by Tom Kratman
Kirov, Volga, 23/3/460 AC
The factory was gray and greasy, and stank of ozone and motor oil. It was quiet, however, even more quiet than the lack of business would justify. The workers had ceased what passed for work and assembled on their shop floor to listen to their manager.
While Kuralski spoke on the phone to Carrera, another man, in the Kirov tank factory near Saint Nicholasberg, addressed those workers. Victor Khudenko had taken over the management of the factory almost eleven years before. In that time he had seen production standards slip from bad to worse to unbelievably awful; all in lockstep with the rest of the Volgan economy. Since the factory not only made the White Eagle—the few prototypes that were all anyone had been able to pay for, anyway—and the PBM-100, but also was located near a major port, it had been decided that this factory would fill that portion of the Balboan order.
Khudenko had not received the news with joy unstinted; however. He knew better than anyone what trash his factory had been turning out for the Volgan Army. He thought, sadly, about the superb designs that his workers ruined through their indifference. He also knew— and if he hadn't, Timoshenko had made it abundantly clear—that this would be the last order if these tanks were not the best ever made in Volga.
Desperate times; desperate measures, Khudenko thought. If I just tell them we have an order and we must do better work than we have, it will be like every other exhortation they've heard, and ignored, over decades and centuries of Tsarist rule; in one ear and out the other. No . . . there must be more. There must be something to shake them up. Sad that I have to terrify them to make them see the truth. Sadder still if I don't and we all end up out on our asses.
"Comrades," he lied, "I have very bad news. The State has decided to close our factory down in two weeks' time. We will all be given severance pay, another two weeks' worth, and, of course, we will have our unemployment coverage. I am told that we will all be given some kind of a priority for some other kind of work, as and when it might become available. What that means in today's circumstances . . ." Khudenko gave an eloquent shrug of the shoulders.
The factory workers stood in stunned silence. Their world had collapsed in four sentences and a fragment. Khudenko let them stew for a full minute. Then he let them have the other barrel.
"Of course, the State is taking back the factory housing complex. But I have managed to get an extension on the time we will be given before we have to get out. We will have thirty days from today. And we can use the plant trucks to move ourselves to our new homes as soon as we find them."
This time the workers were not silent. They were outraged. This was really too much. How could they explain it to their families? The factory floor erupted in angry shouts.
One worker stepped forward to shout at the manager. "They can't do this to us," he insisted. "We have rights. We have law."
Khudenko smiled. "Josef Raikin, you, of all people, have little ground to complain. How many times have you been heard to say that as long as the State pretended to pay a good wage, you would pretend to do good work? No, no, I am not singling you out, Josef. We are, all of us, equally guilty . . . of tolerating shoddy work even if we did good work ourselves. And now the time has come to pay the price."
Another worker stepped forward to stand next to Raikin. "It wasn't us that were guilty, it was the system itself. They made it so it doesn't matter whether we do good work or bad so long as the norms are filled. Why should we have to suffer?"
"Who else can suffer?" answered Khudenko, with seeming resignation. "Anyway, you can all take the rest of the day off to break the news to your families. Come back tomorrow at the regular time so we can start the process of shutting everything down." With that, Khudenko left the podium on which he had stood, leaving the workers to ponder dismal futures.
When the factory opened the next day, Khudenko was unsurprised to see a delegation of workers and foremen waiting by his office to see him. Nor was he surprised to find out that they had come to beg him to do something, anything, to save their jobs. Surprised? He'd counted on it.
Khudenko conceded that he had heard of an order for a foreign sale that had recently been received but it was probably going to go to the Mamayev Transport Machine Factory near Novy Kiev. It was only for thirty tanks and about twice that in infantry fighting vehicles, he told them.
The news infuriated the workers. Imagine, they complained, Central Planning throwing good Volgans out into the street and giving the job to a bunch of stinking Kievens. Khudenko told them that, in these troubled times, the State was most likely seeking to avoid starting trouble in what had always been a troublesome region. The workers asked if there wasn't something Khudenko could do to steal the order from Novy Kiev.
