A Desert Called Peace (35 page)

Timoshenko smiled. "In this country, Daniel, Economic Planning has to do with everything. Yes, even now, even after the fall of the empire. Not that the plans work, mind you." Timoshenko looked wistful, sighed resignedly. "When I was young it used to seem that they did, somewhat. In any event, nothing much works anymore." He shook his head dismally.

Timoshenko continued. "Right now, we are planning our upcoming economic collapse. It will happen, too; that plan we can be sure will work, unless we can get a major infusion of hard currency and technology. Which is why I am here to see you. What are you looking to buy?"

Kuralski answered, "Equipment for a large brigade, with technical experts to teach our men how to use it. However, whatever you might sell to me, I don't think we are in a position to regenerate the Volgan economy."

"My new friend, after three generations of Tsarist-Marxism, no one is in a position to regenerate the Volgan economy, at least, no one who would be willing to do so. We can still help each other, though."

Immediately suspicious, he didn't really believe in win-win situations, Kuralski asked what the Volgan was getting at.

Timoshenko looked up. For a moment he seemed lost to philosophy. When he spoke, he said, "What we need is good advertising. For decades we have been selling shitty equipment to everybody who couldn't afford better or was cut off from better for political reasons. Now that particular chicken is about to roost. The Volgan Republic is sitting on more than thirty thousand tanks; actually a lot more than that, if one counts everything. Some of them are crap, of course; the kind of
dreck
we used to barter for political influence to the undeveloped world. Still others are relics from the Great Global War. But we have first class equipment, too. Who will believe that, when the East's second best has been beating what we have been calling our best for so long that no one remembers that we—not the Sachsens, but
we—
built the best armored vehicles of the Great Global War?"

Blood will tell. Kuralski, too, felt a small pride in his ancestors and relations in thinking of both their tanks, and their courage, in fighting the Sachsen.

Timoshenko shifted gears a bit. "Tell me something; when you get over there, to the war zone, I mean, are your men going to fight?"

Kuralski thought about it for a minute. "My boss, though he is officially the deputy for the legion, is really in charge. He will fight. I don't think he would obey orders that kept him out of the fighting." Kuralski laughed, "He's pretty selective about obedience in general. So, yes, if there is fighting we will be in it."

Timoshenko turned his bar stool around to lean his back against the bar. "That's what we need. If we sell you some of our best equipment—maybe better than our usual best, and you take it to battle against the Sumeris, then the rest of the Yithrabis—especially the Oil Yithrabis—will see that we can still be their best buy for defense. It is only necessary that a couple of our tanks survive hits and kill the older tanks we sold Sumer for the point to be made. Besides the Federated States and the Sachsens, who would never help
us
, the Oil Yithrabis are the only ones with the money to make a difference to our economy."

Kuralski shook his head. "We couldn't afford to buy your best if it cost half, even a quarter of what the FS, Sachsen, or Anglia would demand for their equipment. We are not a rich country and the legion's—Carrera's—private resources are limited."

Timoshenko gave a deep belly laugh. "I see that you are unacquainted with the miracles of Socialist Accounting. Trust me on this. Things cost precisely what we
say
they cost. You can afford it."

On Old Earth it had once been possible to determine to a considerable degree of certainty the degree of oppression in any given country by the words used in its title. Generally speaking, the rule had been: "Republic equals republic. People's Republic equals dictatorship. Democratic Republic equals really oppressive dictatorship. People's Democratic Republic equals really oppressive and corrupt dictatorship, amounting to a family corporation, with genocidal tendencies."

This rule had held good, in general terms, on Terra Nova. Moreover, it had been taken and applied by Moslems, as well, for their own little experiments in statehood and linguistic sleight of hand. Thus, for example, the Misrani Islamic Republic was, in fact, a corrupt family-run dictatorship, with said family being among the most devout atheists to be found in the known universe. Much like "democratic" and "people's," "Islamic was a mere sop.

The suite Kuralski had taken at the Interu Inn of the Misrani "Islamic" Republic was, at best, tacky, all gilt over cheap wood held together by glue. In this, it resembled the country as a whole.

