by John Ringo
"Wwwooowww," she said, softly.
"Where did you go? What the hell was all that?" McNair demanded.
"I didn't go anywhere, sir. I was always here," Daisy answered. "Couldn't you see me?"
"No, I couldn't."
"I'll try to figure out what happened then," Daisy promised. "I just suddenly felt . . . really remarkable and lost control of a number of functions. Internal diagnostics tell me I'm back to normal, sir."
"We'll let that go for now. But find out what caused it. If you are a part of this ship, I can't have you disappearing in the middle of a mission."
"Even if you can't see me, Captain, I am there as long as you are within about eight-hundred meters of the ship."
"All right then." A question popped into McNair's head. "Are you the only ship like this?"
"I know of no others," Daisy answered. "The battleships do not have AIDs installed. I am not sure why. The other cruiser, Salem, does . . . but she is not like me. She is like the other AIDs. I don't like her very much, but that goes back to before we were even installed."
"How can that be?"
"There is a lot about warships even you don't know, Captain," Daisy answered mysteriously.
Armored Bridge, CA-139 (USS Salem)
Marlene Dietrich aboard my ship, mused Salem's captain. Who woulda thunk it? Then again, it makes a certain odd sense, given the part she played.
Standing, hands clasped behind him, the captain listened intently as the Salem's avatar read off the ship's systems' status in a clear, and rather familiar, German accent.
"Nummer Zwei turret reports 'ready to fire,' Herr Kapitän. Nummer Drei also. Ach . . . Nummer Eins is now ready as well. BB-39 is completing its firing run for its secondary batteries. Ze admiral orders us into action next."
"Show me the target area," Salem's captain ordered. Instantly an image formed in front of the captain showing the positions of the three ships of the fleet and the Island of Vieques, with the impact area and specified targets in the area outlined and numbered.
"Show me our course."
"Zu befehl." As you command. A dotted red line appeared from Salem's current position to the end of her firing run.
"Mark optimum firing positions for each target."
"Zu befehl."
"Lay guns automatically to engage each target from optimum firing position. Three round burst per gun."
"Target nummer vier in . . . fünf . . . vier . . . drei . . . zwei . . ."
"Fire!"
Salem shuddered as each of her three main turrets spat out nine eight-inch shells in six seconds. The AID tracked the path of each shell and automatically adjusted the lay of each gun within each turret.
"Engagement suboptimal, Herr Kapitän. Recommend repeat."
"Repeat."
Again the ship shuddered.
The avatar spoke, "Target assessed destroyed. Target nummer zwoei in . . . fünf . . . vier . . . drei . . ."
Captain's Quarters, USS Des Moines
"Captain," Daisy Mae announced, "I hate to cut this short but we are due to commence our firing run in four minutes. Shall I meet you on the bridge?"
McNair nodded and stood to go.
"We'll continue this conversation later," he promised as Daisy disappeared.
Range 4, Poligono de Empire (Empire Range Complex), Panama
From a position under a shed erected at the base of Cerro Paraiso, Paradise Hill, two senior Panamanian officers, one of them a major general, the other a colonel, watched a platoon of Chinese-built light tanks, accompanied by a platoon of mechanized infantry in American-built M-113s armored personnel carriers, moving by bounds down the range and toward a razor-backed ridge to the west of, and paralleling the Canal.
There should have been fuel and ammunition to run this exercise several times, Boyd knew.
But there wasn't.
However hard he tried, Boyd seemed completely unable to stop supplies from disappearing. Sometimes it was vehicles that disappeared into the ether. At other times, it was weapons, ammunition, food or fuel. Building material was so fast to go that he expected to see new highrises popping up all over Panama City.
It was costing, too, and in more than monetary terms. Roads were not being completed, roads that not only would be required to support the defense but were required to move and supply men and materials to build the defense. Bunkers were half-started and left unfinished. Obstacles, from barbed wire to landmines were left undone. Fields of fire remained uncut. Only those fortifications the gringos built directly for themselves were improving to schedule.
The fortifications that were not being completed didn't matter, per se, to the lean, ferocious looking colonel standing next to Boyd. Suarez commanded one of the six mechanized regiments in the armed forces. To him roads mattered a lot, bunkers not a bit.
"But they're stealing my fucking fuel," Suarez fumed. "How the fuck am I supposed to train a mechanized force without any goddamned fuel? How the fuck am I supposed to train my gunners without any fucking ammunition?"
"For the life of me, Colonel, I know it is going, but I have no clue where it is going to, or how it is getting there," Boyd answered.
Suarez thought deeply for a moment. How far do I trust this one? He is one of the families; can he be trusted at all? But then, he is here, now, trying to help, trying to put a stop to this vampiric siphoning of the lifeblood of our defense . . . and his reputation is good.
