by Tom Kratman
The government which had been electorally defeated by Raul Parilla, running with the support of the Legion, the same government which had been kept alive by the Tauran Union and the Federated States, didn't control much of the country. It owned some of the police. It had most of the old city, which was but a fraction of the new, and not the largest fraction at that. It had some government buildings, the national cathedral, a museum, a few monuments, an opera house, and some very nice urban residential areas along with some wretched ones. Also it had the Presidential Palace, a sort of Venetian palazzo, complete with courtyard, and even some trixies. Wire mesh over the courtyard kept the trixies in and the antaniae out. Neither species was very happy about that.
"I want him dead! I want the ijo de puta dead!" The patriarch of the Rocaberti family fairly shrieked at his son in law, Belisario Endara-Rocaberti. Belisario had been named for the republic's greatest hero, Belisario Carrera, multi-great grandfather-in-law of Patricio Carrera. No one, least of all Belisario himself, thought he quite deserved the name. Frankly, at five feet, six and with a girth of two thirds of that, he just didn't look the part. Nor was he, as he'd have cheerfully told anyone, the stuff of which heroes were made. Sometimes women found that honesty charming. Other times, for some women, his not inconsiderable wealth and prominent family name were more attractive.
Still, he had his virtues. Realism was one of them. Young Endara-Rocaberti walked to his uncle's second floor office window and drew the curtains.
"Do you remember whose statue is out there, uncle," he asked.
The pseudo-president scowled, his jowls trembling with rage. "Of course I know. Your namesake. The peasant bastard."
"Not just my namesake," Endara-Rocaberti corrected. "My mother and father just gave me the first name. That's not too uncommon, really. But your great enemy, your dangerous enemy, has the last name."
"He's no blood of the original."
"No, he's not," the nephew agreed, shaking his head. "He's worse for us. He gave up his own country and citizenship. He adopted the name of the clan he married into, the real Carrera clan. He became one of the people and as one of the people he's defended the people.
"Uncle, he's popular, he's dangerously popular."
"Fine. Now tell me something I don't know," the rump president said, bitterly.
Belisario Endara-Rocaberti remained silent.
Forcing himself back to a degree of calm, the eldest of the family continued, "Two days ago Donati at the Aduana disappears. This morning several hundred kilos of uncut, prime huánuco was seized. Uncut, I tell you! And it's all the doing of that motherfucker Parilla and his dog with the pilfered name, Carrera. Whatever it takes, however you have to do it, make those two disappear. And soon.
"On the plus side, at least Donati didn't tell them anything of the major stash in the city."
Belisario chewed on his lower lip for some moments before answering. "I have a warning, Uncle. I can find the men to do this. Our friends in Santander will probably be willing to help. Or perhaps the Taurans. But such a thing would not be without risk. How do you suppose they got Donati to talk so quickly? How do you suppose they got to Donati so quickly? Parilla and Carrera, especially Carrera, are men of complete ruthlessness. If we try and fail the penalty will be great. I think you should wait until Pigna is ready and in position."
"No. Just get rid of them and let me worry about the risks."
"I shall try, Uncle. On your head be it." Except it won't. It will be on all our heads.
Unscheduled Legion flight from Herrera Airport to Santa Catalina Island, Balboa, Terra Nova
While the ex-President had gotten some of the police, Parilla had most of them, most of the country, and the prison system. The police had come with all their virtues and vices intact.
The small cargo aircraft that served, among other things, to transfer serious criminals from the mainland to Balboa's shark-encircled prison colony on Santa Catalina Island turned slightly southward. The passengers leaned against the movement.
"Over water now, Tribune," the pilot of the aircraft said.
"We'll wait a few minutes, then, Sergeant," the police tribune answered. In pre-Parilla days he'd have been a senior lieutenant. Now the police had adopted the same rank structure as the Legion.
After that short time had passed, the tribune jerked open the passenger door, stuck his head out, and looked below. A rush of sound and air entered the aircraft, causing the prisoners, including ex-customs supervisor Donati, to shiver with more than cold. Looking back the tribune saw that already the land was several miles behind.
