by Tom Kratman
Legate Salas really didn’t understand any of it. He didn’t understand why his headquarters hadn’t been bombed and he didn’t understand why any of them were alive and at large, nor why the port was still in his hands.
They had us dead to rights. The cohort at Pelirojo was routed, broken. The Casement wasn’t unloaded, and of what was unloaded, most was still somewhere around the port. They could have crushed us, totally and utterly. What in the name of God stopped them? Well . . . I suppose it wasn’t anything to do with the name of God.
That headquarters in town, though, was more of a planning headquarters. Salas’s real command post was in a deep draw in the hills south of Highway Twenty-three, connected with the rear and the forward trace by radio and wire. Though it was reachable from the highway, he’d had his engineers cut a couple of smaller trails through the jungle, to avoid the command post’s being spotted.
Salas’s central position was stronger now than it had been, but not as useful for anything except guarding the port. He had two cohorts, one of them admittedly understrength after the drubbing it had received at Pelirojo. These were, minus one maniple in reserve, dug in along the western side of the broad river that ran to the Shimmering Sea almost precisely halfway between the Port of Matama and the town of Pelirojo. He had swamps to the south side of his defensive position and rugged mountain to the north. He might be outflanked by infantry here, but not by armor again.
And I can deal with infantry that moves no faster than my own men do and carries no more firepower.
And supposedly I’m getting some replacement firepower. Though I’m still on my own for men and, since getting run out of Pelirojo, the volunteers haven’t been forthcoming. And we’re not quite in position to declare even a symbolic conscription.
Campo de los Sapos, Cristobal Province, Balboa, Terra Nova
Carrera watched one of Air Balboa’s airships, the Casamara, being loaded with some containers—thirty of them, all told—out of Arraijan and a few dozen pallets that had been assembled on the spot and rigged for an amphibious parachute drop, one where the containers were waterproofed and floatation devices would kick in just after the parachutes opened. Inside the airship the overwhelming bulk of the seats, bunks, and cubicles had been knocked down and stashed along the flanks and forward, leaving a large cargo compartment in the center and forward of the broad loading ramp.
No one but the workers assembling the pallets and the loadmasters for the airship paid much attention to them. The guard around the containers, on the other hand, was fairly heavy. Most such were gone already, but these four had been held back for the day.
And it is about time for “the day,” thought Carrera. No sense in dawdling about it anymore. Indeed, Fernandez tells me that he senses the enemy getting close to some things they cannot be allowed to know. So . . . it’s time to commence the war again. “The villainy they have taught me . . .”
Pity, about the classis of course, but what must be must be.
So what, if anything, are we missing? There must be something I have overlooked. If I were a better man I might be able to at least think of what. Ah, well; the staff tells me everything is in reasonable readiness. The ALTA is loaded and standing by. The shuttle flies. Robinson is suitably cowed. They shall bomb us, but we are prepared to counterbomb as needed. The TU may, when I order it, explode in ethnic violence. The legions and tercios are in place. Our rather large human minefield to the east is in position. Supplies are distributed, so they tell me. All is ready, so they tell me. And who am I to argue with them?
And they say too that the Zhong fleet is halfway across the sea, and the Taurans can sail any time. That built-in timing suits me well enough. Perfectly? No. Perfection in matters of war is the bugaboo of simple minds, and small ones. Lack of perfection costs lives, of course, but a fruitless attempt at an impossible perfection costs wars, which makes all the loss of life more fruitless still.
So today we cast the dice. In about four they will land. Such gentle dice, too . . . relatively speaking.
And let us hope that Lourdes, clever girl that she is, understands the full import of the message Raul and I sent her and her team.
I wish I could be sure that the idea of moving the nukes out of the island’s bunkers and putting them on the bombardment freighters at sea was the right one. But I just don’t know. The captains of those two would have five city-busters, each, which they would be instructed to launch on warning. And I am going to have to tell the TU that, if they attack the freighters after the freighters launch their conventional warheads, nukes will follow. I think I am, anyway. But, once they know about the gliders, how long until they figure out how to spot them? It’s not like they don’t have a metric shitpot of technological capability. Hmmm . . . no, I think the nukes do not go to the ships. So where? Hmmm . . . there’s one fair safe place. How about if I send them, their condors, and their launch crews to Sada? Yes, that might work.
Seeing that loading was nearly finished, and having other people to see, Carrera went aboard the Casamara for a word with her captain, Reserve Tribune Emilio Soliz.
As he walked he reminded himself, Parted out Mosaics, fueled and armed, on the airfield at Herrera International, soonest. With arrows.
Hotel Cielo Dorado, Aserri, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
I hope Patricio and Raul know what the hell they’re doing, thought Lourdes, as she, Triste, and Esterhazy stood. She’d made sure there were press in attendance, to include the two that had sailed with the Dos Lindas.
She would be leaving the country today, along with Triste. The woman Triste had brought with him, Warrant Officer Aragon, would be staying behind. So would Esterhazy. The latter had pointed out that, with a war in the offing that almost nobody expected Balboa to be able to win, the value of precious metal certificates and legionary drachma would be going through the floor. This would give him a change to recover them for the legion, at centavos on the drachma.
