Carrera dipped a spoon into the kasha, trying to hide a lack of enthusiasm. Again he changed the subject. "How goes your training?"
Samsonov pointed at the tribune. "Victor, tell the duque how training goes in your company."
Chapayev gulped before answering. "My Spanish is . . . atrocity. Casus Belli, all on own. I try."
Nodding, as if searching for words and discovering that, perhaps, he had enough, if only just, Chapayev continued, "Is great problem, learning be like Tauran infantry. Some have many drill . . . no . . . drills. We, too. Others . . . none."
"That's so," answered Carrera. "Also, it's hard to be what you're not. I understand that. Also, I don't want you to lose everything you already have, just for a little more accurate presentation of the various Tauran forces."
"Tell me, how are you training for helicopter missions without helicopters?" That question was directed at Samsonov, who answered that his troops were doing most of their work on mock ups, maps, blackboards.
"Fine for now. Kuralski is working on recruiting more helicopter pilots for your detachment of IM-71s when they arrive."
* * *
"What did you think of the Volgans, Ham?" Carrera asked as the convoy sped over the gravel road in the jungle-striped, fast diminishing light.
"Besides that some of my Pashtians hate the Volgans guts, Dad, they seemed pretty decent."
The father looked directly at the boy, raising one eyebrow.
"Oh. You wanted an assessment. Okay, Dad. Morale seems high, probably because however shitty—"
"Hamilcar!"
"Sorry, Mom," the boy sniffed, then turned his attention back to his father. "However poor their living conditions now, they're a lot better than they were back in Volga. They seem disciplined, Dad, maybe a little too disciplined. And they put too much into appearances. Lots of painted rocks and tree trunks at Fuerte Cameron. They know they're an elite group and like that a lot. Proud, I think. From the demonstrations Legate Samsonov gave us, they seem pretty sharp on the attack."
"They rehearsed all that, you know," Carrera said. "Don't take it at face value."
The boy nodded. "I figured they probably did, Dad. Even so, they couldn't have done so well, even with rehearsals, if they weren't pretty good to begin with. I mean, that mortar fire was close to their assault line."
"Good," Carrera said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the Phaeton's cushions. "Very good."
He felt Lourdes stiffen suddenly, next to him.
"Are you all right, hon?" he asked, sitting up and opening his eyes.
She twitched again, as if half in surprise and half in pain. A literally expectant smile lit her face. "I'm fine, Patricio, but could we perhaps go to the hospital rather than home?"
"Mom," Hamilcar asked, "are you going to have the baby now? Cool."
* * *
Ah, good, thought Victor Chapayev, as he pulled up his email and saw that he had a message from his wife, Veronica Chapayeva, back in Saint Nicholasburg, in Volga. In Balboa he lived the life of an aesthete, sending most of his pay home to maintain her. No whore's for Chapayev. Little vodka either. He worked, he studied, he wrote her every day. Indeed, it was in good part the tribune's dedication that had caused Samsonov to elevate him to a company command (as an official part of the Foreign Military Training Group, the 22nd still organized by battalions and companies rather than by cohorts and maniples) rather rapidly.
Chapayev stifled a yawn. It had been a long day with his company, commencing with physical training at six in the morning and just ending now, well after sundown, after the after action review that followed the day's training mission.
Opening the email, Chapayev scanned the short missive. It was even shorter than usual, a bare five sentences: I miss you. I love you. When are you coming home? My mother is ill. I need more money.
Chapayev shook his head, thinking, My little Veronica, you never were much for the literary. He fired off a quick response, though at that it was still longer and more thoughtful than the message he'd received, then opened up his bank account and made a transfer of a couple of hundred FSD to the joint account he held with his wife.
That transaction completed, Victor shut down his computer and walked to the radio. Turning it on to the only station in Balboa that played classical music, he sat beside it, closed his eyes, and indulged his only real interest besides his wife and his job. With the stars rising, and the murmur of the antaniae outside—mnnbt, mnnbt, mnnbt—Chapayev closed his eyes and let the music take him to sleep.
Hospital Ancon, Cerro Gorgia, Ciudad Balboa, Terra Nova
Lourdes awakened without her baby and almost immediately began to panic. Then her husband walked into the room, smiling while holding a tiny child cradled in his arms, with Hamilcar and her eldest girl, Julia, on either side.
"Ah, you're up," Carrera said. "Good, because this little darling is in need of lunch. Which, as it happens, you're extremely well equipped to provide."
"Not that well equipped," Lourdes said, looking down at her chest. "Well . . . maybe a little better equipped than I am normally."
"Well enough equipped for my complete satisfaction," Carrera replied. "Though my preferences have to take second place for now, since she's the baby and she wants to be fed."
He leaned down, kissed his wife atop her head, and passed to her her newborn. Lourdes took the baby and began to undo her top to present her breast. "What are we going to call her?"
Carrera rocked his head from side to side. "Even though I did all the really important work, I think you get to choose. Mother's privilege, let's say."
"Hmmm." Hamilcar's position is secure. Julia has her father more or less wrapped around her finger. This one will need a little something extra to compete, I think.
"Then we'll call her 'Linda,' " Lourdes said.
For just a moment before affixing herself to her mother, the baby made a gurgling, happy sound.
Carrera sighed. "Linda, it is then, by popular acclaim. I suppose—"
He never quite finished the thought, as the skyline outside Lourdes' hospital room was suddenly lit with fireworks.
"What the—?"
"Mac passed on that you had dropped another one," he said. "The troops are celebrating. Noisily."
Lago Sombrero Ammunition Supply Point (ASP), Balboa, Terra Nova
The facility was soundless but for the roar of a powerful engine and the cries of the antaniae. Under a moonless, overcast sky, beneath a long metal shed that blocked out all overhead view, and surrounded by earthen walls that covered the bunker entrance from ground observation, one uniformed man guided another in driving a blacked out, unnumbered Ocelot infantry fighting vehicle cum armored gun system down a ramp and through wide spread bunker doors. Only when the doors were sealed tight did the first man turn on a light to guide the vehicle to park in its proper place. Under the light, the bunker walls seemed moist, with mold growing in the corners.
"Jesus Christ, Centurion! What is all this?" asked the driver after he'd dismounted.
"Officially, its bunker number 17, Lago Sombrero Ammunition Supply Point," answered the centurion.
"No, no. I mean 'what is all this.' " The driver spread his arms wide to take in the dozen armored vehicles, two of them tanks, that the bunker held.
"Oh . . . that." The centurion gave a friendly smile. "This is a hide for equipment, one of many here at Lago Sombrero and some other places. What does is look like?"