"What's more . . . ah, fuck."
Soult looked into his binoculars until he saw what had caused his chief's outburst. When he did see it—a climber who'd slipped until he hung by his fingertips from a small rocky outcropping—he repeated, "Fuck."
* * *
. . . try to fuck every female I can talk into a horizontal . . . FUCK!
Cruz felt his lower foot slip vertically. That put excess demands on the other one, which likewise lost its hold on the rock ledge. His left hand hadn't quite found purchase. In much less time than it takes to tell about it he found himself hanging by the fingertips of one hand, and not even all of those. His body slammed the cliff face, almost causing him to lose his death grip on the outcropping. Moreover, while his helmet protected the bulk of his head, in slipping he had managed to scrape the left side of his jaw along the rough rock wall. He felt hot blood drip down his neck.
His first instinct was, frankly, akin to panic. It lasted milliseconds before training and experience took over. I've been scared witless before and overcome it. I can again.
As Aristotle had said, "We become brave by performing brave acts." This Cruz had done often enough to deserve the title of "Brave."
The first thing Cruz's questing fingers found was a tiny little spur of rock. It would never do to support his entire weight but, gripped by two fingers and a thumb, it was just enough to take some weight off of the overstrained fingers of the other hand. His heart began to slow, if only slightly. Ok . . . so I have at least two or three more minutes of life. My fingers will hold that long. A lot can be done in two or three minutes.
Next, his foot found the previous ledge it had occupied. He was unwilling to take quite the same perch he had had previously. He spent some of his one hundred and twenty to one hundred and eighty seconds feeling around for the best position he could find. When he found it he tested it, spending a few more precious seconds. He then allowed his foot and leg to take some weight from his whitened, tired fingers.
At last, breathing a little more easily, Cruz found a spot for his other foot and began to rest his fingers in turn.
* * *
"I recognize the face, boss, but who is that kid?"
"I think it's a centurion, junior grade named Cruz," Carrera answered. "Volunteer for the original Legion. Decorated twice . . . mmm, maybe three times; not sure. Two kids. Wife's name is . . . " and here Carrera had to struggle to remember, " . . . mmm . . . Cara or . . . . no; Caridad, I think. Good kid. Going places if he stays with us."
Unseen by Carrera, Soult smiled. Gotta admire the boss' memory.
"You actually know his wife? I mean, we've got fifteen hundred officers, twenty-five hundred optios and centurions, maybe a thousand warrants and you know his wife?"
"Long story," Carrera answered.
Soult shrugged, then asked, "Hey, boss; does it bother you when . . . you know . . . when you have to meet the wife and kids, or the parents, of somebody who got killed?"
Carrera was a long time answering. "Jamey, it bothers the hell out of me. But you know what keeps me going?"
"Revenge?"
"When we first started, sure, that was all I had. But the fact is, I keep going now for two other reasons. One is that we have to win this war for the sake of our civilization, for our kids and grandkids."
"And the other?"
Carrera sighed. "The other is that I love this shit; that I'm addicted to it."
* * *
Cruz didn't have time to think any deep thoughts until he reached the top of the cliff and secured and lowered the rope. After that, he thought, Maybe Cara was right. Maybe I should give this shit up.
If only I didn't love it so.
10/3/467 AC, UEPF Spirit of Peace
I love it when a plan comes together, thought High Admiral Robinson, as he watched a distant image of Xamari pirates in half a dozen boats swarm, engage and board a Balboan registry freighter.
It hadn't been all that easy for Robinson, setting things up as he had. It had helped, though, that nearly half of Terra Nova's global shipping was registered with the Republic of Balboa and most of the rest was with an otherwise insignificant country in Uhuru. The Balboan Government needed merely to be reminded of the World League's discountenancing of privately armed merchant vessels and that, with a large, uncontrolled and potential hostile army inside its borders the government needed whatever friends it could get . . . or should we arrange to pull out the TU troops that are there to safeguard you, Señor Presidente?
Robertsonia, the other large flag of convenience registry on Terra Nova had needed a bribe that was so low it was pitiful. The Tauran Union had, of course, begun to enforce the World League's edicts. The rest of down below, except for the Zhong, didn't much matter. And to the Zhong, every non Zhong ship seized by the pirates was all to the good.
While the currently in-power Progressive Party in the FSC also frowned on armed merchant ships, it had a large and powerful surface navy, more powerful in fact than all the other navies combined, to protect its own shipping. A task force of this had been sent off to suppress the piratical scourge along the Xamar coast. It was signally failing to do so. In part this was because Robinson was passing to Abdulahi which ships could be attacked without risking engagement with the FSN; in part because the FSN's Rules of Engagement, or ROE, forbade taking any seriously deterrent action even if they happened to be in a position to engage. The Progressive Party's domestic "mandate" was not so strong that it could afford to alienate any of it constituencies, progressive, pacifist, racial, environmental, or other.
Neither the World League nor the other—marginally—significant naval powers on the planet were taking any significant action to suppress the pirates.
Even better; Mustafa's man among the Nicobars is gradually bringing the other pirates under his control.
11/3/467 AC, Nicobar Straits
A thick haze floated over the water, reducing visibility to no more than two hundred meters in the daytime. At night, a sailor could, sometimes, see the end of his nose. The haze was not from the weather. Rather, it was mostly smoke from grass and brush fires that raged uncontrolled upwind of the Straits.
On any given clear day the Straits would have a steady hum as more than one hundred and fifty ships made passage through it. When the haze closed down like this, though, all the ships stopped engines and dropped anchors. Even the risk of pirate attack was better than risking a wreck.
Parameswara, chieftain of his own band of pirates smiled in the silence. Tonight was not a night for piracy. The ships were safe for the nonce from him and his men.
I have a better fish to catch tonight, he thought
* * *
One remarkable feature of Nicobar piracy was not that it was entirely Islamic, but that it was not entirely Islamic. Indeed, there were Hindu pirates, Sikh pirates, animist pirates, Buddhist pirates . . . even "Christian" pirates. There were Chinese pirates and Tamil pirates. There were white, black, brown, and yellow pirates. In all, there were—and not counting mere part timers—some thirty-three large bands of pirates, plus substantial numbers of small time freelancers, not more than half of either Moslem.