Pulling his head and shoulders back into the airplane he turned his gaze to the regular passengers—all of them convicted of serious crimes; the brutal prison colony on Santa Catalina was not for mere pickpockets—and nodded with satisfaction. The prisoners, fourteen of them, were bound, hand and foot. Their eyes were either shut tight, or opened wide in pleading terror. The tribune took another look outside. He made a gesture with his thumb.
The sergeant and another policeman walked over to the prisoner next to Señor Donati. As they walked the swaying deck their hands traced along the walls of the cabin for balance. Reaching down, the two policemen picked up Donati's neighbor, who began to thrash in their grip. They carried him, despite his struggling, to the door.
The tribune read the prisoner's sentence sheet aloud, almost shouting to be heard over the engines and the air rushing past the door. "For participation in narcotrafico you have been sentenced to 15 years at hard labor on Santa Catalina. Sadly, you seem to have escaped." He reached over to pick up a weighted chain. This he hung from the prisoner's bonds, wrapping one chain around the other and fastening them with a loose knot. The prisoner sagged, helpless and hopeless, weeping like a baby.
With a sneer, the tribune tilted his head toward the plane's door. The sergeant grabbed overhead handholds for stability and placed one foot in the small of the prisoner's back. The last Donati saw of his recent neighbor was his back and the back of his legs, feet flailing, as he made an unplanned and unscheduled exit from the aircraft.
The tribune made as if spitting out the door and turned back, walking towards Donati.
"Wait! Wait!" Donati shrieked. "I know more. I know much more. I can tell you where the stuff is stockpiled."
Bingo, thought the tribune, turning away from and passing over Donati to grab the next in line.
By the time the aircraft reached Santa Catalina only seven men—the three policemen, the flight crew, and a cowering Donati—remained aboard. The others would be entered on the prison colony rolls for a few months, then be reported as missing. Given the currents, and the presence of sharks around the island, no one would ever even bother to look for the "escapees." It was all very clean and above board.
It also tended to keep costs down.
Presidential Palace, Old Balboa, Republic of Balboa, Terra Nova
In an abandoned four story building, once a mansion and now fallen on hard times, standing not so very far away from the Presidential Palace, a group of not quite fifty of the five hundred odd police who had remained loyal to the old regime practiced hostage rescue under the tutelage of some of General Janier's commandos. The money for the exercise, indeed for the entire training program, came from Janier's office. The commander of the group, one Moises Rocaberti, was another of the old President's nephews. In many ways, Moises was the preferred among those nephews. The sounds of firing, albeit blank firing, and of the simulators used, echoed across the pigeon infested squares of the old city.
"It's not as bad as all that, Uncle," Endara-Rocaberti said, trying his best to ignore the sounds of firing. "After all, if the . . . other . . . government seized several tons of the stuff that will just drive up the price generally. I doubt we'll lose that much, overall. Certainly the demand won't go down."
"Oh, the demand will skyrocket," the rump president agreed. "The problem is that that demand will be filled, if at all, by stockpiles already south of us, in
Atzlan, the FSC and the Tauran Union. We'll get none of it and as soon as we and our friends on this end replace our stocks—and that's going to take months, the price will drop. Like a lead brick. No, nephew, this is disastrous."
The nephew sighed. He found himself doing that a lot lately, when in discussion with his uncle. "Maybe it's time to pull up stakes and leave, Uncle, to sell what we can and get out. Maybe we could sell our interest to Parilla, give him this corner of the republic. Surely he'd prefer a nice clean monetary arrangement to a war."
Rocaberti, senior, shook his head, dismally. "We're not the ones he's facing; the Taurans are. We could leave and he's still got a fight on his hands with them. It doesn't change Parilla's position in the slightest. So why should he pay? On the other hand, we can stay and, if he loses to the Taurans, we get our old position back."
