The Lotus Eaters (69 page)

Artemisia didn't move except to clutch the children tighter to her. She hadn't moved, to speak of, since the tears had dried perhaps an hour before. Her lips still whispered, "Mac . . . Mac . . . Mac," with some regularity.

A sailor on one of the boats, the stern said "San Agustin," shouted and waved for them to veer off. Lourdes was having none of it. Instead, she ducked down seconds before the yacht crashed into the dock, crumpling its own bow and splitting pole and frame of the other. Lourdes and her passengers were thrown forward.

The sailor, still shouting imprecations, jumped from his own patrol boat to the yacht's deck. "Lady, are you out of your fucking mind?" The sailor then noticed she had a submachine gun slung over one shoulder and amended, "If you'll pardon my language, ma'am."

Lourdes stood straight and answered, "Possibly. To both. My name is Lourdes Carrera. I am
Duque
Carrera's wife. I need to see your senior man present and I need your help."

In the dim white light of two moons, one of them now setting, and the yellow light of streetlamps, the sailor peered at this strange woman's face.

"By God you
are
the
Duque
's wife." He turned away, toward a small building just off the dock, and shouted, "Chief! Chief Castro!"

* * *

"I've got the five boats, yes, Mrs. Carrera," the chief said, once Lourdes had explained as much as she knew. His was a face burned dark by the wave-reflected sun and deeply seamed with a life of wind, and storm, and squinting against the elements. "But I've only got the crew coming off and the crew going on duty. And they're not even full strength. It's one of the downsides of being a militia." The chief shrugged, apologetically.

"Can you run a boat on half a crew?" Lourdes asked.

"Well . . . yeah . . . if we're not going to fight anybody," Castro admitted.

"All right then." Lourdes turned to Artemisia. "Arti," she said, "I need you to take your children and mine to," she leaned forward and whispered something in the black woman's ear, "and from there to wait. If what I am planning works, come back. If not, run to Hamilcar's . . . people . . . in Pashtia." She leaned forward again and whispered something else, a set of five numbers and the name of a bank, which she made Arti repeat back to her. "That will allow you and them to live well if it comes to that."

Turning back to the chief, she said, "I need you to take me to the coast, nearest where the road to Fort Cameron touches it. And I need a car to meet me there and take me to the fort."

The chief considered. "I've got a brother in law who bought a taxi with a legion loan. I can get him to meet us."

"The phones are out," Lourdes objected.

"His taxi has a radio and I know his frequency."

"Then let's do it."

Castro inhaled deeply and let out an equally deep sigh. "Yes . . . all right . . . let's. And, madam, if you've never been on a boat that can do better than seventy kilometers an hour, let me tell you that you are in for the ride of your life."

From the boat shack a voice called out, "Hey, Chief? Something's wrong with the television. There ain't no TV at all."

There were lights lit in the windows of the building. Under streetlights, trucks were rolling past, carrying troops to stations all around the city. Others, three of them, were stopped outside the TV station, disgorging troops. The second in command of those troops, Centurion Garza, walked up to the commander, Signifer Garza, and said, "This just doesn't make sense,
Signifer
. Orders in the middle of the night to take over the TV and radio stations, and to shut down the phones? Others to collect up the Senate? And no rumors preceding those orders? All in the
Duque'
s name? Sir, we never do
anything
without at least some rumors in advance. Never. We're just that kind of force.

"I could see it if we were going to attack the Taurans without warning," the centurion continued. "But we've been expressly warned
not
to attack the Taurans. It just doesn't make sense."

The signifier shrugged. He was a youngish kid, just out of OCS, and without even a close combat badge to his name. Truth to tell, he was a little in awe of his centurion. "I don't know, Centurion Garza," the kid said. "I just know we—Seventh Legion, I mean—got orders to secure the town. We're doing that."

A look of nervous and apprehensive puzzlement crossed the centurion's face. He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as he spoke to his younger cousin. "Manuel," he said, "this stinks and if I were you I'd start looking around to find the source of the stench."