While a hotel servant unpacked his bags in one room of the suite, Kuralski brought Carrera up to date over the salon's telephone line. The hotel's own phone he'd unplugged, substituting an encrypted one. Carrera spoke from Balboa on a similar device.

Kuralski felt flushed with success. Even so, he kept his voice low enough that the bellhop couldn't hear. "Yes, Pat, everything we wanted and more. And they're selling us good stuff, too. Some of it has never been on the general market before. White Eagle tanks, Pat, latest upgrade. Matter of fact, they're offering special upgrades for the thirty we need. Pat, the Volgans have
never
sold White Eagles to anybody; and it isn't because they're shit, either. They gave me a tour, including a ride and a firing exercise. Harrington would love them if he weren't too fat to fit inside. And we're getting PBM-100s for the light armor and mechanized infantry requirement. They've actually offered to let us have the PBMs at cost plus . . ."

"Yes, they've got some of their people working on the right allocation of spare parts. They also corrected a few mistakes in the publicly available information on some of their capabilities."

As Carrera's voice sounded in his ear, Kuralski turned to keep a watchful eye on the Misrani bellhop.
Yep, still out of the way.

"Right. Their trainers are coming in three echelons, Pat. Expect the first at Herrera Airport on the sixth of the sixth month, and the next on the ninth. The last won't arrive until the end of the month . . . yes, they're sending enough to train our leaders. . . . Yes, we agreed that their folks get paid Balboan scales. It's princely to a place as depressed as Volga is now. Wait a sec, Pat . . ."

Waiting until the bellhop left the suite, Dan added, "Yes, from here I'll be moving on to Zion for some of the individual equipment. After that I'll go to Helvetia, then Sachsen followed by Castille. I have a very good line on five to twelve thousand Castilian-made, Sachsen-pattern helmets for cheaps, though the Helvetians are offering what might be a better helmet for about the same amount. . . . Yes, I'll check out both. Both governments are basically dumping them."

Kuralski was briefly silent, then answered, "Right; I'll keep you posted. I'm meeting with a Misrani about the tents tomorrow morning. When I get to Zion, how high are you willing to go on the Remotely Piloted Aircraft? Right. . .

"Okay, Pat. Of course I'm great. I'm lucky, too. . .

"Oh, I almost forgot; while I was in Volga I ran into a Volgan Airborne colonel with a serious problem. Things are bad over there, very bad. Even the army is not always getting enough to eat, and that is so even with the troops growing a lot of their own food. This colonel— Colonel Samsonov . . .  yes, he's related, distantly, to the small arms designer—said they were going to close down his unit. I think I can put Samsonov and his regiment on retainer for very damn little. Do you think you might have a use for an airborne regiment, possibly reinforced to maybe two thousand men? Okay, I'll make a deal with this guy. It shouldn't cost more than about fifteen, maybe twenty thousand drachma a month to have them wait for the call. Those poor fucks will soldier for food. Pat, it was sad; Samsonov actually looked
hungry
."

The factory was gray and greasy, and stank of ozone and motor oil. It was quiet, however, even more quiet than the lack of business would justify. The workers had ceased what passed for work and assembled on their shop floor to listen to their manager.

While Kuralski spoke on the phone to Carrera, another man, in the Kirov tank factory near Saint Nicholasberg, addressed those workers. Victor Khudenko had taken over the management of the factory almost eleven years before. In that time he had seen production standards slip from bad to worse to unbelievably awful; all in lockstep with the rest of the Volgan economy. Since the factory not only made the White Eagle—the few prototypes that were all anyone had been able to pay for, anyway—and the PBM-100, but also was located near a major port, it had been decided that this factory would fill that portion of the Balboan order.

Khudenko had not received the news with joy unstinted; however. He knew better than anyone what trash his factory had been turning out for the Volgan Army. He thought, sadly, about the superb designs that his workers ruined through their indifference. He also knew— and if he hadn't, Timoshenko had made it abundantly clear—that this would be the
last
order if these tanks were not the best ever made in Volga.

