The Lotus Eaters (71 page)

* * *

As Lourdes and then Menshikov spoke, all over the city units of the Seventh Legion began turning themselves, and command of themselves, over to local forces, even as those local forces grew with reservists and militiamen showing up armed and accoutered for battle. Before noon, the first elements of Third Legion were crossing the demarcation line that had separated out Rocaberti's Old City from the rest of Balboa, killing all who resisted and stood in their path.

Janier's face was ashen, in stark contrast to the blue and gold of his unofficial dress uniform. "What went wrong?" he asked, of nobody in particular.

"Two things," de Villepin said, his voice low with worry, "Muñoz and the woman. We might have succeeded if either of those had gone right, the woman kept incommunicado and the Castilian kidnapped and killed, with the other side being blamed for it. As is . . ."

"Can we extract the two companies of commandos at the Gatun River?" Janier asked.

De Villepin shook his head in negation. "When he wants to move fast, Muñoz plainly can. The commandos are trapped and the pickup zones we could have used for helicopter extraction under heavy mortar fire. And, after we tried to have him kidnapped, I doubt he'll be in a reasonable mood."

"Don't you have a contact there?" the general asked.

"The Castilian shot him."

"
Merde!
What about the Twentieth Mechanized?"

"They're clear for now," de Villepin said. "I can't for say how long that will be the case. The Balboans are swarming like ants. I think we should pull them back while we can."

"Any sign the Balboans are crossing into the Transitway Area?"

De Villepin shook his head again. "Not 'crossing,' no. But . . ."

"Go on."

"Their Tenth Artillery Legion, which, as near as we can tell has something approaching two hundred guns, heavy mortars, and rocket launchers, is taking up positions from which they can level this post."

"Why haven't they opened fire, do you think?" Janier asked.

De Villepin laughed. "Because their commander hasn't given them the word to. And is still alive, so far as they know. If he were dead, or gave the word . . ."

Lieutenant San Martin looked at Captain Hartmann incredulously. "You were giving us the straight word? I don't believe it. I
can't
believe it."

Hartmann, San Martin, and most of the pilots of their squadron were listening raptly to the Global News Network's rebroadcast of Lourdes' speech. When Menshikov began to speak, however, all eyes turned to Hartmann. He tried to, but couldn't, look smug.
That bastard,
thought Hartmann.
He was Balboan all along. Working for them, anyway. And he convinced me to lie, by telling the truth . . . by lying.

Everyone present thought Hartmann's laugh was in self congratulation. He didn't try to disabuse them of the notion.

Karl Schumann, the President of the Federated States, was livid.
Those miserable fucking spics,
he thought initially, then with more immediate practicality,
How do I squirm out of this one?

By the time the first reporter was put through to the White House, the President of the United States had his answer. "Well, Dan, you see it was like this. We and the Balboans both had good cause to hit the drug lords. But they just weren't able to stand up to Santander if the Santanderns retaliated. So they did the job, with our tacit support. And we took the 'blame' because Santander can't hope to hurt us."

A more objective reporter might have pointed out that 'tacit support' really means no active opposition, even if one didn't oppose because one didn't know. However, with an election year coming up, few, if any, of the press would have done anything to hurt
their
candidate, not when he was expected to run against a 'rabid' conservative Federalist.

There was firing—all small arms, so far—around the perimeter of the old city enclave. That was the two companies of civil police still loyal to the Rocaberti's. They had the advantage of fighting from buildings but neither the arms nor the training to do so with any long term prospects for success. From the old Palace, the firing seemed to be growing ever closer.

"It's too late, Mr. President," Pigna said, upon his return. "None of my units will listen and the few officers I brought into the plot late have either turned or been shot. We've got to get out of here, now. It's all over. We've lost."

At the word, "lost," Barletta, who was present now, put his head in his hands with despair.
Can a man have made a greater mistake?
he asked himself.

