by Tom Kratman
"No, they're not," Parilla agreed, with a shake of his old, gray head. "At least so far as I know, they're not. But the stinking corrupt oligarchs you people insisted have a safe base in the capital are running the drugs."
Wallis inclined his head, skeptically. "Can you prove that?"
"We're working on it," Carrera answered.
"Right. And you know what the rump government says?"
"I can imagine," Parilla said. "But they're lying sacks of shit."
"I could stop the drug trade," Carrera said, a wicked, nasty tone in his voice. "I could stop it easily."
Don't go there, Patricio, thought Parilla. Though his friend was a lot better, a lot more human, these ten or twelve local months, there was still a monster lurking inside him, Parilla believed, which monster could emerge without warning. He sensed that monster's presence now.
"I'd just take all the drugs we seize in a year," Carrera continued. "Then I'd poison them—I might have to go to Volga for a suitable poison, something with a delayed effect, and then sell them to distributors in the Federated States and Tauran Union. No living drug users; no drug problem."
He sighed and Parilla sensed the monster retreating.
"Fortunately or unfortunately, though, I've given up the power to do that."
Fortunately, Wallis thought. Because whether that would solve the problem or not, it would likely be considered an act of war.
"Will the Federated States support us if we take measures against the rump government?" Parilla asked.
Wallis shook his head. "In the absence of overwhelming proof that they're guilty, probably not. Even with that proof, many in my government would not believe it. And even if they did believe it, the Tauran Union would not let you take serious measures against their charges. There is a minority in the FSC—a large minority—that would like you to simply disappear."
"And still you expect us to do something about this beyond what we're doing," Carrera said. "Well fine, but you won't like that either."
Wallis answered, "The way you might be inclined to do it? Probably not. But Pat, it's not like the Federated States isn't willing to foot the bill in exchange for a little control. And we'll help you with any intelligence we have."
* * *
Later, after Wallis had left, Parilla asked with exasperation, "Why Patricio? Why the Hell do you feel compelled to say things like that?"
"Because it's the truth," Carrera shrugged. "When the Federated States invaded this country all those years ago—and remember, I was part of that invasion—we killed your people, now my people, because of a problem that originated in the Federated States. I didn't care too much about that at the time, but I do now. It was wrong and it was useless. The sheer fact that Wallis has a reason to come and bitch at us now shows us how useless it was.
"I mean, really, Raul; the sheer arrogance of the bastards, blaming Balboa for their own weakness." Carrera practically spat out the last word.
When Patricio goes native, Parilla thought, he really goes native.
"I need to talk to the full Senate," Carrera said.
And when he says he's going to subordinate himself to something; he keeps his word . . . even if he has to wrap himself in chains to do it.
"I'll set it up." Parilla chewed on the inside of his cheek for a few moments, eyes darting upwards as he pulled up a mental calendar. "They're not meeting in full session for about four days. Will that do?"
"That would be fine. Thanks, Raul."
Parilla nodded, briskly, then asked, "Just out of curiosity, what do you want from the Senate and, since I preside over it, me?"
"We need to do something ostentatious to keep the FSC at least neutral."
Parilla coughed. "Ostentatious?"
"Yes," Carrera agreed. "Ostentatious. An official declaration of war would be 'ostentatious.' "
Curia (Senate House), Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
Whereas the Legislative Assembly building which predated the partition of the country was large, modern, and ostentatious to the point of tackiness, the building in which the one hundred and forty odd senators, plus Parilla, met was, if anything, understated. Its exterior walls were of dressed but unpolished granite from the quarries on the other side of the Transitway. A portico projected about thirty feet out from the main roof, held up by four columns of the same material as the walls. A single broad stone staircase the width of the building led down from the base of the columns to street level.
Flanked by guards, Carrera walked up those stairs, to the platform upon which rested the columns, to the bronze doors that guarded the main entrance.
