The Lotus Eaters (70 page)

"Worse . . . not sure we legally . . . can . . . intervene. Or what Volgan Republic do. Most men . . . still Volgan citizens.

"And this thing . . . this coup . . . very advanced. Have word now other president, not Parilla, going to speak tomorrow morning, nine A.M. Shit."

"Can I speak to those who aren't Volgan citizens?" she asked. "Please, Legate. Please. I have to save my husband."

"You speak," Samsonov agreed, then, after a minutes' reflection, shouted out something in Russian to the staff duty officer, waiting outside his office.

"Give twenty minutes," the Volgan said. "Then I bring you to mess."

* * *

The faces that met her at the mess were stony. She looked at them and was just certain they wouldn't listen to her, that they just didn't care. In fact, she was wrong. The problem wasn't that they wouldn't listen, or didn't want to help, but that Samsonov was the father of the regiment and, without knowing which way he would go the officers and
praporchiki
didn't want to open their great Volgan hearts to a hopeless cause.

Still, whatever Lourdes thought, she gave it her best. As she passed men sitting in the small officer's mess, she greeted those she knew by name or sight. A name spoken here, where she knew it, a warm touch on a shoulder where she didn't. She had a feeling that whatever Samsonov had said to his staff duty, it had included at least a truncated version of recent events. They'd had that version, she could sense from their faces and somewhat shamed expressions.

No sense in repeating what they know
, she thought, so she didn't. Instead taking a position next to Samsonov at the head table, she reminded them of all they owed Carrera. She spoke of what she knew of the raid on Santander and how he had saved one of their companies. She explained that, no matter what the politicians might promise them, they could have no faith in those promises. She moved them, she could see, but not enough. Finally, she walked over to where Menshikov, one time translator and aide to Carrera, stood.

"Miro" she said, giving him the nickname he would have had had he been born Balboan but with the equivalent first name, Vladimiro. Menshikov had been promoted to Tribune II and had taken command of Chapayev's company. "Miro, where would you be now, if not for my husband."

Menshikov couldn't answer. He hung his head in shame, thinking,
In a dead end job in a dead end country . . . that or really dead and probably unburied in Santander.

Samsonov, sitting at a table with his face cupped in his hands, looked thoroughly miserable. Then, briefly, his face lit up as he seemed to have an idea.
Sure. Why not. Fuck 'em.

He lifted his chin from his hands and spoke, "You know, gentlemen, this is really a mercenary organization. All through history, regiments like ours have been noted for their lack of discipline, their almost democratic structure. I really don't know what I could personally do if, say, Menshikov here decided to take his company and help Carrera against my orders. Or even if
a maximum
of one other platoon decided to go with him . . . oh, say, yours, Chekov. Why, if even one of your tank sections elected to disobey orders and go with them—Dzhugashvili, are you paying attention?—it would only further the point. Why, in an undisciplined organization like ours, I wouldn't be surprised if my own Operations Officer decided to take the lead." Samsonov looked pointedly at that man, Rostov. "And, of course you would need to have the cooperation of one of the anti-aircraft boys in case the Taurans decided to try to stop you from the air."

"But if you gentlemen decided to disobey orders, and take Mrs. Carrera to the nearest television station, and capture and hold that station while she broadcast an appeal for help from the legions, the rest of the regiment could hardly be held to blame. But, of course, you couldn't do any serious planning for such an eventuality with me sitting watch over you. Besides, it is quite impossible for you to do such a thing, undisciplined as you no doubt are, before the President speaks at zero nine hundred, sharp."

Samsonov consulted his watch. "Oh, my" he said. "I have summary punishment to administer in just a few minutes. My wife's cat is going to be given extra duty and have his rations docked for failure to catch a mouse that's been pestering us. So I must be hurrying along to take care of my administrative duties. Good day to you, gentlemen."

Lourdes didn't understand a word that was spoken, as it was all in Volgan. But as soon as Samsonov left, Menshikov let out an "Urrah!". Officers clustered around him and Lourdes, smiling and laughing. The ones mentioned by name by Samsonov, or implied by their commander's name, smiled more ferociously than the others.

