A Desert Called Peace-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  "It would help rally the people against this puppet government. That is quite a bit, don't you think?"

  Hennessey shrugged. "Up to a point. But I don't want to demoralize the people. I have a different idea. Let's not spend our effort showing the Federated States as bad. Anyone here in Balboa who believes that already doesn't need further convincing. Instead, let's work on showing Balboa and Balboans as good. With, and I cannot emphasize this enough, the glaring exception of General Piña, of course."

  Ruiz looked confused and uncertain. "But everyone in the country would agree even more on that. What's the point?"

  Hennessey thought that Ruiz was perhaps overoptimistic. Few in Colombia Latina, Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking Columbia, had any real faith in their own governments and societies.

  He answered, "That depends on how we go about it. I want a film about Balboan soldiers doing their duty unto death. I want you to write a script, or have one written, about the last stand of the BDC in the Estado Mayor. I want the film to give three main messages. First, I want the movie to show that the BDC troops in the Estado Mayor fought as well as any troops ever have, as well as the gringos did . . . or better. Since I was there at the time, I can assure you that this is the truth. This will tell the people that they are not inferior, not helpless. Second, and without going to the level of the ridiculous, I want the movie to show that the only reason the BDC lost was because they were outnumbered and outgunned, not outfought. Third, and this will probably require the greatest artistry on your part, I want the message sent that while the battle was physically lost, morally it must be seen as a victory."

  "There were so few survivors – at the Estado Mayor, I mean – that it will be difficult to be accurate."

  Hennessey smiled grimly. "So much the better. Without witnesses there will be few to criticize what the story shows if we're broadly and generally realistic. Get copies of some of the movies made by all sides during the Great Global War, The Fighting O'Rourkes, maybe. Maybe Kohlstadt, too. You'll see what I mean."

  Ruiz hesitated. "I would like to do the script myself, but I don't know anything about soldiers or fighting."

  "Don't worry about that, Professor. I have several first-class technical experts coming who can assist you. In addition," Hennessey handed over the draft of the history he had been working on with Jimenez, "here's an accurate version of the truth as seen by both sides."

  Ruiz flipped through the draft quickly. His English was acceptable for the purpose. "How quickly do you need this done, Mr. Carrera?"

  "In the GGW films like this were turned out in as little as three months. I'll give a little more time than that; five months, say. At the end of that time I want to see a rough cut. Can you do the job on five hundred thousand?"

  "If I start today, and can keep costs low, which is a very big if, then yes."

  "Then start today, Professor Ruiz. I'll be in touch."

  "You mentioned other projects."

  Hennessey nodded. "Ah. Yes. Several, assuming the movie makes a reasonable profit. I need radio and TV propaganda. I need newspaper propaganda. I will want a series of soap operas; 'Novellas,' you call them. I am thinking of six."

  "Concerning?"

  "Well, for the first use as a working title "El Rasul" – the Prophet. I want it to be on the oppression and betrayal of Christians under Mohammed when Islam first reared its head on Old Earth. Historical accuracy is unimportant. I want to plant the thought in Balboa that Islam is evil and false in its very roots. For the second, "Los Esclabos," a romance of Christian lovers torn apart by Moslem slavers. He goes to a galley, she to a harem, to rape, and then to a brothel. For the third, "El Martillo," I want the turning back of the Moslem tide of conquest at Tours, on Old Earth. Also a romance . . . "

  "Why so many romances?" asked the Professor.

  "Because I want the women of Balboa enraged at the very thought of sharing a planet with Salafis. For the fourth, "Lepanto" . . . "

  Casa Linda, 22/8/459 AC

  With a substantial expenditure of cash, Lourdes, Clean and McNamara had worked a miracle or ten in getting as much of the house ready as they had. All of the floors had been redone, the walls of the common areas on the first floor painted or papered, barring only those which were already paneled. The paneling was old mahogany, individual planks of fine wood, and far too nice to cover. Lourdes was given the task of furnishing the place.

