by Tom Kratman
But I'll have to buy it and crew it myself to do that; the Anglian company is firm that their crew is not allowed to take part in offensive combat missions. In any case, while the recon the LTA ship provides is good, it is awfully weather dependant around these mountains. I'm not convinced this is a good buy for the Legion.
That said, if the limeys' semi-autonomous small LTA jobs can be made to work, I can mount cameras in them capable of tracking the ins and outs of every stinking village in our area and I can do it for a fraction of what it costs the FSC to put a satellite up.
Carrera let out a small sigh. If, if, if. "If ifs and buts were candied nuts . . . "
* * *
This FSLB was temporary, though the gringos had given some hints they might want to take it over. And why not? Since the Legion had come they'd put in an all weather airstrip, excavated a foss and with the spoil built an earthen wall to keep off sniper fire, and mined the living shit out of the one place from which an enemy might look down on the camp, with every mine well booby trapped. And hadn't that pissed off the Kosmos?
Carrera smiled at the memory of outraged progressive sensibilities. It wasn't like I made a secret of it. Rather, I had the troops march the villagers closest to the mined area and then witness while goats were driven in. None of the goats survived more than a few steps past the marking wire. Perhaps a few less kids will be tempted to cross the areas concerned after the demonstrations.
It was a matter of some small debate whether the Kosmos were more angered that they were held in such scant regard or by the sheer fact of the mines, themselves.
Fuck 'em. As if I care. As if anyone who matters really cares what the progressives think. As if they're capable of any higher purpose than constraining the overly enlightened and the weak to leave them even more vulnerable to the strong and the ruthless. Cultural Human Immuno-deficiency Virus; that's all they are. And to think, my parents tried to raise me to be one of them. Blech.
The mines themselves were quite sophisticated, each being on an integral timer. Within a month after the Legion made its planned departure ninety-eight plus percent of them would make a joyful sound unto the Lord on their own. The rest—the defectives—would experience battery failure within a few days of that.
This area wasn't important anyway, not to the Legion. They were here only for a short time before moving on. While here, they intended only to weaken the insurgency before moving to the border to establish a series of bases from which they could block infiltration of Ikhwan fighters and their supplies. It was up to the FSC, Secordia and Anglia to destroy the insurgency once it had been weakened and once the one legion that would remain for the next contractual period had established an effective block of the infiltration routes from Kashmir.
In the long run, though, who knows if that matters? Half the infiltrators come in on perfectly open passenger flights. Half the supplies they use are sold to them by the locals. And that's not even counting the food. I wonder why the FSC can't bring themselves to use food as a weapon? The Tauran influence over the Anglians and Secordians and their influence on the FSC? Silly; but they'll never win until they're willing to control the food.
Speaking of food . . .
Carrera caught sight of a maniple of infantry, with a train of two dozen mules in tow. They were apparently waiting for the word to move out and were otherwise just sitting around. He walked over briskly, took the report of the tribune commanding the maniple, then proceeded with a barrage of questions.
"How long have your men been waiting here in the sun? . . . Why did you bring them out early?" Voice rising, "What do you mean your medics haven't shown up yet? Didn't you coordinate with the cohort medical platoon? How long have you known they would be late? Why did you bring your men out into the hot sun if you knew you wouldn't be leaving for two hours? . . . Come with me . . . Break down that mule's pack . . . . Can't you see it's overloaded, you dumb ass?"
By the time he was finished with the tribune, that worthy had been turned to a quivering mass of protoplasm and Carrera felt ashamed for going too far in chastising a subordinate.
He walked off in vast inner turmoil himself. And I'm doing it more and more often. What the hell is wrong with me? Where's the patience of which I was once so proud? Where's the humanity? Christ! I never lose my temper.
All of which could be summed up in the word, "Fuck."
20/4/468 AC, Santisima Trinidad
The boat advanced at the speed of the classis, a stately and sedate twelve knots. The speed was set by that of the slowest vessel in the flotilla, the steamer, BdL Harpy Eagle, which served as safe berth for the patrol boats. At that speed, the bow needn't lift nor the engines strain. The forward gun was manned, as was the con, radar and sonar. Most of the crew were unemployed for the moment, even so, and hung out on the rear deck behind the con, drinking some of their ration beer and eating lunch from paper plates.
"Watsa matter, Santiona, tired of fishing?" Pedraz asked.
"Fuck that shit," the heavyset sailor answered. "I'll never toss a hook in the water again as long as I live. If I ever fish again, it'll be with hand grenades or big nets."
"Pity," said Pedraz. "I'll bet that meg is still following us hoping for a chance at your plump ass again."
Santiona suddenly looked to the stern, fearfully. "You don't really think so, do you, Chief?"
"Nah," Pedraz answered, lightly. "You're fated to die at the hands of a jealous husband, young seaman."
"All things considered," Santiona answered, "I'd rather not. But that still beats being eaten by a fish."
