A Desert Called Peace

by Tom Kratman

  Fort Cameron Parade Field, 5/5/460 AC

  For the first time since it had been formed, the entire brigade stood together in one place. Basic Combat Training was over. The various training centuries had been reorganized into the ten cohorts, one ala and one classis—the naval squadron—that would participate in the war. As part of these cohorts and centuries—basically very large platoons that could be expanded into companies, or maniples, as money and manpower became available—the men would now train on the more advanced tactics, skills, techniques, and weapons they would actually use when they went to war.

  In front of the now-formed legion the president of the Republic, General Parilla, the defense attaché from the Federated States, Colonel Sitnikov, and various other dignitaries—including the Roman Catholic archbishop—stood on a reviewing stand. Off to one side of the stand, a band played a martial air as the cohorts marched onto the field under the command of Carrera. TV news cameras recorded the event.

  Once formed on the field, the officers and the legionary, cohort and century eagle and guidon bearers marched to the center behind Carrera. At his command, they all marched forward to a position directly in front of the reviewing stand. After the archbishop of Balboa had invoked a blessing, the president and Parilla presented the legion, each cohort and each century with the eagle or guidon it would carry as its colors. They were the same eagles Parilla had seen in Carrera's mess. These were gold for the legion and silver for the cohorts, ala and classis. There were miniature bronze eagles for the centuries with guidons attached. Each eagle perched atop an enameled copy of the national shield of Balboa. The shields were attached to seven-foot mahogany poles carved in a spiral design. The eagles' wings stretched upward until they almost touched overhead. A bronze plaque under the shields proclaimed the unit number and motto of each.

  After presentation the men swore their oath of allegiance to, "God and the legion," rather than to the Republic. This was not lost on the president of Balboa who made a long-winded prepared speech, even so. Parilla made a rather shorter one which also had the function of promoting all the corporals in the legion to sergeant. The archbishop prayed for God above to also bless and protect the men who would follow the eagles. Then the officers and eagles marched back to a position in front of their units. With the brass band playing—it was borrowed from the Cuerpo de Bomberos, the firefighters, as the pipes weren't quite ready yet—the legion passed in review by the stand. Then—no time for celebrations—they went back to training.

  Interlude

  29 July, 2067, UNS Kofi Annan, alongside

  Colonization Ship Cheng Ho

  The man on the view screen was plainly dying. His face was pale, sweat running down it in sheets. His voice was breaking with pain. Even so, he managed to eke out, weakly:

  "Captain's log, UNCS Cheng Ho. Final entry."

  "Turn up the volume, Coms," the captain of the Annan ordered. "And see if you can get rid of some of the static."

  The image cleared; the volume raised. In the view screen the master of the Cheng Ho grimaced with obvious agony.

  "I haven't been able to stop the troubles. Maybe . . . maybe if I'd had more Marines aboard. But rampaging youths . . ."

  Did the captain of the Annan detect a sneer in the words, "rampaging youths?" She thought she did. She almost missed the next few words:

  ". . . have sabotaged the reactor. We've managed . . . just . . . to keep it from going critical. We have not been able to . . . control the radiation. It overheated . . . melted the shield. The ship's been flooded . . . with hard rads."

  Annan's captain winced. A bad way to go.

  ". . . the Phalange flooded the reactor deck with some poisonous gas they ginned up in the labs . . . too late . . . we can't get at the reactor even to build a temp shield . . . around it."

  "What the hell is a phalange?" the captain asked of the bridge crew, generally. Her question was rewarded with blank stares.

  ". . . to anyone who comes after me . . . I can't explain what happened, how it all fell apart. I don't know why we can't . . . all . . . just . . . get along . . ."

  The captain of Cheng Ho began to sob on the screen. Unable to speak, he clutched as his midsection for long minutes before crumpling and falling off of his chair and off screen.

  "Oh, my," whispered Annan's skipper. Then, setting her face firmly, she ordered, "Major Ridilla, return here with your men. I want the complete log for the Cheng Ho brought with you. Take them to my port cabin and give them directly to me and to no one but me."