  "Use your own judgment," Hennessey told her. "You dress well. I trust your taste. Besides, the people I have coming are used to Army furniture: often poor quality, almost always tasteless. They'll be impressed if the stuff isn't outright ugly. Hmmm . . . try to stay within budget, Okay?"

  Lourdes was warmed slightly. He likes the way I dress. He thinks I have good taste. He . . . he trusts me. She flashed him a brilliant smile, which quickly turned to a frown when he failed even to notice.

  Hennessey's own quarters, and some of the common areas, had been filled with some of his own, or rather his and Linda's, furnishings. David had taken some leave from his job and overseen the move. Hennessey now sat on one of those chairs, sipping a scotch on ice. Among other things the CSM had done to prepare the place was to furnish a bar. Hennessey swirled the ice and sniffed, savoring the peaty aroma.

  The CSM and Lourdes were currently at the airport picking up the troops. Hennessey thought they might even be on their way back by now; David would see the troops through the Aduana. He was filled with a curious sense of – almost – happiness such as he hadn't known in some time. Whether this was because he was soon to see many old friends, because it heralded the start of real work again, or because he was an imperceptible measure closer to his goals, he couldn't have said.

  Johnson and Kennison had wired ahead with the names of those they had recruited, the names encoded by prearranged numbers. The list had pleased Hennessey immensely; twenty-four good men – including himself, McNamara, Esterhazy and Clean – were all anyone needed for the early stage of a job like the one he planned. He had them . . . plus Lourdes. Lourdes? Pretty girl. Nice girl. In another time . . . another life . . . oh, well. He pushed her from his mind.

  Hennessey had wanted to go to the airport but McNamara had talked him out of it. In retrospect, he had realized, the Sergeant Major was right. It was better for McNamara himself to get the troops, billet them, put out the rules of the house, and then have Hennessey make the grand entrance. The troops had signed on for a military enterprise; the more like a military enterprise this looked, the happier they would be. Stage management? Not my forte. So I will, for once, listen to someone like Mac who understands it.

  There had been some discussion, too, as to whether or not the troops should come in separately. Ultimately, McNamara had nixed that.

  "Too much bot'er. Besides, if t'ey come in openly an toget'er, lookin' like t'ey're supposed to, soldiers, t'e customs and immigration people will be too afraid to say anyt'ing about it . . . for now. But if t'ey come in separately, t'ey would look like a bunch of criminals – damned suspicious, anyway – to anyone who can add t'eir names, origins, and destinations up and come up wit' us!"

  Hennessey had, eventually, agreed.

  From the upper back porch of Hennessey's quarters he could see for some dozens of miles out over the Mar Furioso. The smell of Balboan cooking wafted up from the kitchen below and on the other side of the house. It reminded him of Linda, painfully so. He continued to gaze out over the ocean, mulling his plans over in his mind.

  Hennessey sat there, just staring at the distant waves and thinking, for perhaps an hour. Then came from below the sound of moving vehicles, two autos and a step van hired for the occasion, grinding up the gravel of the front drive. This pulled him from his reveries. The Sergeant Major's melodic Maiden Islands voice, loud but not shouting, and the opening and closing of automobile doors, told Hennessey that his new command had arrived.

  * * *

  Inside the first floor foyer, the sergeant major had the troops pile their bags against the w
all by the stairs. He then brought them into the living room opposite what even Lourdes was beginning to call "the mess."

  Mac said, "Welcome, gentlemen, to your new home. Later, I'll be showin' you to your quarters. For now I want to give you t'e rules of the house and t'e organization. First off, t'e house rules. You are expected to keep your own quarters clean; t'at goes for both officers and non-coms. It ain't because t'e boss can't afford more maids. It's because we want as few outside ears listening in as possible. T'is might change, later.