"I think they're dying out," Francés said, from behind the wheel. "Fish that size, it's got to be hard to keep fed. Especially with the loss of whales and such over the last couple of hundred years. It would need a lot of space to hunt in. That would make it hard to find mates."
"Good riddance," answered Santiona. "When the last one is dead and washed ashore I'll be all that much happier."
"Oh, I dunno,' answered Francés. "They're magnificent, for all they're dangerous. Be kind of sad when there're no more."
"Hah!" Santiona snorted in reply. "You haven't been looking into the maw of one with no more than ten feet between you and its teeth. You haven't smelt its breath."
"Oh, puhleeze! Besides, they don't breathe."
"As a matter of fact," Santiona continued, unfazed, "I've decided I hate all fish. So when I take my discharge, after this tour, I'm gonna use my vet's benefits to get a fishing boat. Then I can kill the slimy scaled bastards wholesale."
Guptillo snorted. "Not me. When this is over I'm heading to dry land and, God willing and the river don't rise, I'll never get my feet wet again."
"Farmer?" asked Pedraz. "My people were farmers. Hard work and you're an awful soft city boy."
"Used to be soft, Chief. Hard to stay that way on a patrol boat."
"True enough," Pedraz agreed. "It's still awful hard work."
"No matter, I didn't want to be a farmer. I was thinking about the university and maybe taking up agronomy."
"That would be easier," Pedraz nodded. "Pay better, too."
"And no one will be shooting at you," Clavell added.
"That would be a plus," said Guptillo.
"Ah, you're all pussies," said Francés. "Me; I'm sticking with the classis until the day I die."
21/4/468 AC, The Big ?
The yacht was almost fifty nautical miles ahead of the flotilla. Their cover had pretty much been blown off the coast of Xamar, but there was good reason to expect with a name change and a new paint job that they'd be clandestine enough in the Nicobar Straits. The new name, even now being painted in two alphabets on the stern, was Qamra, Arabic for "moon." Almost, almost, Marta had suggested calling it the Queer, but since the crew had been so understanding of her and Jaqueline's love affair—at least to the point of ignoring it—she thought better of rubbing it in their faces.
"It's worse than that, you know, love," Jaquie had explained. "We're the only ones getti
ng any aboard and that has to be hard, no pun intended, on the rest of the crew."
"Well we could do something about that," Marta countered.
She was joking, but Jaquie took her seriously. "Do you think we should? I mean, it isn't like it would be anything new for either of us. We might not enjoy it all that much but it would be foolish to pretend it would hurt us any. And we could assemble quite a little nest egg for when we're discharged. I think the guys would appreciate it."
In fact, though the transfer from the auxiliaries had brought a certain amount of respect from the men, it had been a pay cut. Much of that loss would be made up, in time, through the deferred benefits that came upon release from the Legion. Still, their joint bank account hadn't been growing at the rate it had aboard Fosa's Fornication Frigate.
"Do you miss it?" Marta asked, seriously. "Guys, I mean."
"Honestly?" Jaquie looked at Martha carefully to see if the answer would hurt. "Not as much as I love it with you. But, yes, I miss it."
"We'll talk to Rodriguez then," Marta said. "But if he says it's okay you can only do it if I get to watch."
"Ooo, that would be fun."
24/4/468 AC, MV Hoogaboom, Kolon Thota, Anula
Kolon Thota was about as neutral a port as one could find in this war. Oh yes, the island of Anula had its share of civil strife and civil war, but neither Moslems—nor the Salafi fanatics among them—nor Christians were implicated. There were, of course, a fair number of Moslems on the island. Enough of them were Salafi, too. But the decision had been made early on by Mustafa to keep the island as neutral territory, a safe harbor and entranceway for the Ikhwan's operatives into the rest of the world. The port was modern, fully equipped, and well staffed by skilled shipwrights and chandlers.
It was, thus, a perfect spot for the Hoogaboom to have made its final preparations for the attack on the Dos Lindas. It was also a perfect spot for Abdul Aziz to intercept the ship with his hand-carried change of orders.
The captain looked terribly . . . disappointed. Abdul Aziz could well understand that. When one works oneself into a mind set to commit martyrdom for the cause, any delay is hardly to be tolerated. For one thing, delay brings with it the doubt that one will have the courage to endure the imminence of death—even with the certain promise of Paradise.
"But there's nothing for it, Captain," Abdul said, sympathetically. "The enemy fleet has moved. There is no real chance of catching them at sea. Moreover, at the Straits of Nicobar our chance of catching them as we have planned is even greater than it would have been off the Xamar coast."
"Success or failure is in the hands of Allah," the captain intoned.
"That's true, of course, Captain," Abdul agreed. "Yet the mullahs are gradually coming around to the idea that Allah cares about how hard we try, and the cleverness we bring to the fight. Mustafa and Nur al-Deen are convinced of it."
"Seems impious to me," the captain said. "Still, orders are orders and the Koran enjoins obedience. We shall wait."