Lourdes hadn't ridden in an armored vehicle since Artemisia's wedding. Then she had been afraid of soiling her dress. Now she just wanted the damned thing to move and to hell with her clothing. Menshikov had put her in his own
Ocelot
, ordering her to keep inside until further notice. Occasionally she heard gunfire, barely audible over the engine's roar. Twice she had seen the turret turn and a shower of smoking, stinking cartridge cases pour onto the floor of the track. Finally the track came to a stop, jarring her in its suddenness. The back doors opened. Menshikov again told her to stay put until further notice. Then he, with his RTO, dismounted.

The Volgans had discussed whether or not to demand surrender from any Balboans who might be guarding the TV station. They had decided there just wasn't time. "If we knew who was in on this and who was duped," Menshikov said, "we could ask for surrenders. As is, we just can't know and can't take the chance."

This, since the Garzas and their men were guarding the studio in all innocence, was the stuff of tragedy.

Assaulted suddenly and unexpectedly by three tanks, thirteen Ocelots, two rapid firing, four barreled rolling anti aircraft guns and sixty or so dismounted infantry, the platoon of the 7th Tercio hadn't lasted long. They might not have fought at all except that the Volgans who dismounted were all white and wore somewhat unfamiliar uniforms. They looked, if anything, Tauran. The Balboans hadn't even had the chance to call for help, it was over so quickly. Then again, they hadn't had even the possibility of being attacked mentioned to them. Nonetheless, after tank guns, lighter cannon, and explosives had blasted out windows and walls to let shrieking Volgans in, the men under the two Garzas, such as remained standing, had given a fair accounting of themselves. Not all the bodies carried out of the studio were Balboan, in the end.

Shortly after he had left her, Menshikov returned to the Ocelot. "Mrs. Carrera, it's over. Come now, quickly."

Lourdes dismounted and saw a few Volgans being treated for minor wounds. A couple of others were plainly dead. Others still were dragging Balboan bodies out of the way, perhaps twenty or so of them. Lourdes began to cry as a squad of Volgans clustered around her to shield her from even the chance of fire.

Menshikov led Lourdes upstairs. A number of civilian clad Balboan television workers were cowering on the floor when they arrived in the studio.

"On your feet, all of you!" Menshikov shouted. "Who's in charge!"

A wide eyed man, fortyish, identified himself timidly as the station chief.

"I want your hairdresser and makeup man," Menshikov said. "I want anybody necessary to run this studio. And I want any file shots you have of any of the projects to help the people Carrera and Parilla have started." Menshikov pointed towards Lourdes. "She's going to make a speech and if I think for a minute you're not doing everything you can to make it perfect, I'll hang you by your balls 'til they drop off. Clear?"

The studio chief's eyes grew wider still. He nodded emphatically, but said, "But the President of the Republic—well, President Rocaberti, anyway—is supposed to speak soon."

"Not over this fucking channel, he's not. Now move!"

The studio head began to issue orders to his people.

The President leaned back in his chair while camera makeup was applied to his face. His mental rehearsal of his coming speech was interrupted by an aide.

"Mr. President, we have received a report of shooting, a lot of shooting, over by the Channel Seven studio."

Without moving from his position the President asked "Did you investigate."

"Yes, sir. I tried calling the studio but the phones were out. Over the satellite link, when I was able to use that, they said some drunken soldiers were firing their guns into the air in celebration. The person I spoke to seemed very nervous though."

"Well, send someone to investigate."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Make up job finished, the President turned to face into the waiting camera's. Television workers huddled over monitors behind the cameras. He began to speak:

"Citizens, countrymen, it is my sad duty to . . ."

"What the hell?" shouted the man who was overseeing Channel Seven's monitor. He pushed his chair back as if struck. The President's eyes opened wide to see Lourdes' face on the screen. She looked very sad.

