A Desert Called Peace (22 page)

Hennessey began to pace around the room as he spoke to the group as a whole. "The
major
task, however, is to design an army for Balboa for the future. That is what will consume most of our efforts for the next few months. Dan, as chief of staff I want you to direct that. Start with the assumption Balboa could, were the funding available, raise and sustain a force of about thirty thousand regulars, maybe ninety thousand reservists and perhaps three times that in militia. Assume that between Balboa and the rest of Colombia del Norte we can find as many as thirty thousand volunteers a year. The reservists and militia are critical because you just can't politically trust professional Latin soldiers. Eventually, given the fantastic degree of governmental corruption, they
will
overthrow their governments. The reservists and militia are to counter that.

"That size force is the illogical and unreasonable extreme," Hennessey continued. "Start there anyway. Once you have done that, shrink it to what is possible; a single corps of about fifty or sixty thousand that is capable of deploying one division of eleven to fourteen thousand in support of the Federated States in the war now ongoing. Match the huge force to the smaller corps so that if it ever
did
become necessary the corps could be expanded with minimal confusion, battalions expanding to regiments, regiments becoming divisions, and so on. Again, that's just in case the illogical and unreasonable come to pass."

Everyone present, with the exception of McNamara, Esterhazy and Clean who had heard Hennessey thinking out loud for some time, was a little shocked. Not a few wondered if their boss had flipped. He had, of course, but not in the way they were thinking.

"The corps is the important thing," Hennessey said. "Note carefully, however, that I can't pay for it now and neither can Balboa."

Okay, so he hasn't quite flipped completely
 . . . in the way they had been thinking.

"What I want you to do, Dan and the I-Shop, with a big assist from the II, is design it carefully and completely. Then further shrink that. I don't know what I
can
pay for, not yet anyway. So shrink it in four forms: to a division of about eleven to fourteen thousand, to a large brigade of about eight thousand, to a regular sized brigade of about four or five thousand, and to a combat team of around two thousand. Which we decide to go with will depend on funding."

Okay, that's reasonable . . . but a frightful amount of work.

"I would have told you to optimize this first force for Pashtia. But I think that is going to kick off within a couple of weeks—"

Triste interrupted. "My sources say three, Pat."

"Fine, three then. It will in any case be too soon for us to have anything to offer to the FS. So the question is, 'Who's next?' Larry?"

Triste didn't have to think. He already knew. "Sumer," he announced with absolute certainty in his voice. "Sumer . . . but not soon. I am thinking maybe early in 461. In theory it could be summer of 460 but the heat . . ." Triste's voice trailed off.

"I concur," Hennessey said. "Sumer in early 461. It will take at least that long for the Federated States to build up the logistics in al Jahara for a—what do you think, Larry?—a four division invasion."

"About that," Triste agreed. "Or maybe only three plus maybe two Anglian brigades or possibly even a full division of the Royal Army along with some odds and ends from other contributors. All will, I am sure, be most welcome to help out and there is hardly a country on industrialized Terra Nova that hasn't lost some people to the TNTO attacks. For poorer allies the Federated States will gladly foot the bill, I am sure."

"Mmm . . . yeah," Hennessey half agreed. "The FS will be happy to pay the operational costs for anyone joining in the fight. I don't want them to pay for us, or not yet anyway. I think our bargaining position, for later on, will be much better if we—if I—can pay the initial costs."

Esterhazy interjected, "You are right about zat, Pat. But have you considered just vhat a fair price would be for the FS to pay for a . . . oh, say . . . a full division of Balboan troops?"

Hennessey pulled out a cigarette and lit it. McNamara, and not for the first time, thought that his chief would kill himself young if he didn't cut down.

