by Tom Kratman
That sparked a thought for Carrera. When the day comes, as it will, when the government of Balboa has to go, how will Parilla and I organize the country? Around the provinces that, outside of Valle de la Luna, don't mean much? Around the tercios of the legions? It's something to think on. Of course, first we'll have to fight the Taurans who are only in Balboa to ensure we can't get rid of the government.
Carrera's thoughts were interrupted by a loud cheer and some warbling from the female serving staff at the club, which included several dozen Sumeri hookers, war widows mostly, that the Legion had taken under its wing. He looked up and saw that the main screen showed election returns from Pumbadeta and its environs; a sweep for Sada.
"They appreciate that, as far as they can tell, I saved them from you," Sada commented, with a grin.
It was true enough. Without Sada's personal example and intervention Carrera had been determined to kill every Pumbadetan male capable of sprouting a beard. And they'd known it.
Nice to see they pay their debts, Carrera thought.
There was another cheer, and more female warbling, as the results for Ninewa were shown on the screen. It was rather more subdued, though. There had never been any doubt of how the base province for Sada's own force, now a near mirror image of Carrera's, would vote.
"Babel is the real question," Sada observed. "It's going to be close."
The officers and senior non-coms—centurions, sergeants-major, signifers, tribunes, and legates—couldn't have been more interested in watching the election results on the main room's four meter projection screen than they would have been if the election had been held in their base country of Balboa. After all, it was their man, their ally, Adnan Sada, running for the highest office in the Republic of Sumer.
Surrounded by the others, Carrera's and Sada's fingers continued to drum. Watching the numbers shift was as nerve wracking as any battle.
No, thought Carrera. It's more nerve-wracking than a battle. For in battle I have control, a control I know how to use to good effect. Here, with this election, I have little. Unconsciously, he stopped the drumming with his right hand, moving the thumbnail to his teeth to nibble.
Sitting to Carrera's left, Sergeant Major McNamara noticed the nervous biting and, thinking to kill two birds with one stone, poured a fresh drink into the crystal glass on the arm rest between them. The whiskey made tinkling sounds as it splashed over the ice.
Thank God, John McNamara thought, that he's cut down on the drinking since seven years ago.
Still unconsciously, Carrera stopped his nail gnawing to pick up the glass. Unseen by Carrera, Sergeant Major McNamara smiled slightly at the Sumeri, Qabaash, seated behind Sada. Qabaash rarely smiled outside of battle. He did offer his glass behind Carrera's back to McNamara for a refill.
"Heretic," Carrera whispered when he turned saw the drink in Qabaash's hand.
"It's not what you Nazrani would call a mortal sin, sayidi," Qabaash answered. "Besides, Allah is the all merciful, the all-forgiving, despite what some Salafi assholes would have you believe. And He knows I need the bloody drink now, if ever I did."
Carrera nodded, then replaced his own drink on the arm rest. Re-fixing his attention on the screen he went back to his gnawing. This time McNamara gave off an "ahem" to remind his chief of the proper decorum.
"Well, dammit," Carrera answered, "this election decides the war. If we win it, we'll have won. If Sada loses . . . "
"Civil war," Qabaash supplied. "There is no one else to hold the country together, just a bunch of corrupt tribal and sectarian idiots who'll pull us apart. And no, I don't mean random terrorism; I mean civil war."
Carrera and McNamara tactfully refrained from mentioning that civil war in Sumer was potentially just another employment opportunity for the Legion del Cid. Besides, they really did want to win the war in Sumer. It wasn't as if there would be a lack of other employment opportunities, after all, not in the long run.
"Il hamdu l'illah!" exclaimed Qabaash. To God be the praise.
Carrera looked back at the screen. The precincts for Babel had begun to report in. The few initial reports quickly became a cascade. Mentally echoing Qabaash, he thought, Thank you, God or Allah, or whatever name You prefer to go by.
Turning to Sada, Carrera offered his hand. "Congratulations, Mr. President."
