Carnifex cl-2

by Tom Kratman

  Of course, the downside was that the Legion was buying affection at a greater rate than the government could hope to. Then again, the Balboans were a realistic people. They knew their government was unutterably corrupt from the word go. They basically had no affection for it. It had been put in power by foreign, gringo, arms. It was maintained now by foreign, Tauran Union, arms. It was simply despised.

  And now there are rumors that Parilla was going to retire from the Legion and enter politics, thought the President. That's intolerable. Not only is Parilla a frightfully honest man, but he's a peasant, a stinking campesino. He has no connection to the old families. Worse, he's approximately as ruthless as his pet gringo, Carrera. A Presidente Parilla means many true gentlemen in prison or in exile, including, most likely me. If he applies legionary rules retroactively, it might mean many true gentlemen put against a wall and shot.

  President Rocaberti shivered at that thought. The Legion, back when there was only one, and that one at one third strength only, had had not the slightest qualm about shooting his nephew; shooting him like a dog without the slightest regard for the man's clan or its position. How much more ruthless would they be with four regular legions, the equivalent of as many in reserve, and owning the government?

  Shoot me? Rocaberti thought, fingering his neck. No, I'll be lucky if they don't hang me, along with every adult member of my clan that ever took an illicit dime. They've got to be stopped.

  He said it aloud. "They've got to be stopped."

  "Quoi?" asked the Gallic commander, General Janier, of the Tauran Union brigade stationed in the Transitway area.

  Janier was a tall, elegantly slender, but sadly toad-faced officer who understood Spanish perfectly well but refused to lower himself to speaking it. His country's contribution consisted basically of himself and his headquarters, plus a commando battalion. The line combat battalions were provided by other, lesser, TU members, in rotation. This had become a national pattern for the Gauls, to provide low risk headquarters troops and commanders, plus a small elite force, but leave the bulk of combat capability for others. To give them their due, they were good at that sort of thing. Why, despite having one of the least competitive economies in the TU, they still managed to take a central position in that organization and ran the thing to suit the Gallic Republic to a tee.

  The Taurans had been brought in to "secure the Transitway" once the terrorist threat had grown out of hand as a result of the LdC's participation in the war. That had been merely an excuse, though. They were really there to secure the government—internationalist, emotionally detached from its country's and people's welfare, and therefore corrupt, pro-TU and pro-UEPF—from the legions. Any securing of the Transitway from terrorist attack was merely incidental.

  Janier repeated, "Quoi?"

  Sighing with frustration, Rocaberti explained the problem to Janier, in French. He ended by pointing out, "And outside of your brigade we have nothing. Our police and militarized police are underarmed and unreliable. The people despise us. Even the FSC, which has fallen desperately out of love with the legions, still could probably not intervene against them here."

  The Gaul smiled with satisfaction. It was good to have one's protectorates actually need protecting.

  The ambassador to the Republic from the UEPF added, "Don't count on us. We are still stymied from direct action by the FSC. If there is any one issue the bulk of the people there agree on, it is that the UEPF is the enemy. Even their progressive politicians can't openly disagree with that, not if they want to keep their jobs."

  Janier's smile grew broader still. Yes, it was very good to be needed so desperately. But, one had to be realistic.

  "There is no practical way, at this time, for the TU to do more than safeguard the Transitway and your government. I have four battalions, one of those mechanized but one also a very lightly equipped commando battalion. Usually, too, I have another infantry battalion undergoing jungle training here. We could fly in a couple more on fairly short notice, maybe even three to five more battalions if, and only if, we planned it well in advance, had control of the airfields and the skies, and if we impressed civilian air carriers. If your 'legions' decided to hit us first, or to mobilize their reserves and hit us first, we wouldn't have a prayer."

  "Allies?" Rocaberti asked.

  "The Zhong have forty or fifty thousand illegal immigrants here, plus about as many legal ones," Janier answered. "They could perhaps be induced to intervene to protect what they consider to be their people. But such intervention would be—" He looked at his dumpy adjutant, a Gallic major who appeared even more toad-like than Janier.

  "Major Malcoeur, what could the Zhong bring to the field?"

  The major was widely believed, within his own army, to have no real talent but licking the boss' ass. This was unfair. Though he was quite a talented asslick; he was, at least, very thorough in his official duties. "With warning—a lot of warning, mon General—they could fly in a brigade or move a division by sea. These are not mutually exclusive. If we provided sea and air lift they could probably double or even triple that. They have a large army, over one hundred divisions, but little in the way of strategic transport."

  "We have a . . . close . . . yes, a close connection with the Zhong Guo," said the ambassador from the UEPF. He, too, spoke French. "I will make inquiries."

  "Not yet, Mr. Ambassador," answered Janier. "Before we bring them in too closely, I need to find a way to crush these 'legions' with or without the Zhong. That I do not have yet."

