Read The Rods and the Axe - eARC Online
Authors: Tom Kratman
Tags: #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #General, #Action & Adventure, #military
The Rods and the Axe - eARC (15 page)
“Years,” Jan said.
“And they could do that because of the bait. But predicting the loss of a Zhong carrier on a humanitarian mission? Now, that requires weapons grade crystal balls and batteries of Ouija boards. They may very well have based their fortifications on a presumption that invasion via the Shimmering Sea was logistically impossible, as your
boche
thought. But they didn’t do it because of the Zhong.
“Now look at the map and show me where you think you were digging their ‘antianimal ditch.’ ” He passed her a pointer.
Jan’s pointer traced along the map. “Can’t be sure, you know . . . they just came along and said ‘dig from here to there’ . . . but . . . I think . . . this section, from here to . . . here . . . about here, anyway.”
Fournier tapped a spot with a pencil’s point, a couple of thousand meters south of where she had indicated. “Did you see anything here?”
“No. Why?”
“There are some big concrete things, rounded lumps, more or less, we don’t understand there.”
“Sorry, never saw them.”
Karlesforst, Sachsen, Tauran Union, Terra Nova
Herr
Kunth and his wife danced across their living room floor, with an old waltz keeping time. In an instant, with a single letter, their universe had gone from despair to boundless joy. After all, their only child, not so little
Hauptgefreiter
Kunth, was reborn, so to speak, resurrected from the dead. The letter from the Balboans said so.
Herr Kunth stopped the dance, took a couple of deep breaths, then released his wife with an affectionate pat. He then went to the front door and announced, at the top of his not inconsiderable lungs, “My son is
alive!
He’s alive, I tell you! The stinking frogs didn’t get him killed after all.”
After making the announcement, though,
Herr Kunth closed the door. The letter had a strong suggestion which, after just a moment’s thought, he decided to take. It had also said that, in the interests of not adversely affecting his finances, the Government of Balboa would delay giving the true report of
Hauptgefreiter
Kunth’s status until he’d had a chance to secure himself and his finances. Though they hadn’t outright said so, the Balboans had strongly implied that any financial benefits their own government had given the Kunth family might just be withdrawn.
Going to the family computer, he dug up a gold dealer and began making arrangements to turn the tax free three hundred thousand Tauro insurance payment into gold and having that delivered to his work.
Fuck ’em; they deserve to pay for the heartache they inflicted on myself and my wife.
Feydeau, Gaul, Tauran Union, Terra Nova
Monsieur Paul Hisson closed the door on his mother’s apartment. Mama had been dead for many years, now, but her corpse had stopped stinking, at least, and still provided a nice little check monthly.
Not that he really needed Mama’s retirement for the nonce. With his wife long since disappeared and the death gratuity for his late son, killed somewhere in Balboa, Hisson was fairly flush. Still, one never knew when the money would come in handy, so in her bed Mama’s remains remained, as they would until Hisson himself passed on.
I’d rather hoped Paul Junior would be able to collect on both Mama and myself until he was old and gray, but . . .
c’est la vie.
Pity, really.
Hisson went to the front door, humming and subvocalizing a popular new song, “
Fuck the filthy Tauran Union
.” The mail was due in a few moments and if the yellow bicycle didn’t have Mama’s check, the papers would hear of his indignation.
The bicycle-riding girl making the delivery was easy enough on the eyes that Monsieur Hisson wished for a moment he were twenty years younger. Still, the important thing was the check; with that he could pay for anything he might need in the way of feminine attention.
Scanning the half dozen envelopes delivered by the charmingly feminine
cycliste
, he came to one that looked semi-official.
Hisson opened it and began to read.
“Désastre!”
he said, feeling mildly faint, followed by, “
Catastrophe! Calamite!
”
Ah, well
, he thought, after beginning to take the problem philosophically,
At least young Paul will get the benefit of Mama’s corpse. She’d have wanted it that way.
