Come and Take Them-eARC (29 page)
Read Come and Take Them-eARC Online
Authors: Tom Kratman
Tags: #Military, #Science Fiction, #General, #Action & Adventure, #Fiction
“I am Senior Centurion Balthazar Garcia. You are shit. Introductions being finished, we will get on with business.”
Garcia began to walk slowly from one side of the group to the other, distaste shining in his features. He did not smile. He spoke dispassionately as he walked the line, commenting on each of the women. “Too scrawny…You’ll want to see the docs about getting a breast reduction, swabbie; those things are going to get in the way…No arse…Legs too skinny…Nose? Or is that a bus stuck on the end of your face, girl?…Stringy hair…When did you last douche, pigpen?…Bimbos. You! Bitch! Dry your silly fucking eyes. That’s right, sniveler. That’s right, crybaby…”
It was a ritual that hadn’t changed, couldn’t have changed, since long before the days when some Roman centurion had first taken charge of a group of new recruits. It made a sort of cruel sense, actually, though none of the women understood it at the time. There was only so much time—which is almost the same thing as only so much money, but harder to come by—any army could afford to spend on basic training. The kind of rule that Garcia was establishing cut down on the silly questions and complaints. That saved money and time. Since the time and money thus saved could be spent training soldiers to fight and live, it also saved lives.
It is often better to be insulted than dead.
Even so, Franco took it hard. These recruits weren’t raised for this. They were, most of them, gently raised, raised to be loving wives and devoted mothers. This was just fucking cruel. There had to be a better way.
Then, too, the best thing about beating your head against a wall is that it feels so good when you stop. A moderately kind word from someone who mostly tells you that you are animate pond scum means more than the same word from someone who routinely says that you are God’s gift to the world. It was deflation of the currency of praise.
Mentally, Franco went over the introductory speech he’d worked out with Balthazar: Now, is there among you tramps even one bitch gutsy enough to duke it out with me? Two of you? How about ten of you? Come on, surely ten of you plumped up sluts can outweigh me by a factor of five. What? One man is five times better, pound for pound, than you twats? And you think you’ve got what it takes to be legionaries? My fucking ass. You cunts are just garbage.
Interestingly, for reasons he’d no doubt explain later, Garcia used none of that. Instead, he just went on with the insults for quite some time.
Once Garcia had finished engraving their faces on his memory he shouted out. “Franco?”
“Here, Centurion,” Franco answered.
Take charge of this garbage.”
“Yes, Centurion.” Franco then walked from behind the formation and took a position in front of the new meat.
“I am Centurion, Junior Grade, Rafael Franco,” he announced. Showing a smile neither friendly nor unfriendly, but ripe with anticipation, he continued, “You are going to be seeing a lot more of me than you are going to like over the next several months. Just to be up front with you, I do not like you. I do not care about you. You are just things. Someday, perhaps, unlikely as it seems right now, you may become more. For now, you are using up oxygen that you don’t deserve. Keep your mouths shut and your ears and eyes open and we might—just possibly—learn to get along. Cross me and…well, don’t.”
“Now, you silly little girls, I know you are far, far too stupid to know your right from your left. Take my word on it; that bus over there is on your right. When I give the command ‘Right, Face’ I want you to turn those stupid looking things you hang in front of what passes for brains in the direction of the bus. Got it? Right…face.”
* * *
Though it started with the La Platan, the entire bus gave a collective groan and said, simply, “Oh, shit.” They had arrived at Camp Botchkareva.
The camp looked more like a prison than a school. It consisted of fourteen large metal huts, some open fields the women couldn’t guess the purpose of, and about fifty or sixty tents. At the edge of the camp the perimeter was defined by a fence of triple concertina, rolled barbed wire, with two rolls along the ground and one resting above those two. Guard towers and searchlights were at each corner and the solitary gate.
“Off the bus, twats,” said Franco. With the help of a few others, they pushed the women into a kindergartenish double line, that being about the limit of their ability at the time. Then Franco led them through one of the metal huts. There, their clothes and suitcases were taken from them and locked in tiny double-locked compartments. They left the hut bare-ass naked, with only a wallet to call their own.
Franco saw the intensely beautiful one arch her back to show off her bare breasts.
Oh, puhleeze. Don’t you have any idea what it means to be in my unit? Silly girl.
There were a few women in the group who seemed…interested.
Oh, shit,
thought Franco. How fucking stupid can we have been? We forgot about the lesbians. Damn, damn, damn.
“Get your fucking eyes off me,” the La Platan told another woman, bunching her fists. That woman made some apologetic sounds and backed off, keeping her eyes carefully away.
Then came the buzz cuts. That, more than most things, struck Franco as cruel. Even a raped woman doesn’t become less of a woman by being raped. She may be a thing while it’s going on, but at least it’s a fully female thing. Taking their hair away, though…that’s about half as bad a removing a breast.