"I spoke to some of the Taurans on Janier's staff," Endara-Rocaberti said. "You know, in relation to the little project you set me to? They're worried, badly worried."
"You didn't tell them about our plans for Parilla and Carrera, did you?" the rump president asked.
"Oh, no," Endara assured his uncle. "I just wanted to see what the general air was about their headquarters and ask maybe about being put in touch with one or another of their private military groups."
"I thought," the uncle said, "that you were going to the Santanderns for help."
"I did. I am. But they tell me they don't really have the system in place or the skills for this kind of thing. Set a bomb off in a crowded market? Sure. Kidnap an unguarded journalist or judge? Easy. But both Carrera and Parilla are hard targets. I thought that maybe a private contractor from the Tauran Union, coupled with some muscle from Santander, might be just the ticket."
"And?"
"And," the nephew continued, "I've got two . . . mmm . . . two specialists from a Gallic firm—one of them is actually a gringo—flying to Santander next week to link up with the Belalcázar cartel. Five or six weeks after that they'll be ready. Then we bring them into the country. I've made arrangements for that, for a place for them to stay hidden while we await an opportunity. I have my own sources to identify when such an opportunity may arise."
The ex-president nodded, gratified. "You have done well, nephew."
Endara-Rocaberti rocked his head from side to side, signifying a mix of agreement and disagreement. "I've done well enough in preparing something we probably shouldn't do, uncle. Before I give the final word to proceed, I wish you would think very seriously about the risks of what we've embarked on. And wait for Pigna and his Seventh Legion to be at Fort Cameron."
"No."
Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa Transitway Area
"What do you mean we should 'de-escalate'?" Janier asked of his intelligence operator, Villepin. For a change, Janier was wearing Gallic battledress rather than his blue velvet atrocity.
"I mean, mon general, that the Balboans are raising and equipping forces at a rate that is rapidly making them unassailable by us here. Already I am not convinced we can win. In a year? I think we cannot win. In two years? I shudder. Moreover, there is a chance, a good chance, that the disaffected legion commander I told you about may well solve our problems for us if we'll just be patient, as he is being patient."
Villepin continued, "Fact: they've recently purchased something on the order of six hundred jet fighters. At least that's all we know about. Are those fighters obsolete? Yes. But they're still six hundred. Worse, they're being upgraded, perhaps substantially. Fact: they've reorganized into a four—maybe five—corps force of what may be eleven divisions, or perhaps twelve, and a number of independent regiments. Are those corps and divisions full strength? No. But they will be. Fact, and this is in many ways the most disturbing thing of all: they are building fortifications as if they believe they can defeat any initial attack here and would then have to face a larger attack later. Clearly they think they can defeat that first attack or they wouldn't waste the money and effort they've committed to digging in."
"They're living in a dream world," Janier countered. "Along with your 'facts,' have you not noticed they are mere militia, peasant rabble, at best?"
"An arguable point, 'at best,' mon general. The cadre for that peasant rabble are all long service regulars, with a decent, even enviable, combat record. And that cadre recently took some of that peasant rabble into the deepest darkest jungle in the world and routed out some thousands of the guerillas that infested it. Quickly, too."
"I know all this," Janier said. "This is why our plan is to take out that cadre first, leaving the rabble leaderless. What flaw do you see in that?"
"Assuming we have to, if Pigna fails us, none, in principle," de Villepin conceded. "Which does not mean that there is not a flaw, or that the Balboans will accommodate us. Or that that task does not become more complex with each passing year.
"There is something that troubles me, though," de Villepin said, "something that goes to core principles. I think you are basing your estimate of what will happen if we can take out the leadership on what would happen in the Tauran Union."
"Accurate enough," Janier agreed.
"Well . . . back home, the bureaucrats who rule us have spent decades indoctrinating the young to obedience, accommodation, and faith in the group, in the consensus, and in following customs and mores, rather than in the prowess of the individual."
"Which gives us the obedient cannon fodder on which out military strength rests," Janier said.
"Just as a thought," de Villepin mused, "what would it mean if the young of this place are educated to place primacy on individual initiative?"
