* * *
The Volgan pilot surfaced, moments later, near Hartmann. The Santandern waved. "Nice of you to drop in."
"You speak English?" the Volgan shouted to be heard over the chopper. It was few enough words that a foreigner was unlikely to pick up the Volgan accent.
"Flight school in the Federated States," answered Hartmann, succinctly.
"Good. But we can speak Spanish. Now, we can do this one of three ways. I can take you back with me and no one you know will see you any time in the next half century or so. Or, we can leave you here and maybe you'll be found and maybe you won't."
"You said three ways," Hartmann reminded. There was also a fourth way, as both men knew. The Volgan—or gringo, as Hartmann thought—had the good taste not to mention it.
"It's up to you. But we can take you back and drop you off."
"And the catch?"
"You've got to swear to me that you won't say who we are."
"Be serious. I've got to say something."
"Fine. Tell them we were men from outer space, Cajamarcans. Make something up."
Hartmann felt his arm. He was pretty sure it was broken. He knew he wouldn't last out here very long. Shock and exposure would get him if nothing else. And Santander's Air Rescue Service was next to non-existent. "I agree."
The Volgan waved to the helicopter to throw a rope. This he tied under Hartmann's arms. The rescue crew pulled him up by main strength, the helicopter having no winch attached. The rope was returned. Then the helicopter turned east towards Santander before heading for home.
* * *
San Martin had focused on Hartmann's radio beacon as it activated. He had had no luck chasing down any of his sightings. They had all either lost themselves in the trees and hills, or had crossed over into Balboa before he could intercept. He picked up a radar contact, a helicopter that seemed to be hovering over the approximate location of Hartmann's beacon. San Martin was about to use his IFF, Identification Friend of Foe, when the helicopter turned east toward Santander. Oh, its one of ours. San Martin told himself that he would never again have a bad word to say about Santander's helicopter units. San Martin turned back toward Santa Fe.
Chapter Nineteen
Elites of today favor coddling the criminal class. The elites, then, will deny the common people arms necessary for self defense. This is easy for the new aristocracy; they live in gated communities, with armed guards, and as far from criminal elements as possible. They will also deny the commoners the social good resulting from the putting to death of the wicked. The elites don't suffer from this; their gated communities and their guards make them fairly immune to crime.
Are your public schools a ruin? Never mind; you and your children don't count. Jobs gone? Electrical service spotty? Public transportation unreliable? News full of lies? Not to worry; the elites are well taken care of, behind their walls. And fear not for your elite, neo-aristocratic rulers' children. Those children will attend good private schools even as the elites subject yours to a system that, imposed by foreigners, would be a crime against humanity, an act of war.
But then, the elites are foreigners; even if they—purely notionally—share your citizenship, they have renounced all of its meaning. And the people owe them nothing, not even their lives. They are at war with you. You should fight back.
Without mercy.
—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,
Historia y Filosofia Moral,
Legionary Press, Balboa,
Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468
Anno Condita 471 Executive Mansion, Hamilton, FD, Federated States of Columbia, Terra Nova
"Turn that shit off," said the President, Karl Schumann. A flunky picked up the remote to turn off a television that seemed to have nothing on it but anti-gringo protests from Atzlan to la Plata.
The President, watched by his press secretary, the Secretary of State, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Attorney General and a few others, paced vigorously from wall to wall.
"General," Schumann asked, "are you absolutely certain we didn't do it? The President of Santander is positive that we did."
JCS suppressed a highly amused smile, answering, "Mr. President, we know exactly who did do it. The ACCS we have on patrol over the Santander coast recorded the whole thing as it happened, even though they didn't quite understand what was happening. The Balboans did it. I don't know all the details, but they did it. And they set it up to pin it on us."
"But . . . why?"
"My guess," answered the JCS, "is that they didn't want to piss off the Santanderns because they've got all the enemies they need already. And, too, it isn't like we haven't been pressuring them to do something about the drug trade, or as if they don't have good reasons to keep drugs out of Balboa."
"What's the ambassador down there say?" Schumann asked of State.
"Ambassador Wallis says the Balboans won't admit a thing to him. They refuse to discuss it. Which is screwy, because if it was them, then they know it couldn't have been us."
"It wasn't us," JCS reiterated.
The Secretary of State gave JCS a look which as much as said, So you say.
Schumann returned to his desk and sat down. "In any event," he said, "Santander, the whole of Latin America, thinks we did do it. There were protests today in every capital. The Santanderns are showing helmets, our kind of helmets, all over the news. They claim we shot down one of their planes and shot up an airfield. Their President is threatening to shut down diplomatic relations and kick us completely out of the country."
State shook his head. "Not a chance, Mr. President. They need us."
"Mr. President," said JCS, "we can prove to the Santanderns that the Balboans did it. We'll just release them the tapes of the whole incident." The general screwed up his face. "But then, they wouldn't necessarily believe we couldn't—didn't—fabricate the whole thing, would they?"
The press secretary bent down and whispered something softly in the President's ear. The President's eyed grew wide and he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you leave me alone for a few minutes to confer . . ."
When the room was cleared the President of the Federated States asked "No shit?"
"It's true, Karl. Your polls are soaring. Everyone in this country thinks you did it, and they're just tickled pink by it. And you need this. The people are happy the country's getting even with someone, and don't really give a shit if it's not the real guilty party."
"But what about all the civilians killed, kids even?"
"Just the cost of doing business. Besides, they were just foreigners. Nobody cares."
"And if Balboa decides to take credit?"
"They won't. Firstly because now no one would believe them. Secondly, they'll be too late once you've said we did it. Thirdly, because, as the general said, Balboa probably doesn't want Santander pissed at them. Santander is, after all, ten times bigger than Balboa is. Lastly, if they wanted to take credit, they would have done so already."
The President reached a decision. "Bring in the others."
* * *
"Mr. President, you're live."
Schumann looked into the camera, his sincerest-seeming expression writ plain on his face. "My fellow Columbians. I would like to announce that a raid was conducted against certain members of Santander's drug cartels who were implicated in the recent criminal attacks in the Republic of Balboa in which American citizens lost their lives."