"All right," the signifier agreed, "just as soon as we shut down the station. Which, now that you mention it, stinks, too."

The lieutenant of the Gallic Twentieth
Infanterie Mécanisée
, out of Fort Muddville, was doing what lieutenants do; running around like a headless chicken trying to put each combat vehicle in his platoon into exactly the right position. On the other side of the bridge a different platoon was doing the same. The company's third platoon was on the other side of the broad water, acting as a combat outpost of sorts.

Centurion Garza wasn't the only one puzzled by the ongoing events. A grizzled Gallic non-com told the lieutenant, "Sir, I don't like this a bit. There's a coup going on; we all understand that. But we got orders to move and secure this bridge long before that started. So we're in on it; the general is, anyway."

"Logical, so far,
Adjudant
," the lieutenant agreed, momentarily ceasing his useless clucking about.

"Well, sir, there's nobody around us—nobody friendly, I mean. There's a heavy division to the east of us that is definitely not friendly, and at least two Balboan infantry divisions—legions, I mean—behind us, and maybe closer to five, not including their Tenth Artillery Legion."

"Yes, so?"

"If that coup doesn't work, sir, we're at the bottom of an artillery funnel."

The lieutenant looked momentarily nonplused. "What do you recommend, then,
Adjudant
?"

"For starters, sir, let me worry about setting up this blocking position. Meanwhile, you should get over the map and get on the radio and figure out a way for us to get the hell out of here if things turn to shit."

"As my father, the general, often said,
Adjudant
, the good officer listens carefully to his sergeants' mess."

"Wise man, your father."

The boat was anchored as close to the bank as it could go without grounding itself. Chief Castro, not content with getting Lourdes to the coast, had motored upriver to bring her nearly a third of the way to Fort Cameron and the Volgan
Tercio
. He'd have gone further still but for two factors: This was as close as the road got, because a bridge crossed the river her and the bridge itself was built on pylons too close together to permit the width of the patrol boat to pass. Overhead, just off of the abutment, a single flashlight signaled three times.

"Is this wise?" Lourdes asked, with only the lightest nervous tremor in her voice. "How do you know it's your brother in law driving the taxi?" Automatically, she had ducked all but her head low behind the frame of the boat's cockpit.

"We both went to
Cazador
School," the boat's skipper explained, flashing a light of his own three times as well. "Though he's infantry, the poor benighted bastard. That's a common recognition signal we agreed to over the radio."

"Oh. Okay. And now."

"And now we're going over the side. Let me go first and help you down."

Lourdes waited until the chief had splashed over the side and called out to her.

For a moment she didn't know what to do. She'd never exited a boat except by dock or by dive. And diving in this jungle-shrouded blackness, into the muddy river, seemed like one of those really bad ideas.

Castro understood her problem instinctively. "Lay down on the gunwale . . . the top of the side wall, and slide your legs and rear over," he ordered. "I'll catch your legs and help you down."

"Oh, okay." She did as directed, except that she almost screamed when the chief lowered her and the chill water went up to her breasts. Under the circumstances, she didn't complain that Castro had had to get a pretty good grip on her rear end, at one point, to keep her from going in sideways.

Not that I didn't appreciate the opportunity
, the chief thought to himself.

"Come on," he told her, tugging her through the water and up the muddy bank. The chief stopped only once, to step on and smash an antania's head that made a lunge for Lourdes' booted ankle.

Quick introduction were made at the taxi. Then Lourdes, Castro, and the brother in law, Reyes, sped up the road to the south, heading for Fort Cameron.

Having furiously bullied his way past guards and functionaries, Ambassador Wallis burst into Janier's office without warning or escort. "Janier, you frog bastard," he said, most undiplomatically, "what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

The TU's ambassador to the Republic of Balboa was likewise present, in itself something suspicious. He attempted to rise and object before Wallis' pointed finger pinned him morally to his chair. "And you, shut up."