Bjorvika, Hordaland, Tauran Union, Terra Nova
While Khalid the Assassin had become a Balboan citizen in years now long past, and while Balboa’s “military only” immigration policy had helped keep the legion topped off to strength, the numbers of former citizens of the states of the Tauran Union in the legion was not large. Moreover, of those there were, many had previous military training that made them more valuable in Balboa than they would have been supporting Balboa in their own countries. Still, there had been some who could have been used. It was Fernandez, himself, who had nixed that idea. “They’ll be loyal enough in defense of their new home,” he’d told Parilla and Carrera, “especially since we can watch them. We might be able to get a few into the intelligence gathering business, that not being something that kills anyone
directly
. But to ask them to attack their old home, in their old home, while putting their former fellow citizens and soldiers at risk, or even killing them
directly
. . . I think that’s asking a little bit too much. Of anyone. I’m not sure we should trust, or even permit to enlist, anyone who wouldn’t be troubled by that.”
Thus, direct action by former Taurans, against the Tauran Union, within the Tauran Union, was right out. Conversely, though, they had Sumeris, immigrants to various Tauran states who retained still their loyalty to their old country and its current ruler, Adnan Sada. They had some Xamaris they’d recruited directly. And, of course, there were a fair number of Volgans slurping at the legionary trough, which trough was on the TU’s western border.
One small team of these, two Xamaris, who lived in Hordaland and a single black Balboan who had come across the Scandza border and spoke the language, receipted for a single shipping container, delivered by truck and left at a small warehouse complex on the outskirts of Bjorvika.
The container had been marked “glider.” It had come from Jagelonia, which had some reputation, internationally, for building and selling gliders, and, when the Hordalander customs folk had looked inside the container it had, after all, been a glider inside, albeit disassembled.
It had taken five trips in the back of a locally purchased and registered Gothenberg 3T to get all the parts out of the container and move them to the residence of the two Xamaris, a small tree farm (not that Xamaris knew a blessed thing about tree farming). There, in the shed, they’d put together the glider, the BLS, or balloon launch system, and installed the incomplete warhead. Since the warhead had had to pass through customs, it was completely devoid of anything smelling even slightly of explosives. Instead, it had a carbon black cartridge married to a liquid oxygen cartridge. This was more than adequate to the task.
After that, it was only a matter of waiting.
Tauran Defense Agency, Lumière, Gaul, Terra Nova
Fourier wasn’t alone this time, Jan was surprised to see. There was an older gentleman—
his suit
reeks
of Burlington Lines
, thought Jan—who seemed to speak French exceptionally well. Jan would have taken him for a Frog, until he turned his received pronunciation on her.
“Major Campbell—” the old gentleman began.
“Captain,” she interrupted.
“Majors do not interrupt lieutenant generals, even retired ones,” he said. “Neither do they correct them on matters of fact. I said ‘major,’ and I meant ‘major,’ I’ll thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Jan. “If you insist. Sir.”
“I do. I am, by the way, Sidney Stuart-Mansfield, of Pimilco Hex, and I know all about you.”
“Indeed?” Jan’s head tilted to one side, a study in skepticism.
“Oh, yes, Major. I know things you do not even know yourself.”
“For example, sir?”
“I know, for example, what you’re going to be doing for the next several months.”
“And what would that be? Sir?”
“You’re going to be resurrecting our intelligence apparatus in the Republic of Balboa,” said Stuart Mansfield.
“Not possible,” she answered. The files are lost. We don’t even know—”
“It is possible,” said Fourier. “Intelligence operations in Balboa were a Gallic purview, almost entirely. We do not operate as you do. You would have lost the ability to contact agents with the loss of the local files and handlers. We have duplicate files here. We know still who was in our network and how to contact them.”
“You know less than you think,” Jan said. Before the Gaul could reply, she added, “You don’t know who’s still alive. You don’t know who’s been turned. You don’t really know who was a double agent from the beginning. You don’t know how many have been mobilized now, and cannot be reached by any practical means. You don’t know—”
“But I know something, Major Campbell,” said Stuart-Mansfield. “I know that you’re going to take this in hand, and do your very best with it.”
PART II
CHAPTER TEN
Negotiation in the classic diplomatic sense assumes parties more anxious to agree than to disagree.