  7/5/467 AC, Isla Real, Quarters #1

  Carrera had stuck himself with having a ballroom in his house. Parilla's burden included keeping a very secure conference room in the basement of his. On the plus side, it also served as a place where he could have a drink without being nagged by a loving wife who worried endlessly over his health.

  "This is screwing me; you realize that, right?"

  Parilla blew air through his lips. "Yes, I know. And if I don't retire and become President of the country what happens? We've gone just about as far as we can go with this, as things are. In fact, we've gone as far as I ever wanted to go. My country has an army again, even if that army is not under the government of the country and even if a substantial proportion of it is expatriate."

  A secure conference room didn't at all rule out comfortable leather chairs. Parilla rested his head on the back of his. "But what I didn't realize was that there are ends beyond ends . . . unintended consequences. What I didn't realize was that we would automatically be put in opposition to the government here such that one of us must go. I certainly didn't foresee TU troops here in my country. God knows, I didn't foresee fighting a war here."

  Carrera grimaced and shrugged, then shifted his rear forward to rest his own head on the back of his seat. He admitted, "Neither, I suppose, did I. I just focused on destroying those who murdered my family; something—you might note—I have so far failed to do . . . or even to get appreciably closer to doing. Sometimes I despair of it."

  He was silent for a few moments. Then he asked, "Okay, so let's suppose you resign and run for President. We have over forty thousand 'election workers' in the form of the reserves. We have a lot of sympathy and affection from the people. If you retire and run, you will probably win. Then what?"

  "Then I invite the Tauran Union to leave, with our thanks and gratitude."

  "Won't work," Carrera objected. "They are here at the invitation of the government, yes, but they also have a mandate from the World League to, 'secure the Balboa Transitway for the common benefit of mankind.' That means they have a mandate they can present to their own people as a legitimate reason to stay no matter what any given chief of state here might say. Moreover, since you—that is to say, we—represent 'the forces of fascism and reaction,' you and we are inherently illegitimate in their eyes. The short version of which is—"

  "The short version of which is, they are not going to leave peaceably," Parilla interjected. "Yes, you're probably right. Fi
ght them?"

  Carrera's face screwed up in distaste. "Given a choice, I'd rather not. We are not friends but we do have a lot of the same enemies, even if the Taurans' heads are stuck so far up their asses that they can't see it. Besides, probably we wouldn't end up fighting them alone."

  "You say you would rather not. That isn't really the question. Can we fight them and win?"

  "Sure,' Carrera admitted. "We can fight and defeat them here in Balboa, especially if we get in the first hits and without warning. That, however, means only a limited defeat for the Taurans—no, let's be accurate here, for the Frogs who run the TU like they owned it—and much motivation to get even, even if they won't admit that that's their motivation. In a long war, they outclass us in almost every way."

  "In what ways do they not outclass us?" Parilla asked. Carrera was as much his superior in military matters as Parilla was Carrera's political better in affairs political.

  Carrera didn't even have to think about it. "Easier to answer it what areas they do: industry, population, wealth, size of armed forces, technology, diplomatic clout, naval power. Add to that that our own government is on their side. Our advantages at the moment are better-trained and -led troops with adequate if not superior equipment. Oh, and superior ruthlessness. Even then, though, the best half of our troops, the regular legions, are stuck here on the Isla Real with only the reservists on the mainland. The TU has enough naval and air power, easily, to prevent us from deploying regulars to the mainland in a crisis."

  "That's half the reason we built the military schools, isn't it?" Parilla asked, rhetorically. Carrera simply nodded.

  "Do things change if we are the government?" he asked.

  "Yes. Then we can redeploy the regular legions to the mainland. Then we can expand the reserves to a serious militia system along the lines of Helvetia's and Zion's. Then we can build defenses, expand our industry, and hit them economically by denying them access to the Transitway."

  "So you agree then, that I must become President."

  "I always agreed, Raul. It's just that it's screwing me by making me take on your duties here and my own overseas once we are rehired."

  "Will we be?"

  "Oh, yes. We'll be rehired, probably within six months, to save the Tauran Union's collective ass in Pashtia."

  9/5/467 AC, Indicus Koh Mountains, Central Pashtia

  The winding mountain pass was sheer-sided, and strewn with rocks on both sides. Behind the rocks, and dug in where there was enough soil for that, Noorzad's band awaited the arrival of the point of the enemy column at the marker, a scraggly tree, which would signal the beginning of the ambush.

  At the other end of this road was a Tauran Union base camp. Cutting the road would not cause them to starve. It would, on the other hand, make life difficult as supplies had to be flown in by helicopter.

  Life was good for Noorzad and his band. Still, while his men enjoyed the benefits of battlefield success, honor, respect, trophies and—best of all—female slaves, he was quite indifferent to the material rewards. Oh, yes, he made use of the slave girls. That was under the advice of the Prophet (PBUH) and, so, was not only not a vice, it was a positive religious virtue. And religious virtue mattered to Noorzad. The only thing that mattered more was the triumph of his religion, submission to the will of Allah across this globe.

