Come and Take Them

by Tom Kratman

  Said Stalker to Czaurderna, in basic German, “Moritz, tell me again why we’re not allowed to shoot the Frogs?”

  Moritz Czauderna, six feet tall, mild belly brought on by the normal Sachsen diet of noodles, lard, and beer, with his skin reddened and sloughing off from the harsh Balboan sun, answered, “In the first place, be careful speaking even German around the general. He’s been known to pretend he doesn’t understand languages he can speak perfectly well in.”

  Czauderna stretched, awkwardly, as if the long stint of sentry-go were hurting his back.

  “Shitty bastard,” Stalker observed.

  “Indeed. But in the second place, it’s just sort of gone out of fashion.

  “Fortunately,” Czauderna added, “fashion is cyclical, so maybe someday.”

  Ignoring the MPs, Janier descended into a tunnel dimly lit with blue light. The floor was mostly short platforms followed by a few steps. Occasionally this pattern was broken by longer platforms from which side corridors radiated. His and Malcoeur’s footsteps echoed off of the concrete walls as they walked. At length they came to a longer platform with a pair of side corridors. Turning down the right-hand one, they came within exactly thirty meters to the most secure conference room in Balboa. Even Carrera’s was not so secure.

  Janier’s entrance caused the first officer to see him to announce his presence. Chairs scraped the floor as officers of all services stumbled and scurried to come to attention. The Gallic general swept them all with a baleful eye. It was his way.

  Without a word Janier walked to his chair. “Begin,” he ordered. Immediately, the screen on the far end of the conference room, opposite Janier’s own chair, was lit up by a projection screen linked to a laptop computer.

  His underlings had rehearsed this briefing many times. It could be fairly said that they’d spent more time rehearsing the briefing than in actual planning for the proposed operations the briefing was intended to discuss. Janier did not know of this. Neither did he much care. He was a General Officer. He gave orders. Lesser beings worried about the details.

  Though now promoted to brigadier general, de Villepin was still the intel chief, the C-2, for the TUSF-B. “C” referenced “combined,” military groupings from more than one nation. Hendryksen was there with him, as an assistant. Jan Campbell had been pointedly noninvited.

  Stepping to the podium, de Villepin opened a loose-leaf notebook labeled to indicate its contents were ultra-secret. It had come from a shelf in a walk-in vault in the intel office in the Tunnel and would return there following the briefing.

  At de Villepin’s first word, “Mon,” the screen behind him changed to a map of Balboa. By the time he got to “General,” the map had changed to show every major formation of legion troops within the country.

  “I have never been entirely satisfied that we know every legion formation,” said de Villepin. “I am satisfied that we know of every formation with a caserne, a headquarters, and a flagpole. This includes that new formation of gays”—the entire conference room, including Janier, erupted in laughter—“that the locals have raised.”

  “It’s a measure of their desperation,” said Janier.

  “It is, of course, mon General,” said Janier’s public affairs officer. “But it does represent a public relations problem for us.”

  Janier looked at the PAO as if he were stupid or diseased or both.

  “Gays, sir?” The PAO said it as if he couldn’t believe Janier didn’t understand the problem. “They’re a protected class. There will be a lot of good public relations for the Balboans for this, whatever their reasons and however silly real professionals know those reasons to be.”

  “Fuck ’em,” said the general.

  “But they like that,” said de Villepin, raising another barrage of laughter.

  Forcing the grin from his face, Janier made a hand signal, basically twirling his right hand, index and middle finger joined and extended, for de Villepin to get on with it.

  The C-2 went down the list of known formations, interspersing key terrain details as he did. The really key ones here were First Mechanized Corps and Third Infantry Corps.

