Read Come and Take Them-eARC Online
Authors: Tom Kratman
Tags: #Military, #Science Fiction, #General, #Action & Adventure, #Fiction
“Drooop!…Trousers!
“Bennnd…over.
“At My Command…Fart.
“Ready…Fart!”
With the Gauls a bare fifty meters away the Balboans gave a Bronx cheer that just grew louder and louder with time. Faster than if mowed down by machine guns, the Gauls’ assault line broke down in laughter.
Cruz gave the order to his men to recover and go back to bed. Before retiring into the headquarters, himself, he gave a single upraised finger towards the men on the parade field.
As the screen door closed behind him, and the Gauls shuffled off to where the helicopters could get in to pick them up, Cruz thought,
And “on each end of the rifle we’re the same.”
He shook his head.
It won’t do much good, not for long. But anything positive is better than nothing.
Gatineau, Secordia, Terra Nova
Emotionally, substantial sections of Secordia, south of the Federated States, felt as one with the Tauran Union. Moreover, they’d put their traditionally excellent army to use for decades toadying to the World League in peacekeeping missions in sundry undeveloped hell holes. If there was a spurious, recently invented human right held sacred anywhere on Terra Nova, the odds were good the notion had been birthed right here in Gatineau. Occasionally, the United Earth Peace Fleet had acted as midwife for the birth.
Among those sacred human rights, and one where the UEPF was not merely midwife but father, as well, was the right not to be blown up by the small explosive devices called “antipersonnel land mines.” It might further be noted that while the UEPF was the father of the treaty, its mother was an Old Earth princess, long deceased.
Mind, it was a right only among some nations whose armies were really quite careful with the use of land mines, and who could have been counted on to recover mines once emplaced but which were no longer needed. For the major powers, the Federated States,
Xing Zhong Guo,
the remnants of the Volgan Empire, along with some of the lesser states around some of those, people who took war seriously, in other words, that “right” and the treaty which sanctified it, were studiously ignored where not actively sneered at.
Among serious war making powers, only Anglia and Gaul had ratified the “Gatineau Treaty Against the Manufacture, Stockpiling, Sale, and Use of Antipersonnel Landmines.” And of those two, the Gauls totally ignored it whenever ignoring it was convenient, while castigating anyone who used mines where such use was inconvenient for Gaul.
And yet—oh, the
thrill
—another serious military power was about to sign on: the Timocratic Republic of Balboa.
Balboa did, however, insist on certain codicils of its own. First, it accepted only a ban on undetectable
plastic
mines. Second, it reserved the right to use any device on hand, or obtainable, in self-defense. The country cited its unique importance to world trade in defense of its position. The Balboan codicils were simply stated at the moment of signing; the treaty itself did not permit national reservations in the text. Still, the international community of the very, very caring and sensitive assumed that, once signed, the Balboans could be legally forced to ignore their own codicils and their own domestic law.
Balboa’s ambassador to the World League signed the treaty on behalf of the Republic. From the conference room under the Curia, the Senate House, Carrera and Parilla laughed.
As Carrera told Parilla, “And why not, Raul? Isn’t it wonderfully ironic, a really perfect memorial. Think of it. A woman dies. She was fairly vapid and, though merely somewhat attractive, she convinced the world she was beautiful. She led a fairly meaningless life as a mere clothes-horsey ornament to a purely symbolic royal family. She went through an artificial marriage in which both she and her husband cheated nearly from the outset. So we, and the rest of the deluded world, are memorializing her with a vapid, only apparently lovely, meaningless, ornamental, symbolic, and artificial treaty which, when put to the test, will have both sides cheating shamelessly. What a wonderfully fitting piece of international and interplanetary lawmaking
cum
eulogizing.
“Certainly,
we’re
going to cheat, mercilessly. And that’s hilarious, too.”
“She meant well, you know,” said Parilla, uncomfortable with maligning the dead.
“She meant to make herself feel good and get applause from all the right people, never mind those who might die for lack of a minefield defense,” Carrera answered. “To Hell with that.”
