The Rods and the Axe - eARC (37 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The best executive is the one who has sense enough to pick good men to do what he wants done, and self-restraint to keep from meddling with them while they do it.

—Theodore Roosevelt

Camp Penthesileia,
Isla Real
, Balboa, Terra Nova

The Zhong aircraft had departed even more suddenly than Carrera and Montoya had become aware of them. Now, more or less peacefully and safely, the two sat on fine white sand, just a few dozen meters away from the edge of the surf. Peaceful and safe or not, their lungs still strained to pull in enough air to make up for their exertion.

Behind them were abandoned tiki torches stuck in the sand in a circle around a fire pit. Farther inland, though not far inland, were a fair number of houses, some of them now bombed-out wrecks, that Carrera recognized as, “Housing, Tribune level, two or three children, Type C.” He pulled up in his mind the best recollection of the map of the island, then matched that to where he thought they’d been when they’d splashed in.

“This is where we put the Amazons while they were between courses,” Carrera announced. “I wanted them to have someplace nice to call home, after what we put the poor things through.”

Montoya just accepted that without any real question or interest. If the women had still been there, he’d have been a lot more interested.

For reasons not entirely comprehensible to Carrera, the Zhong pilot did let them swim away, though he made sure to put a couple of bursts into the general vicinity of the drifting Condor.

“Gun cameras,” said Montoya. “Bet you it was his gun cameras.”

“Huh?” asked Carrera, after a bout of coughing up some of the water he’d gotten in his lungs.

“The cameras probably only activate when the guns are actually firing. He needs proof of the kill, so he fires at the hulk. The firing activates the camera so he can prove to his unit that there was a hulk.”

“Why do you suppose he didn’t go after us?”

Montoya shook his head. “Knights of the air syndrome would be my best guess,” said the warrant, “but it’s not a guess I’ve got a lot of confidence in,
Duque.
”

They heard a cough from behind them, then turned and saw a legionary in battle dress but with a mess hat on. The cook or KP, whichever he was, had a rifle slung across his back.

“We’ve still got some leftovers from breakfast, if you gentlemen are . . .” The man took a double take, then snapped to attention. “We can make you something special,
Duque.
”

“No need,” said Carrera. “But if you guys—what unit, by the way?”

“Second Cohort, Twelfth Infantry Tercio,
Duque
. Mess Corporal Alvarez, at your service,
Duque!”

“Great, Corporal Alvarez. I’m not actually hungry, but if you guys have a tin of ration rum, I could use a fucking drink.” Carrera held out one hand to demonstrate. The hand trembled slightly. “Montoya?”

“Concur entirely, sir. A drink. Maybe three.”

“Yes, sir,” said Alvarez. “If you would follow . . .” He stopped when Montoya shook his head.
Oh, yeah. Right. People after near death experiences, especially people who are trembling, just might not walk too well.

“
Duque
,” said Alvarez, “I shall be back in a moment, with drinks.”

As it turned out, Alvarez arrived later than indicated, about thirty seconds before Legate Puercel did, himself. Puercel seemed bitter, somehow, though Carrera let it ride until he’d managed to choke down a healthy dose of the rum-laced fruit juice provided by the mess.

Carrera probably didn’t help matters initially when he told Alvarez to lead Montoya to the mess and Montoya to start making arrangements for the return journey. Alvarez left an opened coffee can with the rum and juice, resting in the sand.

The silence lasted long enough to become uncomfortable after the departure of the pilot and cook. Finally Puercel broke it; “I don’t understand what I’ve done so wrong as to justify you coming here to take over.”

“What?” asked Carrera. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here? To relieve me and take over yourself? Because you think I’m not good enough?”

Carrera blinked a few times in disbelief, that, and disappointment.
Where did these guys get the idea . . . shit.
He filled up his own cup from Alvarez’s can, then passed it over with the words, “You need this more than me if you’re that stressed out. Friend, I wouldn’t have put you here or left you in command this long if I didn’t have faith in you.”

“But you’re
here
,” said Puercel, rather needlessly. He didn’t, for the nonce, raise the cup to his lips. “What other reason . . .”