  The former was dangerous because it contained the overwhelming bulk of Balboa’s heavy forces, two short legions’ worth, with hundreds and hundreds of tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, armored personnel carriers, self-propelled guns, and the like. Tenth Artillery Legion was also based there, and that had further hundreds of guns and rocket launchers. A reserve formation, like almost all of the rest, First Corps’ cadre was stationed at Lago Sombrero, just off of the InterColumbian Highway, and with a fairly good hard surfaced airfield intersecting the highway and bisecting the base. There was also a huge ammunition supply point near Lago Sombrero that was worth capturing if only to ensure that Balboan resistance couldn’t be extended indefinitely.

  Located near Herrera International Airport, which was key to the efficient buildup of Tauran forces in Balboa, Third Corps, of two infantry legions, was considerably less powerful than First Corps, but also much closer, hence equally dangerous.

  Second Corps was the city corps, basically. It had dozens of small casernes all over Ciudad Balboa. Headquarters, however, was in the old Comandancia, which was reachable.

  There was also a known Balboan Fourth Corps, the center of mass of which was the city of Cristobal, on the Shimmering Sea, which had formations all along the highway between that city and Ciudad Balboa.

  Some independent tercios were covered, though some, like the Forty-fourth Tercio of Indios over in la Palma province, could be generally discounted, while others, notably Fifth Mountain and the bulk of Fourteenth Cazador, in Valle de las Lunas, facing Santa Josefina, were a definite threat to that place.

  “And speaking of Santa Josefina, it seems that the other side is combing its ranks for troops from there. Whether that is a defensive move or an offensive one I cannot say.”

  “Obviously it is offensive,” said Janier. He looked pointedly as his PAO. “Is that not right, Colonel?”

  “Oh, most certainly,” the PAO agreed.

  There was actually a Fifth Corps, which de Villepin could be forgiven for not knowing about, since it was based out on the Isla Real, anyway, and was openly composed of the school and training formations. He discounted those training formations as, without some substantial preparation time, they would not be combat capable. For that matter, even with that time, they had no chance of intervening on the mainland once the TUSF-B had established air and naval supremacy.

  “And speaking of air and naval forces, they are strictly fourth rate,” said de Villepin. “But even a rock can be dangerous . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Janier. “Once we have the major airbases and airports, they won’t have anywhere to fly from. C-3?”

  “Mon General?”

  “You have planned for a disarming attack on the air forces, have you not?”

  “Of course,” the C-3 replied. “We further intend to strike their two major naval facilities, out on the big island and at Balboa Port.”

  “Very good,” said Janier, telling de Villepin to continue.

  “Lastly, and it is a political question beyond my ability to deal with, General, is the Castilian Battalion under Colonel—though we should probably call him ‘Legate’—Muñoz-Infantes, at Fort Williams.

  “That’s all I have, sir. I will be followed by the C-3.”

  The C-3, Combined Operations Officer for the Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, moved gracefully to the podium. “Sir, the purpose of my portion of this briefing is to get your approval for the course of action we will use to change the government of Balboa. We begin with a list of forces available to us.”

  A slide showed on the screen against the wall. It showed the nine infantry, one commando, one engineer, two artillery, one tank, and two aviation battalions the TUSF-B had been built up to, so far. A side box showed the composite wing from most of the air forces in the Tauran Union.

  “In additio
n,” said the C-3, “we have been promised reinforcement by air with the Anglian Para Brigade, the Army of the Republic of Gaul’s Para Brigade, reinforced with a commando regiment, a Mountain Infantry Brigade each from Sachsen and Tuscany. The Anglians have further promised the shipment, mainly by sea and in advance, of an air assault infantry brigade, as soon as proper billeting can be found for them. In the interim, we’ll be getting out own airmobile brigade. We will also be reinforced beforehand by four aircraft carriers, two Anglian and two of ours. The Zhong have indicated they will be sending one also, not to take part in hostilities but to evacuate their civilians. And, before you ask, sir, no we have not informed the Zhong of anything. But they can read the probabilities and they are perfectly capable of tracking something as big as four aircraft carriers even with their own, substandard, satellite reconnaissance capabilities.

  “Moreover,” said the C-3, “a short division of Marines will set sail two days before we strike, and will arrive here, mostly by assault transport or fast merchant vessel, within one week.”

