by Tom Kratman
Fernandez, bound to his wheel chair, had objected strenuously. “Sir, you cannot trust them. They will twist what you say. They will lie, they will make you appear to be a liar. They will edit and splice to put words in your mouth that you never said. When it is shown on television you will find yourself answering questions that were never asked. Please don’t do this.”
After reflection, Carrera had overridden his chief of intelligence and security, even after Fernandez brought in Professor Ruiz, chief of propaganda, and Maya Delgado, a distant relation of Cadet Delgado and the CEO of the largest national news service in the country, to plead his case.
“It’s up to you gentlemen,” Carrera had said, “and you, too, Mrs. Delgado, to protect me and the country from that kind of journalism. So do it.”
As part of that, Fernandez insisted on making separate tapes, from three hidden cameras that could see both participants to the interview. Also he had the furniture moved around a bit. Then he, Mrs. Delgado, the Balboan newsie, and Ruiz had drilled Carrera numb on some of the tricks the press could and would use.
Wally Barber, the interviewer sent out by the TNN, was a black Anglo-Secordian news correspondent with fierce white whiskers. The maid met him and the camera crew at the door, then showed them into the living room where he and Carrera shook hands amiably. From there they went to the office where a single camera was set up facing Carrera only. Behind Carrera stood a flag of Balboa in a stand, plus the golden eagle of all the legions, temporarily removed from its secure cage at the Estado Mayor, in the City. There was no flag behind Barber, though there was a bookcase with many distinctive titles contained on its shelves. The Balboan newsie, Mrs. Delgado, sat slightly behind and to the left of Barber.
A red light started blinking on the camera. The cameraman said, “Damn. I’m sorry, Mr. Barber, the tape’s run out on this one. It was those shots we took of the City and the countryside on our way here. It’ll just be a minute while I run down to the van and get a new tape.”
“That’s all right, Phil. Duque Carrera and I can use the time to get acquainted, off the record. Would that be all right with you, Duque?”
From behind Barber, Mrs. Delgado shook her head violently. What she knew, along with Barber and the cameraman—but not Carrera, some things in the prep they’d missed—was that the video camera had a built-in fifteen minutes’ worth of recording time. This was an old trick for the unwary; get the subject of the interview to chat without thinking for fifteen minutes so that the unwitting answers could be used for questions that had never been asked. Carrera told Barber, “I think it might be better if we wait for your assistant to return with the tape.”
Hiding a snarl, Barber answered, “As you wish, Duque.” You may avoid that trap. But I’m a professional while you’re just an amateur with a second-rate newsie as a handler. I’ll still make you look a fool.
When the cameraman had returned, and the tape had been installed, Barber began his questioning. The camera stayed focused on Carrera, as it would throughout the interview. “Duque Carrera, people in the Tauran Union are . . . well, frankly, worried. They’re worried over the growth of Balboa’s armed forces, over the increasing tension you have created by your violent provocations of Tauran forces here in Balboa, over the trade in illegal drugs which passes through Balboa. What would you tell them to calm their fears?”
“In the first place, Wally,” Carrera replied, “to the best of my knowledge and belief, no drugs are passing through Balboa. I know you find that hard to believe, because you still have a drug problem in the Tauran Union, but that’s your problem, not ours. As came out during the coup launched with Tauran Union aid against the democratically elected government of Raul Parilla, we fought a mostly secret and very bloody war with the drug lords of Santander and broke them.
“In the second place, I join in grieving with the families of those two pilots killed recently. They did not have to die. None of my people wanted to kill them. It was, sadly, just an accident of the kind anyone could predict when Tauran forces are continuously sent to impinge our borders and threaten our troops. And lastly, Balboa’s regular armed forces are, as a percentage of our population, no larger than those the Tauran Union maintains. Also, in absolute numbers, you outnumber us by about one hundred to one in regular forces.”