—Dean Acheson
Hotel
Cielo Dorado
, Aserri, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
This first plenipotentiary meeting took place at the very civilized hour of two PM, local. It was not impossible that some of the diplomats had drunk to excess the night before, hence, tactfully, the meeting was delayed until at least the worst of the hangovers might have dissipated. This also explained why the cart-mounted television in the conference room was plugged in and hooked up to a cable, but not turned on. It sat at one end, past the tables laden with coffee and rolls, cheese and jam.
And the really frightful damned thing,
thought Lourdes Carrera,
is that three out of the five of us agree, the war must go on. At least, unofficially we agree. I’d be happy enough with peace, after all, it’s my son and husband at risk. But when three-fifths agree on war, even if they can’t admit it, even to each other, war there is going to be.
Only four of those five currently sat around the traditionally doughnut shaped table, Balboa,
Xing Zhong Guo
, the Federated States, and the UEPF. And just getting the FSC to sit down at the same table with the Earthers had been a frightful exercise. Three generations after the blasting of Botulph and San Fernando, the Federated States of Columbia
still
hated the United Earth Peace Fleet beyond words, beyond even measure.
Interesting problem, though,
thought Lourdes.
If the FSC knew the UEPF wanted war, as I know from our cabin girl defector—Jesus, what will Patricio do when he finds out who that girl looks like?—they would threaten war to force peace. Since they think the UEPF wants peace, they’re slightly on the side of continuing the war. It’s very strange.
The missing party was the Tauran Union, their delegation being composed of the president pro tem, Gaymard, and General Janier.
And Janier I cannot read more than a little,
thought Carrera’s wife, who, like many women, took an entirely justifiable modicum of pride in her ability to read men.
This may be because he is not too sure any more of what he believes, himself.
Hmm . . . I wonder why they’re late, the Taurans. Patricio sent something through Triste about some dirty trick we’ve pulled on the TU, but there weren’t any details. I suppose there couldn’t be.
She’d wondered why it was a general here, representing half of what the Tauran Union could bring to the table, rather than the civilian chief. Triste had explained it: “Elisabeth Ashworth is a corrupt, deep at the core Tsarist-Marxist, ennobled for political connections and loyalty rather than acumen. She speaks no languages but her own, and that not especially well. She is barely educated. She could not be elected dogcatcher of a dogless town, hence has relied on appointments to advance herself. She has never held a job in or out of government for which she was not totally out of her depth. She spreads ignorance and chaos wherever she goes. She has no idea about defense, and couldn’t tell the difference between a pair of boots and an aircraft carrier. She would have been an embarrassment to the Tauran Union. Nobody understands why she is in the position she is in, least of all herself. And all of that is the opinion of those who like and support her. Her political enemies are much more negative.”
“Oh.”
“She is alleged, however, to be likeable and even charming.”
“Oh.”
“Though those who allege it may be prejudiced in favor of politically connected idiocy.”
Lourdes was still musing on the unquestioned benefits of
not
having Countess Ashworth at the peace conference when the Tauran delegation, Gaymard and Janier burst in. The president pro tem wore a look of utter fury on his face. The soldier, however, struck her as having a very difficult time of it keeping a broad smile from appearing on his.
“One hesitates to insult a lady,” said Gaymard, with a sneer, “so take this as an insult to your entire people, and not to you, specifically. You filthy, lying, treacherous, uncivilized, unprincipled, rude, ill mannered, sorry excuse for a people. Barbarians! Uncultured! Un—”
“I think it was a very clever trick,” said Janier, earning a fierce glare from his nominal president.
“What are you people talking about?” asked Wallenstein. At about that moment her communicator beeped. It was Richard, earl of Care, back aboard the
Spirit of Peace.
“High Admiral,” said the ship’s captain, unheard by any but the high admiral, “I think you should check the news down there. In Gaul and Sachsen, especially.”
As if on cue, Gaymard stomped over to the television, turning it on and setting the channel to the Global News Network. The scene shown was of burning automobiles and burning buildings, of policemen under glare-lit barrages of rocks. “This is your good faith,” said Gaymard, accusingly, to Lourdes and Esterhazy. “This is your integrity. You lie to us about casualties then go directly to our people, pinning the blame for your lies on us.”
