Come and Take Them-eARC (22 page)
Read Come and Take Them-eARC Online
Authors: Tom Kratman
Tags: #Military, #Science Fiction, #General, #Action & Adventure, #Fiction
Second Corps was the city corps, basically. It had dozens of small casernes all over
Ciudad
Balboa. Headquarters, however, was in the old
Comandancia,
which was reachable.
There was also a known Balboan Fourth Corps, the center of mass of which was the city of Cristobal, on the Shimmering Sea, which had formations all along the highway between that city and
Ciudad
Balboa.
Some independent tercios were covered, though some, like the Forty-fourth Tercio of Indios over in la Palma province, could be generally discounted, while others, notably Fifth Mountain and the bulk of Fourteenth Cazador, in
Valle de las Lunas,
facing Santa Josefina, were a definite threat to that place.
“And speaking of Santa Josefina, it seems that the other side is combing its ranks for troops from there. Whether that is a defensive move or an offensive one I cannot say.”
“Obviously it is offensive,” said Janier. He looked pointedly as his PAO. “Is that not right, Colonel?”
“Oh, most certainly,” the PAO agreed.
There was actually a Fifth Corps, which de Villepin could be forgiven for not knowing about, since it was based out on the
Isla Real,
anyway, and was openly composed of the school and training formations. He discounted those training formations as, without some substantial preparation time, they would not be combat capable. For that matter, even with that time, they had no chance of intervening on the mainland once the TUSF-B had established air and naval supremacy.
“And speaking of air and naval forces, they are strictly fourth rate,” said de Villepin. “But even a rock can be dangerous…”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Janier. “Once we have the major airbases and airports, they won’t have anywhere to fly from. C-3?”
“
Mon General?
”
“You
have
planned for a disarming attack on the air forces, have you not?”
“Of course,” the C-3 replied. “We further intend to strike their two major naval facilities, out on the big island and at Balboa Port.”
“Very good,” said Janier, telling de Villepin to continue.
“Lastly, and it is a political question beyond my ability to deal with, General, is the Castilian Battalion under Colonel—though we should probably call him ‘Legate’—Muñoz-Infantes, at Fort Williams.
“That’s all I have, sir. I will be followed by the C-3.”
The C-3, Combined Operations Officer for the Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, moved gracefully to the podium. “Sir, the purpose of my portion of this briefing is to get your approval for the course of action we will use to change the government of Balboa. We begin with a list of forces available to us.”
A slide showed on the screen against the wall. It showed the nine infantry, one commando, one engineer, two artillery, one tank, and two aviation battalions the TUSF-B had been built up to, so far. A side box showed the composite wing from most of the air forces in the Tauran Union.
“In addition,” said the C-3, “we have been promised reinforcement by air with the Anglian Para Brigade, the Army of the Republic of Gaul’s Para Brigade, reinforced with a commando regiment, a Mountain Infantry Brigade each from Sachsen and Tuscany. The Anglians have further promised the shipment, mainly by sea and in advance, of an air assault infantry brigade, as soon as proper billeting can be found for them. In the interim, we’ll be getting out own airmobile brigade. We will also be reinforced beforehand by four aircraft carriers, two Anglian and two of ours. The Zhong have indicated they will be sending one also, not to take part in hostilities but to evacuate their civilians. And, before you ask, sir, no we have not informed the Zhong of anything. But they can read the probabilities and they are perfectly capable of tracking something as big as four aircraft carriers even with their own, substandard, satellite reconnaissance capabilities.
“Moreover,” said the C-3, “a short division of Marines will set sail two days before we strike, and will arrive here, mostly by assault transport or fast merchant vessel, within one week.”
“Composition of the Marines?” asked Janier.
“One commando—think ‘brigade,’
mon General
—of Anglians, with Haarlemers attached, one brigade of ours, and the Santa Martina regiment—really just a big battalion—from Tuscany. Command remains to be worked out.”
“A week before they arrive? Toss it to the Anglians as a sop,” said the general. “It will mollify their pride and keep them from whining too much about more important commands going to us.”
“
Oui, mon General.”
“What about the two enemy regiments out in
Valle de las Lunas
?”
“Marciano will be ordered to strike across the border to deal with them,” said the C-3. “He’s got more than enough force for the purpose.”