Barrio San Miguel,
Ciudad
Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
Not every cohort had a sergeant major with quite the force of character or self-discipline, to say nothing of the imagination, of Ricardo Cruz. Not every tercio in the legion was as disciplined as Second, either. But every unit, every maniple, every cohort, every tercio, every legion and corps had been seriously inconvenienced and annoyed by Janier’s “Green Monsoons” and “Mosquitoes.”
But even if they had been, every unit contained a few marginal characters. A couple of those, Corporal Bairnals and Private Castillo, were from Tenth Tercio. Half drunk, the two were leaving one of the brothels where they’d been unsuccessful in negotiating from one of the local professional ladies the precise services they desired at a price they were willing to pay. They might have had the money she demanded, had they not drunk up such a large percentage of it before entering into negotiations. She, on the other hand, might have come down on her price, had they not been quite so drunk.
Knocking around a whore in one of the city’s many brothels, always well-guarded, was a good way to end up dead in some painful fashion. Drunk the Tenth Infantry legionaries might have been.
That
drunk they were not.
Sure, they were armed, with their wire-cutting bayonets. The Republic didn’t have many rules against carrying firearms; it would have been silly in a place where over half the households had a fully automatic weapon. The bordellos, however, did. In the interests of protecting the girls, the atmosphere…such as it tended to be…and making money, they never permitted firearms. Knives or bayonets? Some were okay with that. The key thing was that security had to be better armed than the clientele.
Those better armed guards had shown Castillo and Bairnals the door.
Filled with a sense of the injustice of it all, the Tenth Tercio troopers had staggered to the curb and sat down, nursing their grievously wounded egos. The street was
Avenida de la Santa Maria.
On the other side arose
Cerro Mina,
with the Tauran Union sitting atop it, but also some families of the officers and senior noncoms residing within its chain-link fence.
Sometimes, not unlike some married couples, soldiers who have trained long together can read each other’s thoughts, even when drunk…or perhaps especially when drunk…or aggrieved…or both.
Add to the injustice of being turned down by a Santandern whore the nearly nightly disruptions from the Taurans, and the near presence of Tauran family members…
Bairnals lifted his shirt and took the bayonet from its repository in his waistband. Flipping it a couple of times, he slurred, “Let’s go get us some Tauran pussy, my friend. Teach them to wake us up in the middle of the night…”
“Right,” agreed Castillo. “Go teach them motherfuckin’ Tauran pigs a lesson.”
The two staggered across the street, then walked along, on the Tauran side, until they came to some thick bushes. Into these they ducked, then moved on all fours up the hill. Occasionally, since the hill was quite steep, one of them would lose his footing and slip back a few feet. Still, progress was generally upward.
They came to the chain-link fence. Bairnals took off his shirt to muffle the sound, then connected his bayonet blade to its scabbard, forming a set of wire cutters. They were, to be sure, not the best wire cutters in the world, but for mere chain-link fence they would do.
Muffled by the shirt, snip-snip went the wire cutters. In short order Bairnals had worked a passage through the fence, about two feet on a side. Unfortunately, his shirt was both cut by the bayonet and torn by the wire.
“Fuck it,” he said, and crawled on through in just a T-shirt.
There was a dimly lit house ahead, one of a line on a jungle shrouded street. Where there was a house there would be a woman, since the Taurans only gave housing to families. Where there was a woman there would be revenge on all women, and where there was a Tauran woman there would be revenge on all Taurans.
Chapter Twenty-two
I believe that the rape-is-not-about-sex doctrine will go down in history as an example of extraordinary popular delusions and the madness of crowds. It is preposterous on the face of it, does not deserve its sanctity, is contradicted by a mass of evidence, and is getting in the way of the only morally relevant goal surrounding rape, the effort to stamp it out.