The hookers' warbling grew to a torrent of sound to compete with the thunder of slapped backs and smashed crystal.
12/1/467 AC, Executive Mansion, Hamilton, FD, Federated States of Columbia
James K. Malcolm should have been President. Everything he'd ever done in his life, from serving in the armed forces, to taking initially unpopular anti-war and progressive stands, to his series of marriages to increasingly wealthy and connected women, to being photographed windsurfing off the coast of Botulph; everything had been geared to one sole end, that he should rest his feet on the presidential desk and guide the country to his version of a progressive future.
But it had not yet come. He'd had his chance and blown it almost three and a half decades before he'd made his runs. Twice he'd tried. The second time he'd even failed of nomination, despite his latest wife's money and even a substantial portion of his own. He'd been offered the vice-presidential slot and turned it down, instead taking the job of secretary of war, an infinitely more important job than Vice President as long as the country was at war. He had one more chance at the office of President, and SecWar seemed the best place to spend his time before he took that chance.
And to do that, I need to be remembered as the man who ended the war in Sumer. Moreover, I need the extreme Progressives to see me as the man who surrendered. I also need to be seen as the man who disengaged favorably by the Independents. And I need to do that without at the same time looking like I surrendered to the Federalists.
I also need to be the one who oversees final victory in Pashtia. For that is what will be remembered in eight years.
After having been announced via intercom by the receptionist, Malcolm politely knocked at the door to the President's office, then waited patiently to be asked in. When he entered he affected not to notice that the President was rearranging his trousers even as a female intern was reapplying her lipstick.
After a second's more fussing with his belt line the President stood and advanced, offering his hand. The intern slipped out a side door.
"Good of you to come by, James," President Karl Schumann said as the two shook hands by the desk. "Please have a seat," Schumann indicated a couch on the other side of the Trapezoid, as the presidential office was known.
After Malcolm had seated himself, and Schumann had taken a chair opposite, the President asked, "What are we going to do about Sumer and Pashtia?"
"As far as Sumer goes, Karl, we can do pretty much as we like. Their election two weeks ago of a man who has expressly vowed to get rid of the parliamentary constitution we gave them fairly well absolves us of any further obligations there. On the other hand, I am reliably informed that that man, Adnan Sada, is very capable and very ruthless and quite possibly doesn't need any more support from us. Win-win, and we can start pulling out in a couple of months."
"All to the good," Schumann agreed. "What about Pashtia?"
"That one we must fight out," Malcolm said. "It's the only campaign in the war that has strong bipartisan support. Moreover, the last administration, mostly by virtue of invading Sumer and sucking up jihadi money and fighters that would otherwise have gone to Pashtia, made Pashtia look like it was won already."
"And wasn't it?"
"No, Karl," Malcolm said. "With Sumer lost to them, the Ikhwan know they must fight it out in Pashtia or give up all claim to legitimacy. Moreover, the money and fighters that used to go to Sumer will now go there. Worse, they have developed other sources of funding. Worst of all, the programs the last administration tried to use to interfere with that funding we caused to be destroyed to discredit the Federalists in order to regain power. We can hardly use those programs ourselv
es."
Schumann chuckled. "Are you really a man of principle, James? Is that even possible? Never mind; the same media who undermined the last president to get us back into power will completely ignore anything we do that helps us stay in power."
"I'm not so sure of that, Karl."
"Never mind that, either, James. I am sure. The press has a price though."
Malcolm cocked his head, inquisitively.
"The mercenary group from Balboa must go. The editor of the First Landing Times was explicit about that."
"Oh, Mr. President, they're going."
25/1/467 AC, Camp Balboa, Ninewa
Carrera had known what was coming, at least in rough outline. This explained why he had had VIP quarters assigned to Virgil Rivers and a dusty tent with an unmattressed cot to the assistant deputy undersecretary of war, the disgustingly fat Kenneth O'Meara-Temeroso. Rivers, being a gentleman, had, of course, protested. Carrera had answered, "It's the quarters you're assigned or the guard house for both of you." Rivers had then immediately walked in the direction of the guard house before being escorted back to his quarters.