Barber made a strong effort to keep a supportive and friendly look on his face as he said, “And yet, Duque, Santa Josefina—your eastern neighbor—has no armed forces. Don’t you think they have a right to feel threatened. You have—after all—soldiers, tanks, artillery, a reasonably modern air force.”
Carrera shook his head, “Perhaps . . . if we had anything but friendship and kinship for Santa Josefina, they might have cause to fear. Although, if you were to ask one of your own military, they would tell you, I’m sure, that Balboa hasn’t the logistic capability, the ability to move supplies, to support any operations in Santa Josefina. Certainly not against Tauran interference.
“Moreover, whatever the government of Santa Josefina might say, the people there don’t fear us. After all, they send us their sons to serve in our legions by the tens of thousands.”
“Can you conceive,” asked Barber, “of any circumstances under which you would send Balboan troops to Santa Josefina?”
“No.” Which was not entirely honest of Carrera. He fully intended to send troops into Balboa’s eastern neighbor, as soon as politically practical. He intended, though, to send Santa Josefinan troops.
“Back to the world trade in drugs, for a moment,” said Barber. “It is said that you have financed this huge army for Balboa by taking control of the drug trade. Your wife, during the attempted restoration of democracy to Balboa some years ago certainly admitted that you took money from the drug lords. Isn’t it true that you do, in fact, take money from known drug criminals?”
“Yes. Or rather demand it, war reparations so to speak. They fought us in a dirty campaign of terror for the right to move drugs though Balboa. They lost, and that was part of the price they had to pay for peace. And I might add that I’ve done something which neither your drug enforcement agencies nor that of the Federated States has never succeeded in doing. Balboa’s actions have measurably raised the street price of those drugs in the Tauran Union. You should thank Balboa for that.
“As for an attempt to restore democracy?” Carrera guffawed. “You don’t really believe that that cabal of old, corrupt oligarchs the Tauran Union tried to foist back on us was a democracy, do you? That’s preposterous.”
The interview continued for hours, interrupted by lunch in the kitchen. The redundancy of the questions sometimes strained Carrera’s patience, which was most—not all—of the reason for the redundant questions.
This was not, however, the way the tape was aired, a few days later.
“This is Walley Barber, for One Hundred Minutes, speaking to you from the Casa Linda, Balboa’s labyrinthine and secret military headquarters.”
Curiously, although the camera had been focused on Carrera the entire interview, Barber appeared as a face, not just a voice. There was also a blue Tauran Union flag behind him, although none had been present at the interview.
“General Carrera, people in the Tauran Union are . . . well, frankly, worried. They’re concerned that you have the ability and the will to attack Tauran interests, even to conquer your neighbors. Do Taurans have reasons for these fears?”
Carrera’s image answered, “They might have.”
That camera’s view cut back to Barber’s flag-framed face. “Can you conceive of circumstances under which Balboa would attack . . . say, Santa Josefina, the Transitway Area, or even the Tauran Union?”
Again Carrera’s image answered for him, “Yes, it’s certainly possible.”
Back to Barber. “General Carrera, really you are—though you’ve denied it repeatedly—intimately involved in the world drug trade, aren’t you?”
“Balboa’s actions have measurably raised the street price of drugs,” Carrera adm
itted.
Only Barber and his regular crew knew that he had made thirty-two takes, back in his studio in the Tauran Union, of what he said next. With an admirable mixture of shocked disbelief, outrage, and disgust, he said, “Well, at least you admit to your complicity.”
An Tauran viewer might not, probably would not, know or care that all Carrera had admitted to, even on the doctored tape, was to accomplishing the Tauran Union’s Drug Enforcement Administration’s mission for them, raising the street price of illegal drugs. Framed by Barber’s question and comment it was made to sound as if Carrera had admitted to a great crime.
Barber continued, “And if the Tauran Union tries to restore democracy to Balboa, eliminate the military threat your armed forces pose, and combat the drug trade?”