Has to be done of course; they’re going to be too filthy for hair for a long time to come.
Whatever he felt inside, it was a smiling Franco who gave the order, “Buzz ’em, Pedro.”
He kept smiling, even as some of the girls, looking in the mirrors, began to cry.
Before they were issued any clothing, the women were marched into some mass showers, where they placed their wallets along a shelf on the way in. Most everyone in Balboa took cold showers, at least sometimes. It was no big deal in a place so
hot
. The water for these showers, it turned out later, was specially chilled to be
icy
. The women all screamed when Castro turned on the water.
As the women left the showers, they were asked for their sizes. Each woman was then handed one sports bra, in approximately her size (Marta was a tight fit even in the biggest size they had; the man passing out the bras made a note of it), two pair of boxer shorts, physical training shorts, two pair of socks—not stockings—and running shoes. It wasn’t such a bad outfit; except for the boxers.
Franco gave the women a very few minutes to dress. Then he lined them up again and led them to their barracks. This was a long low arching metal hut with few amenities to speak of; three bare light bulbs and forty pairs of bunk beds. On each bed were a thin, useless pillow, a pillow case, two sheets, and a very light and unnecessary blanket.
This is so going to suck,
thought the centurion,
and not in a nice way.
“Gather ’round, girls,” Franco ordered. The women, all of them still in something like shock, clustered in a circle. “Sit down.”
He began to pass out red felt-tip markers. When everyone had received one, Franco began to speak.
“Okay. I want you to take your markers and I want you to draw a dotted line just like the one I am drawing on my wrist.” Franco drew a six inch long series of red dots lengthwise down his left wrist. “Everyone done with that? Good. Now draw another one on the other wrist…Done? Good. Let me see.
Very
good. Now there’s no excuse.
“You see, women threaten suicide and even act it out rather frequently, but you fail so often to carry through that I am forced to question your sincerity and competence as a sex. Therefore…”
Franco turned toward the door. He tossed a package of razor blades to the floor on his way out. “Trujillo!” he called over one shoulder. “Collect up the markers in that box and put them by my office door. Anybody who wants a razor blade, just help yourself. ‘Cut along dotted line.’”
Chapter Twenty-eight
The minstrel boy to the war has gone
In the ranks of death ye will find him
His father’s sword he has girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him.
—Thomas Moore, “The Minstrel Boy”
The medium
is
the message.
—Marshall McLuhan
Janier’s Office, The Tunnel,
Cerro Mina
, Balboa, Terra Nova
I am not a good man,
Janier said to himself, in the confines of his office and his brain.
Never have been. I am selfish, self-centered, arrogant, overbearing, abusive toward subordinates, and even occasionally treacherous. But what the politicians are demanding is so wrong on so many levels that even
I
have problems with it.
That it’s intensely stupid only makes it worse.
So what do I do? I can refuse the order to recommence the provocations. Then I am relieved and they put in somebody else—someone probably not as competent; whatever my failings, I am, at least, competent—who does their bidding and loses badly.
I suppose I must go along. At least, I see no good coming from refusal…unless I simply defected to the Balboans with my entire force. Tempting…oh, it
is
tempting. But I am not humble enough for that, so no, I can’t. And besides, the troops might not go along and I’m sure most of my senior officers would not. So forget that one.
But what I can do is what I agreed to do. I can give Carrera the warning I promised.
Oh, what the hell? Détente here was never more than a forlorn hope, anyway.
He picked up the phone on the desk and dialed Carrera’s private number.
Fuerte
Guerrero, Balboa, Terra Nova
After a call from his commander, Ricardo Cruz left the Centurions’ Club with no more than a lightened walk. He’d drunk little—he rarely drank much—and that little only for sociability. He certainly wasn’t remotely drunk.
From the club he went straight to Second Cohort. There, upstairs, in the operations office, he found all the cohort’s officers and centurions assembled in the conference room. At the long table Legate Chin and (since he was at nonmobilized rank) Tribune Velasquez hunched over a map, along with Velasquez’s Ia, or operations officer, and the Second Cohort executive officer. Fingers jabbed at the map, while querulous voices traded words. Finally, Chin turned from the map.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have just been notified of a change in the rules of engagement.” Chin let the words hang in the air for a few moments. “Effective tomorrow, at 0600 hours, no more Tauran incursions outside of their designated treaty limits will be tolerated. Each parcel of land surrounding their areas has been divided up. The Taurans have been warned. When next they violate our territory, we fight.”
Again Chin halted briefly. His next words were spoken with a degree of disdain. “However, our leaders have decided that a general war to expel the Taurans would be unwise at this time. So, if—when—they enter our area of responsibility, it will be our task to expel them, almost alone. Other units will mobilize, but will neither assist us nor attack on their own. The same holds true if the Taurans move into some other unit’s area of responsibility.”