―
Steven Pinker
,
The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature
Carcel Modelo,
Ciudad
Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
The court-martial had been very quick. With the evidence of the shirt, DNA collected from the shirt and the victim, the eyewitness testimony of wife and husband, whom the drunken creeps were stupid enough to leave alive, the jury had deliberated for about half an hour, about twenty minutes of which was pure and idle posturing, then returned a verdict of guilty.
The judge, quite conscious that Carrera would arrange an early demise (because Carrera had had one of his aides bring the judge just that advice) if he failed to give the maximum penalty, had duly sentenced the pair of them to that maximum penalty for rape: public impalement…right up the ass. Under the circumstances, and given that they’d inflicted on the wife what the whore had not agreed to, that seemed very appropriate to everyone except the culprits, Bairnals and Castillo. But they didn’t get a vote.
The wife, on the other hand, just couldn’t deal with that. “No, no; no matter what they did to me, they don’t deserve that.”
Carrera, who took a personal interest in the case, disagreed. But, the law was the law. She had the right to partially forgive. The bastards were still going to die, but their deaths would be less exacting.
* * *
To Carrera’s left stood a Sachsen serviceman in mufti. To the left of the soldier was the soldier’s pretty, young, blond wife. To the right were Suarez, flanked by the commander and the sergeant major of the Tenth Infantry Tercio. All six looked on with emotions ranging from distaste to hate as a like number of prison guards led out two men in striped garb. After the beating administered by the staff of the
carcel,
the broken-nosed, swollen-eyed, limping human excrements didn’t look a lot like they had at trial.
Bairnals and Castillo were handcuffed and chained at the ankles. They could make only short steps, and even those were awkward. An accompanying Roman Catholic priest muttered prayers on behalf of the condemned.
The senior of the guards took a position in front of the prison’s gallows, a simple crosspiece mounted on three uprights with clamps for a half dozen ropes. He waited silently while the other four guards prodded the condemned onto stools and affixed ropes around their necks. Above, poised on the crosspiece, the hangman pulled the ropes almost taut through the mechanical clamps, then stepped on the clamps to lock the ropes in place.
The hangman then descended and, picking up a stool of his own, set it beside Bairnals’. He shot Carrera a look,
Mercy?
At Carrera’s headshake, the hangman twisted Bairnals’ rope so that the noose rested just under his chin on the left side. He stepped down, moved his stool, and did the same for Castillo, but without bothering to consult Carrera.
The senior guard consulted his clipboard and began to read the charges and sentence aloud. The two men had been found guilty of kidnapping and rape of the Sachsen soldier’s wife. They had used their legion issue bayonets in their break in. They had beaten the husband using the pommels of the same bayonets, then tied and gagged him. They had then used the blades to threaten the wife into a weeping acquiescence. The husband had been able to hear every small detail, every plea, every time his wife had sobbed or—turned on her stomach—screamed.
The senior guard turned to Carrera, saluted, and asked a question of the wife. Carrera translated, “He is asking you who you choose to be your avenger…or if you wish to execute sentence yourself. It is our law that, once a capital crime has been adjudged, the victim may personally take revenge, with the sanction of the state…or may choose someone to represent him or her. If you wish the Republic of Balboa to execute the sentences just say ‘
el Estado.
’”
The wife shook violently. “I…can’t do this. No matter what they did to me. I just can’t kill anyone.” She began to cry.
Carrera pretended not to notice the tears. He spoke to the husband. “Sir, your wife appears incapacitated. In such a case—as you
are
her husband—the choice of being her avenger falls to you…if you choose to take it.”
The Sachsen went even paler than he had been. He said nothing.
Carrera continued, sternly, “Do
not
be weak! These men committed the vilest of crimes against your woman and the mother of your children. It is your
duty
to avenge her!”
His own will overborne by Carrera’s, the Sachsen nodded slightly. Then, in a weak voice, he said, “I’ll do it.” Carrera put a steadying hand on the soldier’s shoulder and instructed the guard that the husband would be the executioner. The guard saluted again and marched away from the gallows. Carrera led the soldier forward.