“”Three reasons,” said Carrera. “One is to share the burden with you and your men, since you’re the ones getting the worst pounding from the Zhong and Taurans.” He gestured generally out to sea where the remains of Montoya’s Condor still bobbed above the waves. “Second, inspection and getting a sense of the troops. I have to know they’ll stand . . . and before you go into a tizzy, remember that I know you didn’t train most of them yourself, so knock off the defensive bullshit. Third, to make sure that if there’s anything you need from the mainland—anything we can give you, I mean—you will get it.

“There’s a fourth reason,” Carrera said, contradicting the previously given number. “Can you guess what it is?”

“Relief was my guess,” said the legate. At that, he did take a generous drink from the cup.

“Dipshit,” Carrera said, though he said it genially. “I’m here to take the blame if it all goes to shit. You know? So that you can fight the battle without worrying about your reputation. Whatever goes wrong you can blame on me.”

“Oh,” said Puercel, feeling rather ashamed.

“Oh,” echoed Carrera, not without a trace of sarcasm.
Though, and I will never breathe a word of this, the very fact that you’ve got troops you didn’t train, that don’t know or trust you, means you do need me here, because they do know and trust me and they’ll fight the better if they
do
think I’m in active command.

“Now, young Legate,” said Carrera, “if you would arrange a car and a driver for me, along with an escorting officer you can spare?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and see if somebody can get my bag out of the wreck of that glider, too, would you? It’s not worth risking a life over, but if it can be done safely . . .”

Batería
Pedro
el Cholo, Isla Real,
Balboa, Terra Nova

The vehicle provided by Puercel was hidden in the lee of a couple of wrecked gun turrets. Leaving the temporary AdC, Signifer Torres, behind with the driver, Carrera stepped out onto concrete pavement with a rail line running through it, leading from a large set of doors to a similar set in the artificial hill below the wrecked gun turret.

“Sig sends his love, Han,” Carrera said to the incredibly tiny and, if rumor was to be believed, incredibly foul-mouthed and vicious bitch the legion had inherited when Siegel bought her contract from the Cochinese brothel that had held it. There were only a few people in the legion who knew Han’s origins, and none of those were talking. This was not only a courtesy to their comrade, Siegel, but also to her. And, what the hell, it was hardly her fault she’d been sold as a young girl. Moreover, she’d been doing excellent work for the legion and for Balboa for quite a few years now. Perhaps more important, still, she was privy to any number of secrets.

“He also says that you are to keep your head down and come home to him safely, once the war is over.”

The tiny woman—tiny but shapely, almost a Cochinese version of Marqueli Mendoza, and similarly pretty—flushed with a mix of embarrassment, warmth, and gratitude. “Tell him back, please,
Duque
, that I miss him terribly and I would appreciate it if he would be very careful, as well. Also that you be careful with him, because he’s the only one I have.”

Not for the first time, Carrera was impressed with the woman’s ability with languages. She had an accent, yes, but it was barely discernible. Also not for the first time he wondered if he ought have her transferred to Fernandez’s crew.

“I’ll do my best,” answered Carrera, “though the Taurans may have other ideas. Now what am I looking for here?”

“This battery and the next one clockwise are manned by Cochinese under Tribune Pham. They’re all here, now.

“He’s pretty good, though I’d never tell him that to his face, especially for an air jockey turned into an artilleryman. His people aren’t bad, either, though they’re almost all pretty old. They’ve only got a couple of people cleared for the special shells . . . well . . . four, in total. No, wait. Five with Pham. And me, but I’m only cleared to know about them, not how to use them.”

Carrera tried reading the subtext there, and was by no means sure he got it.
She treats them badly. Politics or vindictiveness or just plain personality? Maybe some of all three. And, after all, she probably hates the side that let the Tsarist-Marxists win the war in Cochin, which is what led to her being sold to become a whore. Poor thing. It’s a sad fucking universe. But holding it against the people who lost, if that’s what’s going on, is . . . bad policy and probably unjust, too.

“Okay,” he said, “introduce me.”

