They were having some success, those Cholos (Indians) and Rabiblancos (white asses… those of pure Spanish or at least European descent) of the 6th, but the cost was appalling. Already an irregular stream of ambulances and gringo-flown medical evacuation helicopters were flying back nap-of-the-earth, carrying the torn and bleeding to the medical facilities for hopefully life-saving surgery.
And it was that thought more than any, the idea of his own precious and irreplaceable body being damaged, that set Cortez’s hands and arms to uncontrollable quivering.
The Rinn Fain, Emissary of the Galactic Federation to the Republic of Panama, sat his accustomed chair, lips quivering as he recited a calming mantra. Mercedes, President of the Republic, assumed the lips quivered with fear.
Mercedes could well understand that. He, too, quivered — both internally and externally — with utter dread. Not even the satchel sitting on the floor beside him and packed to the brim with Level Two Nanoseeds — the galactic equivalent of bearer bonds — gave him much comfort.
The president was completely wrong, however. While the Darhel did recite a life-saving mantra, and while he did so in order to preserve his own life, he preserved that life to serve a purpose and not out of any great concern for personal survival. Truth be told, the whole prospect of glorious action, enunciated by the roar of armored vehicles in the streets and the thrum of kinetic energy projectiles overhead, had the Rinn Fain so excited he could barely contain himself. He wanted to be there, dealing blows and taking them, fighting like the Darhel of old in the Aldenata-suppressed tales.
For the Darhel were much misunderstood by the humans. They were not passive, huckstering corporate sharks. They were not even naturally pacifistic. Quite the opposite, they were — in their heart of hearts — a horde of ravening, bloodthirsty, adrenaline-cognate junkies who would have been instantly recognized and made welcome at the hearths of Attila or Alexander, Genghis Khan or Tamerlane, as kindred souls and spirits.
The only reason, in fact, that the Darhel were even in business was that there, at least, they could exercise and exorcise some of the warrior spirit that lurked within them. If a hostile acquisition and dismemberment of a rival firm lacked the deep emotional satisfaction of taking a town and butchering its inhabitants it was still better than nothing.
But not much.
Indeed, so desperate had this particular Rinn Fain been to answer the ancient call to action that he had once been enrolled in the voluntary suicide corps that had been raised to defend Darhel planets in the days before the decision had been made to use the human barbarians. It was a suicide corps because, even if the Posleen did not kill its members, lintatai would have once the glorious joy of actually killing something had been experienced.
In some ways the Rinn Fain regretted that decision to use the humans. It had, after all, robbed him of any chance to be a real Darhel. It had also led to his posting on this miserable planet, in this wet and miserable excuse for a country.
Sighing, the Rinn Fain ceased his mantra. He was calm enough for the duties at hand.
“It isss not acccceptable,” the Darhel announced, “for you and your government to flee yet.”
Mercedes stood for a moment, then — blood draining from his greasy face — collapsed back into the presidential seat, his hand automatically grasping for the bond-filled satchel.
“Not yet,” the Rinn Fain repeated. “Your troopsss are actually doing too well. Thisss isss not according to the plan. Neither isss it in accordanccce with the agreement between usss for the evacuation of your government and familiesss.”
“But,” Mercedes protested, “… but… what can be done, I have done.”
The Darhel was firm. It was difficult being forthright in general but nothing less than absolute, stark honesty worked with most of these humans.
“The termsss of our agreement are clear. You, your government, and your and their familiesss will not be evacuated until the fall of thisss waterway isss assssured. It is not assssured yet. Even now…” and the sudden thought of glorious, violent conflict caused the breath to catch in the Rinn Fain’s throat, his hearts to begin to race, and vision close off.
Lintatai.
For long minutes the Darhel was silent, beating down the waves of emotion that threatened to end his life. When he returned to the present it was with a faraway look. Automatically, he placed his AID on the president’s desk and let it take over.
“Terms were agreed… contracts inviolable were signed… appropriate payment for services were rendered.”
The AID projected a map of the Republic of Panama above the desk. The map showed up-to-the-minute deployments of United States and Panamanian forces, as well as the two large patches of Posleen infestation. The Panamanian forces were notably the 6th Mechanized, a jagged line stretching northeast to southwest and in close contact with the lesser Posleen landing in the Peninsula de Azuero, and the 1st Mechanized, moving in column along the Inter-American highway to the northeast of the 6th.
“Forces must not be concentrated… decisive actions must not be permitted.”
Seeing the map, understanding what it meant, Mercedes regretfully wrote off one not too beloved nephew and responded, “I understand.”
“That’s fucking insane,” insisted Colonel Juan Rivera, U.S. liaison at the new Comandancia atop Quarry Heights. The American spoke quietly to keep his voice from echoing across the underground bunker complex’s damp, dripping walls.
The Panamanian, a four star in theory though in practice a jumped-up police colonel more at home with a blotter report than an operations order, answered, also softly, “Those are nonetheless the orders.”
“We won’t do it,” the gringo answered heatedly. “The keys to fighting the Posleen are mass and firepower, not dispersion. What your president is commanding, splitting up your armored corps and splitting up the battalion of ACS to support separate efforts is suicidal. There is no way the CG,” Commanding General, in this case of the United States Southern Command, or SOUTHCOM, “is going to roll for this.”
“Your commanding general takes his orders from the ambassador, who takes his orders from your Department of State. President Mercedes has demanded, and both your State Department and the ambassador are agreed, that you will support us in this.”
The landings in Panama had already begun when Connors and B Company arrived back dockside in Balboa. The men had had three days to rest on the trip up. Connors had mostly stayed awake with his ghosts. In particular, the image of the Chileans, rallied around their flag but frozen to the ground, came to him each time he tried to close his eyes. It was wonderful, in a way, but quite horrible too. It was wonderful because of the example of all those brave men, faithful to the end in their people’s cause, frozen… dead, but never surrendered. It was horrible, not least, because Connors could picture himself in that position, in any of several dozen frozen-stiff positions, as a matter of fact.
In any case, no sooner had B Company debarked than Snyder was on the horn, bitching for Connors to get his company in gear, get over the bridge of the Americas, and head west to support the Panamanians.
“Vacation time is over now, Captain Connors. You and your little darlings’ days of being pampered aboard a cruise ship have come to an end.”