Come and Take Them-eARC

by Tom Kratman

  ― Steven Pinker, The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature

  Carcel Modelo, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  The court-martial had been very quick. With the evidence of the shirt, DNA collected from the shirt and the victim, the eyewitness testimony of wife and husband, whom the drunken creeps were stupid enough to leave alive, the jury had deliberated for about half an hour, about twenty minutes of which was pure and idle posturing, then returned a verdict of guilty.

  The judge, quite conscious that Carrera would arrange an early demise (because Carrera had had one of his aides bring the judge just that advice) if he failed to give the maximum penalty, had duly sentenced the pair of them to that maximum penalty for rape: public impalement…right up the ass. Under the circumstances, and given that they’d inflicted on the wife what the whore had not agreed to, that seemed very appropriate to everyone except the culprits, Bairnals and Castillo. But they didn’t get a vote.

  The wife, on the other hand, just couldn’t deal with that. “No, no; no matter what they did to me, they don’t deserve that.”

  Carrera, who took a personal interest in the case, disagreed. But, the law was the law. She had the right to partially forgive. The bastards were still going to die, but their deaths would be less exacting.

  * * *

  To Carrera’s left stood a Sachsen serviceman in mufti. To the left of the soldier was the soldier’s pretty, young, blond wife. To the right were Suarez, flanked by the commander and the sergeant major of the Tenth Infantry Tercio. All six looked on with emotions ranging from distaste to hate as a like number of prison guards led out two men in striped garb. After the beating administered by the staff of the carcel, the broken-nosed, swollen-eyed, limping human excrements didn’t look a lot like they had at trial.

  Bairnals and Castillo were handcuffed and chained at the ankles. They could make only short steps, and even those were awkward. An accompanying Roman Catholic priest muttered prayers on behalf of the condemned.

  The senior of the guards took a position in front of the prison’s gallows, a simple crosspiece mounted on three uprights with clamps for a half dozen ropes. He waited silently while the other four guards prodded the condemned onto stools and affixed ropes around their necks. Above, poised on the crosspiece, the hangman pulled the ropes almost taut through the mechanical clamps, then stepped on the clamps to lock the ropes in place.

  The hangman then descended and, picking up a stool of his own, set it beside Bairnals’. He shot Carrera a look, Mercy?

  At Carrera’s headshake, the hangman twisted Bairnals’ rope so that the noose rested just under his chin on the left side. He stepped down, moved his stool, and did the same for Castillo, but without bothering to consult Carrera.

  The senior guard consulted his clipboard and began to read the charges and sentence aloud. The two men had been found guilty of kidnapping and rape of the Sachsen soldier’s wife. They had used their legion issue bayonets in their break in. They had beaten the husband using the pommels of the same bayonets, then tied and gagged him. They had then used the blades to threaten the wife into a weeping acquiescence. The husband had been able to hear every small detail, every plea, every time his wife had sobbed or—turned on her stomach—screamed.

  The senior guard turned to Carrera, saluted, and asked a question of the wife. Carrera translated, “He is asking you who you choose to be your avenger…or if you wish to execute sentence yourself. It is our law that, once a capital crime has been adjudged, the victim may personally take revenge, with the sanction of the state…or may choose someone to represent him or her. If you wish the Republic of Balboa to execute the sentences just say ‘el Estado.’”

  The wife shook violently. “I…can’t do this. No matter what they did to me. I just can’t kill anyone.” She began to cry.

  Carrera pretended not to notice the tears. He spoke to the husband. “Sir, your wife appears incapacitated. In such a case—as you are her husband—the choice of being her avenger falls to you…if you choose to take it.”

  The Sachsen went even paler than he had been. He said nothing.

  Carrera continued, sternly, “Do not be weak! These men committed the vilest of crimes against your woman and the mother of your children. It is your duty to avenge her!”

  His own will overborne by Carrera’s, the Sachsen nodded slightly. Then, in a weak voice, he said, “I’ll do it.” Carrera put a steadying hand on the soldier’s shoulder and instructed the guard that the husband would be the executioner. The guard saluted again and marched away from the gallows. Carrera led the soldier forward.

