In the presidential office, at the ornately carved desk, surrounded by the tacky and garish artwork, the Rinn Fain and a human sat silently. The Rinn Fain, of course, had unlimited access to the president. He and the human had burst in without any warning, the Darhel placing his AID on Mercedes’ desk. The human introduced himself as “Investigative Judge Pedro Santiago.”
Without fanfare, filling its role as the Darhel’s mouthpiece for unpleasantries, the AID began, “Your country is accused of war crimes beyond number, Señor Presidente. You have employed forbidden weapons. You have used the under-aged as combatants. You have damaged ancient, historical properties. Your forces have slaughtered the wounded. The Galactic Federation has no choice but to sever all diplomatic and commercial relations with the Republic of Panama. This includes, but is not limited to, technology transfers, arms provisions, energy supplies and all space-borne trade and personal and commercial travel.”
Presidente Mercedes blanched for a moment. Even his greasy face seemed to congeal. Indeed, he was sufficiently shocked that he did not object when the human withdrew a Gaulois from a package and lit up the nasty thing without so much as a by-your-leave.
“What the fuck is this chingadera machine talking about?” the president asked of the Rinn Fain.
The AID continued to speak, though a slightly huffy tone crept into its artificial voice. “You recently decorated and promoted a woman, one Digna Miranda, formerly a lieutenant and now a lieutenant colonel. Were you unaware that she used children as young as twelve in her battles? Did you not know she had wounded Posleen massacred rather than treating them with medical care equal to that given your own?
“Your chief logistics officer, Major General Boyd, provided casings, detonators and explosives for your soldiers to turn into forbidden self-activating weapons; ‘antipersonnel landmines’ is your term. Your forces have used frangible projectiles on the Posleen. Several historical sites, to include ancient churches, have been damaged and still others completely leveled by your illegal use of artillery. Ancient sites of the aboriginals of these areas have been left unguarded.”
“Bu… bu… but,” Mercedes stammered, “the fucking Posleen eat people! They destroy churches. They smash ancient pyramids. Isn’t that against the law as well?”
“The Posleen are not forbidden, by their law, from any of that. You, however, are expressly forbidden by treaties the Republic of Panama has solemnly signed, from doing what your forces have done. There is really no choice but to sever all ties,” the AID huffed.
“But I can’t try these people myself!” Mercedes exclaimed. “I’d be lynched in the street.”
“This is precisely the circumstance for which the International Criminal Court was created,” said the bureaucrat, “for when a country cannot or will not prosecute war criminals on its own.”
At that moment the Rinn Fain spoke up. “This man,” his finger indicated the suit-clad bureaucrat who sat beside him, “is a representative of the European Union, seconded from the Spanish judiciary, here to deliver warrants originating at the International Criminal Court, for the arrest of certain parties, some named, others to be identified.”
“Sorry to say,” the human interjected, “your name heads the list, Señor Presidente. The ultimate responsibility for these crimes rests with you. That said, it is within my discretion not to serve that warrant — indeed, to drop all charges — provided that you cooperate fully in the investigation and arrest of those that were directly responsible for the commission of these heinous crimes against…”
The bureaucrat was about to say “crimes against humanity,” but that obviously didn’t fit. Nor would “crimes against the Posleen” have worked. Instead he finished, after a moment’s reflection, with, “Crimes against International Humanitarian Law, which, as you know or should know, takes precedence over merely domestic or national law.”
“Of course,” added the Rinn Fain, “proper service of these warrants and delivery of the wrongdoers will put the Republic of Panama back into Galactic good graces, Mr. President. Moreover, the law, as I understand it, basically absolves the political leader who in good faith directs proper legal actions and is disobeyed by willful subordinates, provided he does what is in his power to bring the miscreants to justice.”
“That is absolutely correct, Lord Rinn Fain,” added the EU bureaucrat.
Give Mercedes his due; he was not an indecisive man. Given the choice between losing his comfortable Galactic vacation surrounded by his family and women and being placed in a, no-doubt, exceedingly comfortable European prison while awaiting the arrival of the Posleen and being placed on their menu, there really was no choice.
“Give me copies of the warrants. I will have the malefactors arrested within the week.”
The European nodded his head, respectfully. The AID remained silent. Only the Rinn Fain showed any emotion. He smiled an inscrutable Darhel smile.
The sisters of the cruiser division slipped out of their docks quietly, without fanfare, on a foggy, moonless night. Des Moines sailed to starboard, with all three main turrets functioning and five of her six secondaries in working order. Two of these could be trained to starboard, two to port or starboard. One could be fired to port but not starboard. Three of the secondaries could fire aft at low elevation or high.
A mile to port, USS Salem steamed in formation, keeping track of Des Moines’ by passive means. Salem, too, retained three functioning main and five secondaries. She, too, could train four to one side, port in her case, and three aft.
Approximately halfway between the port and the Isla del Rey, the cruisers veered southwest. In the thermals trained on the island, McNair could see the long, deadly, tapering weapons of the island’s Planetary Defense Battery tracking through the night to provide cover to the ships from any spaceborne threat.
Aft, over the ship’s hangar and behind number three turret, crewmen prepared balloons that would lift gliders to soar over land and sea to spot for the ships’ guns. Another crew worked above the Salem’s hangar deck as well.
Deep below Des Moines’ armored deck, in CIC, McNair and Daisy briefed young Diaz on the upcoming mission. Actually, McNair briefed while Daisy provided instantaneous and perfect translation.
“We’ll take you and your mate on Salem as close to shore as possible,” McNair said. “We’ll launch an hour before BMNT” — Beginning of Morning Navigable Twilight, when the sun was just below the horizon and provided a bare minimum of light to see by — “to give you a chance to get some altitude and into position, and us a chance to get some space between ourselves and the shore.”
Diaz looked down at the map in CIC where his planned route had been marked on Plexiglas. The launch point was marked at about fifteen kilometers south of the former town of El Tigre, near the western tip of the Island of Cebaco. From there, Diaz knew, he and his wingman would ascend by balloon to a height at which tanked oxygen would be needed. Once they released from their balloons, they would proceed almost due north to the general area of the town of Guarumal, then follow the road, assuming it remained, to the town of Sona.