by Tom Kratman
"Can you run a boat on half a crew?" Lourdes asked.
"Well . . . yeah . . . if we're not going to fight anybody," Castro admitted.
"All right then." Lourdes turned to Artemisia. "Arti," she said, "I need you to take your children and mine to," she leaned forward and whispered something in the black woman's ear, "and from there to wait. If what I am planning works, come back. If not, run to Hamilcar's . . . people . . . in Pashtia." She leaned forward again and whispered something else, a set of five numbers and the name of a bank, which she made Arti repeat back to her. "That will allow you and them to live well if it comes to that."
Turning back to the chief, she said, "I need you to take me to the coast, nearest where the road to Fort Cameron touches it. And I need a car to meet me there and take me to the fort."
The chief considered. "I've got a brother in law who bought a taxi with a legion loan. I can get him to meet us."
"The phones are out," Lourdes objected.
"His taxi has a radio and I know his frequency."
"Then let's do it."
Castro inhaled deeply and let out an equally deep sigh. "Yes . . . all right . . . let's. And, madam, if you've never been on a boat that can do better than seventy kilometers an hour, let me tell you that you are in for the ride of your life."
From the boat shack a voice called out, "Hey, Chief? Something's wrong with the television. There ain't no TV at all."
Television Studio, Canal Seven, Ciudad Balboa, Terra Nova
There were lights lit in the windows of the building. Under streetlights, trucks were rolling past, carrying troops to stations all around the city. Others, three of them, were stopped outside the TV station, disgorging troops. The second in command of those troops, Centurion Garza, walked up to the commander, Signifer Garza, and said, "This just doesn't make sense, Signifer. Orders in the middle of the night to take over the TV and radio stations, and to shut down the phones? Others to collect up the Senate? And no rumors preceding those orders? All in the Duque's name? Sir, we never do anything without at least some rumors in advance. Never. We're just that kind of force.
"I could see it if we were going to attack the Taurans without warning," the centurion continued. "But we've been expressly warned not to attack the Taurans. It just doesn't make sense."
The signifier shrugged. He was a youngish kid, just out of OCS, and without even a close combat badge to his name. Truth to tell, he was a little in awe of his centurion. "I don't know, Centurion Garza," the kid said. "I just know we—Seventh Legion, I mean—got orders to secure the town. We're doing that."
A look of nervous and apprehensive puzzlement crossed the centurion's face. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as he spoke to his younger cousin. "Manuel," he said, "this stinks and if I were you I'd start looking around to find the source of the stench."
"All right," the signifier agreed, "just as soon as we shut down the station. Which, now that you mention it, stinks, too."
Bridge of the Colombias, Balboa, Terra Nova
The lieutenant of the Gallic Twentieth Infanterie Mécanisée, out of Fort Muddville, was doing what lieutenants do; running around like a headless chicken trying to put each combat vehicle in his platoon into exactly the right position. On the other side of the bridge a different platoon was doing the same. The company's third platoon was on the other side of the broad water, acting as a combat outpost of sorts.
Centurion Garza wasn't the only one puzzled by the ongoing events. A grizzled Gallic non-com told the lieutenant, "Sir, I don't like this a bit. There's a coup going on; we all understand that. But we got orders to move and secure this bridge long before that started. So we're in on it; the general is, anyway."
"Logical, so far, Adjudant," the lieutenant agreed, momentarily ceasing his useless clucking about.
"Well, sir, there's nobody around us—nobody friendly, I mean. There's a heavy division to the east of us that is definitely not friendly, and at least two Balboan infantry divisions—legions, I mean—behind us, and maybe closer to five, not including their Tenth Artillery Legion."
"Yes, so?"
"If that coup doesn't work, sir, we're at the bottom of an artillery funnel."
The lieutenant looked momentarily nonplused. "What do you recommend, then, Adjudant?"
"For starters, sir, let me worry about setting up this blocking position. Meanwhile, you should get over the map and get on the radio and figure out a way for us to get the hell out of here if things turn to shit."
"As my father, the general, often said, Adjudant, the good officer listens carefully to his sergeants' mess."
"Wise man, your father."