  "Aye, Skipper."

  Chapter Thirteen

  And the plan of God was being accomplished.

  —Homer, The Iliad, Book I

  Ranges Eight and Ten, Imperial Range Complex, east slope of Hell Hill, Republic of Balboa, 10/5/460 AC

  Shift gears. Back up. Shift again. Move forward to the left. Feel the restraining straps cut into your body as it's thrown forward when the brakes bite in. Stop at the next covered position. Shift gears. Back up. Shift again. Move right to the next covered position. Right, again. Left. Left. Right. Stop. Incoming! Back up fast! Pop smoke.

  Perez's voice shouts in the microphone. "Two o'clock! Gunner! Sabot! Tank!" Buttons are pushed. The autoloader selects a round of kinetic energy ammunition from the carousel, lifting it easily to the breech and feeding it in. The gunner and commander shy away from the autoloader; it has been known to feed in arms, shoulders and heads. From behind Jorge Mendoza's head comes the whine of a 15- ton turret moving smoothly on its bearings. Jorge braces himself.

  "Target!"

  "Fire!" The crash of the gun ripples Mendoza's internal organs.

  "Hit! Hit!"

  "Eleven o'clock. Gunner! Sabot! Tank!"

  "Miss!"

  "Repeat!" The loader recycles with a fresh round. Again the crash sends Jorge's stomach bouncing against his backbone.

  "Hit!"

  "Driver, move out!"

  Shift gears. Back up. Shift again. Forward. Forward. "Ten o'clock! Gunner! Sabot! . . ." An alarm goes off in Mendoza's ears. "Shit!" As always after a failure, red smoke floods Jorge's compartment as soon as he opens his hatch. Shit!

  Jungle-covered for the most part, Cerro de Infierno jutted up between the Gallardo Trench of the Transitway and the road that ran generally alongside it. The hill overlooked the relatively open maneuver areas of Imperial Ranges Eight and Ten. From his vantage point above the road, Carrera watched one of the legion's tank sections going through its paces. While the rest of the legion had been going through basic training, the tank and PBM-100 crews, largely composed of long service professionals with Basic far behind them, had been doing their individual and crew training on the Jaguars and Ocelots. They were now working up to section and century level operations.

  Through his field glasses Carrera saw the four tanks move by bounds toward Cerro Marieta to the east-southeast. As one group of two moved forward, the other protected them, overwatched in military parlance, by searching for and engaging any targets that presented themselves. As he watched a pair bound forward, Carrera's attention focused on one tank in particular. He couldn't see what had hit it, but the expanding cloud of red smoke told him something had. Perhaps the crew didn't know either, though Carrera could see a red- faced Russian, he assumed it was a Russian, screeching a small four wheel drive vehicle to a stop and getting out. In his glasses Carrera saw the tank crew, already emerging, flinching from the anticipated lesson.

  Carrera cursed himself for a fool. I've made a mistake in this training plan. This range is simply too hard. Truth be told, this platoon has already been "killed" more than once over.

  The primary problem was that the jungle and the hills and ridges made the range available to let the tanks engage targets far too short. This meant that when targets appeared they were so close to the tanks that the Jaguars had little chance to traverse and engage before, realistically, they would have been hit.

  Everything is a trade off in tank design. Engineers trade size ag
ainst ammunition and fuel capacity, height against ability to depress the gun, armor against speed, and engine and speed against fuel consumption and—sometimes, in peacetime—safety.

  Politicians trade off expense against numbers. Sometimes, in the industrialized parts of Terra Nova, they traded safety and combat performance for environmentalist sentiment, too. Politicians on Old Earth had once made similar choices. If they'd never paid for those choices, their soldiers often had.