Janier thought about the oversized brigade or perhaps short division they had covering Santa Josefina. Finally, he nodded satisfaction.
Yes, they should be able to take out a mere two or three active companies in Balboa’s eastern province.
“Now, how are they all getting here, and where are they going?”
The C-3 nodded. “As mentioned, sir, the Tauran Union Security Force-Santa Josefina, or TUSF-SJ…I hope we’ll be forgiven but the Operations cell has taken to calling it Task Force Jesuit…”
“That works,” agreed a grinning Janier.
“Yes, sir. Phase I: Airstrikes on all Balboan air forces and naval forces.” The projected map showed drawn explosions over about twelve places. “The Jesuits strike across the border…” The projected map swirled and then stabilized showing a split arrow lancing out from somewhere in northwestern Santa Josefina to the two casernes for Fifth Mountain and a chunk of Fourteenth Cazador. Again the map went fuzzy before clearing up with two more arrows coming in from outside the mapped area. “Anglian Paras to
Lago Sombrero.
Ours to Herrera International.” Five more, but much thinner arrows, began twisting through the city. Two more did the same toward and through Cristobal, while two solid ones aimed directly for Fort Williams. “Our
Mar Furioso
side based battalions engage and eliminate the headquarters for Second Balboan Corps and its subordinate legions. On the Shimmering Sea side, two battalions fix and isolate the Fourth Corps’ Headquarters, while two eliminate the Castilian traitor battalion. Once that is done, those last two move to eliminate the Fourth Corps’ various headquarters and casernes.” The map fuzzed and swirled and reappeared with seventeen more explosion marks, though these were in green. “We have also planned a number of strike missions for the commandos to eliminate the Balboan radio and television system.”
The C-3 paused to fill his water glass from a picture just inside of the rostrum from which he spoke. Once he had, and had taken a brief sip, he continued, “At this point,
mon General,
it’s worth explaining the end state of Phase One. We began with the Balboans able to mobilize about twenty-five or so regiments of perhaps eighty battalions of ground gaining maneuver troops, well-armed and modestly well led. We have eliminated the leadership of all of the regiments, legions, and corps, and for most of the battalions as well. At the same time, in terms of manpower, we will have physically eliminated only about five battalions worth.
“It is my suggestion, if it can be arranged, that the Balboans be given enough warning to mobilize their second wave, their reservists. That will make our job tougher though we will still have more than sufficient local superiority to eliminate those increased forces. Since the reservists provide the middle leadership for the enemy force, we are talking about getting rid of the equivalent of twenty to twenty-four battalions, and leaving the remaining rabble totally without leadership. In the long run, though it will be initially higher casualties, I believe this would give us a shorter war and fewer men lost.”
“Is the end any less certain if we do not provide the Balboans that warning?” asked Janier.
“No, sir,” admitted the C-3.
“So it’s a chance we don’t really have to take?”
“No, sir.”
“Then forget it. Maximum secrecy. Maximum surprise.”
“Yes, sir.”
The C-3 continued speaking as chart after chart, slide after slide, was presented and removed. Meanwhile Hendryksen, stomach upset after the first two hours and in absolute psychic agony now, thought,
There ought to be a test for senior commanders. Hook them up to a polygraph and make them sit through a long, long meeting or briefing. If they don’t show signs of physical distress…never, never, never let them command; they’ll waste too much time.
At length Janier was satisfied with his staff’s presentation. There were weaknesses in the plan, surely. Notable among these was that combined arms was, in several places, highly problematic. That weakness, however, was balanced or more than balanced by the staff’s diligence in keeping friendly fire incidents down by keeping away from each other’s units that didn’t speak the same language.
He indicated he had seen enough. Then he gave further guidance. “This is one of the most complex operations the Tauran Union’s armed forces have ever undertaken. Indeed, it is the first real war operation the TU has ever undertaken, on any scale, without being under the leadership of”—Janier let a note of contempt creep into his voice—“the Federated States. It will not work unless properly prepared and rehearsed. For that reason, also to keep the Balboans on edge, and also to develop in them a sense of inferiority, we are going to dress rehearse this to the Nth degree. Beginning next week I intend to start ordering our companies, battalions and brigades to practice moving to the very assault positions they will occupy prior to the invasion. This will be done without prior notice…either to our men or—and my word is
law
on this—the Balboans or anyone who might inform them.