After a brisk nod, Han turned and led Carrera into a side door to one of the “ammunition” bunkers. The door was thick steel, and stepped to fit snugly into a matching steel frame.

One the other side, as soon as Carrera made his appearance, a series of sharp commands rang out in a language he didn’t understand. He really didn’t need to. The actions of the aged, bowed, leather-faced and weathered troops told of the commands’ import.

One old man, almost as tiny as Han, turned to face Carrera, rendering a hand salute and shouting something in Cochinese. Carrera returned the salute, and ordered, “At ease.”

Just as he didn’t need to understand Cochinese to understand Tribune Pham’s order, so Pham could tell quite well from the tone that Carrera had ordered him to put his men in a more relaxed position. He ordered them to Parade Rest on the theory of better safe than sorry.

Han seemed quite nervous. Carrera noticed it, and asked, “You’ve never done this before, have you Han?”

“No,
Duque.
What do I do?”

“Just follow along . . . translate back and forth. It’s not hard.”

The woman nodded understanding though her face said she still wasn’t sure.

Pham, Carrera would have judged as being maybe eighty-five years old. Siegel, though, had said none of them here were over maybe sixty-five. It was life in the reeducation camps that had put so many years on them.

Whatever Pham’s face looked like, his posture was immaculate and his handshake firm.

“Lead me through,” Carrera said, with Han translating. Pham noticed that she left off her usual honorifics.

“He doesn’t know how you address us, does he?” Pham asked in his own language. “Hmmm . . . I wonder if one of us doesn’t have enough Spanish or English to explain it to him.”

Which was actually the reason Han had been nervous. What? Do a little translating to and from languages she was utterly comfortable in? No big deal. Let the big boss find out she’d been verbally abusing
his
troops. Her husband had dropped a couple of hints here and there, without really meaning to and without any idea that they were necessary, that Carrera could be a real bastard.

“I’m sure one of us does,” finished Pham.

“Honored grandfather,” said Han, “I am sure we can work something out that will not require bringing unpleasant matters to the attention of people who do not necessarily understand the intricacies of our culture and—”

“Shut up, whore,” said Pham, sensing the weakened position immediately and instinctively. “Your job is to translate and nothing but. Learn your place.”

“Yes, honored grandfather . . .”

Carrera left the battery sure of two things. One was that, when the time came, at Puercel’s command, the Cochinese would—if any of them were left alive and they had even a single 18cm gun working—put out the fire. They’d lost one home and made another; they were ready to die before giving that up. This was especially true since so many of them had sons and daughters, or grandsons and granddaughters, serving in the more mobile elements of the legion.

The other was that there was something going on there with Siegel’s wife that he didn’t quite understand.
Note to self; detach one of the younger, bilingual Cochinese to translating duties. Pull Han Siegel back to the mainland and give her to Fernandez’s department. I may not know what’s going on, but I’m pretty sure that fixes most all of it, and without any hurt feelings.

Near Fixed Turret 177,
Isla Real,
Balboa, Terra Nova

Carrera’s light vehicle arrived at the trail leading to a series of turrets manned by the
Tercio
Santa Cecelia
just as the air raid sirens sounded. His temporary aide, listening to the radio, announced, “It’s a big one,
Duque
. Twenty or thirty Zhong, over two hundred from Santa Josefina, and twice that from Cienfuegos and the enemy fleets near it.”

“Pull the car under cover and leave it,” he ordered. “We’ll take shelter in the fortifications down the trail.”

The driver jerked the wheel to the right, pulling the vehicle under the trees but also nearly into a drainage ditch the trees covered. The gently sloping, concrete lined ditch was more than half full of foul, stagnant looking water, suggesting that somewhere downhill from it, there was a bomb-induced blockage in the system.

Springing out of the car, the small party began trotting down a trail that was clear at ground level, but somewhat obscure from above. On the other hand, the trees had already been thinned out quite a bit all across the island, and some places more than others.

The sign by the trail read, “T-177,” and pointed to the left. There was a well-worn trail in that direction, as well. Carrera hesitated, in a moment of some doubt. The fixed turret positions were not precisely roomy. Then the first bombs hit perhaps a kilometer away, or a bit less.