—Jorge y Marqueli Mendoza,
Historia y Filosofia Moral,
Legionary Press, Balboa,
Terra Nova, Copyright AC 468
Anno Condita 472 Executive Mansion, Hamilton, FD, Federated States of Columbia, Terra Nova
The Shimmering Sea was, as far as the Federated States and her Navy were concerned, their pond. Oh, the Taurans could come in and play, but they'd do so—had done so—with an FSN nuclear sub shadowing them from a distance. Unseen, unheard, the FSS Oliver Meredith had tracked the Gauls long before they'd passed the island of Cienfuegos. The Meredith had recorded the whole engagement between Orca and the Gauls.
That record, digitally sent to Hamilton and reduced to script, now sat on the desk of the President of the Federated States, Karl Schumann (Progressive), brought there by none other than his Secretary of War, James K. Malcolm.
"The Gauls fired first?" was Schumann's only real question.
"Yes," Malcolm admitted, reluctantly, "but they had reasons. That sub was attempting to get into a firing position against their carrier. After being spotted. That indicated hostile intent."
"That's speculation," Schumann answered, calmly. "Moreover, it's speculation colored by your affection for the Gauls. Though why you have that affection after they let us down in Pashtia, I admit I do not quite understand, James."
Malcolm opened his mouth as if to speak, then suddenly closed it again and went silent. Though silent, he thought, What is it? The fucking spics in Balboa do a mission and let Schumann take credit for it and he suddenly takes their side? Or is he afraid they'll reveal the truth after he took credit for it? Whatever it is, he should be slapping the Balboans silly and he won't.
Far worse, from Malcolm's point of view, Schumann picked up his phone and dialed a number. In French not quite so good as Malcolm's own, Schumann said, simply, "About the Balboans, Mr. Ambassador? Tell your country to back the fuck off."
Sub Pens, Puerto Lindo, Balboa, Terra Nova
Fernandez, Fosa and Carrera, all three, were waiting inside the concrete pen as Chu climbed out of the hatch atop the sail and descended the brow to meet them. Alongside, a crew was in the process of fitting the new boat, name still undetermined, with diving planes and torpedo pods.
"What happened?" Carrera asked.
"We penetrated their screen," Chu answered, "but the frogs killed Orca."
"Was it Orca that destroyed the Tauran frigate?" asked Fosa.
Chu nodded his head, wearily. "Yes, sir, the frigate and a frog sub we made as being an Amethyst Class. The frog fired first. Orca had to fire in self defense. And later, Miguel only shot up the frigate after a bunch of them had him boxed in and were salvoing torpedoes on his ass.
"We hung around shadowing their carrier in case war broke out. It didn't seem to have happened, so we came home."
"No," Carrera said, "war didn't break out. I'm not sure why, really."
"I'm sure," said Fernandez. At Carrera's raised eyebrow he added, "I've got my sources, Patricio. Their general, Janier, isn't ready. He even tried to call off the pursuit of Orca. And apparently the FSC is not happy with the Gallic 'allies,' either."
Carrera didn't enquire further. Fernandez had his sources. He did say, to Chu, "It was still touch and go for a while. There was a Maracaiban fishing trawler about thirty miles from where the Gallic frigate went down. It heard the automatic distress signal and went in to assist. The Gauls sank it before it could get close. Maybe they thought it was a Q ship. Anyway, big stink around the whole of Colombia Latina."
"How are they explaining away the lost frigate?" Chu asked.
"They're not. Their story is that it was an unprovoked attack by us. Our story is that it was an unprovoked attack by them to which our sub responded in self defense."
"It was," Chu said.
"I know," Carrera agreed, "but—"
"—but," Fernandez finished, "since you're the only one who can prove that, and since, officially, you weren't anywhere near there . . ."
"It doesn't really matter, anyway," said Carrera. "People who want to believe our story would, even if they had proof of the Gauls' version of events. People who want to believe the Gauls would, even if I had you swear to them on a stack of bibles that they fired first. There's so much information these days, and so much of it is conflicting, that people have grown jaded and simply believe whatever their prejudices tell them to. Hell, language itself is losing its ability to inform or persuade . . . or even to communicate."
Chu scratched his head through long-unwashed hair. "Yeah."
He then remembered something he'd been wanting to tell Carrera and Fosa for days. "There at the end, sirs, there's something happened you need to know about."
"What's that?" Fosa asked.
Chu's voice was full of admiration as he said, "Toward the end, Orca put on a burst of speed to try to evade some of the torpedoes coming for it."
Fosa shrugged. Yeah? So?
"Well . . . Quijana apparently turned on his clicker when he upped his speed."
This time it was Carrera who shrugged, while Fosa's face was lit by a smile.
Fernandez understood, too, being a man who worked with secrets. "He kept the secret," he explained to Carrera. "He kept it at the cost—certainly the risk—of his life."
Fernandez ahemed. "Speaking of secrets, Patricio, if you don't mind, I've got to go look into something in Ciudad Balboa."
Building 59, Fort Muddville, Transitway Area, Balboa
In theory, Legate Pigna was on leave. In fact, he'd gone into the jungle with a fishing pole and a small pack, come out somewhere else without the pole and in disguise, then been picked up and whisked to Janier's headquarters for final coordination. It was the fourteenth meeting concerning the pressing matter of getting rid of Carrera since Pigna had attended the first at the Hotel Rustico.
The legate emerged from the unmarked, Tauran Union-owned sedan in the shadows under the arched entrance to the main quadrangle. De Villepin met him there, and hustled him through a door that led to stairs that, in turn, led directly to Janier's office suite, bypassing even the General's secretary. This was to the good as de Villepin was beginning to develop some doubts about that one. That she was passing on information to someone, he had no doubt of. But whether that someone was his opposite number, Fernandez, Wallis, the Ambassador from the Federated States, or someone in the office of Rocaberti, the rump president, he couldn't say and hadn't been able to discover. It was even vaguely possible that the woman was reporting back to some one or another of the unelected bureaucrats who ran the Tauran Union. Worst of all was the possibility that she was reporting to the Gallic Navy, but de Villepin considered this somewhat unlikely.
A representative of Rocaberti's office was waiting for Pigna, when he arrived, as was Arias, the senior of the policemen that still reported to the old president, and another man he didn't know at all but who was introduced as Janier's Staff Judge Advocate, Commandant Boissieu.
At Janier's hand wave, de Villepin began, "The worst part of our little program is that everyone is to a greater or lesser extent infiltrated and compromised. Thus, anything we may plan or do beyond the simplest is likely to tip our hand well before we are ready. It goes almost without saying—but I will say it, anyway—that if we are discovered beforehand it could be a disaster for everyone.