  "Meal times are 0800 to 0900, 1130 to 1230, and 1800 to 1900. T'e kitchen is t'e province of t'e chief cook. She's a tough old bitch, so no snackin'. If you miss a meal, other t'an in t'e line of duty, tough shit. If it's in line o' duty, she can maybe be persuaded.

  "Second is t'e schedule. Physical training will be conducted from 0600 to 0715, Monday t'rough Saturday. I will lead it, initially. Starting next week we will begin to rotate leadership of t'e PT sessions. T'e CO has ordered weights. T'ey should be here in a couple of weeks . . . or maybe a bit less. T'ere's a room down in t'e basement we've set aside as a weight room.

  "Blendin' in. For t'ose who don't speak Spanish, Miss Lourdes here will be giving lessons from 1930 to 2100 nightly, Mondays t'rough T'ursdays, until you do. T'e rest of t'e time you work on t'e CO's project.

  "Saturday afternoons and Sundays are off unless you have duty. Two men, one officer and one NCO, will be on duty during t'e weekend days. One NCO will pull duty from 1800 to 0600 on weekdays. T'e CO and I will not be pulling t'e watch. T'ose who pull t'e weekend duty will have the followin' Monday off. Check t'e schedule on t'e bulletin board, which, as you can see," McNamara jerked his thumb to the rear, "is right behind me. If you are not on duty or workin' you are off and can do what you want. Now, how many of you are married?"

  McNamara raised an eyebrow. "Still married, Daugher? Your wife is a saint." Seeing five other hands raised the CSM said, "T'at will be fine. T'e CO is going to have t'e outbuilding, I suppose it used to be servants' quarters, converted as soon as possible to make married quarters. He's also going to put up a few houses for t'e spillover and, eventually, some bachelor quarters. He's going to hire an English speakin' teacher from t'e locals for your kids. T'e school will be in t'e old stables down the hill, once it's ready. Your families are invited to t'e eat in t'e mess when t'ey arrive. Your wives will be expected to help out wit' social occasions at need."

  No one objected to that. The few who were married had wives who were used to the unremunerated obligations the military laid upon them.

  "T'ere is no rule against drinkin' when not on duty. If you want to have a bottle in your room t'at's no problem. I've set up a bar. Drink prices are posted behind it. If you want to use t'e bar just check off what you took and it will be deducted from your pay. Beer wit' lunch and dinner are free."

  That raised a cheer, and not a small one.

  One of the men, Siegel, interjected, "Oh, crap. If Hennessey's giving out free beer you know this is just gonna suck."

  "Quite correct, Sig," McNamara agreed. "T'ere ain't no such t'ing as a free lunch . . . or free beer."

  "We will not be wearin' uniforms for t'e next several months," the sergeant major continued. "Frankly, we're not even sure yet what t'ose uniforms would look like, t'ough I am pushing t'e CO to go for Tan Tropical Worsted. You are required to look presentable. Haircuts are not optional. If you can stand t'em in t'is heat, mustaches and neatly trimmed beards are encouraged.

  "T'e maid will take care of your laundry on days I'll post on t'e board. You are expected to bring it to t'e laundry room yourself.

  "Some time next week we'll have t'ree cars and a light truck you can sign out. T'e Phaeton sedan is t'e CO's; leave it alone. If you take a car on personal business you will sign it out from t'e duty NCO and return it wit' a full tank.

  "We have no medical personnel. T'e sick will go to Balboa City for treatment. T'ere's a small, first class hospital t'ere used to dealing with FSC types. English speakin' an' everyt'ing."

  One man, Daugher, raised a hand. "Weapons, Sergeant Major?"

  "Our weapons are limited to two pistols, mine and t'e CO's, and a couple of Samsonov rifles. We'll be gettin' more in a few days. Among other t'ings, we will all be goin' to town tomorrow to apply for permits to carry a weapon concealed. T'e CO is payin'. His brot'er in law will . . . facilitate. T'e CO will also be payin' for your personal sidearms. T'ey will all be forty-fives."