"He'll get even for that, Pat," Rivers said, later that evening, over drinks in Carrera's adobe brick bungalow. The quarters were fairly cool in themselves, made more so by a small and straining window air conditioner and several overhead fans. Rivers was a little surprised to see that his own, temporary, VIP quarters were considerably more ornate and comfortable than Carrera's permanent hooch. He didn't know that the VIP quarters were actually the one's Carrera had shared with Lourdes.
Carrera shrugged. "What's he going to do that he isn't going to do anyway? Don't sweat it, Virg; I'm just getting my digs in first. He is here to fire us, right?"
Rivers just nodded, half saddened and half embarrassed.
"Oh . . . cheer up, for Christ's sake. It isn't like there's much to do here anymore. Sada—he's the Sumeri we've been working with since shortly after the beginning—anyway, Sada wants to hire one reinforced cohort of about two thousand men as a back up reaction force. I'll give him a cut rate, something I would never do for your SecWar. That will help pay the bills. And then I think there may be some private contracts here and there from people who need a little muscle. Have to see how that rolls out, though. In any case, we have enough to get by on until the FS realizes it needs us again."
"That won't be long," Rivers said. "One of the big advantages you've got is your troops are well trained and well equipped, but they're not spoiled. You can get by in a logistically austere environment better than FS troops can. I give it eighteen months and we'll be begging to hire you."
Carrera agreed, "Yes, we need about a third to a half the transport an FS division does. So, again yes, we're better suited to a place—Pashtia, say—without good road, rail or ports. As for Pashtia, do you really think it will take eighteen months?"
"Maybe not," Rivers conceded.
Carrera checked his watch. "Virg, I'm accompanying a Cazador maniple on a raid tomorrow morning at o-dark thirty. It's more of a training opportunity than a serious problem but I really need to hit the rack now. A driver will be parked outside all night. I won't offer you the full hospitality of the camp but I will point out that the O' and C' Club has several dozen women available for hire."
Rivers held his hands up in mock terror, then said, "Tempting, but no thanks."
"Up to you. We should be done by noon or so. I'll see you and his lowliness tomorrow about fourteen thirty; will that suit?"
"Just fine."
* * *
The next morning O'Meara-Temeroso awoke and discovered he had not, after all, slept alone. Filthy, and having no clue about communal washing facilities, he scratched at his obscenely obese and smelly flesh in rage and misery until Rivers found him and drove him to his own quarters and the blessed shower.
Seeing the comfort which with Rivers had spent the night enraged O'Meara-Temeroso even more. After that, the bureaucrat was not only frantically scratching; he was spitting with fury. Rivers made no comment, but merely pointed to the shower and handed the assistant deputy undersecretary of war a bar of harsh but fast-acting flea soap. To add injury to deliberate insult, the soap burned like the devil, especially around the more tender spots.
Thus, when Rivers and O'Meara-Temeroso arrived at the camp and legion headquarters, and were escorted to Carrera's office, the undersecretary was almost apoplectic with anger, rage and hate. Carrera could see a vein throbbing in his head.
The undersecretary proceeded to spit out, "You're fired, you fascist mercenary bastard. Do you hear me? EFF-EYE-ARR-EEE-DEE. FIRED! When your contract runs out in three months there will be no more, d'ya hear me? No more! Moreover, we're going to pay whatever is due you directly to your sponsoring government. You can go to them to beg for scraps from the table."
Click.
Carrera smiled serenely. He admonished, "Please, Mr. Undersecretary; control yourself. Three months, you say? That's no problem. Since you have just announced a material breach of our contract this legion will be gone from Sumer in two weeks. Oh, we'll have to turn over some of our equipment and supplies to the Sumeris; that or burn them. Never fear though. We'll keep track and when you come looking to hire us again everything you've cost us will be added to our fee, with interest from today. Hope you appreciate having to send an additional FS division over here in a hurry even though your administration promised to draw down the war."