Desperate times; desperate measures,
Khudenko thought
. If I just tell them we have an order and we must do better work than we have, it will be like every other exhortation they've heard, and ignored, over decades and centuries of Tsarist rule; in one ear and out the other. No . . . there must be more. There must be something to shake them up. Sad that I have to terrify them to make them see the truth. Sadder still if I don't and we all end up out on our asses.

"Comrades," he lied, "I have very bad news. The State has decided to close our factory down in two weeks' time. We will all be given severance pay, another two weeks' worth, and, of course, we will have our unemployment coverage. I am told that we will all be given
some
kind of a priority for some other kind of work, as and when it might become available. What that means in today's circumstances . . ." Khudenko gave an eloquent shrug of the shoulders.

The factory workers stood in stunned silence. Their world had collapsed in four sentences and a fragment. Khudenko let them stew for a full minute. Then he let them have the other barrel.

"Of course, the State is taking back the factory housing complex. But I have managed to get an extension on the time we will be given before we have to get out. We will have thirty days from today. And we can use the plant trucks to move ourselves to our new homes as soon as we find them."

This time the workers were not silent. They were
outraged
. This was really too much. How could they explain it to their families? The factory floor erupted in angry shouts.

One worker stepped forward to shout at the manager. "They can't do this to us," he insisted. "We have rights. We have law."

Khudenko smiled. "Josef Raikin, you, of all people, have little ground to complain. How many times have you been heard to say that as long as the State pretended to pay a good wage, you would pretend to do good work? No, no, I am not singling you out, Josef. We are, all of us, equally guilty . . . of tolerating shoddy work even if we did good work ourselves. And now the time has come to pay the price."

Another worker stepped forward to stand next to Raikin. "It wasn't us that were guilty, it was the system itself. They made it so it doesn't matter whether we do good work or bad so long as the norms are filled. Why should we have to suffer?"

"Who else
can
suffer?" answered Khudenko, with seeming resignation. "Anyway, you can all take the rest of the day off to break the news to your families. Come back tomorrow at the regular time so we can start the process of shutting everything down." With that, Khudenko left the podium on which he had stood, leaving the workers to ponder dismal futures.

When the factory opened the next day, Khudenko was unsurprised to see a delegation of workers and foremen waiting by his office to see him. Nor was he surprised to find out that they had come to beg him to do something, anything, to save their jobs. Surprised? He'd
counted
on it.

Khudenko conceded that he had heard of an order for a foreign sale that had recently been received but it was probably going to go to the Mamayev Transport Machine Factory near Novy Kiev. It was only for thirty tanks and about twice that in infantry fighting vehicles, he told them.

The news infuriated the workers. Imagine, they complained, Central Planning throwing good Volgans out into the street and giving the job to a bunch of stinking Kievens. Khudenko told them that, in these troubled times, the State was most likely seeking to avoid starting trouble in what had always been a troublesome region. The workers asked if there wasn't something Khudenko could do to steal the order from Novy Kiev.

Khudenko paused. His hand moved as if groping for an answer that was almost there. "Maybe if I could go to Central with some new plan, some new production technique, that would have us turning out the best tanks in the whole Volgan Republic, maybe then I could get Central to change their minds. Ah, but what's the use? I don't know what hasn't been tried before. Do any of
you
have any ideas?"

The workers pondered that question for a few minutes. Then one of them, Raikin, tentatively offered one possible answer. "I read once of a system they use in one of those Scandi places to make cars. They form a small team that's responsible for making the car from start to finish."

Another worker retorted, "That's fine for simple automobiles. We're talking
tanks
here. They're forty to fifty times heavier and a thousand times more complex. Besides, the factory is set up for assembly line operations. We couldn't set up the separate work spaces in time to make any difference."

A foreman piped in, "You're right, we can't do the whole thing the way the Scandis do. We could take part of it though. What if we assign a single worker, or maybe better, a small team to each tank? Automotive, firepower, electronics and . . . oh, yes, armor and welding. Four workers. They can walk it all the way through production, inspecting each step and having any mistakes fixed before the tank goes on to the next. We are only talking thirty tanks anyway so there will be extra people to do the walk through."