The sergeant and another policeman walked over to the prisoner next to Señor Donati. As they walked the swaying deck their hands traced along the walls of the cabin for balance. Reaching down, the two policemen picked up Donati's neighbor, who began to thrash in their grip. They carried him, despite his struggling, to the door.
The tribune read the prisoner's sentence sheet aloud, almost shouting to be heard over the engines and the air rushing past the door. "For participation in narcotrafico you have been sentenced to 15 years at hard labor on Santa Catalina. Sadly, you seem to have escaped." He reached over to pick up a weighted chain. This he hung from the prisoner's bonds, wrapping one chain around the other and fastening them with a loose knot. The prisoner sagged, helpless and hopeless, weeping like a baby.
With a sneer, the tribune tilted his head toward the plane's door. The sergeant grabbed overhead handholds for stability and placed one foot in the small of the prisoner's back. The last Donati saw of his recent neighbor was his back and the back of his legs, feet flailing, as he made an unplanned and unscheduled exit from the aircraft.
The tribune made as if spitting out the door and turned back, walking towards Donati.
"Wait! Wait!" Donati shrieked. "I know more. I know much more. I can tell you where the stuff is stockpiled."
Bingo, thought the tribune, turning away from and passing over Donati to grab the next in line.
By the time the aircraft reached Santa Catalina only seven men—the three policemen, the flight crew, and a cowering Donati—remained aboard. The others would be entered on the prison colony rolls for a few months, then be reported as missing. Given the currents, and the presence of sharks around the island, no one would ever even bother to look for the "escapees." It was all very clean and above board.
It also tended to keep costs down.
Presidential Palace, Old Balboa, Republic of Balboa, Terra Nova
In an abandoned four story building, once a mansion and now fallen on hard times, standing not so very far away from the Presidential Palace, a group of not quite fifty of the five hundred odd police who had remained loyal to the old regime practiced hostage rescue under the tutelage of some of General Janier's commandos. The money for the exercise, indeed for the entire training program, came from Janier's office. The commander of the group, one Moises Rocaberti, was another of the old President's nephews. In many ways, Moises was the preferred among those nephews. The sounds of firing, albeit blank firing, and of the simulators used, echoed across the pigeon infested squares of the old city.
"It's not as bad as all that, Uncle," Endara-Rocaberti said, trying his best to ignore the sounds of firing. "After all, if the . . . other . . . government seized several tons of the stuff that will just drive up the price generally. I doubt we'll lose that much, overall. Certainly the demand won't go down."
"Oh, the demand will skyrocket," the rump president agreed. "The problem is that that demand will be filled, if at all, by stockpiles already south of us, in Atzlan, the FSC and the Tauran Union. We'll get none of it and as soon as we and our friends on this end replace our stocks—and that's going to take months, the price will drop. Like a lead brick. No, nephew, this is disastrous."
The nephew sighed. He found himself doing that a lot lately, when in discussion with his uncle. "Maybe it's time to pull up stakes and leave, Uncle, to sell what we can and get out. Maybe we could sell our interest to Parilla, give him this corner of the republic. Surely he'd prefer a nice clean monetary arrangement to a war."
Rocaberti, senior, shook his head, dismally. "We're not the ones he's facing; the Taurans are. We could leave and he's still got a fight on his hands with them. It doesn't change Parilla's position in the slightest. So why should he pay? On the other hand, we can stay and, if he loses to the Taurans, we get our old position back."
"I spoke to some of the Taurans on Janier's staff," Endara-Rocaberti said. "You know, in relation to the little project you set me to? They're worried, badly worried."
"You didn't tell them about our plans for Parilla and Carrera, did you?" the rump president asked.
"Oh, no," Endara assured his uncle. "I just wanted to see what the general air was about their headquarters and ask maybe about being put in touch with one or another of their private military groups."
"I thought," the uncle said, "that you were going to the Santanderns for help."
"I did. I am. But they tell me they don't really have the system in place or the skills for this kind of thing. Set a bomb off in a crowded market? Sure. Kidnap an unguarded journalist or judge? Easy. But both Carrera and Parilla are hard targets. I thought that maybe a private contractor from the Tauran Union, coupled with some muscle from Santander, might be just the ticket."
"And?"
"And," the nephew continued, "I've got two . . . mmm . . . two specialists from a Gallic firm—one of them is actually a gringo—flying to Santander next week to link up with the Belalcázar cartel. Five or six weeks after that they'll be ready. Then we bring them into the country. I've made arrangements for that, for a place for them to stay hidden while we await an opportunity. I have my own sources to identify when such an opportunity may arise."
The ex-president nodded, gratified. "You have done well, nephew."
Endara-Rocaberti rocked his head from side to side, signifying a mix of agreement and disagreement. "I've done well enough in preparing something we probably shouldn't do, uncle. Before I give the final word to proceed, I wish you would think very seriously about the risks of what we've embarked on. And wait for Pigna and his Seventh Legion to be at Fort Cameron."
"No."
Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa Transitway Area
"What do you mean we should 'de-escalate'?" Janier asked of his intelligence operator, Villepin. For a change, Janier was wearing Gallic battledress rather than his blue velvet atrocity.
"I mean, mon general, that the Balboans are raising and equipping forces at a rate that is rapidly making them unassailable by us here. Already I am not convinced we can win. In a year? I think we cannot win. In two years? I shudder. Moreover, there is a chance, a good chance, that the disaffected legion commander I told you about may well solve our problems for us if we'll just be patient, as he is being patient."
Villepin continued, "Fact: they've recently purchased something on the order of six hundred jet fighters. At least that's all we know about. Are those fighters obsolete? Yes. But they're still six hundred. Worse, they're being upgraded, perhaps substantially. Fact: they've reorganized into a four—maybe five—corps force of what may be eleven divisions, or perhaps twelve, and a number of independent regiments. Are those corps and divisions full strength? No. But they will be. Fact, and this is in many ways the most disturbing thing of alclass="underline" they are building fortifications as if they believe they can defeat any initial attack here and would then have to face a larger attack later. Clearly they think they can defeat that first attack or they wouldn't waste the money and effort they've committed to digging in."
"They're living in a dream world," Janier countered. "Along with your 'facts,' have you not noticed they are mere militia, peasant rabble, at best?"
"An arguable point, 'at best,' mon general. The cadre for that peasant rabble are all long service regulars, with a decent, even enviable, combat record. And that cadre recently took some of that peasant rabble into the deepest darkest jungle in the world and routed out some thousands of the guerillas that infested it. Quickly, too."