Carnifex (55 page)

No one on the planet really understood Wozniak's thought processes. Many, indeed, denied he was even capable of thinking. Whatever the case, incapable of higher thought or not, he was all too capable of speaking. Which he did. At every possible opportunity. Moreover, he was terribly bitter that he'd been rejected by the people of the FSC after a mere one term. If he could support cosmopolitan progressivism, support terrorism, support totalitarianism and kleptocracy, while at the same time undermining the long term interests of the Federated States, so much the better.

A
very
embittered man, was our Johnny Prince Wozniak.

"I loathe that man," commented Parilla, at seeing one of Wozniak's more inane pronouncements carried on the airwaves.

"He gave us back the Transitway," Ruiz objected.

"Yes, he did," Parilla agreed, "And thereby deprived us of the pride we would have had if we had fought to get it. And thereby led directly to the dictatorship of Piña. Which thereby led to the invasion. Which led to the destruction of the only force in the country with the prestige to, at least potentially, fight the corruption of the Rocabertis and their ilk."

"Ah, never mind," Parilla continued. "There's nothing to be done about the do-gooding weasel, except to note that the harm he does all over the planet is in exact but inverse proportion to the good he claims he's doing."

Ruiz shrugged. "I think Patricio loathes the man even more than you do."

"It's possible. When our comrade, Carrera, hates someone he doesn't do it halfway. Never mind; no one is persuaded by Wozniak except those convinced in advance."

"That's really not true, Raul. In this country, the man enjoys considerable status. Some people really are being converted by him."

"Enough to matter to the election?" Parilla asked. "Enough to overcome the good will Patricio is buying us through public works and expanding the force?"

"Part way, at least."

"
Chingada.
"

"Fernandez isn't worried at all, you know."

"I know, and I don't understand it," Parilla answered.

"He says our models are all wrong, that our analysts are contaminated by patterns of voting in the Federated States and Tauran Union. He says that people there will vote to preserve the welfare states they have. He insists that people here will not vote to create a welfare state where we don't have one. He says that they're not weak and spoiled like the Taurans and the Columbians."

"Is he right?"

"God, Raul, I don't know. I
do
know that he has his own sources."

Parilla contemplated that for a moment.
Yes, he has his own sources and they are generally good ones. I wonder . . . Nah.

"Has the government budged any on the question of voting on the Isla?" he asked.

"No," Ruiz answered. "They insist that any vote taken there by any but the few civilian residents would be inherently suspect. All our men, those who are citizens, must return to their normal home to vote."

"Which breaks up our unit cohesion for the one legion we have left here," Parilla observed. "And deprives us of perhaps twenty-five thousand votes from those deployed to Pashtia and at sea."

"Is there any chance of Patricio returning the bulk of the force prior to the election?" Ruiz asked.

"Essentially none. He's just about to fan out from the temporary base he established at the north end of the Kibla Pass and he'll need every man he has in order to establish control over the area. And he's already short because of the Cazadors he sent to Xamar to guard the pirate chief."

"In some ways, he's really an idiot, you know, Raul? The job he does there won't make a lot of difference if we lose our base here."

The base was north of the line where mountain turned to relatively flat desert. The ambient temperature was, oh, a
lot
higher. And there wasn't a really good source of water, though the engineers were drilling.

Least of my problems,
thought Patricio Carrera.

He was short Cazadors and he was short Pashtun Scouts. They were the most useful troops he had for keeping open the Kibla through which virtually all his supplies must pass. Thus, that's where roughly two thirds of them were, hunting down the remnants of the
Ikhwan
forces that had escaped the slaughter in the mountains. He was especially short Cazadors, what with having sent two maniples of them to watch over Abdulahi in Xamar as he rebuilt his local force.

Of course, they're not only watching over and out for the bandit, they're also watching
him
to make sure he keeps his end of the bargain.

