Come and Take Them-eARC (19 page)
Read Come and Take Them-eARC Online
Authors: Tom Kratman
Tags: #Military, #Science Fiction, #General, #Action & Adventure, #Fiction
“But I thought you liked them,” Campbell said.
“Unreservedly,” he admitted. “They’re just the kind of folks I would like on my left or right flank, were we allied, or charging to the rescue if I were in trouble. But they’ve got to be stopped.”
“I don’t necessarily disagree,” she said. “But why do you say so?”
“It’s the lack of civilized restraints,” he said. “Nothing civilized, nothing civil, holds them back. We could live without that cowardly whore, Marine Mors du Char, as safety minister for the Tauran Union, yes. But someone like her would not survive a day here. Perhaps literally not survive and certainly politically she would not.
“I never realized it before we came out here, but this whole country is fucking insane.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a little booklet, indistinguishable from the one Esmeralda had been given, though of course he and Wallenstein’s cabin girl didn’t know of each other’s existence. He opened the book to the first page, then read off, “
Hoy tenemos Balboa; mañana el mundo; pasado mañana el universo
.”
“Do you know what that means?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he supplied, “Today we hold Balboa, tomorrow the world, the day after tomorrow the universe.
“Now tell me, what kind of fucking maniacs, no more than three and a half or—max—four million strong, and not especially wealthy, think they can take a world, or two of them? Or an infinity of them.”
“This kind, I suppose,” she said, very softly. “Where did you get the book?”
“Their recon platoon leader loaned it to me. It’s an issue item, apparently, accountable and inspectable, for all ranks. I suppose I’ll have to return it.”
“Do you really think they think they can take the world?”
“Not them, exactly. They think their political and social philosophy is unconquerable and, once on the road, will inevitably reach the end of the road in charge of all human beings, everywhere.
“And the scary part of that,” a highly agitated Hendryksen continued, “is that unless stopped here and soon, it just might.”
* * *
“
It just might
,” Jan Campbell quoted to herself, as she lay awake under her mosquito net and poncho shelter. Outside the net, hordes of ravenous anopheles slammed repeatedly against the mesh. Past that, the
antaniae
seemed to have cleared out in fear of the presence of so many adult humans.
Thing is, though, I feel fairly at home here, for all that these people are bloody maniacs. And isn’t it strange that I should feel so much at home in the company of this foreign army? It should not be true that I do, especially considering their arcane rank structure and bizarre organization, to say nothing of the trivial value they seem to assign to human life. And yet I do feel hugely at home among them. I value them. Which is why, I think, I take it badly when they show no value for their own lives.
And it is no mean thing to be surrounded by men training, and ready to die, to defend their homes.
Campbell, lying under her poncho shelter reviewed her time with the legion, now drawing fast to a close.
They have almost no set drills. And yet, based on the way the platoon leaders and maniple commander face, analyze, and overcome very new tactical situations, they seem quite innovative. And their innovativeness is enhanced—or exacerbated, maybe—by their frightful willingness to risk losses in training.
I mean
, really
…having the machine guns and antitank weapons fire at the objective from the front, then using the dead ground behind to come upon the “enemy” from almost the exact rear…that was not something we would do; ordinarily. Not in training with live ammunition. And even the militia privates have considerable determination. Witness those two troopies in the other platoon who cleared the objective after every other man in their platoon was declared killed.
Yes, they are not so intricately trained as we are. But they have a fine grasp of keeping things simple and going for the jugular. Admirable and disturbing, both.
Casa Presidencial
, Aserri, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Calderón really didn’t trust the Old Earthers for beans. He didn’t trust the Taurans, either. And for all that the high admiral’s no doubt century-old assistant had been both attractive and charming, he didn’t trust that little bitch either.
But he trusted Blanco, when the latter had informed him the Tauran airships were crossing the shore. He trusted Blanco’s assistant when the latter informed him the Taurans were landing troops just north and south of the highway between
El Carman
and
Rio Clara
, the troops fanning out to what looked to the assistant like defensive positions.
“And very sharply they move, too, Mr. President,” the assistant said. “Real professionals they look like, to me.”
Marguerite, who didn’t know but might well have guessed that the president had his own people out watching, called. “Satisfied now, Mr. President?”
“Not entirely,” he answered. It didn’t surprise him that she could call. Everyone knew the Old Earthers had tremendous technology and power. “Why are they taking up positions so far from the border?”
“I asked the same question,” she said, then proceeded to parrot Janier’s answer.
“Okay,” said Calderón then, “I shall speak within the hour.”
Now, seated in his main office, behind the presidential desk, with the flags of his country and of the office of the presidency upright on staffs in stands behind him, he waited for the director of the production to signal, “
Ahora,
Mr. President.”