The serene smile became positively radiant.
"Good day to you, sir. You can thank General Rivers that I haven't had you shot. But before you leave answer one question; is your name O'Meara-Temeroso because your mother wasn't quite sure who your father was and just decided to split the difference?"
9/2/467 AC, Xamar
The tough part had been coming up with a single sailor from the Yamatan ship, Tojo Hidecki Maru, willing to beg for his life. Twenty-one of the twenty-two captives had simply glared at their captors, returning curses and spit for kicks and blows. Courage was perhaps the most notable trait for the Yamatans. With no other audience to their bravery, they endured for the sake of their ancestors.
One had been younger and weaker. After beating him mercilessly, tearing out his finger- and toenails, crushing his testicles, and applying flame to the soles of his feet, that Yamatan had been turned into a weeping, pleading caricature of a man. He begged for the camera now.
In mid-plea a single shot rang out. In the camera's view the sailor's head exploded in gory technicolor. The body flopped bonelessly to the tiled floor and twitched. The firer raised his rifle over his head and shouted, "Alahu Akbar!"
The camera shifted angle to the leader of a Xamari pirate band. The chief's head and face were covered. He spoke no Japanese and so made his announcement in English.
"You were warned. That was one. We hold another twenty-one of your sailors. Meet our just demands or those will also be killed at a rate of one per day, beginning tomorrow at sunrise. The rate—either of payment or of execution—will not change. If you pay us our just demand of twenty-two million FSD by this evening, the remaining twenty-one will be released unharmed. If you do not pay before twenty days have passed, it will cost you the same amount but all you will receive is the last man and the bodies of the other twenty-one. The choice is yours."
Within a few hours copies of the tape were on their way to Yamato . . . and al Iskandariya news.
12/2/467 AC, MV Uhuru Mercy, off the Xamar Coast
To the four hundred and seventy-four crew of the Mercy there was no choice. Rather, the choices were either continuing on, canceling their mission to the small and impoverished Uhuran state of Mpende, asking one of the world's navies to grant an escort, or hiring armed guards themselves. Abjuring violence, they chose, not without a certain nobility, to remain true to their principles and continue on, without escort or guards, and even with the warning that piracy along the Xamar coast was growing completely out of hand.
There was no large cross—hateful symbol to the
pirates—to mark the ship. Neither was there a large red star. The cross would have been little more than an aiming point but the star would have declared the ship quite off limits.
The Xamari pirates came at night, a night virtually without moonlight. The engines of their three small craft were muffled. They had arms in their hands.
Their boats, too, had been muffled, with rubber inner tube bumpers around the prow to absorb the shock and sound of coming close alongside a target ship. The boats' captains eased back on the throttles as they came alongside, matching speed with the Mercy.
At each boat's prow a man stood with a grapnel and rope. These they swung to a blur before launching them upward. Two of the three took hold immediately. The third took two tries before it found purchase.
As fast as the grapples were set, other men, one per rope, scampered upward bearing rope ladders on their backs. A single good climber, armed but otherwise unencumbered, followed the ladder bearers and stood guard while the ladders were affixed.
It all went very smoothly after that. A dozen men climbed up one rope ladder, fifteen up a second, nineteen up the third. Once assembled on the deck their leader, a son of Abdulahi by a not very important wife, gave his last minute instructions.
"Go forth from top to bottom. Capture all and assemble them here. Kill only when you can't help it or when the infidels disobey. Rape none of them; there will be a fair division of spoils later. Report to me here when you have found the ship's safe. Destroy none of the medical equipment or supplies; they can be sold. Now go forward and do your duty by your clan and your faith."
13/2/467 AC (Old Earth Year 2521), UEPF Spirit of Peace
Going after the filthy capitalists, down below, was one thing. After all, how much sympathy could one summon for a class always eager to underbid each other for the rope that would be used to hang them all? But going after non-governmental organizations, the shaft of Robinson's spear; that was something else again.