After a moment's reflection the captain asked, "Would you care to inspect the ship?"
"Please. Mustafa expressly ordered me to see that you lack for nothing. Indeed, I've brought half a dozen Tauran slave girls for the enjoyment of your crew."
The captain thought on that for a moment. "We appreciate the slave girls, of course, but . . . should we keep them until the day? Sell them off just before? Kill them?"
"Anything but selling them beforehand, Captain, would be fine."
25/4/468 AC, Matera, south of the Nicobar Straits
Parameswara and al Naquib rested on a fallen log under a deep, dark jungle canopy. Both men were soaked with sweat. For all that, they weren't so wet as the gangs of loincloth-clad slaves struggling under the lashes wielded by al Naquib's company of Ikhwan. A road paralleled the route of the column, about five kilometers to the east.
The slaves' burdens were conexes, or things that looked remarkably like conexes, painted in a mottled pattern and rolling on smooth, even logs cut down from the jungle. Moving the logs left behind as the conexes progressed was nearly all the rest the slaves got from their back- and heart-breaking labor of pulling on the ropes that moved the metal boxes forward.
"How much further?" the pirate king asked.
Al Naquib pulled out a small device, not much larger than a cell phone, and consulted it. "About three hundred kilometers, by the Global Locating System," the Ikhwan answered. "Call it forty or fifty days . . . if the slaves last through it."
"Do you think I should go ahead and move out to arrange relief crews?" the pirate king asked.
Al Naquib thought upon that. After a few moments reflection, he answered, "That, yes. But not only for us. The people coming from the north, on the other side of the Straits, will need help as much as we will. But I am also concerned that you not leave a power vacuum behind you."
I love this Arab, Parameswara rejoiced. He understands my problems without my so much as voicing a complaint.
26/4/468 AC, Puerto Lindo, Balboa
Two Suvarov Class cruisers had been subjected to a greater or lesser degree of refit. Neither had been given a new name yet but had to make do with their old Volgan ones. They'd be christened with legionary names later on.
Of the two, one was complete only to the extent of having serviceable guns and being generally livable. Like the second light aircraft carrier, this one would go to the Isla Real and serve as a stationary training vessel. The other was intended to join the Classis as a warship.
"Doesn't lack for much, does she?" Sitnikov asked of the chief of the port's shipfitters.
"Well . . . she really isn't fit to stand in line of battle alone, if that's what you mean, Legate," the shipfitter answered. "Her guns are fine though, along with her armor and her new AZIPODs. Radar's okay, of course, and being old Volgan it's actually better than newer stuff if she's looking out for stealthy aircraft. The sonar's the pits, though."
"Got to compromise somewhere," the Volgan answered. "And she's not sailing without a good escort with better sonar. How about the other three ships?"
"How about the concrete emplacements for them on the island?" retorted the fitter.
Sitnikov put out a hand, palm down with fingers spread, and wriggled it. "Carrera sent me an odd idea that he wants me to think about before we commit to a design for the coastal artillery. I'm thinking about it, too."
"I don't suppose . . . "
Sitnikov considered for a moment before answering, "No; I really can't discuss it. I can say that it won't matter to the ships' turrets; that it won't change what you have to do."
"Fair enough. Well . . . when you say the concrete pads are ready we can tow the ships to the island. I've got crew ready to remove the turrets and a ship with a crane rigged to lift them off and transfer them to land."
"That's all we need of you. The Legion will see to the rest."
28/4/468 AC, University Hospital, University of Balboa
The doctor looked utterly befuddled. He closed the file on his desk and said, "Jorge, I haven't a clue why you can see again. Your records indicate there was never any physical reason for your blindness. If there was no physical reason, then the blow you took in the brawl two weeks ago can't have been the cure, or at least not the physical cure. Your records indicate that your eyes were always able to see but that your mind refused to process the information. Maybe that fist coming at you was threat enough to overcome whatever reason your mind had for blocking off your sight."
"But I never saw the fist coming, Doctor," Mendoza answered. "It wasn't until Marqueli brought me around that I could see." Mendoza didn't remember that he'd blinked.
The doctor removed his own glasses and began cleaning them with a corner of his guayabera. He shook his head with frustration.
"I can't explain it, Jorge. I can only observe and report. If you would like, I can make you an appointment with a head doctor."
"No . . . no, thank you. I've had my share of those."
"Is t
his going to cost you any of your disability benefit?" the doctor asked.
Marqueli answered, "We've told the legionary disability office. They checked and said Jorge was already maxed out with the loss of his legs. He won't lose anything just for getting his sight back. They even said that he's still entitled to a paid helper—presumptively a wife and therefore me—with vision or not."
"That's generous," the doctor admitted. "But he was taking a doctorate. Will that . . . "
"No, doctor," Mendoza said. "That's a totally separate program. Though I admit . . . . " He glanced over at his wife.