Khudenko paused. His hand moved as if groping for an answer that was almost there. "Maybe if I could go to Central with some new plan, some new production technique, that would have us turning out the best tanks in the whole Volgan Republic, maybe then I could get Central to change their minds. Ah, but what's the use? I don't know what hasn't been tried before. Do any of you have any ideas?"
The workers pondered that question for a few minutes. Then one of them, Raikin, tentatively offered one possible answer. "I read once of a system they use in one of those Scandi places to make cars. They form a small team that's responsible for making the car from start to finish."
Another worker retorted, "That's fine for simple automobiles. We're talking tanks here. They're forty to fifty times heavier and a thousand times more complex. Besides, the factory is set up for assembly line operations. We couldn't set up the separate work spaces in time to make any difference."
A foreman piped in, "You're right, we can't do the whole thing the way the Scandis do. We could take part of it though. What if we assign a single worker, or maybe better, a small team to each tank? Automotive, firepower, electronics and . . . oh, yes, armor and welding. Four workers. They can walk it all the way through production, inspecting each step and having any mistakes fixed before the tank goes on to the next. We are only talking thirty tanks anyway so there will be extra people to do the walk through."
Khudenko raised an objection. "Yes, but who will guard the guards? And how will they control the line workers?"
The foreman pondered briefly. "Well, what if we give the control teams the authority to credit the work done? Do it badly and you won't get paid until it is done right. We have the norms to say how long a given job should take and how much it should be worth if done right. Then we'll have a special team check each tank from tooth to tail at the end . . . again, it's only for thirty tanks so we have the people. Any mistakes that the control team didn't catch gets taken from their pay."
"I like that," Khudenko answered. "But it's not enough. Give me something else I can go to Central with."
A young man with but one eye, the other being covered by a patch, and wearing a small gold cross at his neck, answered, "How about those new thermal sights? Not so good as the East's, maybe, but they would make these much more effective tanks. I remember that in Pashtia, fifteen years ago, there were times I prayed even to the God I didn't then believe in for a sight to see through smoke and dust."
Khudenko considered. "We can't make them here. And we've never been equipped for installing them."
"Well . . . maybe we can get the factory that does make them to send us thirty or so along with the workers and machinery to install them. I'm told they were designed to be the same dimensions as the passive sights we normally use so they could be retrofitted."
Hours later, with notebook full of some rather good, and a few silly, ideas, Victor Khudenko went in to his office and pretended to make a phone call. Through the windows the committee could see him gesturing frantically, wiping sweat from his brow, screaming, begging and pleading. They didn't know that acting had been a hobby of Khudenko's back in his college days.
At length, visibly weary, the manager emerged to tell the delegation that Central had agreed to give the factory on
e more chance. They had an order to produce ninety armored vehicles, thirty top quality White Eagles and sixty PBM-100s, by the first of June, 460. If that worked out they would be given another few months' probationary period. Khudenko then added something that none of the workers or foremen had suggested.
"If anyone drinks on the job; if anyone slacks off on the job; if anyone lets someone else drink or slack on the job; that man will be sacked. And no connections will save them. Spread the word men. Our lives depend on this. Our families depend on this."
Fort Cameron, 3/4/460 AC
From various parts of Terra Nova flowed uniforms, weapons, ammunition, and equipment. Though not yet enough for all needs, it was enough to keep the men training. Cruz now sported locally sewn jungle fatigues, in a digital, tiger-striped pattern. The material came from the FSC. In the absence of a single factory able to handle the order, seamstresses from all over Balboa had contracted to do piecework in their own homes to outfit their boys.