“We’ll call the small exercises ‘
Mosquitoes’
; the larger ones
‘Green Monsoons.’
“Further, since nothing works that the commander does not personally check, these exercises will also allow me to check our readiness in person.”
One of Janier’s subordinates,
Oberstleutnant
Meyer, from the Sachsen tank battalion, had a question. “Sir, what are our priorities? General purpose training for general problems…or preparation for the specific mission for the invasion?”
Janier scowled. “Train for the specific mission.
Ob
viously.”
Typical boche.
Chapter Twenty-one
I call Christianity the one great curse, the one great intrinsic depravity, the one great instinct for revenge for which no expedient is sufficiently poisonous, secret, subterranean, petty—I call it the one mortal blemish of mankind.
—Nietzsche,
The Antichrist
Building 332 (Barracks, Company B, 420th Gallic Dragoons), Fort Muddville, Balboa, Terra Nova
“Mosquito!” cried the company duty NCO. In other armies he might have been called a CQ, for Charge of Quarters, or and U von D, for
Unteroffizier vom Dienst
. “Mosquito! Mosquito!
En tenue! En tenue!
” Kit up.
Storming along the tiled corridor, the duty sergeant beat his baton against the troops’ doors to help roust them out. Troops began spilling from the rooms, some grumbling, a few swearing against their commanding general. All struggled to pull on shirts, trousers and boots in the anarchic hallway of the barracks.
Even in the TUSF-B, few NCOs lived in the barracks anymore. Instead, they were typically off in family housing. Of those few who did still reside with the rank and file, albeit in private rooms, they took charge, chivvying some soldiers to the motor pool to precheck and start the tracks, ARE-12P infantry fighting vehicles, and still others to the arms room to draw heavy weapons and breach blocks for the IFVs. Still other soldiers carried bulky company equipment outside of the barracks to where the tracks would pull up for loading. An immaculate staff officer consulted his stopwatch near the main entrance to the billets.
Already the battalion supply and transport platoon was pulling up with pallets of ammunition, four heavy trucks about half filled with small arms, guided antitank missiles, belted 25mm in staggeringly heavy cans for the dragoon’s cannons. Shouting, sweating, groaning under heavy loads, tearing their flesh on all the sharp projections found on military equipment of all types, from all countries, gradually at first, then faster and faster still, Company B made ready to roll to their assault position just northwest of the main hospital.
A military police car showed up, flashing lights. For a real attack it wouldn’t be there, the MPs having other things to do and noncombatant life becoming much less precious once the bullets started flying. For now, though, the company couldn’t move without them, lest somebody get hurt playing footsie with the heavy armored vehicles.
It only took a couple of hours, which really wasn’t bad considering it was the first time, before the unit commander, Captain
Bruguière
, gave the order: “Roll.” Then, flashing MP in the lead, the company surged down the street, hanging a left to go out the main gate before reaching Building 59. The MP waited just past the gate, letting his flashing lights warn off civilian traffic. Once the company’s last track had passed, the MP raced to get ahead of them and then farther on to the next intersection.
Rain, not a serious downpour but just a dry season sprinkling, began coming down as the tracks of B Company passed by Brookings Field, a long abandoned Federated States air base, now used to house commandos and a squadron of helicopters, along with diverse support.
Well past Brookings, and just before commencing an unauthorized invasion of Balboa, the column swung right, with the MP car flashing away frantically on its left as it turned. The troops rolled about another half mile, then halted in place in front of
Cerro Mina
before pivoting left. At that point, Captain
Bruguière
walked the line to ensure he was satisfied with their spacing—there wasn’t any cover out there on the road—then called in to 420th Headquarters that he was in position. Battalion then sent back, “Come on home.”
* * *
Not far away, perhaps a kilometer as a trixie would fly—presupposing the quasi-intelligent bitch didn’t stop off somewhere to hunt
antaniae
—Signifer Porras, duty officer for Second Cohort, Second Tercio, on
Fuerte
Guerrero, trying to catch a half hour’s nap between rounds, was awakened by his runner.
“Sir! Sir! Signifer Porras…for God’s sake, wake up! The duty centurion’s gone to wake the troops. The Gauls are moving toward the
Comandancia
and the fort, sir, and the police told us they look ready to fight. They’re lining up on
Avenida
Ascanio Arosemena
just before it becomes
Avenida de la Santa Maria
!”