  He knew his followers were not so pure of heart at he was himself. Some were here for revenge, after losing family. Others were in it for the money or the excitement. Some wanted to wipe out the shame caused by so many centuries of defeat of the sons of the Prophet by the bastard children of Christ. Some were in it for the robbery and rapine. Most were a mix.

  Of all his band, only he was in the war purely for the advancement of his faith. Oh, yes, he liked the action, just as he liked the use of the women his men captured. But he would have done it without the women and, if he'd had a talent for anything but action, he could have done it from behind a desk.

  Fortunately, he didn't have to do anything for which he lacked talent. All he had to do was fight. As he was about to do, as a matter of fact, with the Tauran Union column moving through the pass below.

  * * *

  The first sign of the ambush, to the Tauran troops in the truck column, was a large explosion at the point that blew a goodly boulder right through the cab of a truck, turning the driver and the column commander into so much strawberry-colored paste. The two soldiers who had been in the bed of the lead truck disappeared in the smoke and dust from the blast. Alive or dead; none could say.

  Not that anyone cared to say. The explosion was the signal for riflemen, machine gunners and RGL gunners lining both sides of the pass to open up. Trucks exploded in living technicolor as machine guns set white-skinned soldiers to dancing the ballet. Many ran in panic, with no obvious regard for direction. Others froze in shock where they were, oblivious to what cover there might have been. Some tried to return fire but, with the leaden hail coming from both sides and above, the only cover available either left one open to fire from the other side of the pass or put one in a position—under a truck, typically—where no return fire was practical.

  * * *

  Noorzad didn't laugh at the plight of the Taurans; killing the infidel was too serious a business to laugh over until the job was done. These, at least the ones in the backs of the trucks, were Royal Haarlem Marines, so he thought. They weren't panicking, though under the circumstances their resistance was marginal. Little by little it was beaten down.

  When he was satisfied that resistance was completely crushed, Noorzad gave the order to sweep into the kill zone. The sweep was not a precision movement. By ones and twos his men arose from their rocks and walked carefully downhill into the kill zone, rifles at the ready. Noorzad followed at a distance; for this he didn't need to lead from in front. Scattered shots ahead told him that his men were finding wounded.

  He watched calmly as one of his men put the muzzle of his rifle to the head of a prone Tauran. The enemy soldier simply closed his eyes; not even having the will anymore to try to resist.

  And that is why Taurus is doomed; their people no longer have the will to resist, but only to close their eyes to the reality around them. I wish the FSC were as accommodating.

  Noorzad walked the line of trucks, many of them aflame. From somewhere—perhaps one of the trucks had contained personnel files—papers billowed in the smoky wind. Around him his men were stripping bodies of weapons, money, watches and boots. Still other parties ransacked the trucks for useable supplies. Much could not be used, of course, and would be burned or detonated in place. Still, there was much valuable loot.

  He gave a few curt orders to his men, reminding them of their priorities. Then Noorzad spotted the prisoners. He was surprised, really; he hadn't expected any.

  * * *

  Private Verdonk was not a Marine. To understand that is to understand what followed. The Marines believed in something, even if it was only a faith in the Korps Mariniers, Haarlem's Brigade Princess Irene. Verdonk had never believed in anything. He'd known few people in his life, and none of those at all well, who really believed in anything. Believing in things—in people, in religions, in one's country and one's culture—this had fallen out of favor in Haarlem. Instead, from kindergarten to old age, one was expected to believe in everything. The problem with that was that faith in everything meant no special faith in anything; to love all mankind was to love none of it.

  Love? What did Verdonk know of love beyond some hasty thrusting on a moldy mattress with some girl who meant even less to him than she did to herself? His people? How can you love a people that have given up on themselves? His country? What was a country within the Tauran Union except a lower mechanism for collecting taxes and redistributing income, for obeying and enforcing the diktats of the bureaucrats? His culture? His people had given up on that when they'd given up on themselves.

  It was fair to say that, inside Verdonk, feeling was a vacuum awaiting fulfillment. He'd joined the
army in search of that, joined it and discovered that the army was no better than the people from which it sprang.

  And I didn't have the courage to join the Marines. But then, few do.

  * * *

  Noorzad looked over the baker's dozen prisoners his men had taken. Seven, he saw, were female. One was quite attractive; the others acceptable. They would become slaves. In fact, they already were.

  The men were of more interest to Noorzad. Whether women submitted to the Faith or not was more or less irrelevant, so long as they submitted to the rules. A whip was a good enough tool for that. And Mary the Copt had made a perfectly acceptable slave for the Prophet, peace be upon him.

  But the men? He'd been toying with the idea, of late, of seeing if any of the prisoners could be converted to the true faith instead of being killed. He'd never before tried but had heard rumors that others had had success with the attempt. It was also said that the fundamental emptiness of Tauran lives made such people truer converts, once they had had the chance to experience the richness and fullness of being in submission to the will of Allah. He thought it worth a try.