The mines themselves were quite sophisticated, each being on an integral timer. Within a month after the Legion made its planned departure ninety-eight plus percent of them would make a joyful sound unto the Lord on their own. The rest—the defectives—would experience battery failure within a few days of that.
This area wasn't important anyway, not to the Legion. They were here only for a short time before moving on. While here, they intended only to weaken the insurgency before moving to the border to establish a series of bases from which they could block infiltration of Ikhwan fighters and their supplies. It was up to the FSC, Secordia and Anglia to destroy the insurgency once it had been weakened and once the one legion that would remain for the next contractual period had established an effective block of the infiltration routes from Kashmir.
In the long run, though, who knows if that matters? Half the infiltrators come in on perfectly open passenger flights. Half the supplies they use are sold to them by the locals. And that's not even counting the food. I wonder why the FSC can't bring themselves to use food as a weapon? The Tauran influence over the Anglians and Secordians and their influence on the FSC? Silly; but they'll never win until they're willing to control the food.
Speaking of food . . .
Carrera caught sight of a maniple of infantry, with a train of two dozen mules in tow. They were apparently waiting for the word to move out and were otherwise just sitting around. He walked over briskly, took the report of the tribune commanding the maniple, then proceeded with a barrage of questions.
"How long have your men been waiting here in the sun? . . . Why did you bring them out early?" Voice rising, "What do you mean your medics haven't shown up yet? Didn't you coordinate with the cohort medical platoon? How long have you known they would be late? Why did you bring your men out into the hot sun if you knew you wouldn't be leaving for two hours? . . . Come with me . . . Break down that mule's pack . . . . Can't you see it's overloaded, you dumb ass?"
By the time he was finished with the tribune, that worthy had been turned to a quivering mass of protoplasm and Carrera felt ashamed for going too far in chastising a subordinate.
He walked off in vast inner turmoil himself. And I'm doing it more and more often. What the hell is wrong with me? Where's the patience of which I was once so proud? Where's the humanity? Christ! I never lose my temper.
All of which could be summed up in the word, "Fuck."
20/4/468 AC, Santisima Trinidad
The boat advanced at the speed of the classis, a stately and sedate twelve knots. The speed was set by that of the slowest vessel in the flotilla, the steamer, BdL Harpy Eagle, which served as safe berth for the patrol boats. At that speed, the bow needn't lift nor the engines strain. The forward gun was manned, as was the con, radar and sonar. Most of the crew were unemployed for the moment, even so, and hung out on the rear deck behind the con, drinking some of their ration beer and eating lunch from paper plates.
"Watsa matter, Santiona, tired of fishing?" Pedraz asked.
"Fuck that shit," the heavyset sailor answered. "I'll never toss a hook in the water again as long as I live. If I ever fish again, it'll be with hand grenades or big nets."
"Pity," said Pedraz. "I'll bet that meg is still following us hoping for a chance at your plump ass again."
Santiona suddenly looked to the stern, fearfully. "You don't really think so, do you, Chief?"
"Nah," Pedraz answered, lightly. "You're fated to die at the hands of a jealous husband, young seaman."
"All things considered," Santiona answered, "I'd rather not. But that still beats being eaten by a fish."
"I think they're dying out," Francés said, from behind the wheel. "Fish that size, it's got to be hard to keep fed. Especially with the loss of whales and such over the last couple of hundred years. It would need a lot of space to hunt in. That would make it hard to find mates."
"Good riddance," answered Santiona. "When the last one is dead and washed ashore I'll be all that much happier."
"Oh, I dunno,' answered Francés. "They're magnificent, for all they're dangerous. Be kind of sad when there're no more."
"Hah!" Santiona snorted in reply. "You haven't been looking into the maw of one with no more than ten feet between you and its teeth. You haven't smelt its breath."
"Oh, puhleeze! Besides, they don't breathe."
"As a matter of fact," Santiona continued, unfazed, "I've decided I hate all fish. So when I take my discharge, after this tour, I'm gonna use my vet's benefits to get a fishing boat. Then I can kill the slimy scaled bastards wholesale."
Guptillo snorted. "Not me. When this is over I'm heading to dry land and, God willing and the river don't rise, I'll never get my feet wet again."
"Farmer?" asked Pedraz. "My people were farmers. Hard work and you're an awful soft city boy."
"Used to be soft, Chief. Hard to stay that way on a patrol boat."
"True enough," Pedraz agreed. "It's still awful hard work."
"No matter, I didn't want to be a farmer. I was thinking about the university and maybe taking up agronomy."
"That would be easier," Pedraz nodded. "Pay better, too."
"And no one will be shooting at you," Clavell added.
"That would be a plus," said Guptillo.
"Ah, you're all pussies," said Francés. "Me; I'm sticking with the classis until the day I die."
21/4/468 AC, The Big ?
The yacht was almost fifty nautical miles ahead of the flotilla. Their cover had pretty much been blown off the coast of Xamar, but there was good reason to expect with a name change and a new paint job that they'd be clandestine enough in the Nicobar Straits. The new name, even now being painted in two alphabets on the stern, was Qamra, Arabic for "moon." Almost, almost, Marta had suggested calling it the Queer, but since the crew had been so understanding of her and Jaqueline's love affair—at least to the point of ignoring it—she thought better of rubbing it in their faces.
"It's worse than that, you know, love," Jaquie had explained. "We're the only ones getting any aboard and that has to be hard, no pun intended, on the rest of the crew."
"Well we could do something about that," Marta countered.
She was joking, but Jaquie took her seriously. "Do you think we should? I mean, it isn't like it would be anything new for either of us. We might not enjoy it all that much but it would be foolish to pretend it would hurt us any. And we could assemble quite a little nest egg for when we're discharged. I think the guys would appreciate it."
In fact, though the transfer from the auxiliaries had brought a certain amount of respect from the men, it had been a pay cut. Much of that loss would be made up, in time, through the deferred benefits that came upon release from the Legion. Still, their joint bank account hadn't been growing at the rate it had aboard Fosa's Fornication Frigate.
"Do you miss it?" Marta asked, seriously. "Guys, I mean."
"Honestly?" Jaquie looked at Martha carefully to see if the answer would hurt. "Not as much as I love it with you. But, yes, I miss it."