"I've thought about it and made a few inquiries, Matthias, yes. For the FS to maintain one full division overseas in action, even low intensity action, requires them to keep three divisions on the books. So one division deployed costs three divisions worth of normal pay and operating expenses. That's about fourteen billion drachma a year. The cost of one division at war at low intensity is maybe— frankly no one I spoke to was quite sure—sixteen or seventeen billion a year more. Annuitized retirements, long-term medical care, disability payments to the badly wounded, etcetera, would probably add another four billion to that. I
think
the total cost is about thirty-five billion per committed division, per year. And that says nothing about the political costs of combat casualties or the benefit, propaganda- wise, that comes from having a strong ally in the fight."

"We won't have to charge them anything like their own cost," Hennessey said as he flicked an ash onto his plate. "We can pay the Balboans maybe forty percent of what a soldier from the FS gets and they would still consider it princely. Lourdes?"

"I don't know," she answered. "What is the pay for a soldier in the FS?"

"A new private receives about twelve hundred drachma a month," Hennessey answered. "Plus room and board."

The girl did some quick calculations in her agile mind then said, "We have unemployment here that fluctuates between fifteen and twenty percent, and most of that is concentrated among young men.
Their
unemployment rate is over fifty percent. Four hundred and eighty drachma a month would be considered, along with room and board, very good, yes. And those boys are not unemployed because they are lazy or untalented. In fact, our literacy rate is almost one hundred percent, considerably higher than in the FS," she added, not without some pride. "People here are unemployed because they lack connections, not because they lack ability."

"I know. So, gentlemen, we can pay a lot less and still be considered generous. Food is cheap here, too," Hennessey added, pointing to the remains of the bird. "That turkey you just massacred cost about a third of what it would have in the FS. Moreover, our troops will not have the expectation of the best, most cutting edge, equipment. In all, I think we can pay for a corps of fifty or sixty thousand, with a division deployed and fighting, for about four to four and a half billion a year."

"If that's true, Pat," observed Esterhazy, "then you could charge the FS nothing more than the cost of one of their divisions deployed, say sixty percent of their total cost, and still make a fortune."

"Even at half," Hennessey corrected, "we can make a fortune."

"Where's all that money going to go, Boss?" Daugher asked.

"Mostly we'll plow it back into Balboa," he answered. "This war will last a very long time. Ideally, I would like, before I die, to set things up so that the force we build can continue that war indefinitely and independently, without having to ask for help from anyone.

"Anyway, enough about fuzzy finances. Back to the concrete. Dan, do the whole Table of Organization: numbers, equipment, ranks, individual gear, training base, et cetera. Maximize ground combat forces. Design, to the extent that is possible, for things the FS Army is either not good at or lacks the capability for. For example, they are always short infantry, so design for primarily infantry missions: counterinsurgency, city fighting, reduction of complex fortifications. Plan for a very austere logistic and admin tail. I have a preference for Volgan equipment, where it will do. With them having gone about half belly up I think there will be a lot of useful military equipment for sale in the near future for cheaps. Nonetheless, consider a mix of Volgan, FS and Tauran Union equipment. Zion may have some useful stuff, too."

Kuralski looked up from note taking and asked: "What kind of fire support? What kind of control system? ATADS?" This, the Advanced Tactical Artillery Data System, was a digitalized system for controlling and massing artillery fire.
No one
entirely trusted it.

"No, Dan," Hennessey answered. "How's the quote go: 'Real soldiers don't trust ATADS'? Number of guns and throw weight are the semi-developed world's solution to the artillery battle. Now that you mention it, though, put the forward observers in the combat support/ weapons company of the maneuver battalions. I've never liked the idea of people who have to fight together being strangers to one another."

Hennessey continued. "Assume that we will never be able to afford a high tech battlefield communications system. No microwaves, few or no frequency hopping radios. Regular radios and wire are what they need."

Kuralski observed, "I'll need a computer to keep track of all of this. It will save months of work."

"Fine. Have the log shop get you one, the best available. And don't scrimp on computer security. On second thought, Greg, better make it about six. This isn't our only concern."

Hennessey turned to Rudel. "Dutch, don't worry about NBC"— nuclear, biological and chemical—"warfare beyond defense, individual protective masks and suits, recon, and some decontamination capability. This isn't that kind of country. Worry about defensive training.