He said with chagrin, “Second Tercio if called, gets 42nd Artillery Tercio in support. Which is better than nothing, though it only has twenty-seven guns. And here may be some diversion for you, or for any of us. Carrera says that some undefended point within Tauran-controlled land will be seized also, if possible. And, he says, too, the Aviation Legion will scramble to keep the Taurans’ air off of our backs. Although they will not fight unless the Tauran Union Air Forces get involved.
“I know you don’t like it,” Chin said. “Maybe neither do I. But it has this justification. If we can prove that we can stand up to the Taurans man to man and cohort to battalion, maybe, just maybe, they’ll decide we’re ‘too hard’ and go home. The
Duque
and
Presidente
Parilla think it’s an acceptable risk for peace with dignity and freedom. What we think doesn’t matter.
“In any event, forget about sleep tonight. We worked out hidden mobilization points for all our reservists years ago. Tonight, I want you to check out your target folders from the Ic and recon each of these mobilization points. Go!”
Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa, Terra Nova
It was long past lights out, with the troops in bed and the headquarters and the post under the control of the field officer of the day, or FOD, for the Tauran troops. That officer, an Anglian major by the name of Key, Christopher Key, was trying to catch a few winks before trying to type the evening log in grammatically correct French. Since his French was actually quite poor, he relied on his NCO for the evening, Sergeant Major Hendryksen, who spoke and wrote quite decent French, to actually translate the log.
“Sir,” said the sergeant major, after knocking politely. “Sir, there’s a Balboan tribune at the door.”
“Well, see what he wants,” said Key.
“Okay, sir.” The sergeant major left. When he returned he looked puzzled and worried.
“What did the tribune want, Sergeant Major?”
“I’m not quite sure how to put this, sir, but…well…he just wanted to give us a list, sir.”
“A list?”
“Yes, sir. It’s from their
Estado Mayor,
the Balboan general staff. Ummm…sir, it’s a suggested ammunition load for our next ‘Green Monsoon.’ All live ammunition, they suggest.”
“Arrogant bastards.” The officer threw the list in the trash.
Approximately twelve hundred feet above Florida Locks, Balboa Transitway Area, Terra Nova
Montoya’s was, so to speak the “full monty” of Condors, the latter being gliders, some models of which were auxiliary propelled, some were drones, some recon, some light courier, and some antiaircraft. They were all highly secret, except the totally nonstealthed versions used ostensibly for training on other aircraft.
* * *
The Condor was an attempt, so far a successful one, to create a low performance aircraft stealthy enough be essentially indetectable by either Federated States, Tauran Union, or United Earth Peace Fleet means. It had been tested against all three, and against the UEPF by conducting overflights of their base on Atlantis Island. Performance was important, of course, but cheapness, to Carrera’s
Legion del Cid,
was even more important. The nice thing about the Condors, the impressive thing, was that they were quite cheap.
They were built around a spun carbon fiber and resin shell and tail which projected out struts for the wings. That shell and those struts were “lossy,” lossiness being a chemical property that referred to the conductivity of a material. In layman’s terms, the shell and struts absorbed radar energy and converted it to heat.
Around the shell and struts were built up—rather, sprayed on—layers of polyurethane foam. Within the foam, which grew less dense the closer to the outside it was, were tiny convex-concave chips. The effect of this was twofold and complimentary. The foam, fairly tough stuff even in fairly low densities, tended to act as an energy manager for incoming radar, with the low density outer foam radiating back too little radar energy for the receiver to notice, the next inner layer radiating back no more than that, and so on.
The chips, on the other hand, attempted to do randomly what the Tauran Union and Federated States spent hugely on to create deliberately. They pointed in all directions, such that radar hitting them was typically bounced anywhere but the direction it came from, while their shape tended to either concentrate and diffuse, or just diffuse, that energy.
The most expensive part on the basic design was the bloody gold-plated pilot’s canopy.
After manufacture, all Condors, along with replacement bottom sections, were subject to testing for radar signature. Some, the random process being, after all,
random,
were not stealthy enough. Of these some were stripped of their polyurethane and canopy and had a highly radar reflecting coat of paint put on. That was one way of getting an enemy to simply not worry about them. Others, conversely, had the canopies stripped but were modified with auxiliary power and turned into Global Locating System and TV-guided, high explosive and/or propaganda-carrying, drones, then packaged up in shipping containers for launch via lighter than air balloon.
Most of those shipping containers were already in the bottom of one or another of the container ships the legion owned and ran. Every month a few or a few dozen more might be added.
