. Terry will arrange transportation.

  You may assume that nothing I will ask of you is illegal, likely to be of interest to the Federated States in the near term, or harmful to the Federated States in any way in any term.

  If you decide to join up, let Terry know immediately. I would give you time to decide if I could. I can't. I must ask you not to repeat any of this. Terry will collect this letter, and your decision, now.

  I hope you will join me. It's not like I couldn't find someone else to do the job, but I really want it to be you.

  Sincerely,

  Patrick Hennessey

  Kuralski felt a small flush of warmth at that last sentence. He looked up from the letter, toward Johnson. "He doesn't allow much time to decide, does he?"

  Johnson answered, "If you think about it, if someone needs a long time to decide something like this, then he probably doesn't need to go. Have you decided?"

  Kuralski looked around at the interior of his house. Fading memories, painful ones as often as not. There was nothing there to hold him. "I'll go. Can I have a few days to get my house on the market?"

  "You can take fourteen days from today. I'll send you tickets as soon as I finish making arrangements. You'll have to take care of your own passport, if you don't have one." Johnson offered his hand a second time. "For Pat, let me say 'Welcome Aboard.' Ah, what about your wife?" he asked, pointing at a picture.

  "Dead. Cancer. It's why I'm not in the army anymore. I had to take care of her and so I missed my chance to command a company. No command; no chance."

  "Oh. Sorry. Pat didn't know."

  "Thanks. No reason he or you should have. Anyway, it would be worth the trip just to see Linda."

  "She's dead, too. Pat said it was on seven-one-one in the TNTO."

  Kuralski bowed his head and began to fight back tears.

  "You loved her too, didn't you?" Johnson asked.

  Kuralski just nodded and said, "Yeah . . . yeah, I did. But, then, who didn't? What a woman."

  Johnson smiled grimly. "I know. And pity the poor bastards who murdered the family of Pat Hennessey."

  Interlude

  31 December, 2049, Brussels, Belgium, European Union

  Margot Tebaf's chauffeured limousine passed row upon row of empty, boarded
-up shops and unmaintained apartment buildings. It seems like only yesterday, she thought, when those shops were open and vibrant, when there were flower boxes at the windows of the apartments, when the streets were clear. Has it been thirty years?

  The driver cursed as one of the front tires slipped into a pothole. Nobody was maintaining the cobblestones anymore. He muttered something unintelligible but ugly sounding as he maneuvered around a pile of uncollected trash, then cut the wheel hard to avoid the charred and rusted ruins of a burned and ancient automobile, parked—if that was the word—so as to jut out into the street and make passage for those still able to afford private transportation more difficult.

  Perhaps it was an ambush point; the city's crime rate was so high now that the police hardly bothered taking reports. Outside of the neighborhoods dominated by the European Union's bureaucracy, they didn't bother with enforcing the law even when it was violated before their eyes.

  Margot's gaze avoided the street—too ugly—and looked instead at the little towers above, each ringed with green neon lights.

  To a viewer of even twenty years before, the streets would have appeared remarkably clear of motor traffic. Instead young, unemployed men wandered aimlessly, followed often enough by black-clad women trailing masses of children. The men glared at the passing limo. Margot might have feared attack except that her auto was armored. It was also preceded and trailed by armed police escort vehicles.

  The one-way glass of the limousine's windows allowed Margot to see out without anyone seeing in. Thus, no one saw her shiver when she considered what things might be like if Europe were a democracy in anything but name and merest appearances.

  Thank the god that doesn't exist that my ancestors were wise enough to destroy democracy before we had a barbarian majority in our midst, she thought.

  That was only one of the many depressing thoughts impinging on Margot's consciousness. Looming even greater than the barbarization of Europe was the continuing, annoying, infuriating prosperity of the United States.

  Americans; I hate those bastards. And there are nearly five hundred million of the swine now. While my poor Europe is dying out. And the reason there are so many of the damned Yankees? Not only do their women bear children, just like the Moslems, in unsustainable numbers, but most of the young Euro women willing to have kids went there . . . or to Ontario, or the Republic of Western Canada, or Australia. Others fled east to Poland and Russia.

  All our most talented young people left for other climes, leaving what remained to pay for the pensions for the old, the welfare for the immigrants, or the absolutely necessary government that runs things and keeps the peace, that ensures the people are cared for, cradle to grave.

  Except that we can't care for them anymore, even with over ninety percent of conscripted youngsters devoted to social issues instead of the military. We have hardly anything to export now, except retired "workers" and Moslem children. And no one wants to buy, or even accept, those.

  The limo turned to the right and began to slow. Ahead, the leading police escort pulled off to one side of a guarded steel gate. A guard emerged and questioned the driver of the police escort. Apparently satisfied, the guard turned and signaled to someone inside the small armored shack in front of the gate and to one side. Magically—Margot wondered how long it would be before such things were explained away as the work of magic or of the Jinn—the gate slid out of the way. She wondered, too, how long before the gate, all the security systems, all the technology of Europe broke down, never to be replaced.

  She pushed such thoughts aside as the limousine began to move forward through the gate and toward the imposing glass and steel building surrounded by still meticulously maintained grounds that was the Headquarters for the European Union.