Forgetting where he was, the President shouted "Get that damned bitch off the air." The man leaning back in his chair just shook his head helplessly. "No way," he answered. "It's originating at the Channel Seven studio. I can't control it from here."

The President turned to the Seventh Legion Commander. "Then shut the studio down."

"Too late, I think," answered Pigna.

"Not too late to limit the damage," Rocaberti insisted. "Send a full regiment, if that's what it takes."

Nodding, Pigna left to issue the necessary orders.

* * *

Looking into the camera, Lourdes began to speak:

"Most of you won't know me. I'm Lourdes Carrera,
Duque
Carrera's wife. I've come to talk to you today about two men. One of these I love like a father. The other is my husband, Patricio Carrera."

"As much as I love them, I must tell you I know these men love all of you more than they love me. How do I know this? I know the heart of the man I share my bed with. I know how much time my husband gives to me . . . and how much he gives to you.

"You know too, in your hearts. Think back a dozen or so years. Where were we? Our economy was bankrupt by a hostile foreign power. Our unemployment was almost universal. Our cities were in ruin and chaos. Crime and the Federated States ruled our streets. Many . . . too, too many, of our best young men were killed or crippled by an unprovoked invasion.

"And who caused that invasion? Don't bother to blame the Federated States; they acted in their own interest, as they always do. Do not blame the shark for being a shark, he knows no other way. Blame instead the man who would speak to you on the other channels. Blame too those selfish, immoral advisors and helpers who abetted him in his scheme to reintroduce colonialism to Balboa.

"Now, of course, the scars of that time are healed. Crime is almost gone from our country. Our people are back to work. More fine young men have risen to take the place of those fallen in battle. Our cities are clean and safe. The future has never looked brighter for us.

"Despite troubles, you are happier than you have ever been. At least, those of you who have always been shut out by the oligarchs are happier. Plainly, the oligarchs themselves were displeased with your new prosperity. They feared that if you weren't starving, you might be thinking . . . thinking of them and the stranglehold they wish to have over your lives.

"How many of you have jobs now better than any you ever dreamed of? Better places to live? How many have children in free schools? How many of your children have been treated in clinics without charge? How many have sons and daughters being trained even now for the bright future ahead? Even for those who don't have these things yet, you have at the least the hope of them . . . a hope you never had before.

"And who gave you back these things? Do not look to Rocaberti or his co-conspirators. They would have you all groveling in the dirt—you, your children, your children's children—through eternity if they could.

"Only two men had the vision and the love to help you to these things: Raul Parilla and Patricio Carrera, my husband. Please join me in prayer for them, wherever they are, if they are even still alive. For, you see, last night evil, wicked men came and took them away from you. I, myself, barely escaped with my children, mine and Patricio's, and my life."

Lourdes paused to shed a tear. "I . . . I had to kill a man to bring you this word."

"But do not just take my word for what these two great men have done for you. Look for yourselves."

Lourdes' voice continued, but her face was replaced with a series of shots of newly built schools, clinics treating children, and factories full of busy, smiling, often sweating, workers.

From outside the studio came the sounds of more heavy gunfire as the Presidentially ordered 'investigation' reached the Volgans' perimeter. On screen, before a nation, Lourdes visibly shuddered, but continued even so "They accuse my husband and General Parilla of running drugs. I know, and you know, that could not be the case. Yes, they take money from the Santanderns, a lot of money, all of which they use for your good. But the operative word is
take
. They give us money because they're afraid of
Presidente
Parilla and my husband. No one in the world has fought harder against the drug lords than has Patricio Carrera. Listen to the words of this foreign born officer. Foreign born he may be, but he is Balboan by blood given if not by blood received." The Camera panned to show Menshikov sitting next to Lourdes.

Still speaking, she asked "Tribune Menshikov, would you please tell the people where you were and what you were doing on the first night you were in battle with
Duque
Carrera?"

"Why, we were in Santander, Mrs. Carrera," Menshikov said, "fighting to put an end to the terror the Santandern drug chiefs had inflicted on Balboa . . ."