What decided Suarez was the Combat Infantryman's Badge on Boyd's chest. Panama had adopted it, just recently, and Suarez himself had been given the award, albeit rather tardily, for actions in defense of the Comandancia in 1989. It meant something to those few entitled to wear it.
Suarez answered, "I don't know where or how either, General, but I sure as hell know who. And so do you."
Boyd scowled. "Mercedes? That one is certain. His whole family down to illegitimate fourth cousins, too."
"And both vice presidents. And every second legislator," Suarez added. "And all four corps commanders and all but maybe two of the division commanders. Every goddamned one of the bastards looking out for number one."
"Cortez, too, do you think?" Boyd asked.
Suarez spit. "He's got a lot more opportunity than most to steal fuel, no?"
"So much for 'Duty, Honor, Country,' " Boyd mused.
Cortez was a 1980 graduate of the United States Military Academy at West Point. Boyd had learned a certain distaste for "ring knockers" as a young private. That distaste had never quite left, and Cortez's depredations had only served to bring it back to full strength.
"From the division commanders all the way up to the president, himself." Boyd shook his head with regret and disgust. "God pity poor Panama."
"God won't save us, sir," Suarez corrected. "If anyone saves us it will have to be ourselves."
Boyd bit his lower lip nervously. I think I know what he means: a coup. Yet another in the endless series of coups d'etat that are the bane of Latin political life. But I can't participate in a coup. I just can't.
Palacio de las Garzas, Presidential Palace,
Panama City, Panama
Previously Mercedes had worked through intermediaries. Today was special. A Darhel, titled the Rinn Fain, accompanied by the United States Undersecretary of State for Extra-terrestrial affairs, had deigned to come to see to the defense of Panama personally.
The Darhel entered the president's office with grace and a seemingly confident strength. The president had been briefed that the Darhel never shook hands. Instead, Mercedes greeted the alien with a suitably subservient deep bow which the Darhel returned less than a tenth of. The president then showed the Darhel around the office, pointing out some of the tacky and vulgar artwork on the walls. The alien commented favorably on a few of the works.
A measure of just how bad this shit is, thought the undersecretary, that the Darhel can find merit in it.
Soon enough, the president, the undersecretary and the Darhel found each other facing acros
s the small conference table tucked into one corner of the office. The undersecretary was the first to speak.
"Mr. President, the Rinn Fain is, as you know, the Galactic emissary to the United Nations for International and Intergalactic law, treaties, and the law of armed conflict. He is here to speak to you about certain questionable things Panama is engaged in, in the preparation of its defense, things which violate some prohibitions contained in human, and galactic, law."
Again, Mercedes made the Darhel as slimy a bow as the height of the table would permit.
The Rinn Fain went silent, face smoothing into an almost complete mask of indifference, upon being seated. Only the alien's lips moved, repetitively, like an Asian priest reciting a mantra. While the Darhel recited, he removed from the folds of his clothing a small black box, an AID.
"The Rinn Fain's AID will speak for him," the undersecretary said. "I understand it is programmed to deal with the law." In fact, the nearest English translation of the AID's basic central program was "shyster."
"The law," said the Darhel's AID in an artificial voice, "stands above sentient creatures, above their political and commercial systems, above the perceived needs of the present crisis or of any crisis. Before there were men, there was law."
Mercedes nodded his most profound agreement. Without the law, I could never take as much as I do.
"It has come to our attention that the Republic of Panama, at the instigation of the United States, has decided to adopt certain defensive measures prohibited by your own laws of war. I refer specifically to the planned use of antipersonnel landmines."
Mercedes' brow furrowed in puzzlement. He recalled being briefed on some such but the details . . . ? Well, military details hardly interested him absent the opportunity for graft.
"I am somewhat surprised, I confess," Mercedes said, "that Galactic law even addresses landmines."
"It does not, not specifically," the alien shyster-AID answered. "What it does do is require that member states and planets of the confederation follow their own laws in such matters. Panama is a signatory to what the people of your world sometimes call the 'Ottawa Anti-Personnel Landmine Ban Treaty.' As such, Panama is expected to abide by the terms of that treaty, to refrain from the manufacture, stockpiling, or use of antipersonnel mines."
A detail, previously forgotten, suddenly popped into Mercedes head. "But we are manufacturing, stockpiling, or emplacing no mines. They all come from the gringos."
The undersecretary sighed wistfully at the wickedness of a depraved mankind. "Despite the earnest recommendations of the United States Department of State, the United States has never ratified the Ottawa Accord."
"As such," the shyster-AID continued, "the United States is free to use them at will. This is not the case for Panama, however, which has a duty—so we of the legal bureau believe—to prevent them from being manufactured, used or stored not only by its forces but on its soil."
"The gringos are not going to go along with this," Mercedes observed.
Again the undersecretary spoke, "It is true, Mr. President, that those Neanderthals at the Department of Defense will take a dim view of any attempt to prevent them from using these barbaric devices."