  Chapter Seven

  Give me a place to stand and I will move the Earth.

  —Archimedes

  I'll make my own goddamned lever.

  —Patricio Carrera

  Air Balboa Flight 717, 9/8/459 AC

  Hennessey was a smoky wraith hidden in a wreath of smoke. He did not recognize anything around him. Somehow, though, it felt very high in the air. There was a floor beneath him above which he floated. Though floating, he felt the heat emanating from the floor.

  He was drawn forward by laughter. The smoke parted as his shade moved on and through its swirling screen.

  The laughter came from a swarthy man. "Infidels," cried the man, "see the judgment of Allah."

  A voice he recognized shouted back, "Allah will send you to hell, you miserable wog bastard!"

  He was drawn forward by the voice and away from the hyenalike laughter. "Uncle Bob?" he asked. There was no answer. The shade could not see the wraith, though the wraith could see the shade as it shook its fist. "Uncle Bob?" the wraith repeated.

  The shade turned and knelt by a small group. Hennessey recognized his wife, his children. Others were there too, none of whom he recognized.

  "Daddy will make them pay, Mom, the men who did this!" Hennessey saw his son, Julio, looking at his mother with certainty in his eyes.

  "He will, my son," Linda answered, "and terribly."

  "Terribly," echoed Julio.

  "I will. I swear it. I will!" whispered the unheard wraith. "Their great-great-great-grandchildren will have nightmares."

  Linda looked at the rising flames behind her. "It is time to go, children. Pray now." Linda began to pray, the children joining. Even Hennessey's uncle joined in, as did many others.

  The prayer over, Linda began to sing. Hennessey recognized the song, "Abide with Me." Linda had always loved that one, the wraith remembered. He was not surprised that she had chosen it for the last canto. The singing grew in volume as more people crawled over and joined in.

  The wraith saw Linda and Uncle Bob stand, along with the others. They held the children in their arms as they began to walk forward, still singing. Linda's hair billowed in the wind from the smashed out window.

  "God, even now she is so beautiful," whispered her husband's shadow.

  Then Linda squeezed her children tightly to her, waited to feel their answering hugs . . . and took a single step. As Linda, Bob and the children fell forward, others shuffling up to take their places, Hennessey heard, "Help of the helpless, O Abide with me . . . "

  High above the ground, in a first class seat toward the front of the airplane, his sergeant major seated beside him, Patrick Hennessey awakened, pulled a medium weight blue blanket over his head, and— as silently as possible—wept.

  Herrera Airport, Ciudad Balboa, 9/8/459 AC

  "Ahhh. Smell t'e flowers! T'ere's no place like Balboa!"

  Hennessey smiled indulgently at the tall, razor-thin, gray-haired black man walking at his left side. They moved quickly through Balboan immigration and into the baggage area. At the Aduana a senior customs agent recognized Hennessey from his previous trip and waved him, the other two whites, and the sole black man forward to the front of the line. With a conspiratorial smile, the Aduana agent fell over himself to make the group's transit through the terminal as trouble free as possible. Within mere minutes Hennessey and his companions, John McNamara, Command Sergeant Major (retired), Matthias Esterhazy, late of the Sachsen Reichswehr's Fallschirmstuermpioniere, or Airborne Assault Engineers, and Her Anglic Majesty's former Royal Sapper, Gary Clean, were standing at the counter to pick up their rental car.

  "Where are we goin' first, sir?" asked McNamara in a melodious Maiden Islands accent. Esterhazy and Clean kept silent, looking around with curiosity.

  Hennessey answered, loudly enough for all three of his companions to hear, "First, Sergeant Major, we're going to check in at the Julio Caesare. We've got reservations already. An acquaintance of mine—nice girl, 'Lourdes'—has reserved rooms for us. Then we'll need food, I think. This afternoon, after lunch, we'll go look at buying a headquarters. I want you there for that. It may take us a couple of days to find something appropriate."

  The CSM nodded. "I've given t'e set up
some t'ought. Once we find t'e right place, just leave it to me."

  "As always, Sergeant Major."

  As the rental car pulled up, Hennessey thought to ask: "You were never stationed on the Ciudad side, were you?"

  "No, sir. I've been here, of course, but only to pass t'rough."

  "Okay, I'd better drive. I know the way. I'm also more used to the . . . shall we say . . . élan with which they drive here."

  The drive from the airport to the Julio Caesare was uneventful. Check-in, too, at the hotel went smoothly, as expected. The rooms proved more than adequate. As Hennessey was unpacking, the room telephone rang. "A young lady to see you, sir. 'Lourdes,' she says her name is."

  "Yes, fine. Please have her escorted to my room."

  "I am here to see one of your guests," Lourdes told the man at the registry counter. "Patrick Hennessey."

  The man looked her over briefly and came to a rapid conclusion— Hooker. A high-end model, I suspect.

  Lourdes' already huge brown eyes widened further still. He can't really think . . . oh, no . . . I don't look . . . I don't dress . . . I hardly even wear any make up . . . he can't really. Dammit I'm a good girl!