  The Sachsen looked up at a Balboan whom he had seen but twice. The first time had been during the crime. The second had been at the trial, just days prior. The Balboan tried to spit but his mouth had gone dry.

  “Kick the stool!” Carrera commanded. Without thinking, the Sachsen complied. Bairnals dropped less than three inches and then began to dance on air. The sound of gagging came past the slowly tightening rope. Since the noose was set so as not to cut off blood to the brain, Bairnals would be conscious and suffering for quite some time. And it would seem even longer to him.

  Carrera then led the Sachsen to the second stool. The soldier didn’t need to be told the second time. He kicked the stool on his own. Carrera guided the man back to his wife.

  Thirteen minutes later, when the last twitching foot had stilled, Carrera tendered the apologies of the Republic and dismissed the couple. The husband had been almost worshipful as he shook hands goodbye. The wife had cried without cease during the lingering deaths and for a while thereafter. After they’d left, Carrera walked away briefly to vomit in a corner of the carcel.

  When the Sachsens had gone, chauffeured back to Cerro Mina by Soult in Carrera’s limousine, Suarez asked Carrera to speak privately.

  “There’s going to be more of this, you know, sir. If we don’t do something.”

  “Meaning precisely what, Legate?”

  “Sir…you know exactly what I mean. Those two idiots”—Suarez pointed a finger at the still dangling corpses—“only raped that woman to hurt the Taurans. Well, mostly that. Because that was the only way they could hit back. If we don’t start fucking with them like they’re fucking with us, more troops will decide to take measures into their own hands.”

  This wasn’t precisely what Carrera believed, but it was close enough.

  Suarez grew thoughtful. “Sir, the same thing happened with Piña. When the gringos were provoking us, he didn’t have the balls…well, to be fair, we didn’t have the power then even if he’d had the balls…to provoke back. So the troops—some of them—took matters into their own hands. And Piña, since he was dependent on the troops, couldn’t really discipline them.”

  “I know the story, Suarez. I was on the other side, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry…you’ve become so much one of us I forgot.”

  Carrera removed his hat and ran fingers through his hair. “Did you ever hear of My Thang Phong, Suarez?”

  The blank look on Suarez’s face said he had not.

  “It was a village…rather a series of tiny villages. During the Cochin war it was the scene of a particularly horrible massacre of ‘civilians’ by Federated States soldiers. Most Sur Colombianos could tell you that. What isn’t well known is the background. The unit that did it…well, I had a platoon sergeant once, back when I was in the FS Army. He told me that he had been in not that battalion but a sister battalion. He also told me that he had been in his platoon all of three months when he became the most experienced soldier there. The rest had all been hit. By booby traps. This platoon sergeant said that he’d never so much as seen a guerilla. Never even heard a bullet fired.

  “Think about it. Always hit and never able to hit back. Of course the ‘civilians’ were making the mines and booby traps that were killing the troops. Everyone knew it. But the FS Army didn’t have the moral courage to investigate these ‘civilians,’ find the ones who made the bo
oby traps—it was possible to find them, just good police work really, although it would have taken a lot of it…and then try and—in front of the troops—hang them. So the troops—seeing that policy wouldn’t save them or avenge them—took matters into their own hands, sadly…indiscriminately. And thereby did a lot to help the Federated States lose the war.”

  “I see…sir,” Suarez slowly answered.

  “Just as you’ve said, if we don’t give our men an outlet for their anger, a chance to get ‘even,’ they’ll do it in ways we would prefer they didn’t. I’m going to go see the president and say it’s this or I resign. I think he’ll go along. And then I’ll issue orders tomorrow. We’re going to start fucking back.”