“People of Santa Josefina,” Calderón began, “we are under a grave and growing threat. Before I explain that, a little history. Some of it you will know. Bear with me on that; I am also speaking to the world on your behalf. Some you may not know or, if knowing, may not have thought about.
“This part you know: Three quarters of a century ago, the people of Santa Josefina forever rejected the prospect of being a normal state, with a normal army. There were sound reasons for this; our old army had never been large enough—we never could have afforded for it to be large enough—to really defend us from a foreign aggressor. Conversely, it was always available to defend the people from such threats as free speech, freedom of religion, freedom of assembly…
“In short, our army was never anything but a tool of repression at home and a wasteful indulgence as far as foreign affairs went. Add in the costs of the civil wars we fought about every other generation, and…well…good riddance.
“Was this a form of moral welfare, with us totally dependent on the good will of others and their willingness to defend us? Absolutely. No question about it. Remember that as I continue to speak.”
Calderón stopped to take a sip from his water glass. Then, glaring into the camera, he continued, “Now is not three quarters of a century ago. Yet still we are not and never shall be capable of defense against a powerful foreigner with a malignant heart.
“And that foreigner, and those malignant hearts, have grown up right next door. Balboa—they call themselves ‘The Timocratic Republic of Balboa’—has armed itself such that it has become one of the eight or a dozen most powerful armies on this planet.
“Some may say, ‘Well, of course; the middle of their country and their most precious resource is occupied by thirty thousand or more foreign troops.’ And yet, they should need ten times that many? I think not.
“And we, to our shame, have helped them raise this force. Fully eight percent of their soldiers are
our citizens
.
“I can no longer sleep at night, I can no longer keep silent, about this threat that has grown up on our doorstep. Thus, I have made the following request, I issue the following decree, and I make the following demand.
“The world cannot sit still. I demand that Balboa lay down its arms or that it be made to lay them down.
“I request the help of the world community, which assistance the peace-loving Tauran Union has already begun providing, to defend us until the Balboan threat is put to rest.
“And I order our young men, now in Balboan service, to return home or face criminal prosecution.”
Part III
Chapter Eighteen
Discipline can only be obtained when all the officers are imbued with the sense of their awful obligation to their men and to their country that they cannot tolerate negligence. Officers who fail to correct errors or to praise excellence are valueless in peace and dangerous misfits in war.
—General George S. Patton, Jr.
Fort Guerrero, Balboa, Terra Nova
The annual training period was over. Now the cohort stood in a “C” formation, the maniple first centurions out front, and Sergeant Major Cruz, gold tipped stick under his left arm, facing them. They reported to him in sequence.
The report from the maniples having been taken, Cruz faced about and saluted Legate Velasquez with the right hand, reporting, “Sir, Second Cohort, Second Tercio is formed and ready.”
The legate returned the salute, then commanded, “Post!”
Cruz marched off to the left side of the formation, not far from where Campbell and Hendryksen stood. There he came to attention, facing toward the cohort front. The maniple first centurions did likewise, marching off toward the left of their units, while the tribunes commanding strutted out from the right.
Once Cruz was out of the way, Velasquez ordered, “Soldiers to be recognized, front and center.”
Two small groups came forward, one each from the left and the right. On the left were two guards, plus Carillo, he who had failed to show up for training, and another boy—Private Salazar, aged seventeen. Salazar marched behind Carillo and apparently without a guard. Carillo wore leg irons and shuffled forward awkwardly. Salazar walked proudly, unrepentant and unrestrained.
Salazar had violated tercio policy just that very morning by washing his maniple commander’s vehicle at another tercio’s wash rack despite specific orders not to do so. Since that other tercio was “Caesar’s Tenth,” them being assholes about it was only normal.
The commander of the Tenth had chided Legate Chin on his unit’s lack of discipline. Chin had, in turn, very mildly chewed out Velasquez.
Once the prisoners were in front of him, and their charges read off, Velasquez announced Carillo’s and Salazar’s punishment; for Carillo the thirty days at half pay in the disciplinary platoon previously decided on. Salazar was given three days. Both sentences were to begin at 0600 the following morning. Carillo would spend the night in the tercio
guard house, Salazar, however, was free until it was time to report to serve his sentence.
Some minor medals for achievement were given to three soldiers from the other group. Then Velasquez called the cohort back to attention and turned the formation back over to his sergeant major. Once Cruz was in position and salutes exchanged, Velasquez, himself, took a place behind the formation.
Cruz put the cohort “at ease” and read off several more things from his clipboard. Among these were time rewards—rare, monetary rewards—rarer still, promotions, and elevation to the reserve echelon from the militia or regular from the reserves.