Janier smiled, knowingly and condescendingly. "I, Mr. Ambassador? Why
I
am doing nothing really. Though there seems to be a bit of trouble downtown. I've sent a few troops to secure our interests of course. Naturally one would when faced with an unplanned emergency."

Surcouf walked in through another door and announced, "
Charlemagne
reports air interdiction patrols between the
Isla Real
and the mainland are up, General. Likewise, de Villepin said to inform you that the Bridge of the Columbias is sealed off, as is the Gatun River Bridge. He also said to pass on to you that 'Williams' is apparently a failure. No details."

Janier scowled. "
Merde
!"

Without another word, Ambassador Wallis turned and stormed out to make a report to his government.

Chapayev drove the captured vehicle at breakneck speed, squealing tires at each turn. Muñoz didn't object. Indeed, his only comment was "Faster, Victor, faster!" right up until the thing appeared ready to careen right into the battalion's headquarters. At that point the cry became, "Stop, Victor, STOP!"

The auto did, with a few feet to spare and smoke pouring from the tires.

Muñoz-Infantes was neither a particularly small man nor a weak one. Once he got out of the car, and pulled a corpse from the trunk, he effortlessly dragged that corpse by the scruff of its clothed neck. It was the body of the one man among his recent assailants that the colonel recognized from his own organization. He was still holding the leaking corpse when the sergeant of the guard, jerked awake by the shriek of brake pads, came out of the guard shack under the headquarters.

"
Coronel
Muñoz," the sergeant greeted, while standing to attention and sketching out a salute. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, what are you doing here? I was told you had been kidnapped by locals and that we had received a demand for ransom." The sergeant's eyes moved down to the body. "Local . . . ummm . . . kidnapper?" he asked.

The colonel released his grip on the corpse, which flopped bonelessly to the concrete. "Summon my staff and company commanders and—"

"They're all already here, sir," the sergeant interrupted. His finger jabbed upwards, in the general direction of the battalion conference room. "The XO called them all in when we got the report."

"Fine. Have someone see to this corpse." Muñoz used a booted foot to flip the body over onto its back. "Do you recognize him?" he asked.

"By sight, sir. I don't know his name." The sergeant of the guard scratched at his head for a moment and then answered, "I think he worked in the S-2 shop, sir. Odd . . ."

"What's odd, Sergeant?"

"It was the S-2 who told us you had been kidnapped."

"I see." Muñoz stormed off in the direction of the stairs that led upward. On the way he muttered, "I smell those bastards Janier and de Villepin."

"What are you going to do, sir?" Chapayev asked, following close behind.

Muñoz pulled out and checked the load on his pistol. "Shoot my S-2 and lead my battalion against the stinking frogs. Then ask the Balboans to take on my battalion, on spec, so to speak."

"I don't know if they will," Victor said. "But . . . maybe."

"I think it likely," the colonel assured him. "But there's also something I want you to do."

"Sir?"

"I'm going to send a detail to relive Maria of the prisoner. I want you to go with them and after they do, to take Maria to the Academy at Puerto Lindo. Will you do this."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

The Volgan gate guard had been uncertain about letting the taxi in. It was Lourdes who had the clout to talk him into calling for the staff duty officer. That man, a junior tribune, had arrived quickly from Samsonov's headquarters to show them the way. He recognized Lourdes from the pre-Santander raid dinner, though she couldn't pull up a memory of him from the sea of faces of that night. The taxi followed the Volgan staff duty vehicle, passing it when it parked to deposit Lourdes right at the front door. Samsonov, alerted by the staff duty officer, was waiting to greet her.

"You've got to help us," Lourdes exclaimed, as soon as she saw the Volgan commander.

"Shit," Samsonov said as soon as she had explained. In turn, he explained, in his slow and strained Spanish, "This is . . . touchy . . . umm . . . touchier than you may know, Mrs. Carrera. We not part of . . . regular Balboan forces. Not sure what Federated States do . . . if
Volgan
regiment intervene. Not like we . . . best of friends or anything, you know. We could end up doing . . . more harm . . . than good.