BdL San Agustin, Chepo River, Balboa
The boat was anchored as close to the bank as it could go without grounding itself. Chief Castro, not content with getting Lourdes to the coast, had motored upriver to bring her nearly a third of the way to Fort Cameron and the Volgan Tercio. He'd have gone further still but for two factors: This was as close as the road got, because a bridge crossed the river her and the bridge itself was built on pylons too close together to permit the width of the patrol boat to pass. Overhead, just off of the abutment, a single flashlight signaled three times.
"Is this wise?" Lourdes asked, with only the lightest nervous tremor in her voice. "How do you know it's your brother in law driving the taxi?" Automatically, she had ducked all but her head low behind the frame of the boat's cockpit.
"We both went to Cazador School," the boat's skipper explained, flashing a light of his own three times as well. "Though he's infantry, the poor benighted bastard. That's a common recognition signal we agreed to over the radio."
"Oh. Okay. And now."
"And now we're going over the side. Let me go first and help you down."
Lourdes waited until the chief had splashed over the side and called out to her.
For a moment she didn't know what to do. She'd never exited a boat except by dock or by dive. And diving in this jungle-shrouded blackness, into the muddy river, seemed like one of those really bad ideas.
Castro understood her problem instinctively. "Lay down on the gunwale . . . the top of the side wall, and slide your legs and rear over," he ordered. "I'll catch your legs and help you down."
"Oh, okay." She did as directed, except that she almost screamed when the chief lowered her and the chill water went up to her breasts. Under the circumstances, she didn't complain that Castro had had to get a pretty good grip on her rear end, at one point, to keep her from going in sideways.
Not that I didn't appreciate the opportunity, the chief thought to himself.
"Come on," he told her, tugging her through the water and up the muddy bank. The chief stopped only once, to step on and smash an antania's head that made a lunge for Lourdes' booted ankle.
Quick introduction were made at the taxi. Then Lourdes, Castro, and the brother in law, Reyes, sped up the road to the south, heading for Fort Cameron.
Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa Transitway Area
Having furiously bullied his way past guards and functionaries, Ambassador Wallis burst into Janier's office without warning or escort. "Janier, you frog bastard," he said, most undiplomatically, "what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
The TU's ambassador to the Republic of Balboa was likewise present, in itself something suspicious. He attempted to rise and object before Wallis' pointed finger pinned him morally to his chair. "And you, shut up."
Janier smiled, knowingly and condescendingly. "I, Mr. Ambassador? Why I am doing nothing really. Though there seems to be a bit of trouble downtown. I've sent a few troops to secure our interests of course. Naturally one would when faced with an unplanned emergency."
Surcouf walked in through another door and announced, "Charlemagne reports air interdiction patrols between the Isla Real and the mainland are up, General. Likewise, de Villepin said to inform you that the Bridge of the Columbias is sealed off, as is the Gatun River Bridge. He also said to pass on to you tha
t 'Williams' is apparently a failure. No details."
Janier scowled. "Merde!"
Without another word, Ambassador Wallis turned and stormed out to make a report to his government.
Building 232, Fort Williams, Balboa Transitway Area, Terra Nova
Chapayev drove the captured vehicle at breakneck speed, squealing tires at each turn. Muñoz didn't object. Indeed, his only comment was "Faster, Victor, faster!" right up until the thing appeared ready to careen right into the battalion's headquarters. At that point the cry became, "Stop, Victor, STOP!"
The auto did, with a few feet to spare and smoke pouring from the tires.
Muñoz-Infantes was neither a particularly small man nor a weak one. Once he got out of the car, and pulled a corpse from the trunk, he effortlessly dragged that corpse by the scruff of its clothed neck. It was the body of the one man among his recent assailants that the colonel recognized from his own organization. He was still holding the leaking corpse when the sergeant of the guard, jerked awake by the shriek of brake pads, came out of the guard shack under the headquarters.
"Coronel Muñoz," the sergeant greeted, while standing to attention and sketching out a salute. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, what are you doing here? I was told you had been kidnapped by locals and that we had received a demand for ransom." The sergeant's eyes moved down to the body. "Local . . . ummm . . . kidnapper?" he asked.
