"Thank you, sir, no. My men are still on duty and I need to get home to my daughter. I am a widower, you see, and I'm all she has."
Interlude
1 January, 2050, Brussels, Belgium, European Union
Margot Tebaf awakened in a strange bed. There was nothing particularly unusual in this; she and her husband had an understanding.
She risked a glance at the other form in the bed. It was hidden by the covers. Hmmm. Large, so probably male. But who was it?
Margot wracked her brain frantically. There had been a lot of champagne, stronger drink as well. Well, it was New Years, after all. She'd been talking to someone… some expert in demographics and migration patterns. What had he said?
Oh, yes. It's coming back now. He said that this new planet may be the answer to all our problems. And not just the EU's problems, but the UN's, the progressive movement's. Everything.
We are losing talented and fertile young people to the United States, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa. They produce there, in the cutthroat, dog-eat-dog competition of the capitalist system. That makes our system look bad by comparison-never mind that it is much the fairest and most gentle system in the history of the world-and pulls even more young people away.
But if the new planet can be used to attract those tired of Europe and, better still, if it can also be used to attract a number of those stinking Americans out of their own stolen homeland, the drain on us will lessen and they will begin to lose some of their power and their arrogance.
Margot muttered aloud, "Oh, how I hate those bastards."
The body next to her stirred. "What's that?"
"I was thinking about what you said last night…" She found, to her consternation, that she couldn't produce a name to go with the body she had spent the night with.
"Dominique, Margot. It's Dominique," the body answered, apparently unperturbed.
"Ah, yes. Dominique. Explain to me again, please-I had so much to drink last night-how we can use the new planet to hurt the United States and save ourselves and the Earth?"
"Well, it would take a lot," Dominique admitted. "We would need… oh… call it one hundred ships, more or less, each capable of carrying fifty or so thousand colonists."
"Ships, yes, but how big?"
"I've asked someone in the navy about that. He told me to think of the size of the United States' supercarriers or the very large ships that carry crude oil. Built in space because otherwise we would never get them off the Earth."
"We couldn't afford that," Margot said, suddenly looking very glum.
"No, no, of course not," Dominique admitted. "Certainly we could not ourselves. But we, China, Japan and the United States could, collectively."
"Why should they participate in a project that ultimately hurts them?" Margot asked.
"Because in the short term it helps them," the other answered, reasonably. "Have you ever known an elected politician who really thinks long term? No. Long-term thinking requires what we have here in Europe, an elite that cannot be turned out of office over the latest blip in the economic forecast.
"It's more than that though, too, Margot. If we can get some substantial numbers of the more extreme Moslems to leave Earth- though I confess I have no good idea yet how to do that-the more moderate ones will make life uncomfortable for the extremists who remain. Then they'll leave, too."
"Wouldn't that be wonderful," she mused aloud.
"Indeed," Dominique agreed.
Margot admired such clear thinking. She pulled the covers down and bent her head over to show how much she admired it.
Chapter Eight If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? -William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
Zabol, Pashtia, Terra Nova, 7/9/459 AC
Even through fifty meters of rock and soil the men below could still feel the bombs going off overhead. They shook the ground, making the lights flicker and raising dust to fill the narrow cramped corridors and rooms. No matter, the cave was deep and safe. Even at its entrance, where the FS Air Force could toss bombs with frightening precision, strong baffles prevented any harm from reaching those lower. Besides, there were dozens of false entrances for each real one, though they were tolerably hard to see. Even the FS had some limits on their ability to bomb.
Feeling quite safe from the bombing, Abdul Aziz ibn Kalb still withered under the glare of his chief. Not that the glare was directed at him personally; no, not at all. The glare was directed at a report just received from the organization's cell in, of all places, Balboa. Interference on the part of the Ikhwan 's great adversary had delayed receipt for some time.
"How dare they? How dare they? By the nine and ninety beautiful names of Allah how damned dare they shoot down five believers and beat a sixth to death? How dare they even think of joining this new 'crusade' against us? Little pissants!"
Aziz forced himself to stand tall and corrected, " They didn't. Just one man killed six Salafis in an outlying town. "Self defense," the local police said. Maybe it was, too."
"No matter; the lives of any number of infidels are as nothing compared to the life of even one of the true believers. And then there's this other swine trying to raise political support for aiding the Columbians. Well, we'll just have to put a stop to that."
The chief rubbed worry beads between thumb and forefinger. "What cells do we have in Balboa?" he asked.
Aziz had an answer ready, of course. He'd expected the question. "We have one 'expeditor' cell, one informational cell, three direct action cells and one command cell. Twenty-three people total."
"The direct action cells? What are their missions?"
Again, Aziz had the answers ready to hand. "One of them is trained for ship seizure and pilotage. They were intended to be able to grab a ship and ram the locks of the Balboa Transitway. But it has to be a special ship, one carrying explosives or LNG, or perhaps fertilizer, to really do damage."
"Any such ship coming through the Transitway soon?" the chief asked.
"No, Sheik, we really weren't thinking about attacking Balboa for a few years. The other cells are directed at, in the one case, the trans- Isthmian pipeline that sends oil from the State of McKinley to the Shimmering Sea for shipment to the Federated States' west coast. Heating oil mostly. In the others, they are bombers. Their status report says they are capable of detonating two to four truck bombs."
The chief mulled a bit. "Pipelines and truck bombs. Hmmm… "
Casa Linda, 21/9/459 AC
"Don't sweat it, Dan. You and the boys have worked miracles."
Despite the words, Carrera could not keep the disappointment out of his voice. It was true; the staff had worked miracles. They knew the required personnel and equipment strength down to the last item. By dint of sixteen hour days-eighteen hours, some days-they had designed tables of organization and equipment for every required formation. They had devised detailed programs of instruction for officers, senior noncoms, and enlisted men. They had charted out training areas, ranges, and had at least a tentative plan for barracks. They had the sketch of an adequate recruiting organization. Working with Jimenez, Parilla and Fernandez, they had most of the core cadre sketched out as welclass="underline" mostly good people with only a few politically necessary hacks.
What they could not do was take that cadre of officers and senior noncoms, having only the most limited of combat arms experience, with no background in armored warfare, artillery, combat engineering, chemical warfare, mountain operations, counter-guerilla warfare, complex staff planning, a host of esoteric military skills and attributes, and make them competent overnight.
Apologetically, Kuralski answered, "Three years, Pat… or maybe four at the outside. That we could do ourselves. But not in fifteen months. Not in time for the spring, 461 campaign." Kuralski hesitated, then said, "Pat, outside of a couple of us we don't even speak enough Spanish yet to train them."