The Sachsen looked up at a Balboan whom he had seen but twice. The first time had been during the crime. The second had been at the trial, just days prior. The Balboan tried to spit but his mouth had gone dry.
“Kick the stool!” Carrera commanded. Without thinking, the Sachsen complied. Bairnals dropped less than three inches and then began to dance on air. The sound of gagging came past the slowly tightening rope. Since the noose was set so as not to cut off blood to the brain, Bairnals would be conscious and suffering for quite some time. And it would seem even longer to him.
Carrera then led the Sachsen to the second stool. The soldier didn’t need to be told the second time. He kicked the stool on his own. Carrera guided the man back to his wife.
Thirteen minutes later, when the last twitching foot had stilled, Carrera tendered the apologies of the Republic and dismissed the couple. The husband had been almost worshipful as he shook hands goodbye. The wife had cried without cease during the lingering deaths and for a while thereafter. After they’d left, Carrera walked away briefly to vomit in a corner of the
carcel
.
When the Sachsens had gone, chauffeured back to
Cerro Mina
by Soult in Carrera’s limousine, Suarez asked Carrera to speak privately.
“There’s going to be more of this, you know, sir. If we don’t do something.”
“Meaning precisely what, Legate?”
“Sir…you know exactly what I mean. Those two idiots”—Suarez pointed a finger at the still dangling corpses—“only raped that woman to hurt the Taurans. Well, mostly that. Because that was the only way they could hit back. If we don’t start fucking with them like they’re fucking with us, more troops will decide to take measures into their own hands.”
This wasn’t precisely what Carrera believed, but it was close enough.
Suarez grew thoughtful. “Sir, the same thing happened with Piña. When the gringos were provoking us, he didn’t have the balls…well, to be fair, we didn’t have the power then even if he’d had the balls…to provoke back. So the troops—some of them—took matters into their own hands. And Piña, since he was dependent on the troops, couldn’t really discipline them.”
“I know the story, Suarez. I was on the other side, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry…you’ve become so much one of us I forgot.”
Carrera removed his hat and ran fingers through his hair. “Did you ever hear of My Thang Phong, Suarez?”
The blank look on Suarez’s face said he had not.
“It was a village…rather a series of tiny villages. During the Cochin war it was the scene of a particularly horrible massacre of ‘civilians’ by Federated States soldiers. Most
Sur Colombianos
could tell you that. What isn’t well known is the background. The unit that did it…well, I had a platoon sergeant once, back when I was in the FS Army. He told me that he had been in not that battalion but a sister battalion. He also told me that he had been in his platoon all of three months when he became the most experienced soldier there. The rest had all been hit. By booby traps. This platoon sergeant said that he’d never so much as seen a guerilla. Never even heard a bullet fired.
“Think about it. Always hit and never able to hit back. Of course the ‘civilians’ were making the mines and booby traps that were killing the troops. Everyone knew it. But the FS Army didn’t have the moral courage to investigate these ‘civilians,’ find the ones who made the booby traps—it was possible to find them, just good police work really, although it would have taken a lot of it…and then try and—in front of the troops—hang them. So the troops—seeing that policy wouldn’t save them or avenge them—took matters into their own hands, sadly…indiscriminately. And thereby did a lot to help the Federated States lose the war.”
“I see…sir,” Suarez slowly answered.
“Just as you’ve said, if we don’t give our men an outlet for their anger, a chance to get ‘even,’ they’ll do it in ways we would prefer they didn’t. I’m going to go see the president and say it’s this or I resign. I think he’ll go along. And then I’ll issue orders tomorrow. We’re going to start fucking back.”
Not far from the Shimmering Sea,
Campo de los Sapos,
Balboa, Terra Nova
Among other assets available to Janier’s forces was a company of old fashioned landing craft, based at Dock 54, a sub-base of Fort Williams not under Muñoz-Infantes’ control. Even then, the craft tended to spend the bulk of their time either at the lagoon at Fort Tecumseh or at a different set of piers at Fort Melia, both Fort Williams and Fort Melia backing onto the same man-made lake.