  One of the trade offs the Volgans typically made was slow speed of an electrically powered turret traverse against the complexity of a hydraulic traversing system and the danger of its fluid catching fire if hit. The Jaguar, like all Volgan tanks, was notoriously slow in traversing its turret. There were actually ranges, close ones to be sure, where a fast man on foot could run in a circle around a standing Volgan tank faster than the turret could track him. This sounded like more of a design flaw than it really was. Volgans used tanks in mass and with supporting infantry always close by. Try to run circles around one Volgan tank in combat and the odds were good that a dozen others would perforate you before you had a chance to turn the first corner, if the infantry didn't get you first.

  Carrera thought, Once they get to the desert this won't really be a problem. Shots there will usually be so long-range that the typical engagement will require only a small angle of turret movement. On the other hand, if the boys start believing their tanks aren't up to it here, they're likely to carry that attitude over to the desert. This is definitely not good.

  Carrera reached a decision and it didn't take him long to do so. He told his driver to call on the radio for Brown, Sitnikov and Kennison.

  Brown was the first to arrive, having been the nearest. "Sancho Panzer reports, sir."

  When the other two showed up, a few minutes later, Carrera told them, point blank, "This range sucks. Not your fault; still your problem. The troops aren't getting the chance to engage targets at a realistic distance and they're getting their clocks cleaned by the targets because they can't traverse quickly enough to engage. Here's what I want done by tomorrow morning. Carl, you go get your hands on a dozen small boats with outboards and a dozen, no better make it two, without. Get five hundred feet of tow cable for each powerboat. Brown, find some ballsy fuckers from among your tankers to man the powerboats. Offer a bonus if you have to. Don't be overgenerous . . . say, no more than daily combat pay would be. Fit out the others with tank-sized plywood targets. We'll tow the targets behind the powerboats out in the ocean north of the FS Army's old drop zone at Vera Cruz. Sitnikov, move half the Jaguars you've dedicated to gunnery to Vera Cruz. We'll do long-range firing from there."

  With a moment's reflection, Carrera added, "Carl, better get the word to the merchant freighters anchored out there to move. And find me a place to do a tank platoon attack where they can shoot at some distance."

  Kennison thought briefly. "No place near the Transitway, Pat. Rio Sombrero, maybe? I'll look tomorrow after we get the Vera Cruz affair set up."

  "Fair enough."

  Santa Clara Schoolhouse,

  Balboa, 14/5/460 AC

  The training schedule for Cruz's unit—now reorganized as Second Century, 1st Cohort—called for exercises in city fighting. That put them in this paint-chipped and abandoned, multistory and multilevel building. The building had once been a school. Of the two major sections one stood atop a hill, another at its base. A long, covered and enclosed walkway ran up the side of the hill, connecting the two.

  No Volgans, except the five that were attached to the cohort for their equipment training, were present. City fighting was an area in which the BDC had been reasonably well trained prior to the 447 invasion. The cohort's own NCOs, therefore, trained their own troops in the tactics and techniques of defending and attacking buildings. Those NCOs had, themselves, spent the previous three evenings in refresher training run by Abogado's organization while their troops rested.

  Cruz's section leader, del Valle, took his men from station to station within the building. He showed them how to clear a room, to watch for booby traps, to use a rope to climb up the side of a blank wall, and all the other usual techniques employed in combat in built- up areas.

  The upper part of the school was used to practice offensive operations. In the lower part were set up a number of demonstration areas showing how to prepare to defend a building, from making fighting positions to blocking normal passages to making new passages to setting traps. Cruz's section leader explained each, pretty much as it had been explained to him by FMTG. By supper time the company was finished with the schoolhouse. Eating his supper, a heavy stew over rice, Cruz and his friends had to admit that today's training had been the most fun so far. And it hadn't really been very hard work.

  After supper Cruz's squad leader rejoined the rest of the squad. He marched them over to one of the abandoned houses the Federated States military forces had kept for the families of its soldiers once stationed in Balboa. The house was on stilts. It was also in very poor shape, which explained why it was abandoned. Underneath the house were several piles of fortification material, barbed wire, lumber, sandbags, shovels, axes and picks. Just outside the area under the house was a huge pile of dirt.