Last of all he read, “By personal and direct order of the commanding officer—Manuel Velasquez-Boyd, Legate, Infantry, Commanding…Private Salazar-Luis, Emilio F.—for initiative and determination beyond that normally expected of a soldier of the Republic in time of peace—is elevated from the militia to the reserves. Private Salazar is further raised in rank from Private to Private First Class. In addition, PFC Salazar is put on paid pass, for three days, effective tomorrow at 0600.” Every man present, excepting only Campbell, understood that Salazar’s pass covered the period when he would have otherwise been serving his three-day sentence in the disciplinary platoon. The soldiers laughed at their commander’s little joke. She asked Hendryksen, who also got the joke, what had just happened.
“An officer just showed some judgment and some moral courage,” he answered. “How often does that happen?”
“Cohort!” The five first centurions, turning heads over right shoulders, echoed, “Maniple!”
“Until seventeen hundred hours,” said Cruz, “which means you’re to have your hair cut and your brass and shoes polished by then, motherfuckers… DISSS…missed!”
* * *
The legion actually had a mess dress uniform. It was white with gold piping. It wasn’t an issue item but was available and authorized for individual purpose and wear. Most senior officers and centurions along with a few of the middle rankers bought a set. For the troops the dress uniform was created by the addition of a lightweight, olive-colored jacket to the normal undress khakis.
That’s what they wore and, Campbell had to admit, it was better than, say, in the Anglian Royal Artillery where, if a senior officer and a junior officer showed up at an event dressed the same, the junior had to leave and change.
Since Campbell and Hendryksen had spent so much time with the cohort, they were invited guests at the farewell banquet’s head table. Campbell sat between Legates Suarez and Chin, while Hendryksen, on the left side of the head table, was situated between Cruz and an even more senior sergeant major, Arredondo, nicknamed “Scarface.”
Behind them, in racks, stood the Eagles of 2nd Legion: Gold, Second Infantry Tercio: Silver, 2nd Cohort: Bronze, and below those, as if on guard themselves, the five blue guidons for the cohort’s five maniples.
The dinner began with a recitation of the oath of enlistment for the legion: “…against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” After that, the tercio chaplain—he was a Roman Catholic priest, and a reserve warrant officer—blessed the meal, the eagles, the guidon, and the cohort. Then one of the junior privates of the cohort solemnly read off the names of those of the tercio who had been killed in action…or in training, and their honors, since its parent formation had been founded, about fifteen years before. The list was fairly long. The men bowed their heads as the names and circumstances were cited.
Velasquez made a short speech, as did the other commanders. The CO invited Campbell to say a few words, which she begged off from, citing crappy Spanish. At the legion commander’s order to “Take Seats!” the men of the cohort shouted their motto “
Improviza! Adapta! Gana! Ataque! Ataque Ataque
!” Improvise, adapt, overcome, attack, attack, attack!
Palacio de los
Trixies
, Ciudad
Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
Downstairs and around the corner, the courtyard fountain splashed while raucous trixies scurried away from the fight.
“I tried to warn you, Raul,” said Carrera, head outthrust on his neck, glare on his face, and his fingers turning white from his grip on the arms of his chair, “that this was not the time to show the slightest weakness.”
Parilla didn’t answer right away, his eyes locked in a hate-filled glare at the television screen on which was frozen the countenance of Santa Josefina’s Calderón. “Son of a bitch,” Parilla muttered. “You could have come to me and asked me why we needed what we had, but nooo…you went to our fucking enemies.”
“Well…he wants his soldiers back, does he?” Carrera asked, rhetorically. “I think we can arrange to send him a few thousand at least.”
Parilla held up a restraining hand. “You mean send an expedition to Santa Josefina? Maybe plunge the place into guerilla warfare? No. Or, at least, not yet.”
Patience almost at an end, Carrera shouted, “Why the fuck not?” He stood up, walked to the television, and slapped it, setting the thing to teetering dangerously. “Why the fuck not? That motherfucker has opened up our entire eastern flank. Half my plans for defense are in a ruin now. Do you fucking hear me, Mr. President? We’re fucked! Fucked!”
“Calm down,
Duque,
” Parilla said, with heat.
“I’m…sorry, Mr. President,” Carrera forced out. He sat.
“Now what’s this going to do to us?” Parilla asked.
“It’s so fucking brilliant I can’t even say,” Carrera admitted. “Leave aside that it opens up a flank I’d considered secure. I’ll find a way to close it again. But this is going to put pressure on damned near everybody we do business with to stop. Everyone in the international community of the very, very caring and sensitive is going to jump on the bandwagon: ‘Disarm those beasts in Balboa.’ And mark my words, that very phrase is going to be used.
“And the border provocations Fernandez warned us of? They’ll be starting soon. Very soon. We can expect embargoes, fund raising concerts, condemnations in the world league, a veritable orgy of denunciations.”
The heat in Parilla’s voice cooled to sadness. “And all of that, ultimately, leads to the war I wanted to avoid.”
