He glared at his G-2, de Villepin. "Why the fuck wasn't I warned?"
"Because we had no warning, General. This was completely out of the blue." The G-2 shook his head in wonder. "Whoever thought they could mobilize so quickly? I didn't?" Villepin looked down at the carpeted floor, softly adding, "Who thought they could mobilize so secretly? Even for the previous exercise, that meeting they held of the leadership, I had a little warning a bit over a day out."
A Sachsen officer seconded to Janier's headquarters stuck his head in the door to the command post. "There's an officer here from the Legion who wishes to speak with the general," the Sachsen announced.
Villepin looked at Janier, who gulped first, then forced calm into his face and voice and said, "By all means. Show him to my office."
* * *
The Balboan officer was in battle dress. He had a pistol hanging from a shoulder holster, the shoulder holster being in brown leather. On his collar were pinned subdued rank insignia for a senior tribune, that much Janier could see for himself. How senior he didn't know, as he really had never thought it particularly important to study the small details of his adversary.
"My commander and my president wish me to inform you that this mobilization is not aimed at you or your forces," said the senior tribune. Janier was startled to see the name "Carrera" above the tribune's right pocket.
"He's my brother-in-law," David Carrera explained. "He says to inform you that this mobilization is not aimed at you. He also says to inform you that it would be very easy to adjust his aim. Lastly, he says, do not mobilize your forces or he will adjust his aim."
Mierde, thought Janier.
* * *
Later, after David Carrera had left, Janier called his logistics, intelligence and operations officers into his office. The toad, Malcoeur, was excluded since there were no flies to be caught.
"Gentlemen," Janier said, civil among his social peers, "the fact of the Balboan mobilization, the speed and secrecy of the thing, makes me think we need something more here."
"We don't have room for any more ground troops," said the Log officer. "All the barracks are stuffed to overflowing and putting troops, long term, in tents is both expensive and unhealthy."
"Would it be sufficient to bring in another squadron or two of air?" de Villepin asked.
"No," answered the logistician. "Half the barracks at the air base are full of ground troops, too, and even were they not, the base is in range of more artillery than I care to contemplate. We'd just be giving the Balboans more targets with no commensurate increase to our power."
Operations poked a tongue into teeth turned yellow from smoking. His face indicated he was searching for an answer that was almost at the tip of his tongue. Janier looked at that face expectantly. His operations officer was handpicked, and came with rather a good reputation.
"The Charlemagne," ops said, suddenly. "Same airpower as a squadron . . . or rather more, really. No need for barracks. Nuclear powered so no fuel expense. And it's something the Balboans really don't have a good way to strike at."
"They do have an aircraft carrier," de Villepin objected. It was not stated very forcefully.
The ops officer shrugged. "They've got an old carrier, converted to a coastal raider, with a fair defensive suite, true, but with no high performance aircraft. It is not a match for Charlemagne, not nearly."
Janier nodded. The Gallic carrier would be a help. "Inquire," he said. "Paint a dire picture. Get me in a position where I do not have to worry about the shit the Balboans pull."
De Villepin looked museful for a moment. "Speaking of pulling shit," he said, "this might be a good way to bring in the commandos we need to assist our Balboans in their little project, without tipping anyone's hand. And, then too, the Charlemagne would be extremely useful in ensuring that no troops come from Isla Real to the mainland during those events."
Cruz Residence, Ciudad Balboa, Terra Nova
I am so tired of this shit, thought Cara, as she leaned against the doorframe of the house she shared with Cruz and watched her husband's back recede into faint light of the streetlamp. Cruz had his rucksack slung over one shoulder and his rifle gripped in the opposite hand. He placed both in the trunk, then walked to the automobile's door. He stopped to wave, once, and then opened the door and sat down, closing the door behind him. The car started with a muffled roar.
Cara Cruz sighed and shook her head. How many times have I seen you off like this, standing alone in a doorway? I wish I understood what it is that calls to you. I wish I understood the smile you try to hide when going on active service.
Of course I don't understand those things, not for a minute. All I understand is that there is a call, that you do love your work . . . and that I love you, you bastard.
Oh . . . and I understand that you know I'll be waiting here for you when you come home. Please come home.
BdL Dos Lindas, Puerto Jaquelina de Coco, La Palma Province, Balboa, Terra Nova
The early morning sun lit the sea, but only lightly upon the top and the edges of the coastal jungle. Centurion Ricardo Cruz rested his hands on the chain railing to one side of the ship's stern, looking at the shore as the ship made way parallel to it. Near his feet rested his pack and rifle. Around him, likewise seated on the deck, rested the men of his platoon.
It wasn't much of a port, Cruz thought. And, he surmised, it could never do as a homeport for a major warship. It didn't have much of an airstrip. It was not much of a town. Indeed, if one took and weighed every building in the town, plus the weight of the asphalt on the airstrip, and the two rock jetties that defined the port, the light aircraft carrier laying two miles off shore would still have outweighed the entirety of what was on land.
"No, it isn't much," Cruz mused. "And yet it is still ours, and no foreigners may walk in and take it from us."
I wish I could tell you, Cara, that that's the reason I'm here. But that would be a lie. The fact is that I love it, the action, I mean, and that I need it.
Cruz sensed the presence of another standing nearby. He turned to look and saw one of the swabbies of the classis.
"Centurion Cruz?" the sailor asked.
"Yes."
"I'm to lead you to the helicopters scheduled to take you in."
"Lead on, then, sailor," said Cruz, turning away from the shore and towards his men. "On your feet, boys."
* * *
Fosa, too, was quite unimpressed with the sleepy, mostly ramshackle town. "On the other hand," he mused from his bridge, watching his Yakamov helicopters boarding and launching chalk after chalk of foot soldiers to deposit them in and around the town and further into the jungle, "it does have some buildings; it does have an all weather airstrip, and—even if the port isn't up to sheltering the Dos Lindas or the Tadeo Kurita—it can still deal with small merchies, the escorts, and landing craft. So it's good enough for our purposes."
Suarez, standing to one side of Fosa, nodded. He also looked at a chart which showed how much of his force, a mere fraction of one infantry legion, was ashore. With a single tick mark on the chart from one of Fosa's sailors, Suarez stood to attention, saluted and said, "I relieve you, sir." That tick mark indicated that half of Suarez's force was now ashore.
It's a small enough force to begin with, Suarez thought, given the size of the area we have to reestablish control over.