"Nauseating as the thought is, I half expect to have to call whatever force we build 'Military Police.' Don't let the name fool you. It's to be a combat organization, having within it all arms and services. And it has to be ready to deploy and to fight by early 461."

Everybody looked doubtful about that. A mere year and a half to go from a standing start to something resembling an army in battle? Ridiculous! Absurd! Impossible!

Except they'd seen Hennessey do impossible things before.

Hennessey paused briefly, then added, "In the back of your minds, I want you to keep the concept of a 'nation in arms' . . .  just in case.

"A last word before we adjourn for the evening. For various reasons I have found it useful to go by my wife's maiden name, 'Carrera.' It's a name of some local importance. It also became one of mine— here, at least—the day I married her. Mostly it may help to allay suspicions about our obviously gringo origin. Force yourselves to think of me that way from now on:
Carrera.
"

Hennessey tossed off the dregs of his drink, then grinned evilly. "The fucking wogs are going to remember it, I promise you."

Casa
Linda, 5/9/459 AC

"Sir, there are four Civil Force officers and an NCO here to see you."

Jamey Soult stood at a respectful attention, a habit Carrera had never succeeded in breaking him of. "Shall I have the rest of the boys stand to?"

"Quietly, Jamey. Have Sergeant Major collect up five or six of them. Silenced pistols. You stay with them. Have them keep out of sight and earshot. I'll call if I need you."

Soult left quickly to summon aid.
Those people go after the boss and there'll be hell to pay; I promise.

Carrera walked down the stairs to meet the men who were very likely there to arrest him.
Why the hell didn't David let me know this was coming? He should be in a position to know.

When Carrera entered the living room where the Balboans waited, he relaxed immediately. They all had the look of men with no intention of arresting anyone. They stood up when he entered the room.

Taking the Balboans in with a single glance, Carrera saw that they were a major, about as high a rank as existed in the Civil Force that had replaced the BDC, two captains, a lieutenant and a sergeant major. He knew none of them by sight, however their uniforms all bore name tags that identified them.

The major's name was Fernandez. He was small, slight and mildly stoop shouldered. Withal, he looked like nothing so much as a pharmacist. Certainly, his appearance gave no hint of the frightful reputation of which David Carrera had warned.

After shaking hands, Fernandez asked, "
Señor
, are you the same Carrera that has been supporting the families of those killed in the 447 Invasion?"

"I am."

"May we ask why you are providing for them out of your own pocket? And why now, rather than before?"

"Now," Carrera answered, "because I only recently acquired the wherewithal to help them. As to why, for no reason than that I thought it wrong for the parents, wives, sons, and daughters of brave men to go in want if I could do something about it."

Besides, it may be that I am to blame for their loss. In part, anyway.

"I see," said the major. "An unusual generosity. You are from the FSC, are you not?"

"I am, though I make my home here."

Fernandez began a staccato interrogation, pausing to bite on his lower lip between questions. "Why should you do that? Why should you come here now? What do you intend here? We know that you have a small army here on the premises with you. We also know that you were once a military officer, that you were part of the invasion force, and that you lost your family in the Terra Nova Trade Organization attack. I have investigated. And no, I have not
yet
informed the government."

Hennessey—no, "Carrera" now—said simply, "Revenge."

Major Fernandez smiled. "That is a worthy goal. It was also worthy to plant your brother-in-law in my department. However, though your brother-in-law is a nice kid, he has no business in intelligence . . . so please get him moved."

"I don't know where else to send him."

"Major Valdez, from 5th Company of the Civil Force, will take him. He said to me, just a few days ago, 'I'm down one platoon leader, anyway, as soon as I fire the stupid son of a
rabiblanco
bitch who's wrecking my
chingada
third platoon now.""

The other officers with Fernandez tried to control smiles. They failed. Everyone in the Civil Force knew about Valdez, his general loathing of pure whites (though he loathed pure indians, too), and his foul mouth.