Calculating that the time had come to present the threat, the Rinn Fain's AID added, "However, failure to abide by and enforce its own laws will put the Republic of Panama, and its citizens, under Galactic commercial interdiction."
"No trade?" asked Mercedes.
"No trade," answered the undersecretary.
"And no travel via any Galactic means," finished the Darhel's shyster-AID.
At that Mercedes eyes bugged out. No travel! That means I am stuck here and so is my family. Oh, no. Oh, nonononono. This will never do.
"Could we not withdraw from the treaty?" Mercedes asked. "I seem to recall that most treaties permit withdrawal."
"In this case, no," said the undersecretary. "You might have withdrawn before the current war began. However, pursuant to Article Twenty, no state engaged in war may withdraw from the treaty during the period of that war, even if landmines are used against it."
"I see. Well, in that case, Mr. Undersecretary, Lord Rinn Fain, you have my personnel word that the Republic of Panama will do everything in its power to abide by its obligations under the law."
Fort Espinar (formerly Fort Gulick), Republic of Panama
". . . in accordance with the laws of the Republic, so help me God."
Digna Miranda, son Hector standing beside, lowered her right arm as she, and he, completed their oaths of office as newly commissioned second lieutenants in the armed forces of the Republic.
The training, supervised and partially conducted by the gringos, had been both hard and harsh. If Digna had been asked why she had stuck it out she likely would have answered, "So as not to embarrass my son, Hector." For his part, Hector simply couldn't have born the thought of failing in front of his mother.
Training together was at an end, however. Hector was on his way—he'd received the orders only this morning—to take over as executive officer for a mechanized infantry company. As a major landowner—deemed, therefore, to be vital to the economic well being of the republic—Digna was to return home to the Province of Chiriqui and take command of the light artillery detachment of the local militia.
To Hector militia duty sounded safer than where he was headed. This sat just fine with him. As far as he was concerned, combat was no place for his mom.
A reception, held in the Fort Espinar Officers' Club—a single story, eaved structure, painted dark green and white—followed the commissioning ceremony. Where the air outside had been hot and thick enough to package and sell to Eskimos, the air of the O Club was blessedly cool.
It was, in fact, a little too cool as Digna's newly restored, and rather perky, chest blatantly announced through her dress tans.
Hector leaned over and whispered, "Dammit, Mother, cut that out."
Momentarily nonplussed, Digna stared at her son without comprehension. He couldn't bring himself to be more specific than to look upwards at the ceiling.
Suddenly, Digna understood. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth formed a surprised "O." Ancient modesty took over. Of their own accord, her arms flew up to cover her chest.
"But it's so cold in here, Hector. I can't help it."
"Ladies room?" Hector offered helpfully. "Toilet paper? Insulation? Warmth? Modesty?"
After Digna returned, composed and—mercifully—discreetly covered, she and Hector, side by side, entered the main room of the club where the reception line awaited.
"Teniente Miranda!" Boyd exclaimed as his aide presented Digna. "You are looking well. The Officer Candidate Course has agreed with you, I see."
"Yes," Digna agreed. "Though I did not agree with it."
"Oh?"
"Too many fat and lazy city boys and girls," Digna answered harshly. "Not enough of the strong and hard campesinos that are the soul of this country."
Boyd thought about this for a moment, reflecting on his conversation with Suarez at Empire Range sometime before.
"I'd like to talk with you, sometime when it is convenient, about the soul of this country."
"I am, of course, available, General. I have no real duties anymore until I go back to Chiriqui in about a week to begin to form my militia."
Boyd turned to his aide. "Make me an appointment, Captain, to speak at length with Teniente Miranda. "
The aide de camp spoke up. "Sir, you have an appointment at the Coco Solo glider club with the G-2 on Wednesday morning, but you are free in the afternoon."
"Would that do, Teniente Miranda? Wednesday afternoon?"
With the slightest—and not at all coquettish—tilt of her head, Digna signified yes.
Standing ahead of her, her son, Hector, scowled quietly at what he was sure was an attempt to pick up his mother.
Coco Solo Glider Club, Coco Solo, Panama
The airfield was not far from the sea; the seabirds whirling and calling ou
t overhead gave ample testimony to that. Indeed, almost no place in Panama was very far from the sea. The air of Colon Province was thick with moisture. Sweat, once formed, simply rolled, hung or was absorbed by clothing. It never evaporated.
Boyd was sweating profusely as his staff car pulled up next to a newly constructed metal, prefab hangar. The troops had no air conditioning and, so, while his staff car did have it he ordered it turned off, much to the consternation of Pedro, his driver. Boyd could smell the sea—though really it was the smell of the shore—strongly. He emerged from the vehicle and was met immediately by another officer of the Defense Forces, the G-2.
