"Iskandr," Alena said, close to the boy's ear (for whatever name his worldly parents had given him, to her he was and only could be Iskandr), "Iskandr, it will be all right. You will like my people . . . your people, as you will like your new home."
"I know," he answered. "I already do. I always have. It still hurts."
"I know, my Iskandr," Alena said, reaching up to stroke the boy's hair. "But you will get over it. Your destiny demands it."
* * *
As the plane carrying Hamilcar gunned engines and began to taxi down the runway, Lourdes wailed aloud into Carrera's shoulder, "My baby, my baby!"
He held her tight with one arm, stroking her hair gently with the hand of the other. Weep, Lourdes, weep. I would join you if I could. I can't and so you must cry for the both of us.
Headquarters, 7th Legion, Gutierrez Caserne, Ciudad Cervantes, Balboa, Terra Nova
Pigna replaced the telephone back onto the receiver atop his desk. The receiver sat next to a large scale map of Balboa City. On the other side of it was a small portable computer, one of two computers on the desk.
Being the commander of a reserve unit, Pigna mused, may not be an all day job, but it is an every day job. Worse, it seems like the decisions I get asked for are the most trivial imaginable. I'd rather be commander of a regular tercio than of a legion of reservists.
On the plus side, though, it leaves me with a lot of free time. And since I have to do all the detailed planning for this myself . . .
Pigna returned to the spreadsheet displayed on his computer screen. Using the control device two worlds had called "mouse" he selected a unit from one column, cut it from there, and pasted it beside another column. Thus was Second Cohort, Forty-Seventh Artillery Tercio tasked with securing the Bridge of the Colombias over the Transitway. Beside that entry, Pigna typed, "Self mobile by prime movers and auxiliary engines on the guns from Fort Cameron to the Bridge."
Pigna turned his attention back to the map. Again, he selected a unit . . .
Fort Cameron, Balboa, Terra Nova
They used Samsonov's regiment's conference room. Maps were tacked to walls and spread across the large central table. The chairs were stacked against one wall. Outside, guards were posted just out of earshot. The place had been swept and then swept again for listening devices.
In theory they were assembled to discuss expansion plans for the Centro de Entrenamiento Nacional. In fact, Carrera's staff and key commanders were there to work out the details for a major hit.
Carrera was of an age now when healing was slow, hard, and imperfect. His shoulder ached and probably would, at least when the weather changed, for life. This was the opinion of his doctor, at least.
"The problem, gentlemen," Carrera said, ignoring the pain, "is that I want to hit the bastards hard, but I don't want to alienate Santander when we do. In fact, I really want to pin the whole thing on the Federated States."
"Neat trick, if you can pull it off," said Dan Kuralski, dubiously. He removed his broad-brimmed hat to scratch as his bald pate. "Frankly, I doubt we can."
"We can," Carrera insisted. "I've made arrangements for us to host two of the Federates States Army's three Ranger battalions at the right time, along with a small group of aircraft. That's unusual enough to divert eyes to them. Moreover, we'll be keeping them more or less out of the way, and our aircraft, especially helicopters, will make a larger than usual number of sorties in support. Arguably, it will all look like troop movements."
"That's why you want use my people?" Samsonov asked, his Volgan accent thick. "We all white? Well . . . almost all white."
"Yes," Carrera confirmed. "I'll want you to go in sterile, but that will also suggest an FSC attack."
"Why, Duque?" asked Lanza, head of the Legion's aviation division, or ala. "I mean, why pretend it's the FSC doing the attack you want?"
"It's complex," Carrera said. "But, short version: Assuming war with the Tauran Union at some point in the not too distant future, I don't want Santander annoyed enough with us that their government feels compelled to support the TU, or allow it to base there."
"Fair enough," Lanza agreed.
"You can't use me then," Fosa, head of the classis, or fleet, said. "We're too obviously yours."
Carrera nodded his head deeply. "We can't use the Dos Lindas or the Kurita," he agreed, "nor even any of the corvettes or patrol craft, at least directly. That doesn't mean we can't use some of your sailors or the hidden reserve."
"Have to stop playing opposing force for a while," Samsonov counseled.
"I know," Carrera agreed. "Kuralski is working out a scheme to have units going through your training center operate against other, main force, units."
"Trying to work out that scheme," Kuralski corrected.
"You'll succeed, I am sure," Carrera said.
"Month to train?" Samsonov asked.
"Sure. Rather, six weeks. The FSA Rangers will be here then. In any case, I'm more interested in hitting at the right time than at any particular set time. We've got to look for a confluence of tidal and weather factors, plus eyes-on-target knowledge that the targets are home. The first two are givens, since our weather is fairly stable that time of year, and the last two are under our control."
"Can do, then," the Volgan said. "If someone else bring to fight. And we get to train together for while. Must first talk men into it. You join us tonight at regimental dinner?"
"If you think it will help," Carrera answered.
"Could hurt?"
"No, probably not. If this is family, too, I'll send for Lourdes and Mitchell's wife."
"Might help."
Carrera gave Samsonov a curious, raised eyebrow look. "You were planning a formal regimental officers' dinner for this evening? Odd sense of timing."
"Could see coming," Samsonov answered, with a shrug. "You got whole Legion, practically, disassembled to rebuild bigger. What you haven't is off in jungle in La Palma. Mine only force still whole that not already in jungle hunting guerillas."
* * *
Lourdes had been reluctant even to broach the subject with Mitchell's wife, Chica, thinking, It's just too soon for her to be going to a social event.
Still, at Carrera's insistence, his wife had explained it. Chica had had exactly one question. "Will it help get revenge for my husband and the father of my children?"
"Maybe," Lourdes had admitted. "That's what Patricio told me he intends, anyway."
The corners of Chica's mouth turned up in a wintery smile. "Then I'm going. I'm definitely going."
* * *
Bagpipes, thought Carrera, are an odd thing to hear at a Volgan dinner. Bagpipes being accompanied by balalaikas and jackbooted dancers stomping atop tables is altogether too weird.
Carrera kept his face carefully blank. Oh, well, at least they cleaned their boots, given the food out, and all.
Samsonov leaned over and, over the screeching, said into Carrera's ear, "We borrow pipers from Second Infantry Tercio. Down in jungle, they not need anyway. Cost me two pallets of good vodka even so."
"Why don't you start your own band?" Carrera asked.
"Working. Slow. The Jagelonians have pipes, but different, not so loud . . . forceful. We have . . . a dozen men working on learning. Someday. Not yet ready."
"Fair enough," Carrera agreed. "Do me a favor though."
"What that?"
"If . . . when you do get your pipe band going, please don't have them pipe in the haggis. As a matter of fact, please don't have haggis." Not if you want me to show up again.