“That’s your problem.” The warped interview continued, ranging back to the military threat posed by Balboa to the Tauran Union.
“You do admit then, that your soldiers fired on an unarmed Tauran helicopter engaged in a routine training mission, killing two Tauran soldiers.”
“To the best of my knowledge and belief,” answered Carrera. “An [in]cident of the kind anyone could predict.” Barber’s crew had had to use a voice synthesizer and a minor bit of computer wizardry to alter the last statement.
In their living room Lourdes and Carrera watched the airing of the interview with disgust. “Patricio, I know you wouldn’t have said any of those things.”
“Wouldn’t and didn’t. I should have listened to Fernandez.”
The phone rang. “Carrera.”
“Sir, I’ve watched the interview. I did warn you.”
Carrera grunted.
Fernandez’s voice seemed almost chipper. “However, all is not lost. We might even be able to turn this to our advantage.”
“Really? How?”
“I made tapes of the actual interview, you know. Hidden cameras; that Secordian bastard never knew. With your permission, I’ll release them to all the large broadcasters. Colombia Latina, a good part of Taurus and the undeveloped world, maybe even some in the Tauran Union will believe the real version.”
“Maybe they will. I want something else, too.”
“Sir?”
“Taurans will not believe we would be really angry over airing a true interview. Therefore, they will expect no retaliation against the bastard. On the other hand, if we eliminate him, at least some of them will believe we are really angry and that the interview was doctored. So get him here. I don’t really care how. Then we’re going to try the son of a bitch and maybe hang him for attempting to foment an aggressive war. Check with the legal staff. If it is already a crime to foment war under international law we’ll use that. If not, tell the legislature I want a retroactive law to make it illegal and a capital crime. Then get him.”
A few hours later, when the actual interview had been broadcast on Balboan TV, then rebroadcast on CNN, the Casa Linda received a curious call. Lourdes answered the phone initially, then, perplexed look on her face, called for her husband.
“Carrera?”
“This is Janier. I hesitate to say this, but my congratulations on the way you trapped that son of a bitch.”
“General Janier?” Carrera asked, disbelieving.
“Yes, and if you say I made this phone call, I’ll deny it. But all the same, well done.” Janier hesitated briefly, undecided as to whether to go on. “There is one other thing. I’ve told the Tauran Union Security Council that I consider it unwise at this time to continue the policy of confrontation with Balboa. Until I am ordered differently, I am suspending all Mosquitoes and Green Monsoons.”
“It is kind of you to tell me, General.”
“Just remember this, Duque . . . I’ll still carry out my orders, whatever those may turn out to be.”
“Forewarned is forearmed.” Now it was Carrera’s turn to pause. “General, do you think it would be possible to meet, to see if there isn’t some way that, as soldiers, we can defuse this mess?”
“Perhaps. Do you have access to a boat?”
“Yes. Private and public, both.”
“I will meet you then, at sea, no more than four guards.” Janier brought up a mental image of the map of Balboa. “Four miles north of the airfield at Isla Real. Say . . . three days from now?”
“Done.”
PART IV
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Diplomacy is the art of letting someone else have your way.
—Sir David Frost
Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa, Terra Nova
With the increase in tensions, Janier had been spending a lot more time down in the Tunnel than in the more open, airy, and civilized situation at Building 59. His mistress, a local girl, wasn’t a bit happy about it, either. But between military demands emanating from both headquarters, his wife, and the mistress . . .
Well, there are only so many goddamned hours in a day.
Of course, the good thing about all that, he thought, was, At least my frigid, useless bitch of a wife never knows where I am at any given time, which allows me more time with Isabel. He looked over at the sleeping woman and thought, May as well admit it; I’m fond of her. Another shot at it, though, or back to work? Janier looked at the woman again, then down at his apparently disinterested penis, then over at her, with particular attention to her resplendent breasts. Then finally, and hopelessly, he looked back down again. You miserable bastard, he thought, generally southward, years, decades, getting into a position where I could get nearly any woman I want into any position I want and now you fail me? At last I know why they call you a “prick.”