"Guards stay outside, Jamie," Carrera said to Soult . . . who plainly didn't like the order. Soult nodded acceptance, even so, and posted the guards around the door.
At the door was a liveried servant of the Senate. Carrera announced himself to the servant, formally, "Dux Bellorum Patricio Carrera requests audience with the Senate of the Republic." He then took out and handed over his service pistol.
This the senatorial servant tucked into his belt before he turned away to make the announcement. Carrera thought, If these fuckers stand at attention when I come into the chamber I will kill them. He then asked himself, Hmmm, why is that? Answer: Because I need them to be a check on me, not a rubber stamp, not a collection of subordinates.
* * *
Parilla, sitting in a curule chair, wondered, Will these people understand what I've explained to them, that they must not treat Patricio as their boss for his sake? I hope so. We can't put on him, or let him take upon himself, all the moral burden. Not anymore. If we do, we'll crush him. And if we crush him, lose the use of him, we'll lose our country permanently.
* * *
The senators didn't rise, though plainly enough some of them weren't comfortable with remaining seated. In any case, instead Carrera gave a polite half bow and began to speak. "Thank you, President Parilla, gentlemen of the Senate, for agreeing to listen to me today."
Again, almost, Carrera began his speech with the words, Conscript Fathers. Since however, he actually had more or less conscripted the Senate, he thought better of it. Besides, his speech, while intended to affect the senate, had for form's sake to appear to be aimed primarily at Parilla.
"It has been pointed out to me," Carrera said, "that the Federated States of Columbia is in a war. It has also been pointed out to me that we, here in the Republic, are de jure neutrals in that war. Indeed, we patrol, partially at our own expense and partially at the expense of the FSC, in order to maintain our neutrality in that war, by keeping those prosecuting that war out of our territory.
"That war is their war on the illegal trafficking in drugs. Besides the Federated States on the one hand, and their co-belligerents, the Tauran Union, on the other, the other parties are a mix of criminals, social revolutionary guerillas turned criminal, and even some persons"—Carrera didn't mention the rump government by name, but deliberately looked in the general direction of the old Presidential Palace to make the point—"within the Republic."
Carrera swept fierce eyes across the senator-filled pews. "Our neutrality is being violated. Not only are drugs passing through our porous borders and coasts, the paramilitary arm of some of the drug-trafficking organizations has set up housekeeping to the west, on the border where our province of La Palma touches Santander. They cross that border, into our territory, regularly and with impunity."
"He looked directly at Parilla. "It must stop, Señor Presidente. If it does not, the Federated States, the Tauran Union, for that matter, would be within their rights to violate our compromised sovereignty . . . in self defense."
Parilla thought, Which, if you think about it, would accord with what we suspect of Tauran Union plans perfectly.
"What do you ask of us, Duque?" asked Parilla, leaning forward in his chair.
"We must make war," Carrera answered, "with the specific goals of re-establishing our neutrality. I think it would be better, for a number of reasons, if we did th
at openly, through a legitimate declaration."
Parilla nodded gravely, then looked to his left and then his right. "Senators, have you questions for the duque?" he asked. When no hands came up Parilla glared, letting his baleful eye land on certain senator in turn. You people are paid to ask questions. You had better have some.
One hand immediately shot up.
"Senator Robles," Parilla said, "you are recognized."
"Thank you, Mr. President," the dark-skinned ex-legionary said. Turning to Carrera, Robles asked, "Whom, specifically, Duque, do you intend to target."
"Initially, Senator, the guerillas cum narco-traffickers in La Palma Province, the gangs within the Republic that I have reason to believe are their adjuncts, and the seaborne smugglers."
"Not the producers and wholesale suppliers then?"
Carrera hesitated for a moment before answering, "I'd like to. Oh, senators, you have no idea how much I'd like to." If for no other reason than to ensure that the FSC remains at least neutral. "But they are all in other countries, especially Santander and Atzlan. Attacking them would be invading people who ought to be our friends and who have more, much more, trouble from narco-traffic than we do."