The colonel released his grip on the corpse, which flopped bonelessly to the concrete. "Summon my staff and company commanders and—"
"They're all already here, sir," the sergeant interrupted. His finger jabbed upwards, in the general direction of the battalion conference room. "The XO called them all in when we got the report."
"Fine. Have someone see to this corpse." Muñoz used a booted foot to flip the body over onto its back. "Do you recognize him?" he asked.
"By sight, sir. I don't know his name." The sergeant of the guard scratched at his head for a moment and then answered, "I think he worked in the S-2 shop, sir. Odd . . ."
"What's odd, Sergeant?"
"It was the S-2 who told us you had been kidnapped."
"I see." Muñoz stormed off in the direction of the stairs that led upward. On the way he muttered, "I smell those bastards Janier and de Villepin."
"What are you going to do, sir?" Chapayev asked, following close behind.
Muñoz pulled out and checked the load on his pistol. "Shoot my S-2 and lead my battalion against the stinking frogs. Then ask the Balboans to take on my battalion, on spec, so to speak."
"I don't know if they will," Victor said. "But . . . maybe."
"I think it likely," the colonel assured him. "But there's also something I want you to do."
"Sir?"
"I'm going to send a detail to relive Maria of the prisoner. I want you to go with them and after they do, to take Maria to the Academy at Puerto Lindo. Will you do this."
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
Fort Cameron, Balboa, Terra Nova
The Volgan gate guard had been uncertain about letting the taxi in. It was Lourdes who had the clout to talk him into calling for the staff duty officer. That man, a junior tribune, had arrived quickly from Samsonov's headquarters to show them the way. He recognized Lourdes from the pre-Santander raid dinner, though she couldn't pull up a memory of him from the sea of faces of that night. The taxi followed the Volgan staff duty vehicle, passing it when it parked to deposit Lourdes right at the front door. Samsonov, alerted by the staff duty officer, was waiting to greet her.
"You've got to help us," Lourdes exclaimed, as soon as she saw the Volgan commander.
"Shit," Samsonov said as soon as she had explained. In turn, he explained, in his slow and strained Spanish, "This is . . . touchy . . . umm . . . touchier than you may know, Mrs. Carrera. We not part of . . . regular Balboan forces. Not sure what Federated States do . . . if Volgan regiment intervene. Not like we . . . best of friends or anything, you know. We could end up doing . . . more harm . . . than good.
"Worse . . . not sure we legally . . . can . . . intervene. Or what Volgan Republic do. Most men . . . still Volgan citizens.
"And this thing . . . this coup . . . very advanced. Have word now other president, not Parilla, going to speak tomorrow morning, nine A.M. Shit."
"Can I speak to those who aren't Volgan citizens?" she asked. "Please, Legate. Please. I have to save my husband."
"You speak," Samsonov agreed, then, after a minutes' reflection, shouted out something in Russian to the staff duty officer, waiting outside his office.
"Give twenty minutes," the Volgan said. "Then I bring you to mess."
* * *
The faces that met her at the mess were stony. She looked at them and was just certain they wouldn't listen to her, that they just didn't care. In fact, she was wrong. The problem wasn't that they wouldn't listen, or didn't want to help, but that Samsonov was the father of the regiment and, without knowing which way he would go the officers and praporchiki didn't want to open their great Volgan hearts to a hopeless cause.
Still, whatever Lourdes thought, she gave it her best. As she passed men sitting in the small officer's mess, she greeted those she knew by name or sight. A name spoken here, where she knew it, a warm touch on a shoulder where she didn't. She had a feeling that whatever Samsonov had said to his staff duty, it had included at least a truncated version of recent events. They'd had that version, she could sense from their faces and somewhat shamed expressions.
No sense in repeating what they know, she thought, so she didn't. Instead taking a position next to Samsonov at the head table, she reminded them of all they owed Carrera. She spoke of what she knew of the raid on Santander and how he had saved one of their companies. She explained that, no matter what the politicians might promise them, they could have no faith in those promises. She moved them, she could see, but not enough. Finally, she walked over to where Menshikov, one time translator and aide to Carrera, stood.