With a sigh the general stood and began to dress.
He wasn’t at Building 59 merely for the woman, in any case. In less than three days he had a meeting with Carrera. He wanted ammunition for that meeting.
Thus dressed in normal Gallic khakis, he looked wistfully at the reproduction Napoleonic marshal’s uniform he kept in the woman’s apartment. If I make real peace, there goes any chance of earning that, I suppose. On the other hand, it beats being cashiered if I fight and lose.
There was something else, too, something Janier could barely admit to himself and could never have admitted to anyone else. He’d begun to sense it during the naval battle between one of the legion’s submarines and his own country’s navy, a battle that had ended with a Gallic physical victory and a Balboan moral one. I just don’t have the nerve for this, not to gamble like this. Oh, that knowledge comes hard.
Ah, but what about the extra twenty or twenty-five years of youth Wallenstein promised me? That caused him to look more wistfully at the woman on the bed than he had at his marshal’s uniform.
“Well, what about it?” he asked aloud, causing the woman on the bed to stir and to adjust the sheet downward, exposing to view those magnificent breasts. “It’s only a couple of decades, not immortality . . . and I was always willing to die young for glory. Although . . . if ever there was an argument, or a pair of them, for twenty-five more years of youth, she has those arguments all sewed up.
“Oh, well, speaking of magnificent breasts, that Anglian female in intel has some information for me that perhaps de Villepin has been keeping under wraps.”
Through the windows could be seen a very large freighter, rising as water entered the Florida Locks. Inside, Campbell could smell the scent of Janier’s mistress hanging about him. It was a female thing, both the smell and the ability to detect it. Few if any men could have.
Wonderful, thought Janier and he was only half thinking of Jan Campbell’s chest. So de Villepin has been holding out on me, has he?
Janier sat at Jan’s own desk while she stood to one side, hands clasped behind her back. She was in uniform, and dressed and made up even more severely than that required. It wasn’t enough to hide or distract from all the things that made her such an attractive woman, not least her brainpower.
On the desk, in front of him, Janier had the original
of the report she and Hendryksen had prepared, the report that had been extensively altered by de Villepin’s directorate.
“Can this be true?” he asked her. “Are they really this good?”
“They’ve got all kinds of flaws and weaknesses,” she said. “The rank and file, for example, are not especially well trained. But they are willing. They are far more morally fit for war than we are; they won’t blanch at the thought of casualties and in their entire country there is no person like TU Safety Minister Marine R.E.S. Mors du Char the Fourth—”
“That pussy!” Janier exclaimed.
“Quite,” she agreed, “and everyone knows it, and yet the silly twat still exercises her baleful influence. But never mind that, sir; the point was that marginally trained or not, the rank and file are willing to bleed and the country is willing to let them. And their leadership is every bit as good as I’ve said, on a par with our own or, in many cases, superior.”
“What else?” Janier asked. In response, Jan walked around the desk and pulled something, a bound file, from a side drawer. She opened the file and handed it to him. He read:
Balboan Legion VXI, the Air Forces . . .
Skipping ahead, Janier read:
The Artem-Mikhail 82, also called Mosaic D, is an ancient jet fighter of Volgan design, highly modified to operate in a special environment with some effectiveness. It is geared to fly at extremely low altitude, going high only for brief engagements at targets of opportunity. From above, its radar signature is so low that, combined with clutter from the ground, it is nearly undetectable. From below it can be picked up by its IR emissions. However, its very brief moments of vulnerability when operating over its adopted jungle home make a successful engagement with IR seeking SAMs most unlikely. The Mosaic D can carry just over 1/2 ton in ordnance (bombs, rockets, air to air missiles, 37mm cannon ammunition) which it can deliver with an acceptable degree of accuracy.