"If we authorized you to attack them," Robles continued, "could you?"
"Unquestionably," Carrera answered, without a trace of hesitation. "Though not immediately. It would take some preparation." Like a few hours' worth, which would not be enough time for anyone here to warn anyone there if we've made a mistake in selecting any of you.
Robles sat down. Another hand went up.
"Senator Higuera has the floor," Parilla announced.
"What is the cost and how do we pay it?" Higuera asked.
"The cost is speculative at this point in time, Senator" Carrera answered. "We have it on good authority that the Federated States will pay all operational costs, as they do for our air and maritime patrols."
"Fair enough, for now," Higuera agreed, taking his seat.
"Senator Atencio," Parilla said, seeing a third hand.
Atencio, Carrera knew, was an attorney who had signed on with the Legion early, for the initial campaign in Sumer, before taking his discharge and resuming his law practice. He'd worked in the Judge Advocate section, Carrera recalled, before casualties in the Sumerian city of Ninewah had required he be reassigned to leading an infantry section, then to command of a century.
And not badly, thought Carrera, looking at the Cruz de Coraje en Oro hanging from Atencio's neck, above his tie.
"Rules of engagement, Duque?" Atencio asked.
"Wartime rules, Senator," Carrera answered, then added, "I had hoped to treat them as prisoners of war before turning them over to the National Police."
"Won't work, Duque, and you know it won't. The police are rife with corruption."
"Shall I try them and shoot them under military law then, Senator?"
"I will support such legislation," Atencio answered, "if we decide on war." He looked around the chamber and asked, loudly, "Will my colleagues?"
Seeing they would, Atencio sat down.
"Senator Cornejo?"
"They will retaliate, Duque," that Senator said. "Are you prepared for that? Are you willing to accept those casualties? Remember, in Santander those filth have brought governments down, murdered thousands, intimidated, bribed . . . undermined society from top to bottom."
"To terrorize us?" Carrera asked. "I can do terror. If you authorize it."
Cornejo laughed, being joined by dozens then scores more. "Oh, we know you can, Duque. We know you can."
* * *
Carrera emerged from the Curia with his face set in a grim smile.
"How did it go, boss?" Soult asked.
"Pretty well, Jamie. Do me a favor; get Jimenez and Suarez on the line and . . . Fernandez, Fosa, and Lanza. And Kuralski, since he's back on duty. Tell them it's a go. They lift at three in the morning. I have to go back in and hammer out some details. Notably, how to get the Legislative Assembly to approve using law of war rules within our territory."
"Then we are going to war again, boss?"
"Yes, Jamie," Carrera answered.
"About time."
* * *
The telephone rang next to Senior Centurion Ricardo Cruz. Cruz knew he could sleep through incoming artillery fire; he'd done it, after all, and more than once. A ringing phone, on the other hand, might mean an alert. That, he could never sleep through.
He picked up the phone. "Cruz," he announced, sleepily.
"Cruz, you lazy bastard," said the voice on the other end. Ricardo recognized it as coming from his cohort's sergeant major, "Scarface" Arrendondo. "Come on over. Free rum!"
That opened Cruz's eyes. "No shit? Free rum?"
"It's what I said, isn't it?" Scarface answered.
"Be right over," Ricardo said, replacing the phone on its hook. Next to him, his wife, Cara, stirred.
"Free rum?" she asked, then, seeing his nod, said, "Mierde," before laying her head back on the pillow and pulling the covers over her face. She didn't want her husband to see her cry.
Building 59, Fort Muddville, Transitway Area, Balboa
"Merde," said de Villepin. Shit.
The air in Janier's headquarters could only be described as panic-stricken. It was after duty hours; the staff had had to be recalled. Oddly enough, Janier had been found at home in bed with his wife.
Better, for once, thought de Villepin, that he should have been with his mistress.
