For a moment she didn't know what to do. She'd never exited a boat except by dock or by dive. And diving in this jungle-shrouded blackness, into the muddy river, seemed like one of those really bad ideas.
Castro understood her problem instinctively. "Lay down on the gunwale . . . the top of the side wall, and slide your legs and rear over," he ordered. "I'll catch your legs and help you down."
"Oh, okay." She did as directed, except that she almost screamed when the chief lowered her and the chill water went up to her breasts. Under the circumstances, she didn't complain that Castro had had to get a pretty good grip on her rear end, at one point, to keep her from going in sideways.
Not that I didn't appreciate the opportunity, the chief thought to himself.
"Come on," he told her, tugging her through the water and up the muddy bank. The chief stopped only once, to step on and smash an antania's head that made a lunge for Lourdes' booted ankle.
Quick introduction were made at the taxi. Then Lourdes, Castro, and the brother in law, Reyes, sped up the road to the south, heading for Fort Cameron.
Building 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa Transitway Area
Having furiously bullied his way past guards and functionaries, Ambassador Wallis burst into Janier's office without warning or escort. "Janier, you frog bastard," he said, most undiplomatically, "what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
The TU's ambassador to the Republic of Balboa was likewise present, in itself something suspicious. He attempted to rise and object before Wallis' pointed finger pinned him morally to his chair. "And you, shut up."
Janier smiled, knowingly and condescendingly. "I, Mr. Ambassador? Why I am doing nothing really. Though there seems to be a bit of trouble downtown. I've sent a few troops to secure our interests of course. Naturally one would when faced with an unplanned emergency."
Surcouf walked in through another door and announced, "Charlemagne reports air interdiction patrols between the Isla Real and the mainland are up, General. Likewise, de Villepin said to inform you that the Bridge of the Columbias is sealed off, as is the Gatun River Bridge. He also said to pass on to you that 'Williams' is apparently a failure. No details."
Janier scowled. "Merde!"
Without another word, Ambassador Wallis turned and stormed out to make a report to his government.
Building 232, Fort Williams, Balboa Transitway Area, Terra Nova
Chapayev drove the captured vehicle at breakneck speed, squealing tires at each turn. Muñoz didn't object. Indeed, his only comment was "Faster, Victor, faster!" right up until the thing appeared ready to careen right into the battalion's headquarters. At that point the cry became, "Stop, Victor, STOP!"
The auto did, with a few feet to spare and smoke pouring from the tires.
Muñoz-Infantes was neither a particularly small man nor a weak one. Once he got out of the car, and pulled a corpse from the trunk, he effortlessly dragged that corpse by the scruff of its clothed neck. It was the body of the one man among his recent assailants that the colonel recognized from his own organization. He was still holding the leaking corpse when the sergeant of the guard, jerked awake by the shriek of brake pads, came out of the guard shack under the headquarters.
"Coronel Muñoz," the sergeant greeted, while standing to attention and sketching out a salute. "If you don't mind my asking, sir, what are you doing here? I was told you had been kidnapped by locals and that we had received a demand for ransom." The sergeant's eyes moved down to the body. "Local . . . ummm . . . kidnapper?" he asked.
The colonel released his grip on the corpse, which flopped bonelessly to the concrete. "Summon my staff and company commanders and—"
"They're all already here, sir," the sergeant interrupted. His finger jabbed upwards, in the general direction of the battalion conference room. "The XO called them all in when we got the report."
"Fine. Have someone see to this corpse." Muñoz used a booted foot to flip the body over onto its back. "Do you recognize him?" he asked.
"By sight, sir. I don't know his name." The sergeant of the guard scratched at his head for a moment and then answered, "I think he worked in the S-2 shop, sir. Odd . . ."
"What's odd, Sergeant?"
"It was the S-2 who told us you had been kidnapped."
"I see." Muñoz stormed off in the direction of the stairs that led upward. On the way he muttered, "I smell those bastards Janier and de Villepin."
"What are you going to do, sir?" Chapayev asked, following close behind.
Muñoz pulled out and checked the load on his pistol. "Shoot my S-2 and lead my battalion against the stinking frogs. Then ask the Balboans to take on my battalion, on spec, so to speak."
"I don't know if they will," Victor said. "But . . . maybe."
"I think it likely," the colonel assured him. "But there's also something I want you to do."
"Sir?"
"I'm going to send a detail to relive Maria of the prisoner. I want you to go with them and after they do, to take Maria to the Academy at Puerto Lindo. Will you do this."
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
Fort Cameron, Balboa, Terra Nova
The Volgan gate guard had been uncertain about letting the taxi in. It was Lourdes who had the clout to talk him into calling for the staff duty officer. That man, a junior tribune, had arrived quickly from Samsonov's headquarters to show them the way. He recognized Lourdes from the pre-Santander raid dinner, though she couldn't pull up a memory of him from the sea of faces of that night. The taxi followed the Volgan staff duty vehicle, passing it when it parked to deposit Lourdes right at the front door. Samsonov, alerted by the staff duty officer, was waiting to greet her.
"You've got to help us," Lourdes exclaimed, as soon as she saw the Volgan commander.
"Shit," Samsonov said as soon as she had explained. In turn, he explained, in his slow and strained Spanish, "This is . . . touchy . . . umm . . . touchier than you may know, Mrs. Carrera. We not part of . . . regular Balboan forces. Not sure what Federated States do . . . if Volgan regiment intervene. Not like we . . . best of friends or anything, you know. We could end up doing . . . more harm . . . than good.
"Worse . . . not sure we legally . . . can . . . intervene. Or what Volgan Republic do. Most men . . . still Volgan citizens.
"And this thing . . . this coup . . . very advanced. Have word now other president, not Parilla, going to speak tomorrow morning, nine A.M. Shit."
"Can I speak to those who aren't Volgan citizens?" she asked. "Please, Legate. Please. I have to save my husband."
"You speak," Samsonov agreed, then, after a minutes' reflection, shouted out something in Russian to the staff duty officer, waiting outside his office.
"Give twenty minutes," the Volgan said. "Then I bring you to mess."
* * *
The faces that met her at the mess were stony. She looked at them and was just certain they wouldn't listen to her, that they just didn't care. In fact, she was wrong. The problem wasn't that they wouldn't listen, or didn't want to help, but that Samsonov was the father of the regiment and, without knowing which way he would go the officers and praporchiki didn't want to open their great Volgan hearts to a hopeless cause.
Still, whatever Lourdes thought, she gave it her best. As she passed men sitting in the small officer's mess, she greeted those she knew by name or sight. A name spoken here, where she knew it, a warm touch on a shoulder where she didn't. She had a feeling that whatever Samsonov had said to his staff duty, it had included at least a truncated version of recent events. They'd had that version, she could sense from their faces and somewhat shamed expressions.