“There is nothing further to talk about,” said Lourdes, seemingly out of the blue. “There will be no more return of prisoners, though all of your civilians still in our hands will be dropped off at the border over the next couple of days.
“Why no more?” she asked rhetorically. “The Zhong fleet has sailed. Zhong submarines have attacked our ships.” Lourdes took a moment to glare in righteous indignation at the empress, who glared right back.
Not as if I can blame you, thought Lourdes. In your circumstance, my people killed while trying to do a good deed . . . well . . . mistake or not I’d be more than a little angry. On the other hand, tough shit about your submarines.
“The Tauran Union abets them in these crimes. The Tauran Union’s national fleets stand on the other side of Cienfuegos, ready to pounce. They, too, have assembled an invasion fleet. Innocent citizens of our neighbor, Santa Josefina, have been wantonly slain by Tauran forces.”
And I know that’s bullshit. If ever anyone took care to keep from “wantonly” killing noncombatants, it was the TU. Screw that, though; when the survival of the country is at stake, well . . . truth is always the first casualty of war.
Lourdes looked left and right at her two companions, saying, “Gentlemen, let us get away from this place, out where free men and free women can breathe without the stench of Tauran and Zhong corruption.”
To exasperated grunts, angry mutters, shocked gasps, and a large number of flashes, the three stormed out of the conference room without another word.
For long minutes, the other delegates had sat, stunned. Then, gradually, they’d dispersed to their various sections of the hotel. In the office suite set up in the Tauran, Zhong, and UEPF wing of the hotel, the major players from those groupings had gathered.
“Teach them a lesson,” said Xingzhen. “Upstarts. Little arrogant beasts. Bomb them.”
“Why don’t you bomb them?” replied Janier. “You’re the one whose ships and subs they sank.”
“I would if I could,” hissed the empress. “But my carriers c
an’t do much. And what they can do is needed for the island. You, on the other hand, started all of this, you and your bureaucrats. And, besides, they sank yours, too, didn’t they? You owe it to us to bomb them and you owe it to yourselves!”
“Hush, Empress,” said Wallenstein. Looking away from Xingzhen and directly at Janier, she said, “You could bomb them. The question is, should you?”
“I should not,” said Janier. “They are too damned dangerous.”
Marguerite nodded, though not exactly in agreement. “They are dangerous, General, yes. But their power is quite limited and they know it. Think a moment upon the sequence of their actions. They introduce a small force into the southern part of this country. They leave this conference. Tauran troops inflict a defeat upon the troops of this clandestine incursion. They return to the conference, tails between their legs. The Zhong post submarines to watch their fleet. They attack those—yes, I am certain they attacked first, even if I don’t know how—then, panicking at what it has done, their fleet defects and interns itself. Worse, from their perspective, an entire battalion of the Santa Josefinan allies defects and crosses the border to go home.
“Don’t you see the pattern?
“You don’t want a war, General. All right, I can sympathize with that. But that war is probably inevitable unless we can cause the Balboans to back down in some substantial way. Based on how the Balboans act when pressed, you might well best avoid a war by being heavy handed, as we were here, in the town of Pelirojo.”
“Even if that’s true,” said Janier, “how do we tell if they’re really backing down or just manipulating us?”
“Still you take counsel of your fears,” said Xingzhen. “Still you doubt even your doubts. These people are not supermen. Cut them and they bleed. Poison them and they die—”
“Wrong them,” interjected Janier, to the surprise of both high admiral and empress, “and they shall revenge.”
Marguerite played her ace. “They said no more prisoner return, General. This time, if I read the woman, Carrera’s wife, well—”
“You read women very well,” said the empress, with a subtle smile.
“Yes, I suppose,” Marguerite nodded, not quite getting the joke. Janier understood it, but only let a smile, not quite so subtle as the empress’s, play across his lips.
“In any case, if I read her well, this time she’s serious . . . or she takes her instructions seriously. She knows her husband, if anyone does. If she believes he is giving back no more of your captives, we can take it as given that no more will be returned without some change in motivators.
“That, General, means you will be ordered to attack at some point, a point where the political pressure back in Taurus builds. Have the Balboans not already shown the ability to manipulate your press?”
“They have,” conceded Janier. “And the bit with the death payments was especially wicked, giving us false casualty returns, just so they could pay a little money to some families, making us look cruel, heartless, and incompetent . . .”
And push that down, NOW, the general commanded himself. That was the old you, vainglorious and foolish. Forget the personal hurts. Remember your duty to your country and the men who followed and follow your command.
“What can they do to you in return?” the empress asked. “Here, in Santa Josefina, you have their measure. Here, you have proven you can beat them. They might be able to get at your fleets on the near side of Cienfuegos. They would have a hard time, noisy as their submarines are, at getting to them on the far side. You can bomb with impunity. If you do, they will be true to form and back down like whipped dogs . . .”