“What in the name of God are you talking about?” Lourdes asked, in French at least as good as his. “You fool!” she added, since she’d imbibed a fair amount of the culture with the language.
While Gaymard sputtered, Janier explained the barrage of letters and the damage they’d done to sundry Tauran Kosmos, or cosmopolitan progressives. “It’s not as openly bad in Sachsen,” he added, pointing at the screen, “since they’re a much more disciplined people than mine. But they have a history of boiling over when least expected.
“You really didn’t know?”
“No,” Lourdes insisted. “And if it were deliberate, I am sure my husband would have told me.”
Unless, of course, he wanted me to be able to feign innocence. For that, he told me just enough.
“All right,” said Janier, though he didn’t quite believe it. “Well, you, your husband, and Balboa have both acquired a raft of new enemies as well as new friends.”
“And you?” she asked.
“Count me as a friendly enemy,” Janier answered.
“Fair enough,” she said, believing him.
“Come along, General,” insisted Monsieur Gaymard, tugging on the general’s sleeve. “I refuse to sit at the same table as this . . . woman.”
And that, for the day, was that. At least in that conference room that was that.
In Marguerite’s quarters, where the Zhong security types had escorted a twisted-armed Gaymard, Janier leaned against the wall, arms folded, enjoying the show. The empress carefully inspected her nails, pretending to ignore the show. Marguerite
was
the show.
Towering over Gaymard, she held the president pro tem by his necktie, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. As she shook she continuously berated him, “You stupid, insipid, miserable excuse for a man.” The shaking and berating occasionally were interrupted for a brisk
slap!
or two . . . or three . . . or a full body smash, or a series of them, against the wall. So, thusly: “You stupid, insipid, miserable excuse for a man.”
Slapslapslap.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, you elder-gods-damned ground bound fucking peasant?”
ThumpthumpTHUMP
against the wall. “I hold the fucking power of life and death over you and yours, you piece of shit!”
Slapslap. Thump. Slap. THUMP.
“Do you want to see yourself at age ninety, if you live that long?”
ThumpthumpTHUMP. Slap. Thump
. “And if you think your fucking whore of a wife is marginal now, give her a few decades.”
Slap. Slap. Slapsalpslapslapslap. Punch
. “Ooof.” “Fuckhead! Imbecile! Moron! Walk”—
slap
—“out”—
thump
—“of”—
punch
, “ooof!”—“my”—
thumpthump
—“fucking peace conference”—
thumppunch “ooof” slapslap
—“will you?”
At that point Janier was smiling more broadly than ever. Marguerite let the president pro tem out of her grasp. Tears slid down his face as the Gaul slid down the wall. But for his own tailored trousers, he’d have left a more obvious streak on the wall than the tears did on his face.
“Tomorrow,” she ordered Gaymard, “you will be there and you will be polite to that woman. Is that clear? You will apologize! Now get out!”
Unable to speak, the Gaul merely sniffled and nodded. He started his progress to the door on hands and knees, rising only when he passed a chair against one wall.
“No,” she said to Janier, who had begun to leave with Gaymard. “You stay.”
“I am confused,” said the general, after Gaymard had left. “I want peace, yes, since I have reason now—serious reason, you will agree—to doubt our ability to wage war successfully. But you want war, High Admiral; deny it though you may. How does flogging that bureaucratic nonentity get you closer to your goal?”
“His anger at Mrs. Carrera was professional before. It will be personal now, thoughtless now, consumed with rage now. That makes it more likely that the TU will say or do, or fail to say or do, whatever is needed for war.”
“Ah. I see,” said the Gaul. “But why won’t that hate turn on you and the Peace Fleet?”
“Because I and it are everything he aspires to. He could no more turn on us than your current Black Pope could on the real pope.
“And besides, the weasel wants that rejuvenation more than anything. And I am the key to that. So he has to turn his hatred elsewhere, and the most convenient ‘elsewhere’ remains Balboa.”
