For a few moments the new man just stood on the podium, looking out over the cadets. Then, turning to the boys with their feet upon the walls, he said, "Take fockin' seats, chicos."
Gradually, the talk died down as the diminutive black instructor continued to glare out over the crowd. As the last whisper died away, the instructor began to speak.
He said, in a hypnotically melodious voice with the accent of the islands of the Shimmering Sea, "Close you eyes, my children. Close you eyes and come with me."
"You in a tank; a big fockin' Jaguar. You out in de desert. De sand be blowin', de rain fallin'. Cuz, yes, my children, even do it never rain in de Legion, even out in de desert it rain on de Legion. You be wet and chilled to de bone. You eyes be full of dust and grit. It be darker dan t'ree foot up a welldigger's ass . . . at midnight. You can'd see notin'. De end of you gun barrel is a misty haze."
Eyes closed, Acosta could see it.
"You try to wipe de sand out of de eyes, but as fast as you wipe you eyes dey fills up again with dat goddamn' sand. So you closes you hatch and you tries to look t'ru de tank sight. You can'd see notin'. Den you looks again. 'Wat de fock be dat?' you asks.
"It a tank, out dere in de desert, you tinks, but you looks again. Oh, shit! No it be t'ree tanks, no six . . . no eleven . . . no, over twenty fockin' raghead tanks and dey all be comin' to kill you little Balboan ass! 'What I goan do?' you asks. 'What de fock I goan do?'
The Cristobalense let the question hang, briefly.
"Open you eyes, children, open dem up and I tells you what you goan do. You goan reach deep inside youself, to where all you little fears and nightmares be. You goan think about callin de white Christ to save you ass. And you calls but you gets de busy signal. So dere you be, one little Balboan boy feelin' all alone in de desert wit' twenty tanks coming to kill you and no God to help.
"And you looks over at de gunner, you eyes wide like saucers in you head, and you asks him, 'What kind of load we be carryin, gunner?'
"And de gunner, he answers, 'Eight ronds HE, t'irty two ronds anti-tank.' And den you knows what you do?"
All the cadets looked up at the instructor with considerable interest. No, they didn't know what to do. And the instructor's face lit up with something that looked like religious devotion. Lifting his arms to the sky as if in prayer, the instructor said, in a voice that thundered across the shed:
"I tell you what you goan do. You goan call on de great Voodoo God: SABOT!" The instructor reached out and deftly pulled the black cloth away to reveal a small glass tray and a brightly polished round of tank ammunition, a sabot round, long alloy penetrating rod surrounded by a plastic sabot, or shoe. When fired, the rod would discard the sabot, cutting down wind resistance greatly, but more importantly putting all its kinetic energy against the very small portion of the target's armor struck by the point of the rod. Penetration of the armor, and death of the crew—a hideous, flesh melting, burning death—usually followed.
To this sabot round, however, anthropomorphic features had been added by a crude hand. The instructor lit a cigar and placed it on the tray in front of the round, pretending to make a small obeisance to it. "Say it wit' me now boys. Sabot!"
And the cadets answered "SABOT!"
"Sabot!"
"SABOT!"
"But de Voodoo God, he no hear you. And den you knows you needs anudder voice to pray wit' you. So you calls on you gunner to pray, too. You says 'Gunner—'"
"GUNNER!" the boys answered.
"Sabot!"
"SABOT!"
"Tank!"
"TANK!"
"Pray wit' me, boys! Gunner, sabot, tank!"
"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK!"
"Gunner, sabot, tank!"
"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK!"
"Louder so de great Voodoo God hear you!"
"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK!"
As the cadets turned the "prayer" into a chant the instructor stuck his right arm straight out, fist clenched, as if it were the barrel of a tank's main gun, and rotated his upper body like a turret. Between each rendition of the chant he pulled his fist straight back to his shoulder as if it were a recoiling tank cannon. The cadets joined him, sticking their own arms out, rotating them, then pulling them back for recoil, all the time laughing their heads off.
Soon, some of the boys thought, or perhaps merely felt, that a recoil should be accompanied by an explosion. The chant gradually changed to "GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM!"
"GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM! GUNNER, SABOT, TANK, BOOM!"
The instructor let the chant go on for some minutes before raising his arms to quiet the cadets again. When he was satisfied that he had whipped the boys into enough of a chanting and laughing frenzy to carry them through the unavoidably boring mechanical training to follow, he lowered his arms and said "De great god Sabot be pleased by you devotion. Five minute break. Den fall in on de tanks outside."
On his break Diaz took the time to finish his letter:
"But, as hard as this is sometimes, it can also be a lot of fun—and very funny, too—but I'd still rather be home.
Love,
Julio"
1/6/468 AC, Casa Linda, Balboa
One of the peculiarities of Balboan democracy was that elections were set for the most densely miserable part of the wet season. Whether or not it really had been the theory behind this date that fewer of the wretchedly poor would vote if the price for voting were to be standing in a long line in the middle of a deluge, that was clearly the effect. It was, even so, hard to credit Balboa's moneyed class with that kind of foresight.
"And it's going to hurt us," Parilla said, staring out into the downpour from the covered back terrace of the casa, the one that looked north towards the Isla Real. The sun was up, but only just, to his right as he faced. Soon enough the entire country would be a dutch oven, with a combination of about one hundred percent humidity and over one hundred degrees, Fahrenheit, of temperature.
Ruiz sipped at his coffee and shrugged. "It will and it won't. Sure, some of the very poor who might otherwise vote will stay home. But the legionaries could care less about a little rain or heat or sun. And they'll all vote. And if one in a hundred of them votes for someone besides you I'd be very, very surprised."
"A wash then, you think?" Parilla asked.
"About that."
Indistinct in the thickened air, a helicopter—Parilla recognized the sound of a Legion IM-62—churned its way eastward toward Ciudad Cervantes, carrying several hundred legionaries to their home town to vote. On the return trip the chopper would take a like number of already-voted reservists, with their arms, to guard the island. Still other reservists had assembled at the polls before sunrise, leaving their arms nearby and under guard. These would later march to the borders of the Tauran controlled areas around the Transitway and the pro-Rocaberti enclaves of Ciudad Balboa.