“What about my political masters?” Janier asked.
“Don’t worry about them,” said Marguerite. “They still do as commanded, pending my granting them the rejuvenation I’ve promised.
“Speaking of which, General,” said the high admiral, “I am taking the empress with me to my ship for a few days, to strip a dozen or so years of off her. Why don’t you come along . . .”
“For?”
“For the same.”
“No,” Janier shook his head. “Or not yet, anyway. Not while my men languish in captivity. Not while I am still in shame at my failures. Maybe someday, yes. Not yet, no.”
“As you prefer. But you still need to prod the Balboans back to the peace conference.”
“Let me think upon it.”
“Don’t think overlong, General,” Marguerite said. “The orders will be coming from your political superiors shortly.” As in, once the swine see the rejuvenated empress.
Commercial Airship Casamara, over the Shimmering Sea,
twelve miles southeast of Capitano, Balboa, Terra Nova
Along the deck there were twenty-seven pallets lined up in nine rows of three. Though rated for five tons, none of them held quite that, four tons of cargo being a fair average. The cargoes were held down by nets sewn of flat nylon straps. Further straps ran from rings around the edge of the pallet, twenty-two of them, though not all were used, to a centrally located parachute cluster atop the cargo. Straps ran from the parachute clusters rearward; they would not be hooked to the airship until just before pushing the cargo out, lest some butterfingered crewman trip over one and set off the parachutes inside the cargo bay.
The one hundred and eight tons was mixed, but most of it was closely related to losses suffered by the Tercio la Negrita, in Pelirojo. There were, for example, six new 160mm mortars, to replace the lost 160s, on six of the pallets, with seventy rounds, still in their dunnage, accompanying the guns. Another four pallets held an additional one hundred rounds each, for a total, on all pallets, of six hundred and eighty rounds of varying types. Most of the shells, more than three-quarters, were straight high explosive.
A total of three pallets brought in Gallic long-range 120mm mortars, six of them, and their ammunition, a total of just over a thousand rounds. These actually outranged the 160mm jobs, though a given shell wasn’t nearly as potent. As good, they were rifled, hence much more accurate than the smoothbore 160s.
None of the Tercio la Negrita’s mortar crews had used these before; neither had anyone in Balboan service. They were captures, but, through administrative oversight, hadn’t been listed as captured until late, nor classified until quite recently. Still, mortars were simple weapons, and usually quite similar to each other. Hence, hopefully, the guerillas would figure out the nuances on the job. And there were some manuals, albeit without translations. Ah, well, in any given tercio somebody usually spoke French.
Most of the other pallets were mixed, containing radios, rifles, machine guns, explosives, mines, grenades, night vision, ammunition, medical supplies, and whatnot, mixed into individual loads.
The pallets sat on strips of rollers, half-recessed into the deck. Normally these—the flip-floor system—were rotated over, hence covered up for passenger operations, with carpet overlaid. After all, the Casamara was a civil airship ninety-nine percent of the time. A look inside now would have given the lie to that, since every man and woman—there was one female regular from the Sixteenth Legion, Jan Sobieski, and four more militia among Casamara’s normal flight crew—was currently in legionary uniform.
Matama, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
The day was hot, overcast, and hazy. Even with the sun up, visibility was down substantially. Salas squinted against the sun’s diffuse glare seeking out a particular airship, said to be still painted up in its civilian carrier colors.
If the port of Matama lacked for anything, it wasn’t small and medium boats. Indeed, it had a fair share of large ones, half a dozen, impounded and their cargoes commandeered when Salas’s men liberated the port. The large ones, however, weren’t useful for this mission. Instead, Salas’s support company had a couple of dozen fishing boats out, under crews mixed of local fisherfolk and men of the tercio’s support cohort.
Salas, watching from the shore, wasn’t too worried about Tauran intervention. The legion was keeping a large f
ighter contingent active along the border, even while the Tercio la Virgen, minus the one cohort that had crossed over, reassumed the same warlike posture they regularly did.
“That might not have failed yet,” mused Salas, aloud, “but it’s going to . . . and soon. Oh, well, probably no matter since the word is that the war also recommences soon, at which point posturing and demonstrations will become trivial. For today, anyway, we’ve got the overcast on our side.”
“There, sir,” said Salas’s RTO, pointing into the haze at a shape his legate still couldn’t see. Even as the RTO spoke and pointed, the radio’s microphone sounded with the news from the boats scattered to seaward that the airship had begun disgorging cargo pallets. This was punctuated at least once when the parachute system failed and the flotation system also failed, probably from the shock of impact upon the sea.
Whew, though the legate, who would have imagined young Mario could swear like that? I’m impressed.
Salas had no real idea how many pallets had been dumped before the airship became visible to him, a dozen or so miles away. He could see, or thought he could, another seven come out the back end before the airship, lighter now, lifted through the clouds. No words were exchanged, but Salas offered a silent prayer for the safety of both ship and crew.
Commercial Airship Casamara, over the Shimmering Sea,
twelve miles southeast of Capitano, Balboa, Terra Nova