"No" said the President. "The Taurans will help us. They must. Has there been any word from their general or their Ambassador?" he asked.

An aide answered, hesitantly, "It seems that the Castilian battalion at Fort Williams has defected and is currently engaged in battling some of the TU commandos at Gatun River. The mechanized troops at the Bridge of the Colombias are probably going to be pulling back to Fort Muddville. And General Janier reports that the
Charlemagne
is pulling back to the docks at the Dahlgren Naval station and recovering its aircraft."

The President hesitated. "Fine. We'll go now. But send the orders to where Carrera and Parilla are being held. I want them and any other prisoners we hold all shot within the hour. They'll not live to laugh over our failure."

"By sea or by land?" Pigna asked. "Forget that, stupid question. With the Frog carrier pulling back the other side owns the sea."

"Yes," Rocaberti agreed. "Our only chance of survival is to get to the Taurans. If we can do that, it's even possible that the Federated States might intervene and force them to give us back this much."

Pigna said nothing, but shook his head.

Rocaberti looked dismally around his ornate office. It was hard,
hard
, leaving his life, the remnants of his power, and his chance for revenge behind. The rump President waited until the order to kill Carrera and Parilla was transmitted, then left his office for his limousine and safety among the Taurans. Pigna and the Chief of the City's police, along with some few others, followed.

Major Rojas, older than most, which explained much, and fatter, which explained even more, was one of the policeman who had remained loyal to the oligarchs when Parilla had won election to the presidency. He looked at a piece of paper slipped into his hand by an underling manning the radio. He looked at it again, crossed himself, and said, aloud, "Pablo, this is wrong on so many levels I don't know where to begin."

"Sir?" asked the radio operator, Pablo, who had passed on the message.

"They want me to kill Parilla and Carrera in cold blood. I can't do that. Turn them over in answer to a legitimate extradition order? Sure. Just shoot them like dogs? No."

"Then what, sir?"

"Then . . . I'm going to try to cut us a deal."

"A deal?"

"Sure. Why not? He and Parilla are both men of their word. But . . . ummm . . . Pablo, do we still have the guards who worked the two over?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Go get a few men and arrest that crew. They might make an adequate sacrificial offering. And after that, see if you can raise someone at the
Estado Major
to let them know we have their chiefs. Meanwhile, I'm going to see about getting someone's word of honor."

"I don't understand it," Rocaberti said. "Janier gave me his word that there would be soldiers here to provide us a safe haven and escort if things went to crap. But . . ." He shrugged, eloquently, while gazing in the general direction of a Tauran Union fighting vehicle, legging it trippingly for the demarcation line between the Transitway Area and Balboa proper.

Suddenly the street around the convoy seemed full of soldiers, in the pixilated tiger stripes of the Legion, all armed and looking decidedly dangerous. Their bayoneted rifles aimed steadily at heads and torsos, engines and tires. Perhaps just for emphasis, still other legionaries aimed rocket grenade launchers, or RGLs, at armored limousines.

The forward most of the vehicles in the convoy, not Rocabertis, attempted to run. An RGL armed legionary fired, his rocket impacting on the front windshield. The armor was useless against the directed explosive. That vehicle veered left, crashed into another, and stopped dead, blocking the road.

As the rump president and his staff and collaborators were hustled out and bound with duct tape, three IM-71 helicopters in Legion colors beat through the air overhead, heading in the general direction of Dahlgren Naval Station and Santa Clara.

Major Rojas was waiting with Carrera and Parilla. Only Parilla was standing, as Carrera's beating had been long and thorough. His face was a swollen, mottled ruin, nose twisted to one side, one ear half detached where a boot had scoured it. His lips were split and a couple of teeth had gone missing.

Volgan infantry poured off the rapidly opened clamshell doors at the backs of three Legion helicopters. Their bayonets were fixed and there was blood in their eyes. Parilla moved directly in front of Rojas, who was trying his best not to soil his trousers.