Janier said nothing about that, though he agreed she probably was right. He
did
say, after a moment’s reflection, “I’d better go see to the weasel.”
“Please do,” said Marguerite.
Janier walked to the door. As he was pulling the door shut behind him he thought he heard the empress huskily saying, “You have been a
terribly
naughty girl. You must be punished . . .”
Sometimes
, thought the general, as the door clicked shut,
sometimes I wonder if, if only one could get valid and true answers, sex wouldn’t explain everything there is to know about people, both as a species and as individuals. Or perhaps it would only show that nothing is understandable at all.
Ah, no matter; whatever her personal predilections, I
do
like the high admiral.
Gym
Dorado,
Cedral Multiplex Shopping Mall,
Aserri, Santa Josefina, Terra Nova
Esmeralda wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Can
I
ask a question?”
“You can ask,” replied Aragon, “but I might not know the answer and, even if I do, I might not be able to tell you.”
“Oh. Well, then, I’d better save it for a question I think you know the answer to and might be able to tell me.”
Aragon sighed. “Don’t be silly. It’s not a rationing scheme. If you want to know something, ask. If I know and can tell you, I will.”
“Is there any way for your country to get to old Earth to liberate it?”
Goooddd question,
thought Aragon.
But
, “No, I don’t think so. At least I’ve never heard of any and can’t imagine any way for us to.”
“Could anybody on the planet?”
“The Federated States would if they could,” Aragon replied. “And they probably could if they could get the Peace Fleet out of the way for a couple of years, without getting themselves nuked in the process. Right now, though, the FSC is stymied.”
“No they’re not,” said Esmeralda.
“What?”
“They’re not stymied. They’re bluffed. So far as anyone knows, there is not a single, reliable nuclear weapon in the Peace Fleet or on Earth. The high admiral had demanded that some new ones be manufactured, or some old ones be refurbished, but when we left, the SecGen—that’s the ruler, but he’s not an absolute ruler—was still fighting over it with some of his supporters.”
“Oh, my God.” Cass Aragon went speechless for a few moments. Then she said, “Debriefing’s over. I have to get this to my people.
Now.
”
Isla Real
, Balboa, Terra Nova
There was a rectangular indentation in the concrete over the entrance to the underground shelter. Eventually, it was supposed to carry the shelter’s name. Since the shelter didn’t yet
have
a name, however . . .
The faintest ghost of a smile lit Fernandez’s face as his powered wheelchair rolled across the concrete between the heavy steel blast doors, followed by Warrant Officer Mahamda and some of Mahamda’s men. Some of Mahamda’s men carried some large beams. One had a hammer. Another had a pack on his back that clanged metallically as he walked.
The doors were big enough to accommodate a UEPF shuttle. Despite the lack of a name, Fernandez tended to think of the facility as Fortress Robinson. It was here that the former high admiral was housed under guard, he having been captured in Pashtia in the course of trying to deliver non-Earth-built nuclear weapons to the Salafi
Ikhwan
, the now defunct terrorist group. It was here that he and the former inspector general and marchioness of Amnesty, Interplanetary, Lucretia Arbeit, had trained several Balboans to pilot the legion’s deepest secret—deeper even than their small nuclear arsenal—that they had a UEPF shuttle and that it worked.
Making it work had been problematic. It had, in the first place, been badly shot up where it had been sheltered, in a cave in Pashtia. What damage the bullets hadn’t done, had been done when infantrymen and combat engineers, none too skilled, had been put to taking it apart and carting it off in pieces. Worst of all, seemingly insuperable, had been that the control box had been utterly toasted, ruined beyond redemption.
I imagine,
thought Fernandez,
though I can’t prove it, that the reason the Earthpigs never mentioned the shuttle is that they know the control box was ruined—last minute “I am under attack” squawk maybe—and know it can’t be flown without it.
The innate conservatism and lack of innovation of Old Earth, which lack was driven by the need for stability, had saved the shuttle. Five centuries before, in the course of winning his colony’s independence from Earth’s United Nations, Carrera’s multi-great grandfather-in-law, Belisario Carrera, had taken a shuttle.