He could have made good some of that lack by stripping off the individual cohorts' scout platoons, Cazadors in all but name. Somehow, he didn't think that would work to anyone's benefit. He'd have had to also strip off some of the combat support maniples' headquarters as well, that, or overtask the Cazador maniples' headquarters he already had. And besides, what would the cohorts do for recon then? It would be an organizational nightmare.

Note to self: Check on progress with the PhD candidate who's writing up "Organization and Task Organization for War." Soonest.

Carrera had one thing to help make up for the loss of Cazadors and Scouts, as well as the lack of aircraft for the main effort with the number that were supporting the lighter forces in the mountains around the Kibla. The Anglian-built lighter-than-air recon platform had arrived the week prior and was already sending back useful intelligence. For now, it was only useful for spotting. Even so, Lanza's crew were thinking on ways to rig up bomb racks and even downward firing gun pods so that it could act itself on the intelligence acquired without having to wait for airmobile or air forces to bring in combat power.

But I'll have to buy it and crew it myself to do that; the Anglian company is firm that their crew is not allowed to take part in offensive combat missions. In any case, while the recon the LTA ship provides is good, it is awfully weather dependant around these mountains. I'm not convinced this is a good buy for the Legion.

That said, if the limeys' semi-autonomous small LTA jobs can be made to work, I can mount cameras in them capable of tracking the ins and outs of every stinking village in our area and I can do it for a fraction of what it costs the FSC to put a satellite up.

Carrera let out a small sigh.
If, if, if. "If ifs and buts were candied nuts . . . "

This FSLB was temporary, though the gringos had given some hints they might want to take it over. And why not? Since the Legion had come they'd put in an all weather airstrip, excavated a foss and with the spoil built an earthen wall to keep off sniper fire, and mined the living shit out of the one place from which an enemy might look down on the camp, with
every
mine well booby trapped. And hadn't
that
pissed off the Kosmos?

Carrera smiled at the memory of outraged progressive sensibilities.
It wasn't like I made a secret of it. Rather, I had the troops march the villagers closest to the mined area and then witness while goats were driven in. None of the goats survived more than a few steps past the marking wire. Perhaps a few less kids will be tempted to cross the areas concerned after the demonstrations.

It was a matter of some small debate whether the Kosmos were more angered that they were held in such scant regard or by the sheer fact of the mines, themselves.

Fuck 'em. As if I care. As if anyone who matters really cares what the progressives think. As if they're capable of any higher purpose than constraining the overly enlightened and the weak to leave them even more vulnerable to the strong and the ruthless. Cultural Human Immuno-deficiency Virus; that's all they are. And to think, my parents tried to raise me to be one of them. Blech.

The mines themselves were quite sophisticated, each being on an integral timer. Within a month after the Legion made its planned departure ninety-eight plus percent of them would make a joyful sound unto the Lord on their own. The rest—the defectives—would experience battery failure within a few days of that.

This area wasn't important anyway, not to the
Legion
. They were here only for a short time before moving on. While here, they intended only to weaken the insurgency before moving to the border to establish a series of bases from which they could block infiltration of
Ikhwan
fighters and their supplies. It was up to the FSC, Secordia and Anglia to destroy the insurgency once it had been weakened and once the one legion that would remain for the next contractual period had established an effective block of the infiltration routes from Kashmir.

In the long run, though, who knows if that matters? Half the infiltrators come in on perfectly open passenger flights. Half the supplies they use are sold to them by the locals. And that's not even counting the food. I wonder why the FSC can't bring themselves to use food as a weapon? The Tauran influence over the Anglians and Secordians and their influence on the FSC? Silly; but they'll never win until they're willing to control the food.

Speaking of food . . . 

Carrera caught sight of a maniple of infantry, with a train of two dozen mules in tow. They were apparently waiting for the word to move out and were otherwise just sitting around. He walked over briskly, took the report of the tribune commanding the maniple, then proceeded with a barrage of questions.