  Del Valle gave a half evil smile just before saying, "Fun's over. Tomorrow morning we will be attacked. We will work all night to prepare this house for defense. You can use those two shovels and that dirt for filling sandbags. Sanchez, you are the acting section leader. The rest of you stay here. Sanchez come with me."

  Fort Cameron, 17/5/460 AC

  Artillery was a mixed bag. The artillery cohort was organized into five firing centuries of six guns each, though in one case instead of guns the century had multiple rocket launchers. Of the other four, two had Volgan-built 122mm howitzers and two had 160mm Suomi- manufactured mortars. The Volgans, too, had manufactured mortars in the 160mm range but those had been one of the rare cases where Carrera had opted for something besides Volgan equipment. The Suomi guns were lighter, more maneuverable, easier to get into and out of action, had greater range and a more effective shell on target. Nor was the price terribly bad, though it was more than the Volgan guns cost. Still, mortars were so cheap, generally, that the price differential for a mere twelve systems was small change, even for a force trying to squeeze out the last bit of value from every drachma.

  Carrera had ordered several hundred Volgan "Daredevil" laser guidance systems to be modified for the Suomi shells. These had actually cost more than the other mortars would have. The Volgans were happy enough with the deal.

  While only just enough tanks and other armored vehicles to train on had been delivered, the guns and mortars were light enough to fit on just a portion of a single large cargo aircraft. The Balboans had the full complement of what they would take to war with them.

  Under their Volgan and Zion artillery instructors (for Zion made the same mortar as Suomi and had a fair number of Spanish speakers to boot—for that matter, the Arabic instructors for the intelligence and Civil Affairs/Psychological Operations troops were Zioni), the drivers were learning to operate prime movers for the artillery cohort while the cannoneers drilled on deflection and elevation changes, fuse setting and charge setting. Under a large tent, with the sides raised to let in the breeze, two more Volgan instructors were working with those twenty-two Balboans who had been selected to be FDCs, fire direction computers. The subject for today was setting up an artillery plotting board.

  Nearby, another Volgan, along with Carrera's man Mitchell, was showing ten more Balboans how to use a Global Locating System, or GLS. This was a hand-held device that took coordinates on the ground directly from satellites in geosynchronous orbit. The UE Peace Fleet took very careful notice of any Terra Novan ventures into space, but had allowed these satellites without too much fuss.

  Gamboa River, Republica de Balboa, 18/5/460 AC

  A large black- and red-painted freighter moved northwest on its way through the Transitway. About a half a mile west o
f the freighter was the site chosen for the legion's engineers to practice river crossing and some other combat engineer operations.

  Like nearly everyone else in the legion, the engineers had only a partial set of equipment with which to work. This was unfortunate but, in an armed force expanding radically and rapidly, it was perhaps unavoidable.

  Carrera took it philosophically; other armies in the past had expanded to a greater degree, faster, with less-qualified cadre personnel and less equipment. What the legion had would do.

  Touring the place, he thought, with a certain grim satisfaction, Fortunately the area is nearly perfect. The Gamboa River is enough like the one in Sumer at this point, broad and slow, to make a good simulation in case we end up having to force a river crossing.

  Even as he watched, some of the engineers, the bridge and ferry troops, practiced ferrying men and equipment across the river to the other side and back again. On the other side was a marginally maintained golf course. The shouts and curses of the engineers reached his ears but faintly. He smiled.

  A simulated minefield had been laid out across the golf course itself. Naturally, the greens of the golf course had been chewed up by heavy vehicle treads. Some of the locals were less than pleased at losing their recreation facility. When they had complained, however, Carrera had told the civilians to "go piss up a rope."

  From his vantage point Carrera watched as the pioneer century and the pioneer sections of the combat support centuries practiced clearing lanes through the simulated minefields. They showed no more concern for the civilians' feelings than Carrera had.