“Well…to be fair,” Carrera admitted, “I was speaking out of my ass. I don’t know that anything you ordered me to do or not do made a trixie’s shit of difference. Maybe it did but…I don’t know that it did. And I kind of doubt it.
“And besides, maybe
this
is the war that has to be fought. Maybe when the other side has martialed everything it has against us—from the World League to the UEPF to the Tauran Union to the shitbird idiot actors and actresses of Wilcox’s Folly—and they either lose to us or win in the worst way, with casualties that discredit all the above—”
“You’re speaking of good to the world,” Parilla observed. “Fuck the world; I only care about Balboa. That’s why I wanted to avoid the war in the first place.”
“Raul…I’ve said it before. I don’t think we can avoid it. But…that doesn’t mean that there aren’t better and worse ways of fighting it, for greater and lesser goals. Neither does it mean that your ways won’t give us the better way of fighting it and the greater goals.”
Parilla looked intently at Carrera, searching for truth in his face.
Are you blowing smoke or sincere? I used to be able to read you better but the more time you spent with us the murkier your thoughts became.
“I mean it,” said Carrera, which pretty much settled that.
“What do you want to do now?” Parilla asked.
“Step one is ready,” Carrera said. “Has been for a while. When it began to look like the Taurans were going to start fucking with us along the Transitway border, I started putting some things into place to humiliate them. Those are ready now.
“Step two is going to be a little harder. We’re going to cull the legion of Santa Josefinans. Those cullings are going to fall in on the two
Valle de las Lunas
tercios for reorganization and training as guerillas. I’m going to have the training center on the
Isla Real
send some cadre for that, and maybe do a little recruiting in Cochin. They were probably the best guerillas in our history, so ought to have something to teach.”
“Don’t send them into Santa Josefina any time soon,” Parilla cautioned.
“No,” Carrera agreed. “But when we need them I want them ready.”
“I concur,” Parilla said.
Carrera relaxed his fingers from the arms of his chair. His left hand waved at the TV screen, still bearing Calderón’s frozen face. “But that son of a bitch is going to get his soldiers back, eventually, just as he demanded.”
Forming that left hand into a loose simulacrum of a pistol, index finger pointed toward space, “And that clever bitch overhead is going to pay for the trouble she’s caused.” The palm flattened. He swept it across the general direction of the Transitway Area. “And so are those oh-so-fucking clever Tauran bastards.”
Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa, Terra Nova
“Oh, those stupid fucking bastards,” said Captain Jan Campbell. She held two sheaves of papers loosely, one in each hand. Her lower lip was quivering as if she were about to cry.
That
was nearly enough to induce panic in Hendryksen.
“What is it?” asked Hendryksen. In reply all he got was an inarticulate shriek and a blizzard of white papers being thrown across the office. This was followed by Jan putting her head down onto her arms on her desk. From the shaking of her shoulders, Hendryksen was quite sure that “about to” had become “oh my God the world is going to end Campbell is crying.”
He raced across the floor and began recovering the sheaves she’d scattered. A little shuffling of his own and he had them back in something like proper order. He began to read from one sheaf, labeled,
Campbell Report:
“The Legion has a developed Staff function, based primarily on historic Sachsen principles, which in their turn closely mirror Old Earth German doctrine. Staffs generally are significantly smaller than is the norm in the South and East and generate far less routine work, operating as a norm in wartime mode. This is a general characteristic of the Legion, in fact—its active elements sense and display no appreciable difference in attitude between “peacetime” and “wartime.” How much of this comes from the threat we present is arguable. It is this observer’s suspicion that they would be exactly the same if we and the Transitway sank into the sea.”
“That’s about right,” Hendryksen whispered. Then he shifted his attention to the other sheaf and read silently from it:
Chief of Intelligence Directorate’s Version of the Campbell Report:
“The
Legio
has a minimal Staff function, organized on an inefficient basis, with few key staff officers and little capacity for the wide engagement with units under command.
Legio
headquarters will thus have a minimal understanding of the posture and readiness of the units at their disposal and little free capacity to make the transition to combat operations.”
“Pure bullshit,” said the Cimbrian, loud enough for Jan to hear.
“That’s not…the…fucking worst…of it,” came from the desk.
Campbell Report:
“The
Legio
maintains a small Regular component, which leads and administers a larger Reserve component, which in its turn leads and administers the wider Militia component. This permits both rapid mobilization of formed units, each successive mobilization wave building coherent units from cadres from previous waves, without creation of new or scratch units and formations. While a fully mobilized militia force would be in no way comparable to the effectiveness and flexibility of an all-Regular or mobilized Reserve formation, it would be considerably more than an untrained mob and would have a common skill base and extant unit cohesion through the tercio system.