  Not far from the Shimmering Sea, Campo de los Sapos, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Among other assets available to Janier’s forces was a company of old fashioned landing craft, based at Dock 54, a sub-base of Fort Williams not under Muñoz-Infantes’ control. Even then, the craft tended to spend the bulk of their time either at the lagoon at Fort Tecumseh or at a different set of piers at Fort Melia, both Fort Williams and Fort Melia backing onto the same man-made lake.

  This particular set of landing craft—two of them, enough to hold an infantry company comfortably and two companies with a little pushing—had started the evening’s journey at the lagoon at Fort Tecumseh. There, they’d picked up their one infantry company, C Company of the 14th Anglian Foot, stationed at Tecumseh on the Shimmering Sea side because there the Gauls need have as little contact with them as possible.

  Other landing craft had picked up A and B companies. Those could be seen, as could C Company, across the water by anyone with night vision. Among those with night vision were some Cazadors posted in a commandeered room in the top floor of the Hotel Franklin on Cristobal’s extreme southern side. They immediately reported to Xavier Jimenez.

  The landing craft had been spotted almost as soon as they’d departed the lagoon at Tecumseh. For the companies going outside the sea wall that protected the great bay east of Cristobal, the journey on the slow-moving landing craft was about forty minutes. For C Company, staying inside that sea wall, it was a bit shorter, at thirty minutes.

  That was much time for someone like Jimenez to prepare a reception, especially when he’d been working on the reception for some days.

  * * *

  The landing craft cut their engines to a dull gurgle as they approached the concrete faced seawalls that guarded the shore. Inside, the Anglian infantry—not Marines—tensed expectantly, as did the more exposed boat crews. At the front of each boat special crews prepared to fix the ladders that would allow the soldiers to scale the boat ramps without dropping them, then go over the sea walls, and emerge onto dry land.

  A lone private began the Company C chant, softly so none outside the boat would hear. “CC…CC…CC” The chant stood not for “Charlie Company,” but rather for Cimbrian Club, the vodkalike semi-onomatopoeic drink of preference of Company C. The chant grew as the boat angled in closer to the wall. The Charlie Company motto was met by a faintly heard answering chant, “Mad Dog…Mad Dog…Mad Dog,” from Company A, “Mad Dog Alpha,” a hundred meters across the water. “Mad Dog…CC…Mad Dog…CC…”

  * * *

  Jimenez heard the chant without being able to make out the exact words. He didn’t criticize. It was true—so Carrera had said and so Jimenez believed—that morale was often more important than stealth or surprise. Had it not been for a scout team carefully planted in the Franklin, Jimenez might not have known that any of his tercios were to be probed that night. Even so, he had better than five thousand men on alert. Arguably, this was overreaction.

  He didn’t know for sure where the Anglians were going, even if the fact that they were coming there could be no doubt of. But…

  “Campo de los Sapos,” Jimenez had said to himself. “Once the two landing craft left the breakwater that was the only logical objective.”

  Jimenez listened as the ramps of the LCMs ground against the concrete wall. “Fire,” he ordered.

  * * *

  Inside the landing craft the men of the two companies tried to flatten themselves against the bottoms of the boats. Given the crowding this was impossible. Well above each lightly armored side, directly over the heads of the troops, tracers drew solid lines in the night sky. One man—from Company A—cried out in fear before being cuffed to silence by his sergeant.

  After the first brief warning bursts Jimenez gave the order to cease fire and standby.

  Company A’s men looked expectantly backward at the commander, riding high on the boat’s deck. To either side of him the boat’s machine gunners fumbled with their .50 caliber, heavy barreled guns. The leftmost gun had no trouble. On the right, however, a female crewperson simply lacked the strength of arm to pull the bolt against its heavy spring. The boat’s assistant walked over and contemptuously cocked the gun for her.

  “Don’t shoot without orders,” he said.

  The commander spoke on his radio to his own battalion headquarters. At the answer, he let his arm relax and his radio’s microphone sink with it. Then he gave an order to the boat’s skipper driver. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the two boats backed water and headed out to sea. The other two, bearing A Company, did as well.