One of the watch officers announced, "Fort Williams reports that helicopters are lifting—no they don't know to where—and reservists are reporting in to their units . . . I've got eyewitness accounts of Suarez's corps, that's LdC Second Corps, moving their Cazador regiment to link up with the Balboans' classis . . . More reservists reporting in all over the city . . . No report of First Mechanized Legion . . ."
Janier, dressed in standard Gallic battledress rather than his blue velvet monument to a bygone age, listened carefully. Worry grew inside the Gaul. This is completely unprovoked. What the Hell are they doing? What the Hell are they planning? Should I roll the troops I have? Call for help from the TU? No, no sense in that; they can't get here in anything like quick fashion. And why wasn't I . . .
He glared at his G-2, de Villepin. "Why the fuck wasn't I warned?"
"Because we had no warning, General. This was completely out of the blue." The G-2 shook his head in wonder. "Whoever thought they could mobilize so quickly? I didn't?" Villepin looked down at the carpeted floor, softly adding, "Who thought they could mobilize so secretly? Even for the previous exercise, that meeting they held of the leadership, I had a little warning a bit over a day out."
A Sachsen officer seconded to Janier's headquarters stuck his head in the door to the command post. "There's an officer here from the Legion who wishes to speak with the general," the Sachsen announced.
Villepin looked at Janier, who gulped first, then forced calm into his face and voice and said, "By all means. Show him to my office."
* * *
The Balboan officer was in battle dress. He had a pistol hanging from a shoulder holster, the shoulder holster being in brown leather. On his collar were pinned subdued rank insignia for a senior tribune, that much Janier could see for himself. How senior he didn't know, as he really had never thought it particularly important to study the small details of his adversary.
"My commander and my president wish me to inform you that this mobilization is not aimed at you or your forces," said the senior tribune. Janier was startled to see the name "Carrera" above the tribune's right pocket.
"He's my brother-in-law," David Carrera explained. "He says to inform you that this mobilization is not aimed at you. He also says to inform you that it would be very easy to adjust his aim. Lastly, he says, do not mobilize your forces or he will adjust his aim."
Mierde, thought Janier.
* * *
Later, after David Carrera had left, Janier called his logistics, intelligenc
e and operations officers into his office. The toad, Malcoeur, was excluded since there were no flies to be caught.
"Gentlemen," Janier said, civil among his social peers, "the fact of the Balboan mobilization, the speed and secrecy of the thing, makes me think we need something more here."
"We don't have room for any more ground troops," said the Log officer. "All the barracks are stuffed to overflowing and putting troops, long term, in tents is both expensive and unhealthy."
"Would it be sufficient to bring in another squadron or two of air?" de Villepin asked.
"No," answered the logistician. "Half the barracks at the air base are full of ground troops, too, and even were they not, the base is in range of more artillery than I care to contemplate. We'd just be giving the Balboans more targets with no commensurate increase to our power."
Operations poked a tongue into teeth turned yellow from smoking. His face indicated he was searching for an answer that was almost at the tip of his tongue. Janier looked at that face expectantly. His operations officer was handpicked, and came with rather a good reputation.
"The Charlemagne," ops said, suddenly. "Same airpower as a squadron . . . or rather more, really. No need for barracks. Nuclear powered so no fuel expense. And it's something the Balboans really don't have a good way to strike at."
"They do have an aircraft carrier," de Villepin objected. It was not stated very forcefully.
The ops officer shrugged. "They've got an old carrier, converted to a coastal raider, with a fair defensive suite, true, but with no high performance aircraft. It is not a match for Charlemagne, not nearly."
Janier nodded. The Gallic carrier would be a help. "Inquire," he said. "Paint a dire picture. Get me in a position where I do not have to worry about the shit the Balboans pull."
De Villepin looked museful for a moment. "Speaking of pulling shit," he said, "this might be a good way to bring in the commandos we need to assist our Balboans in their little project, without tipping anyone's hand. And, then too, the Charlemagne would be extremely useful in ensuring that no troops come from Isla Real to the mainland during those events."