  “Composition of the Marines?” asked Janier.

  “One commando—think ‘brigade,’ mon General—of Anglians, with Haarlemers attached, one brigade of ours, and the Santa Martina regiment—really just a big battalion—from Tuscany. Command remains to be worked out.”

  “A week before they arrive? Toss it to the Anglians as a sop,” said the general. “It will mollify their pride and keep them from whining too much about more important commands going to us.”

  “Oui, mon General.”

  “What about the two enemy regiments out in Valle de las Lunas?”

  “Marciano will be ordered to strike across the border to deal with them,” said the C-3. “He’s got more than enough force for the purpose.”

  Janier thought about the oversized brigade or perhaps short division they had covering Santa Josefina. Finally, he nodded satisfaction. Yes, they should be able to take out a mere two or three active companies in Balboa’s eastern province.

  “Now, how are they all getting here, and where are they going?”

  The C-3 nodded. “As mentioned, sir, the Tauran Union Security Force-Santa Josefina, or TUSF-SJ . . . I hope we’ll be forgiven but the Operations cell has taken to calling it Task Force Jesuit . . .”

  “That works,” agreed a grinning Janier.

  “Yes, sir. Phase I: Airstrikes on all Balboan air forces and naval forces.” The projected map showed drawn explosions over about twelve places. “The Jesuits strike across the border . . .” The projected map swirled and then stabilized showing a split arrow lancing out from somewhere in northwestern Santa Josefina to the two casernes for Fifth Mountain and a chunk of Fourteenth Cazador. Again the map went fuzzy before clearing up with two more arrows coming in from outside the mapped area. “Anglian Paras to Lago Sombrero. Ours to Herrera International.” Five more, but much thinner arrows, began twisting through the city. Two more did the same toward and through Cristobal, while two solid ones aimed directly for Fort Williams. “Our Mar Furioso side based battalions engage and eliminate the headquarters for Second Balboan Corps and its subordinate legions. On the Shimmering Sea side, two battalions fix and isolate the Fourth Corps’ Headquarters, while two eliminate the Castilian traitor battalion. Once that is done, those last two move to eliminate the Fourth Corps’ various headquarters and casernes.” The map fuzzed and swirled and reappeared with seventeen more explosion marks, though these were in green. “We have also planned a number of strike missions for the commandos to eliminate the Balboan radio and television system.”

  The C-3 paused to fill his water glass from a picture just inside of the rostrum from which he spoke. Once he had, and had taken a brief sip, he continued, “At this point, mon General, it’s worth explaining the end state of Phase One. We began with the Balboans able to mobilize about twenty-five or so regiments of perhaps eighty battalions of ground gaining maneuver troops, well armed and modestly well led. We have eliminated the leadership of all of the regiments, legions, and corps, and for most of the battalions as well. At the same time, in terms of manpower, we will have physically eliminated only about five battalions’ worth.

  “It is my suggestion, if it can be arranged, that the Balboans be given enough warning to mobilize their second wave, their reservists. That will make our job tougher though we will still have more than sufficient local superiority to eliminate those increased forces. Since the reservists provide the middle leadership for the enemy force, we are talking about getting rid of the equivalent of twenty to twenty-four battalions, and leaving the remaining rabble totally without leadership. In the long run, though it will be initially higher casualties, I believe this would give us a shorter war and fewer men lost.”

  “Is the end any less certain if we do not provide the Balboans that warning?” asked Janier.

  “No, sir,” admitted the C-3.

  “So it’s a chance we don’t really have to take?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then forget it. Maximum secrecy. Maximum surprise.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The C-3 continued speaking as chart after chart, slide after slide, was presented and removed. Meanwhile Hendryksen, stomach upset after the first two hours and in absolute psychic agony now, thought, There ought to be a test for senior commanders. Hook them up to a polygraph and make them sit through a long, long meeting or briefing. If they don’t show signs of physical distress . . . never, never, never let them command; they’ll waste too much time.

