Mercedes nodded his most profound agreement. Without the law, I could never take as much as I do.
“It has come to our attention that the Republic of Panama, at the instigation of the United States, has decided to adopt certain defensive measures prohibited by your own laws of war. I refer specifically to the planned use of antipersonnel landmines.”
Mercedes’ brow furrowed in puzzlement. He recalled being briefed on some such but the details…? Well, military details hardly interested him absent the opportunity for graft.
“I am somewhat surprised, I confess,” Mercedes said, “that Galactic law even addresses landmines.”
“It does not, not specifically,” the alien shyster-AID answered. “What it does do is require that member states and planets of the confederation follow their own laws in such matters. Panama is a signatory to what the people of your world sometimes call the ‘Ottawa Anti-Personnel Landmine Ban Treaty.’ As such, Panama is expected to abide by the terms of that treaty, to refrain from the manufacture, stockpiling, or use of antipersonnel mines.”
A detail, previously forgotten, suddenly popped into Mercedes head. “But we are manufacturing, stockpiling, or emplacing no mines. They all come from the gringos.”
The undersecretary sighed wistfully at the wickedness of a depraved mankind. “Despite the earnest recommendations of the United States Department of State, the United States has never ratified the Ottawa Accord.”
“As such,” the shyster-AID continued, “the United States is free to use them at will. This is not the case for Panama, however, which has a duty — so we of the legal bureau believe — to prevent them from being manufactured, used or stored not only by its forces but on its soil.”
“The gringos are not going to go along with this,” Mercedes observed.
Again the undersecretary spoke, “It is true, Mr. President, that those Neanderthals at the Department of Defense will take a dim view of any attempt to prevent them from using these barbaric devices.”
Calculating that the time had come to present the threat, the Rinn Fain’s AID added, “However, failure to abide by and enforce its own laws will put the Republic of Panama, and its citizens, under Galactic commercial interdiction.”
“No trade?” asked Mercedes.
“No trade,” answered the undersecretary.
“And no travel via any Galactic means,” finished the Darhel’s shyster-AID.
At that Mercedes eyes bugged out. No travel! That means I am stuck here and so is my family. Oh, no. Oh, nonononono. This will never do.
“Could we not withdraw from the treaty?” Mercedes asked. “I seem to recall that most treaties permit withdrawal.”
“In this case, no,” said the undersecretary. “You might have withdrawn before the current war began. However, pursuant to Article Twenty, no state engaged in war may withdraw from the treaty during the period of that war, even if landmines are used against it.”
“I see. Well, in that case, Mr. Undersecretary, Lord Rinn Fain, you have my personal word that the Republic of Panama will do everything in its power to abide by its obligations under the law.”
“… in accordance with the laws of the Republic, so help me God.”
Digna Miranda, son Hector standing beside, lowered her right arm as she, and he, completed their oaths of office as newly commissioned second lieutenants in the armed forces of the Republic.
The training, supervised and partially conducted by the gringos, had been both hard and harsh. If Digna had been asked why she had stuck it out she likely would have answered, “So as not to embarrass my son, Hector.” For his part, Hector simply couldn’t have borne the thought of failing in front of his mother.
Training together was at an end, however. Hector was on his way — he’d received the orders only this morning — to take over as executive officer for a mechanized infantry company. As a major landowner — deemed, therefore, to be vital to the economic well being of the republic — Digna was to return home to the Province of Chiriqui and take command of the light artillery detachment of the local militia.
To Hector militia duty sounded safer than where he was headed. This sat just fine with him. As far as he was concerned, combat was no place for his mom.
A reception, held in the Fort Espinar Officers’ Club — a single story, eaved structure, painted dark green and white — followed the commissioning ceremony. Where the air outside had been hot and thick enough to package and sell to Eskimos, the air of the O Club was blessedly cool.
It was, in fact, a little too cool as Digna’s newly restored, and rather perky, chest blatantly announced through her dress tans.
Hector leaned over and whispered, “Dammit, Mother, cut that out.”
Momentarily nonplussed, Digna stared at her son without comprehension. He couldn’t bring himself to be more specific than to look upwards at the ceiling.
Suddenly, Digna understood. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth formed a surprised “O.” Ancient modesty took over. Of their own accord, her arms flew up to cover her chest.
“But it’s so cold in here, Hector. I can’t help it.”
“Ladies room?” Hector offered helpfully. “Toilet paper? Insulation? Warmth? Modesty?”
After Digna returned, composed and — mercifully — discreetly covered, she and Hector, side by side, entered the main room of the club where the reception line awaited.
“Teniente Miranda!” Boyd exclaimed as his aide presented Digna. “You are looking well. The Officer Candidate Course has agreed with you, I see.”
“Yes,” Digna agreed. “Though I did not agree with it.”
“Oh?”
“Too many fat and lazy city boys and girls,” Digna answered harshly. “Not enough of the strong and hard campesinos that are the soul of this country.”
Boyd thought about this for a moment, reflecting on his conversation with Suarez at Empire Range sometime before.
“I’d like to talk with you, sometime when it is convenient, about the soul of this country.”
“I am, of course, available, General. I have no real duties anymore until I go back to Chiriqui in about a week to begin to form my militia.”
Boyd turned to his aide. “Make me an appointment, Captain, to speak at length with Teniente Miranda. ”
The aide de camp spoke up. “Sir, you have an appointment at the Coco Solo glider club with the G-2 on Wednesday morning, but you are free in the afternoon.”
“Would that do, Teniente Miranda? Wednesday afternoon?”
With the slightest — and not at all coquettish — tilt of her head, Digna signified yes.
Standing ahead of her, her son, Hector, scowled quietly at what he was sure was an attempt to pick up his mother.
The airfield was not far from the sea; the seabirds whirling and calling out overhead gave ample testimony to that. Indeed, almost no place in Panama was very far from the sea. The air of Colon Province was thick with moisture. Sweat, once formed, simply rolled, hung or was absorbed by clothing. It never evaporated.
Boyd was sweating profusely as his staff car pulled up next to a newly constructed metal, prefab hangar. The troops had no air conditioning and, so, while his staff car did have it he ordered it turned off, much to the consternation of Pedro, his driver. Boyd could smell the sea — though really it was the smell of the shore — strongly. He emerged from the vehicle and was met immediately by another officer of the Defense Forces, the G-2.