"Then they'll have build a castle on a foundation of sand," Janier said.
Puerto Lindo, Balboa, Terra Nova
After all these centuries the great stone castles and their ancient guns still kept watch over the normally sleepy port and its town. It was a little less sleepy, this day, than usual as the bay was about to be witness to the most complex technological effort the legion had yet undertaken. (Indeed, it was so complex that most of the workers and all of the design staff were expatriates, mostly Volgans, on contract to the legion. It would be many years, decades even, before the native educational system was up to so high a level of technology.)
The first Meg Class submarine should have been ready two years prior. The sad fact was that it was only now that a seaworthy version was ready for trial runs and depth tests. That submarine, SdL-1, Submarino de la Legion 1, christened the Megalodon, rocked gently in the sheltered harbor, tied to a bumpered pier and surrounded by some of the ex-Volgan warships and sundry merchant carriers purchased by the Legion in years past but never restored to full operating condition. Not far away from where the sub lay at anchor a construction crew was building a sub pen, while yet another crew laid a special, double tracked rail line from the factory down to the rising shelter.
One at a time those old Volgan ships were being towed to the Isla Real and sunk or dismantled for fixed positions or cut up locally for scrap. Some of the scrap went into fortifications, both on the island and along the south side of the Gatun River, or for ammunition production. A great many artillery and mortar shells could be made from ten or twenty-thousand tons of steel ship. Indeed, a great many—millions, in fact—were being made from old steel ships.
And precisely none of that steel went into the production of the Meg. In fact, the submarine was about ninety-four percent engineering plastic, by volume, exclusive of any water in the ballast tanks. That had been much of the problem with production of this first, test, model. Prior to the Meg, the largest plastic casting machine on the planet of Terra Nova had been able to cast a cylinder no more than four and a half meters in diameter. Meg's pressure hull was made up of cylindrical and hemispheric sections, milled, machined, and heat bonded together, of six meters in diameter. Thus, the shipyard had had to have designed and built a plastic casting apparatus from scratch. Worse, the only company that had seemed capable of doing so was in Anglia. As a practi
cal province of the Tauran Union, deprived of its own foreign policy, Anglia had balked at providing military technology to Balboa, however much the military nature of the project had been disguised.
Ultimately, in order to get approval for the project, they'd had to declare the Meg Class to be for drug interdiction, then redesign it to have external torpedo tubes, with the torpedoes to be carried inside the tubes, in distilled water, between the pressure hull and the smooth, teardrop-shaped exterior fairing. With that, Balboa had been able to claim, "How can this thing be an offensive weapon? It doesn't even have torpedo tubes. No, no; it's for police work . . . and research." (Which was, at least for this first model, and at least for the time being, true.) This, along with some not insubstantial bribes (and the assistance of some very anti-TU Anglians), had finally secured permission for the creation and export of the casting apparatus.
The power source had been another, non-trivial, problem. Nuclear? There had been two practical possibilities, a Pebble Bed Modular Reactor or a very small nuclear reactor developed by the Hakunetsusha Corporation, in Yamato. The former, however, was too large while the latter depended on convection cooling that would have been problematic in a submarine intended to operate and maneuver much like an airplane or glider. (On the other hand, some of the Hakunetsusha reactors had been ordered for emergency power supply to the Isla Real and the Gatun Line. There was, obviously enough, a serious disconnect between what various government bureaucracies and treaty regimes thought were militarily significant technologies, and what really were militarily significant technologies. In fact, everything was militarily significant, down to and including machinery for canning food.)
Failing nuclear, the designers had had to come up with some other Air Independent Propulsion, or AIP, system. None of the Taurans, naturally enough, had wanted to sell their systems. Ultimately the choice had come down to Molten Carbonate Fuel Cells or Solid Oxide Fuel Cells. The latter had won out, primarily because the concept permitted shapes more suitable for application in a smallish—at thirty-six meters in length, within the pressure hull—submarine.