  At length Janier was satisfied with his staff’s presentation. There were weaknesses in the plan, surely. Notable among these was that combined arms was, in several places, highly problematic. That weakness, however, was balanced or more than balanced by the staff’s diligence in keeping friendly fire incidents down by keeping away from each other’s units that didn’t speak the same language.

  He indicated he had seen enough. Then he gave further guidance. “This is one of the most complex operations the Tauran Union’s armed forces have ever undertaken. Indeed, it is the first real war operation the TU has ever undertaken, on any scale, without being under the leadership of”—Janier let a note of contempt creep into his voice—“the Federated States. It will not work unless properly prepared and rehearsed. For that reason, also to keep the Balboans on edge, and also to develop in them a sense of inferiority, we are going to dress rehearse this to the Nth degree. Beginning next week I intend to start ordering our companies, battalions and brigades to practice moving to the very assault positions they will occupy prior to the invasion. This will be done without prior notice . . . either to our men or—and my word is law on this—the Balboans or anyone who might inform them.

  “We’ll call the small exercises ‘Mosquitoes’; the larger ones ‘Green Monsoons.’

  “Further, since nothing works that the commander does not personally check, these exercises will also allow me to check our readiness in person.”

  One of Janier’s subordinates, Oberstleutnant Meyer, from the Sachsen tank battalion, had a question. “Sir, what are our priorities? General purpose training for general problems . . . or preparation for the specific mission for the invasion?”

  Janier scowled. “Train for the specific mission. Obviously.”

  Typical boche.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I call Christianity the one great curse, the one great intrinsic depravity, the one great instinct for revenge for which no expedient is sufficiently poisonous, secret, subterranean, petty—I call it the one mortal blemish of mankind.

  —Nietzsche, The Antichrist

  Building 332 (Barracks, Company B, 420th Gallic Dragoons), Fort Muddville, Balboa, Terra Nova

  “Mosquito!” cried the company duty NCO. In other armies he might have been called a CQ, for Charge of Quarters, or an U von D, for Unteroffizier vom Dienst. “Mosquito! Mosquito! En tenue! En tenue!” Kit up.

  Storming along the tiled corridor, the duty sergeant beat his baton against the troops
’ doors to help roust them out. Troops began spilling from the rooms, some grumbling, a few swearing against their commanding general. All struggled to pull on shirts, trousers and boots in the anarchic hallway of the barracks.

  Even in the TUSF-B, few NCOs lived in the barracks anymore. Instead, they were typically off in family housing. Those few who did still reside with the rank and file, albeit in private rooms, took charge, chivvying some soldiers to the motor pool to precheck and start the tracks, ARE-12P infantry fighting vehicles, and still others to the arms room to draw heavy weapons and breach blocks for the IFVs. Still other soldiers carried bulky company equipment outside of the barracks to where the tracks would pull up for loading. An immaculate staff officer consulted his stopwatch near the main entrance to the billets.

  Already the battalion supply and transport platoon was pulling up with pallets of ammunition, four heavy trucks about half-filled with small arms, guided antitank missiles, belted 25mm in staggeringly heavy cans for the dragoon’s cannons. Shouting, sweating, groaning under heavy loads, tearing their flesh on all the sharp projections found on military equipment of all types, from all countries, gradually at first, then faster and faster still, Company B made ready to roll to their assault position just northwest of the main hospital.

  A military police car showed up, flashing lights. For a real attack it wouldn’t be there, the MPs having other things to do and noncombatant life becoming much less precious once the bullets started flying. For now, though, the company couldn’t move without them, lest somebody get hurt playing footsie with the heavy armored vehicles.

  It only took a couple of hours, which really wasn’t bad considering it was the first time, before the unit commander, Captain Bruguière, gave the order: “Roll.” Then, flashing MP in the lead, the company surged down the street, hanging a left to go out the main gate before reaching Building 59. The MP waited just past the gate, letting his flashing lights warn off civilian traffic. Once the company’s last track had passed, the MP raced to get ahead of them and then farther on to the next intersection.