This particular set of landing craft—two of them, enough to hold an infantry company comfortably and two companies with a little pushing—had started the evening’s journey at the lagoon at Fort Tecumseh. There, they’d picked up their one infantry company, C Company of the 14th Anglian Foot, stationed at Tecumseh on the Shimmering Sea side because there the Gauls need have as little contact with them as possible.
Other landing craft had picked up A and B companies. Those could be seen, as could C Company, across the water by anyone with night vision. Among those with night vision were some Cazadors posted in a commandeered room in the top floor of the Hotel Franklin on Cristobal’s extreme southern side. They immediately reported to Xavier Jimenez.
The landing craft had been spotted almost as soon as they’d departed the lagoon at Tecumseh. For the companies going outside the sea wall that protected the great bay east of Cristobal, the journey on the slow-moving landing craft was about forty minutes. For C Company, staying inside that sea wall, it was a bit shorter, at thirty minutes.
That was much time for someone like Jimenez to prepare a reception, especially when he’d been working on the reception for some days.
* * *
The landing craft cut their engines to a dull gurgle as they approached the concrete faced seawalls that guarded the shore. Inside, the Anglian infantry—not Marines—tensed expectantly, as did the more exposed boat crews. At the front of each boat special crews prepared to fix the ladders that would allow the soldiers to scale the boat ramps without dropping them, then go over the sea walls, and emerge onto dry land.
A lone private began the Company C chant, softly so none outside the boat would hear. “CC…CC…CC” The chant stood not for “Charlie Company,” but rather for Cimbrian Club, the vodkalike semi-onomatopoeic drink of preference of Company C. The chant grew as the boat angled in closer to the wall. The Charlie Company motto was met by a faintly heard answering chant, “Mad Dog…Mad Dog…Mad Dog,” from Company A, “Mad Dog Alpha,” a hundred meters across the water. “Mad Dog…CC…Mad Dog…CC…”
* * *
Jimenez heard the chant without being able to make out the exact words. He didn’t criticize. It was true—so Carrera had said and so Jimenez believed—that morale was often more important than stealth or surprise. Had it not been for a scout team carefully planted in the Franklin, Jimenez might not have known that any of his tercios were to be probed that night. Even so, he had better than five thousand men on alert. Arguably, this was overreaction.
He didn’t know for sure where the Anglians were going, even if the fact that they were coming there could be no doubt of. But…
“
Campo de los Sapos,
” Jimenez had said to himself. “Once the two landing craft left the breakwater that was the only logical objective.”
Jimenez listened as the ramps of the LCMs ground against the concrete wall. “Fire,” he ordered.
* * *
Inside the landing craft the men of the two companies tried to flatten themselves against the bottoms of the boats. Given the crowding this was impossible. Well above each lightly armored side, directly over the heads of the troops, tracers drew solid lines in the night sky. One man—from Company A—cried out in fear before being cuffed to silence by his sergeant.
After the first brief warning bursts Jimenez gave the order to cease fire and standby.
Company A’s men looked expectantly backward at the commander, riding high on the boat’s deck. To either side of him the boat’s machine gunners fumbled with their .50 caliber, heavy barreled guns. The leftmost gun had no trouble. On the right, however, a female crew
person
simply lacked the strength of arm to pull the bolt against its heavy spring. The boat’s assistant walked over and contemptuously cocked the gun for her.
“Don’t shoot without orders,” he said.
The commander spoke on his radio to his own battalion headquarters. At the answer, he let his arm relax and his radio’s microphone sink with it. Then he gave an order to the boat’s skipper driver. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the two boats backed water and headed out to sea. The other two, bearing A Company, did as well.
La Comandancia,
Ciudad
Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova
While the plan was for the Tauran Union forces to attack the
Comandancia
on the ground, that would have been so inarguably an invasion of Balboa that it was not to be attempted until
The Day.
Still, it just wouldn’t have been right to let Suarez’s corps headquarters sleep regularly and reliably. So…