That was a portion of the broad and lengthy boulevard that separated Balboan territory from de facto Tauran Union ground. The street had gone through many name changes and a couple of minor changes in route since it had first been founded by Belisario Carrera as
Avenida de la Victoria
, following the driving out of Old Earth’s then United Nations, centuries before. Sometimes it was still called that, for its entire length.
“What? Shit!” Porras rubbed sleep from his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts from his dreams. The signifer asked, “From where are they coming? How many? Tracks or infantry?”
“We don’t know, sir. The police sub-station on their way just made a call to tercio that they are moving. Tercio called cohort; cohort called us.”
“Well, dammit, man,” said Porras. “Call them back. And start the mobilization recall, level two. And remind them to Second Legion, the
Estado Mayor
, and those assholes in Tenth Tercio. They may not know yet. Hmm…on second thought, I’ll call legion and
Estado Mayor
.
They
can call the Tenth. You get the recall going.”
“
Si
, Signifer.” The orderly snapped to attention, then scurried off to obey.
A junior sergeant, one of the cohort’s supply section, stepped up to Porras, reported, then asked, “What’s the word, sir?”
“Fucking Gauls,” Porras answered. “Coming toward the
Comandancia.
”
“Shit! I’ll get the arms room open, sir, for the crew-served weapons. Shit!” The corporal hesitated, looking worried. After a few pained seconds he admitted, “Ah…sir? Umm…I issued half our alert stocks of ammunition for training last drill.”
“And you haven’t made them good
yet
?” Porras snarled.
“Hell, sir, it was only two weeks ago. I put in the request, but it hasn’t been filled. That’s all.”
“Then why the fuck didn’t you tell someone before now?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I just didn’t think it was that important.”
“Assuming the gringos don’t attack tonight, this will be the last time you make that mistake. Clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
Porras, thought,
It really doesn’t make all that much difference, I suppose. The reservists have a fighting load of small arms ammunition at home. But it rankles.
Then Cruz, unshaven, boots untied, and trousers hanging loose, burst into the headquarters. “Status, sir?”
Porras began briefing the sergeant major, as he dialed tercio headquarters. When someone there answered, he held up a finger toward Sergeant Major Cruz:
Hold one and listen. You’ll learn as much as I know from what I ask higher.
While Cruz listened and tucked his shirt in, then bent to lace his boots, a cacophony arose in the hallways of the barracks. There just might have been a note of hysteria in the men’s shouts.
Changeover from
Avenida
Ascanio Arosemena
to
Avenida de la Santa Maria
,
Ciudad
Balboa, Terra Nova
Legate Suarez pointed at the black rubber skid marks on the asphalt of the road. “The fuckers were here, all right. Pulled up and pivot steered, right fucking
there,
then pivot steered again and took off.”
Porras, somewhat overawed at being in the presence of his legion commander, said nothing. Conversely, Cruz shook his head, saying, “And for the cost of pulling one of their companies out of its bunks, twenty thousand of our people had to respond.”
With a wicked, nasty smile across his face, Suarez asked, “There’s a certain elegance in that, don’t you think, Sergeant Major?”
“Yes, sir. And if we let them keep it up, they’ll frazzle the troop’s nerves to bits.”
“Just so. That’s why they’re doing it.”
Both men stopped speaking as Carrera’s jeep rolled up. They saluted and reported.
Carrera scowled. “So it begins again,” he said.
Porras, Cruz, and Suarez stood silent.
“Are you ready to fight them, Suarez? Sergeant Major?”
Suarez didn’t answer immediately. Cruz did.
“Sir, we aren’t quite ready yet. Two more years, if we can delay it that long. At least a year. Or buy us six months. But not today. Not and win more than one fight. Sir, it isn’t that the men won’t or can’t fight, sir. But we need just that little more time to fill up our ranks and train.”
“I agree with the sergeant major, sir,” said Suarez.
Carrera exhaled audibly. “Yeah…so do I.”
Suarez, looking down, said, “There’s another thing, though. The boys aren’t sure they can beat the Taurans. But they’re not sure they can’t either. Every time they do this to us and we don’t fight, our men are going to be a little more sure that we can’t win, that
you
don’t believe we can win. We can’t delay forever.”
“I know.”
