"Not the secretary of war, no," Thomas answered, slowly. "One of my staff officers looked up Balboa, saw that it had only twelve companies of military police, and deduced, since you are from Balboa, that that's what you brought."
Muttering, "MPs… fucking MPs," Carrera took the laptop computer from its bag, fiddled with it a bit, and placed it on Thomas's desk, turning the screen so that all three could see it. Then he took a remote control and pressed a button.
A picture of a White Eagle, AKA Jaguar II, tank appeared on the screen.
"That, Norman, is what we call a 'Heavy Armored Community Relations Vehicle.' It lacks a siren, mind you, but there's nothing like a high velocity 125mm long rod penetrator to get the attention of a speeding driver."
Click. Another picture appeared, this time of an Ocelot.
"This is, of course, a Light Armored Community Relations Vehicle mounting a 100mm crowd control cannon." Click to show a Volgan 122mm artillery piece. "That is a 122mm Auxiliary Riot Control Agent Dispersal Projector." Click. "The 160mm High Angle Leaflet Distribution System." Click. An aircraft appeared, propeller driven but mounting a fearsome array of machine guns and rockets. "That is our Turbo-Finch Low Altitude Riot Control Aircraft…"
Click, click, click, click, click.
"You aren't MPs?"
"No, we're not MPs," Carrera answered. "What we are is a large combined arms brigade with a core of leadership some of which was converted to military police but were infantry before that and which we converted back to infantry or to some other combat arm. That cadre has been expanded with young men of such a high quality that your own Rangers would weep with envy. In the last year that brigade has spent more time training, and under more realistic situations, than any unit in your army except, maybe, for the Rangers. We have used more live ammunition in that year than your entire 39th Parachute Infantry Division uses in three years."
"You can really force a pass through the Yezidi mountains?" Thomas asked.
Carrera translated that for Parilla, who snapped his fingers and answered, in heavily accented English, "Piece o' cake."
Thomas nodded, looked contemplative for a few moments, then hit his intercom and said, "Cancel the plans to fly a brigade of the 11th Division up to Yezidistan."
Turning to Parilla, Thomas asked, "Will you need a Liaison Officer?"
Parilla shook his head, no, while Carrera answered, "We have one we're happy with who's been with us for some time. He'll do."
On their way out Parilla looked mildly thoughtful. "Patricio, I'm curious. Everyone in the headquarters that I saw had a pair of those tan colored boots just like Thomas did. But I haven't seen a line trooper with a pair yet. What's going on there?"
Carrera smiled. "Raul, you have just observed the 'trickle down theory' of supporting combat troops. I will just about guarantee you that every rear echelon motherfucker will have a pair of those boots before a single pair finds its way to a private in an infantry squad."
Parilla looked confused. "But how can that be? The rear support types don't need them. The infantry do."
Carrera laughed bitterly. "How can it be? How can it not be? It starts with Normy himself. He gets these high-speed boots and "tests" them personally. Or, more likely, just wears them because he's the big cheese and he can. Who knows?
"Then the next senior guy below Normy will get a pair. After all, he's got to show that he's a pretty big cheese, too. So far it isn't a big problem. But then the boots get to the other REMF generals, colonels, and majors. You might think that Normy, or his deputy, could put a stop to that with an order. They could, too, if it wasn't that they lost the moral authority to do so by wearing the boots themselves first. It would be embarrassing to tell the REMFs they can't have them… and generals spend most of their time surrounded by REMFs.
"So by now, we've got all the more junior officers and senior noncoms in the rear wearing the goddamned boots. Well… how can they tell their REMF troops that the troops can't have the boots? They can't. They gave up their moral authority to do so by grabbing a pair for themselves first. So, because Normy grabbed a pair for himself and let his subordinates grab a pair too, every REMF will have to have a pair of those boots before a single set trickles down to the line. Disgusting, isn't it?"
A light seemed to flash in Parilla's brain. "Patricio… is that why you didn't want to use the doublewide?"
"It's a part of it, Raul. You can use yours and nothing's lost as long as I establish that there will be no palace building below you."
"I see. Maybe I should give up the palace, too."
"You could have refused it initially. Now?" Carrera shook his head emphatically. "No. It would look too much like you're following me… which is not the impression we want to give the troops."
"But I want to do the right thing. I must do the right thing," Parilla insisted.
"I should have explained how this shit really works initially, when I first saw that rolling whorehouse Harrington scrounged. My fault I didn't, not yours. Let me see." He thought intently for a short while, then said, "Raul, in about two days, at the command and staff meeting, the medical unit is going to ask about having another air- conditioned and heated facility for some of the inevitable casualties. You will ask Harrington about it. He will say that none are available and none will be for the immediate future. You will then order the sergeant major to cart off your mobile home and get you a tent. I will then tell the medicos that the very first time I see or hear of that building being used for ANY purpose but care of the wounded and ill, I will have the guilty parties staked out naked in the cold overnight."
Laughing lightly, Carrera said, "You know, I'm not sure it won't work out better this way than if you'd turned down the trailer in the first place."
Mangesh Base, Yezidistan, 20/1/461 AC
Colonel John Ridenhour approached the bunker guarding the gate with some care. When he had walked to within fifty meters of it, but no closer, a voice rang out, loud enough to be heard, but no louder, "Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?"
"Friend," Ridenhour answered in Spanish.
"Advance, friend, to be recognized." Ridenhour again walked forward before being halted again. He met the sentry's whispered challenge with an equally soft-spoken password.
A young Balboan sentry emerged from the bunker and brought his rifle to present arms. Ridenhour returned the salute.
When the sentry had moved his rifle back to a more ready position, he asked, "Sir, what the hell were you doing out there?"
"Just looking over the perimeter from the enemy's point of view."
Satisfied, the young sentry asked, in halting and accented but understandable English, "How does it look?"
"Good, son, very good. By the way, what's your name?"
"Cruz, sir. Private First Class Ricardo Cruz."
"Where are you from in Balboa?"
" Las Mesas Province," Cruz answered proudly.
"You're a long way from home."
Cruz smiled, white teeth shining slightly amidst the dark night. He thought longingly of Caridad. "Sir, a mile would be too far to be away from home. But if I have to be away, here's not much worse than anywhere else. Except for the damned cold, of course."
Research Building, University of Ninewa
Sada shivered as he watched the trucks loaded. There was a bitterly cold south wind blowing across the city. The scientists, soldiers and workers, like Sada, suffered in the biting breeze. Unlike him, most were allowed by their positions to find shelter wherever there was a lee.
Shaking his head sadly, Sada noted that there were only enough trucks to move half the load, all of that being money and bearer bonds. Was Saleh, the dictator of the country, incapable of coming up with enough vehicles at one time to make away with the contents of the building's basement?