"And you want to write this book, Candidate Mendoza?"
"I do . . . but it will take time. That, and more education than a baccalaureate."
"In English," Carrera said, "PhD stands for 'piled higher and deeper.' Still, I see your point."
Carrera then went silent for a while, unconsciously leaving the Mendozas to squirm. If I do support this will I be breaking my own principles? No, I am doing it for one of my troops which is absolutely consistent with my principles. But . . . even worse, maybe I'll look like I'm breaking my own principles. But what if . . .
He smiled broadly. It's such a joy when the answer just jumps out at you. "Candidate Mendoza . . . Mrs. Mendoza. I think your idea is a fine one, especially if you broaden it to the question of which one should place first, family or nation or civilization or religion." It's a question to which I need an answer myself. "There is a new program for the Legion." Damned straight it's new since I just thought of it. "It's so new we haven't even had a chance to advertise it yet. Actually, we haven't even yet worked out the application procedures. But we are going to offer, annually, a half a dozen scholarships for higher education to deserving veterans of the Legion. There will be a battle- or service-connected disability preference."
Am I quick on my feet or what?
"You'll have to apply and be interviewed by either myself or Duque Parilla and a board we will designate. At that board you will have to make a presentation of your intended project. The first board will meet in about six months. I suggest you have your presentation ready by then," he finished, standing to indicate the interview was over.
Marqueli, too, stood, followed by Jorge once he felt her lift from the couch.
"Thank you, sir," Mendoza said. Until Marqueli nudged his right arm he was uncertain as to whether to offer his hand to a superior and could not see that Carrera had thrust his own out. At the nudge he did offer his hand, which Carrera took and shook warmly enough.
The tiny Marqueli waited until the handshake was done, then launched herself at Carrera, wrapping her arms around his torso and pressing her lovely head to his chest.
"Thank you, Duque," she said, tears of gratitude shining in her eyes for the favor she was certain had just been done her husband. "Thank you."
15/9/466 AC, Ninewa Province, Sumer
The farmer plowing his field waved at the passing column of legionary infantry. Newly promoted centurion, junior grade, Ricardo Cruz, taking up the rear, waved back. Curiously, the farmer kept waving, even after Cruz had returned it. Cruz's eyes narrowed and he looked more carefully at the farmer. Yes, the man's wave was definitely exaggerated.
"Thank you muchly, Mister Farmer," he muttered.
"Platoon leader," he said into the earpiece-cum-microphone he wore. It was a minor modification to a civilian system, a short-range wireless that ran through a longer ranged one. The Legion had adopted the communication system, or Comsys, it because it was cheap, effective, and available almost immediately.
Almost immediately a voice answered, "Centurion Arredondo. What is it, Cruz?"
"That farmer we just passed. I think he's trying to give us a warning, boss."
"Maybe," Arredondo answered. It was even likely. As time had passed and the insurgency weakened, more and more civilians had proved willing to help both the Legion and the Sumeri National Forces to flush out more of the enemy. As more of the enemy had been flushed out, more civilians had become willing to help. The guerillas were really on the ropes over most of the country. Worse, they knew it and so did the civilians among whom they tried to operate.
It could easily have gone the other way, had certain things not come to pass some years before.
"Did he give you any specific indicators?" Arredondo asked, then continued, " . . . Ah . . . never mind. The pooch's already alerted. They're in the wheat growing to our left front."
Cruz couldn't see the attached scout dog from his position in the back of the platoon, but did see the men sinking to their bellies along the dirt road that led between the irrigated fields. He joined them.
"Artillery?" he asked Arredondo over the Comsys.
"No . . . no. I don't want to fuck up the farmer's crop; be a damned poor way to repay him for trying to help. What's available for air?"
Air support was well out of the range of the Comsys, which were, by design, limited to no more than a mile in range. Cruz turned to the chief of the forward observer team, bellying down beside him.
"What can we get from the air?" Cruz asked.
The corporal made an inquiry over his longer ranged radio. A few minutes later he answered, "We can have a brace of Turbo-Finch Avengers"—crop dusters reconfigured for the close air support role—"in about twenty minutes, or there's an armed Cricket recon bird we can have in five. The Avengers are carrying some flechette rockets and a gun pod each. Mostly they're carrying bombs though."
"Can we have both?" Cruz asked. After all, we don't necessarily have to use the bombs.
"Don't see why not."
"Get 'em both. We'll let the Cricket flush them and use the Avengers to help us pursue. Rockets and machine guns only though." He passed the same on to Arredondo via the Comsys.
"That's fine, Cruz," Arredondo answered. Cruz then heard him say, "O Group," or orders group. All four squad leaders immediately answered with their ordinal numbers, "First . . . Second . . . Third . . . Fourth." Fourth was also known as the weapons squad.
Cruz himself announced only his name, and that only to let the squad leaders know he was there and listening.
"Here's the deal," Arrodendo announced. "I think we've got a group of guerillas up ahead in the wheat to the left. They probably know they've been spotted by the fact we took cover. That's ok. We're going to kill them anyway."
"We've got air inbound in five . . . no, about four now . . . minutes. Once that's overhead, we're going to start moving forward by bounds, by squad. Second Squad will bound first. Once we take fire we'll return it and develop the situation a bit. I want to flush them into the open where the air can kill them. Questions?"
"First, negative . . . Second, no questions, Centurion . . . Third, roger, out . . . Weapons, no sweat."
"Centurion, this is Cruz. The machine guns can range the wood from the road and can see it, too."
After a short pause to think, Arredondo said, "Right . . . keep weapons by the road, Cruz. You stay with them to control the air. Now, good hunting, gentlemen. The war's been dull of late. This should give the boys a little much-needed excitement."
* * *
The Cricket was heavily muffled. Cruz didn't see or hear it until the pilot came up on the radio to announce he'd arrived.
"Keep out of light missile range," Cruz cautioned. "We're going to try to flush them out of cover."
"Wilco," answered the pilot. "Hey, Cruz, that you?"