There were weaknesses, of course. Landing tended to ruin the stealth qualities of the underside, since useful wheels were right out. There were some techniques to mitigate that, but they were always a bit iffy. Speed and payload were both quite low. For the auxiliary power versions, a thin tube ran along the top of the wings, to mix hot gasses with cool air, then let them out where they were least likely to be detected. From above, that could sometimes be seen. Though even there, the Condor
was so slow that it really existed in a different tactical and technical universe from the aircraft that would have wanted to engage it. There was a certain amount of safety in that.
* * *
Montoya’s Condor
was as stealthy as design and randomness could make it. Under auxiliary power, Montoya had the engine shut off to make himself completely silent to the mostly sleeping Taurans below. He looked occasionally at his low light television, or LLTV, screen. As expected, there was no unusual activity around the locks. Even the swing bridge was in its normal, retracted position.
Montoya veered northwest, heading for the airfield, Brookings Field, that was a next-door neighbor to Fort Muddville. He lost a little altitude in the process, about a hundred feet, but was able to pick that up and a hundred or so more, from the mini-mountain wave surging over the hills southeast of the field. In the course of that he swept over the barracks that supported the field. Other than somebody getting a blowjob while leaning against one of the stuccoed walls of the barracks there was nothing.
The Condor’s wing dipped as the glider rolled and turned gracefully toward nearby Fort Muddville, home base of, among other units, the Gallic Army’s 420th Dragoons. With no ordnance aboard, and only a half load of fuel, the glider sank slowly as it flew to the southeast. Even so, by the time Montoya reached Building 59, the administrative headquarters of the Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, his altitude had dropped once again to about eleven hundred feet. It would have been less but for a chance updraft that pushed him a
little
higher.
“Oh, oh,” Montoya said, looking at his screen. “What have we here?”
The LLTV screen showed a line of fourteen turreted infantry fighting vehicles, ARE-12Ps, pulled up next to what Montoya knew was Company B. Having studied Fort Muddville’s map extensively and diligently, he knew all the barracks’ usages.
As Montoya watched, another four vehicles—
Crap, tanks!
—swung around a corner and joined the IFVs, moving past the latter to take point. One of the IFVs moved out of its position, fifth in order of march, trundled along the concrete road, and slid in behind the tanks.
Montoya waited until he had flown on an additional two kilometers before restarting his engine. Confident that he’d have power to climb, if needed, he ducked into a jungle-shrouded valley and made a radio call to Second Corps headquarters, at the old
Comandancia
.
Second Legion Headquarters,
Fuerte
Guerrero, Balboa, Terra Nova
The Second Legion’s field officer of the day at the
Comandancia
read the hastily scribbled down message from Montoya. Then he checked B Company’s known invasion mission—known because it had been rehearsed dozens of times on Green Monsoons and Mosquitoes—against the cohort and tercio that was responsible for repelling them. He also checked the units that were to assist that tercio. Then he made a phone call to the homes of Legates Chin and Velasquez. Chin then made his own call to Carrera.
Second Tercio Headquarters,
Fuerte
Guerrero, Balboa, Terra Nova
“It’s us, all right,” announced Legate Chin, “Or rather, it’s you, Velasquez.”
In the otherwise still night, and with the surging waves on the nearby coast for backdrop, Sergeant Major Cruz’s voice arose, chivvying the legionaries of Second Cohort through their preparations. The men had come with their rifles and machine guns, likewise ammunition for same, but there were other weapons—mortars and antitank guided missiles—and other ammunition—grenades, mines, rounds for the rocket grenade launchers, mortar shells, shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles—that had to be passed out. Some of that, or more of that, was hidden farther forward, in secret caches.
Cruz’s voice was insistent and demanding, and loud enough to be heard over wide swaths. Yet still it retained a sense of calm purpose, which sense both Chin and Velasquez knew would be imitated by the cohort.
By ones and twos, tens and twenties, the reservists and militia of the cohort made their appearance. Some came on foot, others by automobile. In one case thirty-nine of them showed up on a commandeered bus. The driver of the bus was Eleventh Tercio but, as he said, “What the hell? Same army, same legion, same enemy. You guys got a rifle and some ammunition to spare? Mine’s all at home.”
The rest of the tercio was being mobilized as well, along with a hefty chunk of the combined force. Yet it was Second Cohort whose job it would be to pin the Taurans in place and destroy them. The rest would only join if the Taurans reinforced.
* * *
Carrera arrived by helicopter a few minutes before Second Cohort began its march to the south. The chopper touched down on the parade field, as close to the formed maniples as the pilot thought safe. Carrera made a hand signal to the pilot to lift off and move away. The pilot assumed, correctly, that that meant far enough away that the motor and rotors wouldn’t be heard.
Carrera absolutely
hated
making speeches. As he trotted from where the helicopter had let him off to take over the formation from Velasquez, he thought,
No coward’s ever been made brave by a speech, though plenty of brave men have been demoralized by them. Ah, what the hell, the boys deserve to know that what they’re doing matters.