Besides the tiger suit, Cruz now wore jungle boots, and bore a rucksack, load carrying equipment, and a Helvetian helmet. He carried a North Sachsen-made Samsonov assault rifle that matched superior Volgan design with superb Sachsen workmanship. He actually wouldn't have minded going back to just the PT shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers he had been given initially. That uniform would certainly have made the current march a lot more bearable than it was.
The march had begun, as most days began here, well before sunrise. It was a forced march, a six or seven kilometer per hour death march, to a range on the other side of the post. Typically, breakfast would not be served until they reached the range. The century would spend the next week and a half sleeping out, learning about their new rifles and how to use them. Despite the pain in his feet, legs, and back, Cruz looked forward to the training. He passed a road sign that said the rifle range was only six kilometers away. Another hour, then, and they could take a break.
But then First Centurion Martinez, marching beside the century, turned over his right shoulder and gave the command, "Double tiiime . . ."
The company gave out a collective groan.
"March!"
The sound caused Carrera to stop his evening walk and just listen.
"Bagpipes? Here?" He turned and followed the sound until he saw a lone man, much taller and lighter skinned than most, standing under a streetlamp with, yes, bagpipes held in his arms.
He walked over. The piper stopped playing until Carrera told him, "No . . . please keep going. At least until you finish the piece."
When he was done Carrera asked, "Where did you learn that?"
"Black Guard of Secordia, sir," the piper answered. He had an odd accent that took Carrera a moment's thought to identify as Gallic.
He asked, "Can you teach others? And what's a Secordian doing here?"
Herrera Airport, Ciudad Balboa, 6/4/460 AC
Generals Parilla and Carrera were on hand to see the first planeload of instructors and equipment rolling down the ramp of the Litvinov-68 heavy transport. The aircraft's Volgan crew supervised as some of the trainers carefully eased the first White Eagle tank ever to set tread in Colombia Central—or anywhere outside of the Volgan Republic and its satellites—out onto the airfield surface.
A Spanish-speaking Volgan colonel, about thirty-eight or thirty- nine years old, balding and graying but with spring in his step and a happy gleam in his eyes, ran over and reported to Parilla. Rendering a snappy hand salute, the Volgan said, "Colonel Aleksandr Sitnikov, Fifth Guards Motorized Rifle Regiment, reporting as ordered, sirs."
Parilla and Carrera returned the salute, introduced themselves, and asked the Volgan what he had brought with him.
Sitnikov produced a manifest list showing that portion of the training package on the aircraft that had brought him to Balboa, as well as what was enroute from Volga over the next twenty-eight hours. The manifest had been thoughtfully provided in both Russian and extremely bad Spanish.
"I didn't prepare the list myself," the Volgan apologized.
Without asking, Sitnikov explained that most of what was coming to Balboa were "chimp models" but that a reasonable number of standard and above-standard systems were with him or enroute.
"For purposes of training these are very similar to, if not exactly the same as, what you will receive when the new systems are built. We will use these to train your leaders and maintenance personnel." Sitnikov made several checks on a form. "Where possible and where they are different we've brought subsystems that are the same as you will receive when you deploy to train with as well."
"For the rest, we have a larger number of the sort of "chimp models" the Volgan Empire usually sent to the underdeveloped world . . ." Sitnikov paused, then continued, ". . . well, they're better than chimp models, but not by all that much. These will do for teaching driving and basic gunnery. The artillery will be along later. Those pieces are all standard models." More checks were made.
Carrera asked about the trainers and maintenance specialists.
Sitnikov replied, "Each vehicle or artillery piece has either its own praporschik"—warrant officer—"or sergeant for maintenance and training. Most of them speak some Spanish, mostly courtesy of a having spent a tour in Hundred Fires when it was a Volgan satellite. The rest are generally good at the point-and-show technique we use to teach our own non-Volgan speaking recruits. In addition we are bringing a four-to-six man team for each of your companies that will be using our heavy equipment, plus another six to eight for your mechanized and artillery battalions . . . oh, you call them "cohorts," don't you? In any case, I am in charge overall and of the headquarters support group in particular. That consists of some combined arms and logistic specialists. In all, I bring two hundred and forty-seven men."