"How long have your men been waiting here in the sun? . . . Why did you bring them out early?" Voice rising, "What do you mean your medics haven't shown up yet? Didn't you coordinate with the cohort medical platoon? How long have you known they would be late? Why did you bring your men out into the hot sun if you knew you wouldn't be leaving for two hours? . . . Come with me . . . Break down that mule's pack . . . . Can't you see it's overloaded, you dumb ass?"

By the time he was finished with the tribune, that worthy had been turned to a quivering mass of protoplasm and Carrera felt ashamed for going too far in chastising a subordinate.

He walked off in vast inner turmoil himself.
And I'm doing it more and more often. What the hell is wrong with me? Where's the patience of which I was once so proud? Where's the humanity? Christ! I
never
lose my temper.

All of which could be summed up in the word, "Fuck."

The boat advanced at the speed of the
classis
, a stately and sedate twelve knots. The speed was set by that of the slowest vessel in the flotilla, the steamer, BdL
Harpy Eagle,
which served as safe berth for the patrol boats. At that speed, the bow needn't lift nor the engines strain. The forward gun was manned, as was the con, radar and sonar. Most of the crew were unemployed for the moment, even so, and hung out on the rear deck behind the con, drinking some of their ration beer and eating lunch from paper plates.

"Watsa matter, Santiona, tired of fishing?" Pedraz asked.

"Fuck that shit," the heavyset sailor answered. "I'll never toss a hook in the water again as long as I live. If I ever fish again, it'll be with hand grenades or big nets."

"Pity," said Pedraz. "I'll bet that meg is still following us hoping for a chance at your plump ass again."

Santiona suddenly looked to the stern, fearfully. "You don't really think so, do you, Chief?"

"Nah," Pedraz answered, lightly. "You're fated to die at the hands of a jealous husband, young seaman."

"All things considered," Santiona answered, "I'd rather not. But that still beats being eaten by a fish."

"I think they're dying out," Francés said, from behind the wheel. "Fish that size, it's
got
to be hard to keep fed. Especially with the loss of whales and such over the last couple of hundred years. It would need a lot of space to hunt in. That would make it hard to find mates."

"Good riddance," answered Santiona. "When the last one is dead and washed ashore I'll be all that much happier."

"Oh, I dunno,' answered Francés. "They're magnificent, for all they're dangerous. Be kind of sad when there're no more."

"Hah!" Santiona snorted in reply. "You haven't been looking into the maw of one with no more than ten feet between you and its teeth. You haven't smelt its breath."

"Oh,
puhleeze
! Besides, they don't breathe."

"As a matter of fact," Santiona continued, unfazed, "I've decided I hate all fish. So when I take my discharge, after this tour, I'm gonna use my vet's benefits to get a fishing boat. Then I can kill the slimy scaled bastards wholesale."

Guptillo snorted. "Not me. When this is over I'm heading to dry land and, God willing and the river don't rise, I'll never get my feet wet again."

"Farmer?" asked Pedraz. "My people were farmers. Hard work and you're an awful soft city boy."

"Used to be soft, Chief. Hard to stay that way on a patrol boat."

"True enough," Pedraz agreed. "It's still awful hard work."

"No matter, I didn't want to be a farmer. I was thinking about the university and maybe taking up agronomy."

"That would be easier," Pedraz nodded. "Pay better, too."

"And no one will be shooting at you," Clavell added.

"That
would
be a plus," said Guptillo.

"Ah, you're all pussies," said Francés. "Me; I'm sticking with the
classis
until the day I die."

The yacht was almost fifty nautical miles ahead of the flotilla. Their cover had pretty much been blown off the coast of Xamar, but there was good reason to expect with a name change and a new paint job that they'd be clandestine enough in the Nicobar Straits. The new name, even now being painted in two alphabets on the stern, was
Qamra
, Arabic for "moon." Almost,
almost
, Marta had suggested calling it the
Queer
, but since the crew had been so understanding of her and Jaqueline's love affair—at least to the point of ignoring it—she thought better of rubbing it in their faces.