Casa Linda, 26/5/460 AC
While the maids puttered and dusted, Lourdes sang, softly but happily, as she busied herself with preparations. Carrera and his boys, most of them, were coming home from Fort Cameron for the first time in weeks.
"Over there, Maria," Lourdes said to a maid. "Put the whiskey out where they can find it first. After all that time in the jungle they'll want a drink. And I want Patricio…"
Lourdes stopped with sudden confusion. She steadied herself with one hand on the dining room table while pulling a seat out with the other. She sat down heavily.
I want Patricio? I missed them, sure, but… no, girl, be honest with yourself, at least. You missed him; Patricio. It was that name that set your heart to beating fast.
Why? Why should I? He hardly ever even talks to me outside of my job. "Translate this, please, Lourdes." "Is my car ready, Lourdes?" "Lourdes, have you seen the report from Professor Ruiz?" He cares more for his men than he does for me. At least he'll spend time with them when he isn't working.
Lourdes looked into the next room where, over the fireplace mantle hung Linda Hennessey's portrait. How can I compete with that? I'm pretty enough, I guess… no gross defects. Not a lot of equipment but it isn't bad, what I do have. But she's dead, so she's a saint. Sometimes I hate that picture so much!
The woman stood again, a trifle unsteadily, and walked into the living room. She looked up at Linda's portrait and asked aloud, "Do you want him to be alone? I could make him happy; I know I could. But he sits and stares and pines and, when he thinks no one is looking, he cries for you. Would you mind so much…?"
The portrait didn't answer. Lourdes turned on her heel and walked up the stairs to Carrera's room, near her own. She stood there quietly, at the foot of his bed, merely sniffing. It smelled right to her, whatever trace of him was left in the bedding and furniture. She went to the clothes hamper, opened it and pulled out a T-shirt left from his last, very brief, visit home. Have to speak to Lucinda about cleaning out the hampers more regularly, she thought.
Scrunching the T-shirt in her hands she pressed it to her face and inhaled through her nose and deeply. Oh, yes, this smells just right. Why are men so stupid that they can't tell a proper match the way women can?
Presidential Palace,
Ciudad Balboa, 13/6/460 AC
" Tio Guillermo, you were badly mistaken."
"Mistaken, Manuel? How?"
"They are going to get this legion finished, and properly. And there's precisely nothing I can do about it. I haven't ever seen anything like this level of… oh, efficiency. Certainly not since I left River Watch."
"I assumed you would do your duty and sabotage them, Manuel. Obviously you have failed," the president sneered. "You were born a failure. You remain one, a disgrace to a proud name. I wish the gringos had killed you twelve years ago. Your existence is an embarrassment."
Rocaberti cringed under his uncle's tongue-lashing. "Uncle, whatever I am, I can't do this. Parilla? You know him. He isn't so bad. But that gringo of his? Uncle, he frightens me. And Jimenez, you remember him? Jimenez wants me dead. He blames me that he lost the fight at the Estado Mayor; blames me for losing most of his men. I see it in his eyes. Can't you please, please get me out of this?"
"No. Get back to where you belong and report, at least, if you are too much the coward to do anything else. Go and at least pretend you're someone with balls!"
Casa Linda, 15/6/460 AC
Carrera, Parilla, McNamara, Johnson, Kennison, and Sitnikov sipped cool drinks on the rear deck of the house, overlooking the Gulf of Balboa. The atmosphere was informal but there was business to attend to. The legion was almost finished with the second phase of their training, what would be called ACT-or Advanced Combat Training-for infantry and tankers in the Federated States Army.
Setting down his drink, Carrera began, "Aleksandr, how do you rate our men?"
Sitnikov had been asking himself the same question for weeks. He made his answer honestly.
"On a purely technical level your men have done well, especially with the heavy vehicles. My instructors say that they have learned to drive, shoot, and maintain better and faster than a typical group of Volgan recruits would have. This is unsurprising, to a degree, since both the Civil Force and the new Legion have been able to be very selective in the recruits accepted. However, you have weaknesses in higher-level maintenance. Your NCO's seem as good, or probably, since they are regulars, better than average Volgans. However…"
"However?" Carrera prodded.
"However," Sitnikov continued, "I cannot say as much for all of your officers. You have some very good ones, to be sure. Tribune Jimenez, in particular, would be a credit to anyone's army. There are others. Would you like to see what my instructors have to say about the legion's leadership?"
At Carrera's nod Sitnikov turned over a list of the Legio del Cid's commissioned leadership, tactfully without including any of Carrera's hand-picked old friends. Comments were written beside each man's name. Most were in blue, and terse. Carrera quickly gathered that these the Volgans considered good enough. Others, the best, were in black. Jimenez's name appeared in this way. About twenty names were in red. The Volgans viewed these very unfavorably. Carrera noted that Manuel Rocaberti was on that list before he passed the sheets to Parilla without comment.
Parilla noted it too. "We can't dump Tribune Rocaberti, Patricio. Too well connected, he and his family. He's the president's nephew, after all. And the president must have his spy in our ranks. At least with Manuel, we know who the spy is."
"Ummm," Carrera answered doubtfully. "Sitnikov, this about matches my own assessment. Which is why I called you here today. We have a shortage of effective, combat capable officers. I would like to make up some of that shortage from you. Also some of the maintenance deficiency. What do you say?"
Sitnikov sat silent for a long minute. When he answered, it was a deliberate, measured response. "Some of my men, maybe even more than half, would probably like to stay. Many have found girlfriends. Two, to my certain knowledge, are planning on getting married. I do not know how my government would react to that, however. If they say no, the idea of being stateless does not appeal."
Carrera looked to Parilla. Parilla gave a nonverbal assent, a shallow nod.
"What if you men could become citizens of Balboa, Aleksandr, with jobs and ranks in the LdC roughly commensurate with-okay, maybe a bit below-their current ranks in the Volgan Army? Would that sway them, do you think?"
"Some of them have wives, children. They would not leave them behind… well… most of them wouldn't."
"Do you think the current regime would let the men's families emigrate?" Carrera asked.
Sitnikov couldn't know for sure, but thought it likely. He reminded Carrera that not all of the Volgans were, themselves, first class military material. He had been forced to take some marginal characters, men whose only real qualification was linguistic, to meet the numerical requirements of the training mission.
"Yes, I know," answered Carrera. "I wasn't planning on keeping all of you. Moreover, while I can offer you pay and rank, I must insist that Balboans and my own people fill all combatant command positions. Most of your men will be on staff or in support. Some may be serving in positions either below their grade or below their ability."
Sitnikov laughed. "That, Legate, is no problem. It would help, though, if you could hold out a promise of equal opportunity to command once we've been citizens for a few years."