Carrera answered, "Very good, Colonel. The government has finally turned over the FS Army's old Imperial Range complex to conduct our training. We'll be billeting your men there. It has enough barracks space, screened and out of the rain, for your group; five large buildings, some smaller ones for the officers, a mess and a headquarters. If there is any spillover, we've got tents. I'll want you to run your own local security. We'll also have a bus service to bring your men to where they can use our recreation facilities . . . as well as the unofficial facilities—the brothels and bars—of which there are many in Ciudad Balboa. I've got my secretary lining up some Spanish teachers, but the whores will probably do a better job of it."
As the first heavy equipment transporter pulled up near the LI-68, Carrera motioned for Soult to approach.
"Jamey," he said, "I would like you to stay here with Colonel Sitnikov. When he has finished overseeing the unloading, and his men are on the buses to go to Imperial Range, please drive him over to the Officer's Club at Herrera Field."
Turning back to Sitnikov, he said, "Colonel, my friend here will see to your needs. Please accept our invitation to lunch as soon as you have seen to your duties." It was, of course, not a request; nor did Sitnikov take it as one.
Kirov, Volga, 7/4/460 AC
It sounded different, somehow, the factory. Raikin tried to pin down precisely what was different about it, but could not. Machinists ground at metal, as always. The steam hammer pounded, as always. As always, the actinic glare of the welders still strained the eyes. The overhead cranes and tracks squeaked . . . annoyingly, as always.
Raikin was surprised to find himself on one of the quality control teams, the teams that had to walk each tank through the production line. Odd, that; it wasn't as if he had ever made himself the reputation as an Udarnik—or shock worker—in the twenty-five years he'd worked here.
On reflection, though, perhaps it was not so remarkable. On this team there was Raikin, senior and in charge. He had served once, and cursed often, as a young tank commander in a Guards tank regiment in Northern Sachsen. All the teams—now that he thought on it, all the quality control teams—were composed of people who had served in tank or motorized rifle formations and suffered firsthand from poor quality.
Would it make a difference? Raikin didn't know. He admitted to himself that it just might.
Raikin fitted dark goggles over his eyes and bent low over a welder, himself crouching as he joined the tank glacis to the sides of the hull. Raikin was pleased to see the welder taking extra time and care to ensure a solid joinder. He thought about hurrying the welder along, but rejected the notion. He did not want his pay docked over the matter. Let the welder take his time, just so that the tank passed final inspection.
"Josef?"
Raikin stood erect and turned towards the speaker, Stefan Malayev, he of the black patch and single eye. "Yes?"
"The castings people are trying to palm off some second rate road wheels on me. You can see they're crude just by looking. I won't stand for it. I have a wife and two children and no slovenly son of a bitch is going to take food from their mouths."
Raikin nodded solemnly. "Let's go chat with the bastards, then, shall we? And if they won't listen . . . well . . . we'll go see Khudenko. That, or kick the fuckers' asses."
Imperial Range, 8/4/460 AC
Jorge Mendoza stood in ranks, eyes shining at the sight before them. If we had had these . . .
Atop a spotlessly gleaming T-38 tank, Colonel Sitnikov stood proudly, his hands on his hips. In a semicircle around Sitnikov, all around Mendoza, stood the nearly one hundred long-service BDC and Civil Force officers, noncoms, and enlisted men, none over five feet, six inches, plus another slightly larger group of new enlistees. These had been chosen to man the tanks and lighter armor of the Legio del Cid. Five Volgans stood between Sitnikov and the Balboans. Behind him, stretching for half a mile along either side of the access road that led to a number of the rifle and machine gun ranges at the complex, was a staggered double line of twenty-five more T-38s and PBMs. Twenty feet behind the Balboans stood Parilla and Carrera. Just behind them stood Siegel.