"Leave this one and his men alone," Parilla shouted. "There are two bound prisoners in the lower level. Bring them to me
alive.
"

Lourdes had followed on the heels of the infantry. One look at Carrera, lying on a stretcher, had her sprinting for his side and throwing herself over him, sobbing and wailing at the damage done to the man she loved.

"What have they done to you, Patricio, my very dearest."

"Nozink . . . goo . . . I t'ink," he got out through bloody, swollen lips. "Lon' tahm wit' t'e den'is' for me, nu."

"Thank God, at least you're still alive." She had her arms around Carrera's body, her face pressed against his neck. Carrera, too, had his arms around her, but was too weak to hold very tightly. He assumed she didn't kiss him because his lips were such a ruin.

"Roca'er'i tol' me 'ee ha' somewhu 'ape you. I swear 'ee'll pay, Lour'es."

She hesitated a moment, collecting her thoughts, then backed off to look in his eyes. "I wasn't raped, Patricio."
Which is the truth if not the whole truth
. "I'm fine."
Also something less than the truth
.

Carrera twisted his head. "Rau'?"

"Here, Patricio," Parilla answered.

"Don' le' anywhu execu'e t'e bas'ar's, please? No' ye'."

"Of course, my friend."

Carrera stirred again. "Lour'es, wha' abou' Mac?"

"He . . . he died, Patricio. And Linda's trixie, Jinfeng, too, was killed for trying to give us warning."

After that, Carrera couldn't speak for a very long time. When he did, it was to say, "Ah'm goin' to crucify t'em all."

Maria Muñoz had asked Chapayev to bring her to the school chapel as soon as they'd arrived from Fort Williams. She wanted to pray for her father and his men, she'd told him. Now, while he waited in a pew in the back, she, on her knees, talked with her God.

And, Heavenly Father,
the girl prayed, after taking care of familial and regimental duties,
please forgive me for being a vile, rude, nasty bitch to Victor Chapayev. He saved my father, and quite possibly myself, and I promise to be a
much
nicer girl to him than I've ever been in the past.
She crossed herself and began to stand, but then went back to her knees again.

Which is not to say, O Lord, that I won't have to come here and beg forgiveness for myself for some of the
very
nice things I intend to do for him. First, though . . .

The conspirators had been tried by the full Senate. For the main ones, the ones about whom there could be no doubt of their guilt, the trial hadn't taken long. The sentences had been something of a surprise.

Rocaberti was first in the procession, a wooden timber over his shoulder and iron chains about his ankles. Behind him came his own two rump vice-presidents, Pigna, his chief of police for the old city, Barletta, the entire set of teams who had captured Carrera and Parilla—such as could be taken alive, the one survivor of those who had tried to grab Muñoz-Infantes, and about three score of the remnants of Rocaberti's police force, excepting only those Rojas had bargained for. Armed men, legionaries, not Volgans, marched to either side. Closer in, still other legionaries used cattle prods liberally.

Along the beach nearly one hundred stout posts had been driven into the sand and wedged in securely. The posts had U-shaped, steel fixtures attached. Unsurprisingly, these were of a shape and size to accommodate the beams carried by the condemned.

Pigna was almost unique in the party in that he didn't weep along the short march from the prison to the beach. For this reason, Carrera, seated on a wheel chair, pointed to him and said, "This traitor first."

Pigna was seized, striped down to shorts, and his arms were bound together at the wrists. His beam was placed in the U-shaped fixture. Then he was hoisted up, his bound hands hooked over the upright, and allowed to drop. This hurt, but not enough to raise a cry. Indeed, he said not a word until his ankles were pulled into position and first steel spike was driven through into the wood below.

After that, Pigna cried more than had most of the others. At least until their turns came to be hooked over and nailed up.

The TV cameras caught all of it.

* * *

Rocaberti's turn came last. "Why?" was all the ex-president could come up with.