  La Comandancia, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  While the plan was for the Tauran Union forces to attack the Comandancia on the ground, that would have been so inarguably an invasion of Balboa that it was not to be attempted until The Day. Still, it just wouldn’t have been right to let Suarez’s corps headquarters sleep regularly and reliably. So…

  Helicopters, small agile gunships, buzzed over the heads of men attempting to bring order from chaos. It was always chaotic when the reservists were called up without notice. It was also demoralizing for them to be pulled from wife and bed, never knowing for certain if this would be the real event.

  Video cameras recorded the event.

  “The bastards are practicing how they’ll attack us when they get the go-ahead,” fumed Signifer Torres to no one in particular. He turned his attention back to where an antiaircraft gun crew was hastily breaking out ammunition in case the provocation turned out to be more than that. They already had two fifty-round boxes emplaced and the conveyor feeding the first rounds to the load position.

  As one little gunship passed overhead, a gun crew swiveled to track it. Torres asked a gun leader if he thought he could hit the helicopter if the order was given to fire. Torres had to shout to make himself heard over the helicopter’s angry roar.

  “You heard the man…Fire!” someone shouted. The gunner depressed the firing trigger. A line of tracers arose just ahead of the gunship. The helicopter veered wildly to avoid the stream of tracers passing to his front. Too late, four rounds passed through it.

  One passed through the body of the aircraft without exploding, doing no harm. One hit the tail boom, ripping it fatally. A third hit the transmission. The pilot and copilot didn’t care, however, as a fourth had exploded inside the crew compartment, killing one and wounding the other.

  The helicopter dropped like a stone to crash on the far side of the compound, bursting into flames. Immediately, the other guns in and around the compound opened fire at what targets they could see, but without success. The other Tauran helicopters pulled back out of range, seeming to await orders. At length, the sound of whopping rotors receded into the night.

  Cerro Mina, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  “Get me that fucking son of a bitch on the phone,” demanded Janier.

  After an interminable wait, an orderly announced, “Duque Carrera on the line, sir.”

  Janier took the phone. “Carrera, you bastard! Your murderers just shot down one of my helicopters!”

  “Pity,” said Carrera, dryly. A pity, indeed, he thought.

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  “Do? I’ll have to think. Decorate the gunner? That seems appropriate.”
<
br />   “Listen, asshole. You only think you know what tough times are. You better hang that son of a bitch or I’ll—”

  Carrera interrupted “You’ll what? Harass my troops. I suspect you’re doing all you can in that department. Start issuing live ammunition? If you aren’t already I’d be surprised; my Intel people tell me you’re not precisely stupid—merely…somewhat…oh, anal retentive. Now I really must go, General. And by the way, my boys are mobilizing as we speak—merely a defensive measure, I assure you. However, if so much as one more Tauran soldier, armored vehicle, or aircraft enters the Republic today I will personally feed your stinking corpse to the antaniae in the Transitway. Have a pleasant day, sir.”

  La Comandancia, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  When Soult and Carrera arrived on the scene, the wreck of the helicopter gunship still smoked slightly. A substantial crowd of civilians looked on from a distance. Carrera gazed—not quite dispassionately—at the charred bodies of its two Tauran crewmen. The Balboans had been unable to recover the corpses until long after they had been burned beyond recognition. Despite the constraints in their helicopter, fire had twisted the bodies into fetal positions. Did I know you once, I wonder? After all, you were allies for many years. Were we comrades? Have we ever talked shop in the O Club over a friendly beer? Did your teachers and mine ever share a friendly beer? Might you even have been one of mine once? If so, I’m sorry, Friends. Even if not, I’m sorry. For your families most of all.

  An ambulance pulled up. The medics on board assembled two litters and roughly placed the corpses on them. The arm of one of the Taurans came loose and fell to the ground, burnt splinters of bone and fragments of flesh sloughing off, at the coarse handling. Carrera flew into a rage. Barely restraining himself from soundly slapping one of the medics, he shouted, “Those were brave men, good soldiers, and you will treat their remains with respect. Understood?”