"Miro" she said, giving him the nickname he would have had had he been born Balboan but with the equivalent first name, Vladimiro. Menshikov had been promoted to Tribune II and had taken command of Chapayev's company. "Miro, where would you be now, if not for my husband."
Menshikov couldn't answer. He hung his head in shame, thinking, In a dead end job in a dead end country . . . that or really dead and probably unburied in Santander.
Samsonov, sitting at a table with his face cupped in his hands, looked thoroughly miserable. Then, briefly, his face lit up as he seemed to have an idea. Sure. Why not. Fuck 'em.
He lifted his chin from his hands and spoke, "You know, gentlemen, this is really a mercenary organization. All through history, regiments like ours have been noted for their lack of discipline, their almost democratic structure. I really don't know what I could personally do if, say, Menshikov here decided to take his company and help Carrera against my orders. Or even if a maximum of one other platoon decided to go with him . . . oh, say, yours, Chekov. Why, if even one of your tank sections elected to disobey orders and go with them—Dzhugashvili, are you paying attention?—it would only further the point. Why, in an undisciplined organization like ours, I wouldn't be surprised if my own Operations Officer decided to take the lead." Samsonov looked pointedly at that man, Rostov. "And, of course you would need to have the cooperation of one of the anti-aircraft boys in case the Taurans decided to try to stop you from the air."
"But if you gentlemen decided to disobey orders, and take Mrs. Carrera to the nearest television station, and capture and hold that station while she broadcast an appeal for help from the legions, the rest of the regiment could hardly be held to blame. But, of course, you couldn't do any serious planning for such an eventuality with me sitting watch over you. Besides, it is quite impossible for you to do such a thing, undisciplined as you no doubt are, before the President speaks at zero nine hundred, sharp."
Samsonov consulted his watch. "Oh, my" he said. "I have summary punishment to administer i
n just a few minutes. My wife's cat is going to be given extra duty and have his rations docked for failure to catch a mouse that's been pestering us. So I must be hurrying along to take care of my administrative duties. Good day to you, gentlemen."
Lourdes didn't understand a word that was spoken, as it was all in Volgan. But as soon as Samsonov left, Menshikov let out an "Urrah!". Officers clustered around him and Lourdes, smiling and laughing. The ones mentioned by name by Samsonov, or implied by their commander's name, smiled more ferociously than the others.
Television Studio, Canal Seven, Ciudad Balboa, Terra Nova
Lourdes hadn't ridden in an armored vehicle since Artemisia's wedding. Then she had been afraid of soiling her dress. Now she just wanted the damned thing to move and to hell with her clothing. Menshikov had put her in his own Ocelot, ordering her to keep inside until further notice. Occasionally she heard gunfire, barely audible over the engine's roar. Twice she had seen the turret turn and a shower of smoking, stinking cartridge cases pour onto the floor of the track. Finally the track came to a stop, jarring her in its suddenness. The back doors opened. Menshikov again told her to stay put until further notice. Then he, with his RTO, dismounted.
The Volgans had discussed whether or not to demand surrender from any Balboans who might be guarding the TV station. They had decided there just wasn't time. "If we knew who was in on this and who was duped," Menshikov said, "we could ask for surrenders. As is, we just can't know and can't take the chance."
This, since the Garzas and their men were guarding the studio in all innocence, was the stuff of tragedy.
Assaulted suddenly and unexpectedly by three tanks, thirteen Ocelots, two rapid firing, four barreled rolling anti aircraft guns and sixty or so dismounted infantry, the platoon of the 7th Tercio hadn't lasted long. They might not have fought at all except that the Volgans who dismounted were all white and wore somewhat unfamiliar uniforms. They looked, if anything, Tauran. The Balboans hadn't even had the chance to call for help, it was over so quickly. Then again, they hadn't had even the possibility of being attacked mentioned to them. Nonetheless, after tank guns, lighter cannon, and explosives had blasted out windows and walls to let shrieking Volgans in, the men under the two Garzas, such as remained standing, had given a fair accounting of themselves. Not all the bodies carried out of the studio were Balboan, in the end.