  That elicited smiles from everyone. There wasn't a man present who didn't believe that most any pistol was good enough . . . as long as it's caliber began with a "four."

  "Lastly, t'is. You are to avoid any contact wit' anyone here in Balboa except in line of duty. You may not discuss any aspect of what we do wit' anyone. You will report any attempt to get information about our activities to me. Any questions before I send for t'e CO?"

  Seeing there were none, the CSM asked, "Miss Lourdes would you go get t'e boss, please?"

  After Lourdes left, the Sergeant Major added, "One ot'er t'ing. I don't know if t'e CO has any interest in t'at one. Keep your fuckin' hands off, anyway. T'at means, among ot'ers, you, Daugher."

  "Oh, Sergeant Major . . . " Daugher began, plaintively.

  "Hands off, boyo."

  * * *

  Lourdes shivered as she left the foyer. Those men. They look so dangerous there in a group, not at all like Patricio and the Sergeant Major; they're civilized men even iff a bit rough. And the way that tall blond one kept looking at me? I don't think I like him.

  Reaching the door to the porch just off of Hennessey's private quarters, she knocked politely. "Patricio? The Sergeant Major says he's ready for you now."

  Hennessey looked up and gave a friendly smile, friendly and no more than that. "Thank you, Lourdes. I'll take it from here but I would appreciate your checking on dinner, if you would."

  "Certainly. Will you need me for anything before dinner?"

  "No. No, thank you. Everything should be fine."

  * * *

  A mildly uncomfortable few minutes were spent between Lourdes' departure and the moment McNamara saw Hennessey about to enter the conference room. He announced, "Gentlemen, t'e Commander."

  Everyone rose to attention as Hennessey walked to the center of the room in front of them. Yes, he thought, this will be a good crew. The most talent I've ever had working for me at any one time, I think. Before beginning to speak he looked over the assembled men recently arrived. He ordered, "At ease. As you were." Those who had risen resumed their seats.

  By the door stood Johnson and Daugher. Tall, blond, strong as an ox, and disgustingly Aryan looking, Daugher had personally killed – with his bare hands alone – almost as many people as were in the room and always in "self defense." Johnson was at least as strong, but more restrained.

  Framing those two were Soult and Mitchell, more like younger brothers to Hennessey than subordinates. Years before they had been Hennessey's drivers at different times in different units. They looked nothing alike, Soult being rail thin, sharp featured and clean shaven while Mitchell was something of a mustached human fireplug.

  Beside Mitchell, short, balding, and wearing glasses, Dan Kuralski's looks were deceiving. However much he might have looked like an aging professor at some small university, his heart and mind were those of a soldier.

  Must see about getting Dan remarried while he's here, Hennessey thought. I wonder if Lourdes can be any help there.

  Next was Carl Kennison. Irwin Rommel, Robert E. Lee, Heinz Guderian and Ulysses S Grant could probably not have passed a body fat test. Huang? Zhukov? Tamashita? No way. Welcome to you, too, my chubby little genius.

  However pudgy he looked, Carl could bench press almost three times his body weight. He had also run Hennessey into the dirt on more than a few occasions. Carl had not been picked for either his appearance or his physical strength. Hennessey remembered that in Carl's unusually long time as a second lieutenant he had had the distinction of having received a
letter of reprimand once a week for a three month period from a full colonel or higher – without even once repeating reprimanders. Little things: kicking his company commander in the groin (he had argued "accident" but no one believed it had been anything other than perfectly deliberate), burning down a Federated States Militia brigade headquarters ("Hey, who thought that tent would be so flammable?"), loading forty-six men on a single (stolen) quarter-ton vehicle with trailer and taking them for a drive (two letters from that one).

  I like a man who can break the rules.

  On a chair behind the table sat Aaron Brown, a diminutive tanker – and one of only three blacks in the group. Brown's tank company had been the normal attachment for Hennessey's infantry battalion some years before. Seeing Hennessey's eyes on him, Brown said aloud, "Es braust unser panzer, sir."