Fort Nelson, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Balboa Transitway Area, Terra Nova
Named after one of the most successful, most courageous, luckiest, and least principled officers in Federated States military history, Fort Nelson and its next door neighbor, Arnold Air Force Base, formed one of the strongholds of foreign power in Balboa, dominating the northeastern exit from the Transitway. They had done so for the Federated States, for decades; they did so now for the Tauran Union. That Balboa held Fort Guerrero, on the other side of the bay, didn’t change this. Whoever held either post could prevent anyone from using the Transitway, at will.
Fort Nelson and Arnold AFB were, in turn, dominated by the hills to its east. Those were recently fortified by the Taurans, but lightly held. On the post three lines of substantial, white-stuccoed barracks ran north to south. Two of these, of five each, held one battalion of Gallic commandos, one of infantry, an engineer company, and a light artillery battery, with one large, centrally located mess hall for all ten company-sized units.
Opposite the barracks that held the mess hall, which—being a much larger building—housed the headquarters for both of the other battalions, another barracks sagged dangerously in the middle where an idiotic Federated States major had once had a load-bearing wall knocked out to put in an unneeded chapel.
The last line, of three barracks, housed a large aviation squadron, most of whose helicopters sat at nearby Arnold AFB. That last line of three was separated from the other ten by an athletic complex and parade field.
Out on the parade field, stopwatch in hand, a starched and spit-shined staffer observed the last of Company B, 35th Commando Battalion (Airborne) board helicopters. The other two commando companies likewise boarded helicopters, on different parts of the field, but those were not that particular staff officer’s problem. To the northwest and southwest, in two open fields, the artillery battery—split into two firing sections—blasted away with signal blanks, simulating fires on Fort Guerrero, a few miles away across the bay, and at the old
Comandancia,
now serving as Second Corps Headquarters. The staffer jotted down the exact time the helicopters lifted from the open athletic field between the Thirty-fifth’s barracks and the helicopter squadron.
Turning north, the helicopters passed low over the two old and abandoned hemispherical coastal artillery bunkers of Batteries Henry and George, then across Nelson Beach and out to sea.
Once past the pounding surf, the helicopters veered east toward Fort Guerrero, flying only a few feet above the waves in V formation. A kilometer out from the Balboa Yacht Club the helicopters closed that V into a trail formation, one behind the other. In the next few seconds the commandos of Company B felt their stomachs sink as the pilots, one after the other, pulled pitch to raise the aircraft safely over the trees that fronted the coast.
As soon as the trees were cleared the pilots dumped altitude to come low again, even as they pushed pedals to change direction. Troopers’ stomachs heaved. Then, engines roaring and blades chopping the air, the birds were down, landing in trail on the south side of Fort Guerrero’s parade field.
With shouts the commandos leapt from the open doors to take up a perimeter around the helicopters. No sooner had the helicopters been unloaded than they took off once again, then headed to Arnold again to refuel. There was a short halt while the company’s leaders got the troops on line. Then there began a series of short rushes by individuals and small teams, moving toward the 2nd Cohort, Second Tercio barracks. The troops shouted “bang”…“bang” in between rushes. They could have used blanks, of course, but blanks could be mistaken for real rounds, which might have invited real return fire. It was not the time for that, not just yet.
* * *
I am getting
so
sick of these games,
thought Sergeant Major Cruz, standing with arms folded on a second floor balcony to catch a bit of sea breeze against the heat.
Of course, that’s their objective
.
“Duty Sergeant,” shouted Cruz. “Get the boys outside and on line. No weapons. I have an idea.”
“
Si
, Sergeant Major.” The sergeant didn’t have a clue what Cruz intended, but wasn’t about to question his cohort’s sergeant major.
Over the next few minutes, as the skirmish line of commandos drew closer, the available men of Second Cohort, Second Tercio formed an even line on the pavement in front of their barracks. When Cruz saw that he had about as many as he could expect he gave the command “Cohort…Atten…shun!” Still sleepy, the response was ragged.
The Gallic troops barely hesitated in their movement towards the barracks. In seconds, the pace of the advance had resumed. As the “bang…bang…bangbangbang” grew louder, the Balboan soldiers awoke quickly.
“About…face!” The legionaries seemed still ragged, but it was mostly reluctance to turn their backs on an armed, advancing enemy.
