Of course, there was no need to do that with Carrera. He nodded as he passed by on his way to a small office. That office, in turn, served as a cover for the door that led to the real BYC suite. The real BYC suite was normally entered from an alley off of a completely different street.
* * *
The offices were plain, if not bare. There was little decoration on the off-white painted walls. The desks and chairs were functional, but no more than that. There was but a single telephone in the suite. Of its computers, all but one were sealed off from the outside world.
"Miguel," Carrera said to Legate Lanza, chief of the Legion's Ala, or air wing, as he emerged from the front put on by BYC.
"Duque," Lanza nodded back. Balding, his waist thickening, a bit stoop-shouldered and generally showing his age, Lanza was dressed in mufti, gray trousers and an embroidered silk, short-sleeved, guayabera dress shirt.
Carrera asked, "What have you got for me?" In truth, he'd made his plans so far in a partial vacuum. It could all fall apart if there proved no way to nullify his likely enemy's air power. That knowledge, rather, that uncertainty, was a frequent cold spot in the pit of his stomach.
"A concept," Lanza answered, "and some recommendations. You know our people here?"
Carrera shook his head. "I know some of them but go ahead and do the introductions anyway."
"This way then, boss." Lanza inclined his head and turned away towards a hallway.
* * *
The group was small and entirely composed of ex-Volgans, ex-Jagelonians, and a single ex-Sachsen. All but one were pilots. Of the pilots, two had sub-specialized in military intelligence.
"Duque," began one of the latter, a compact Volgan who went by the name of Grishkin, "let us begin by telling you what we think you are going to face if it comes to war between you and the Tauran Union, or war between you and the Tauran Union allied with Zhong Guo. We are assuming in this that the Federated States will not support you. If they would, you need not worry about an air threat at all."
"That's about the way I see it," Carrera agreed, running fingers through his hair. "Go on; worst case it."
"Very well," said Grishkin. "Basically you are looking at an aerial assault from as many as five medium aircraft carriers, three Tauran and two Zhong. In all, that's only about three hundred aircraft, only about two hundred and forty of them combat aircraft. You could, conceivably, handle this if you're willing to spend the money and devote the personnel to the problem."
"But it won't just be aircraft carriers, correct?"
Grishkin nodded. "We think not, Duque. We think that, if it came to a general war, you can count on the Taurans paying any price to gain access to air bases in Santa Josefina, to your east. Moreover, since the collapse of the Volgan Empire, Cienfuegos to your south has become an economic basket case. Mere sharing of language and culture will not be enough to prevent the Cienfuegans from opening their legs to Taurus and giving them whatever they want. And you must assume that Maracaibo, being itself a new Tsarist-Marxist state, will ally with the TU happily and eagerly."
Carrera nodded. This was nothing too far off from what he had considered on his own. Moreover, he had at least a partial solution.
"Assume," he said, "that I can redirect sufficient of our foreign born legionaries to their home countries to punish any nearby Latin state badly, with an insurrection, for opening themselves to the TU."
"Except for—"
"Yes," Carrera cut him off. "Except for Cienfuegos. I have no appreciable number of volunteers from there. They're a closed society, so infiltration would be very difficult. Basically, I've no useful connections, no good way to punish them, yet, for what amounts to cultural treason. I'm working on that."
"I'm sure," Grishkin shrugged. "That still means you're going to be facing up to twelve hundred sorties a day, from the east, from the west, from the south, and from the sea to the north and south. That's a lot of God damned ordnance dropped on your head, Duque."
"Look," Carrera said, waving one hand, brusquely, "I already know it's going to hurt. Give me something I can work with to cut down on that pain. Give me something I can use to get some maneuver time and space to defeat a landing or landings."
"There is a way," Grishkin answered, for the first time smiling.
"I'm listening."
Grishkin looked at one of his compatriots. "Fuckoffski," he said, "you're up.
"My name is Yakubovski," the latter reminded. His face was completely devoid of humor, grimmer than cancer, in fact. "They make a little joke and call me, 'Yabukovski.' In effect, that means, 'Fuckoffski.' " The Volgan gave an evil smile. "I'll get them all, later, in my own way."
"There are basically two ways an air force can come at you, Duque," Yakubovski said, "en masse and by what is sometimes called a 'conveyor belt.' They much prefer the latter. Indeed, just assembling the former, gathering and organizing a major strike, is so wasteful of fuel—which cuts into ordnance carried, wears out the planes so badly—while they're hanging around waiting for the rest of the strike package to assemble, uses up so much time, and is so hard to coordinate, that air forces will usually only do it to establish initial air superiority or supremacy, or to support a major effort on the ground.
"The conveyor belt, on the other hand," Yakubovski continued, "has none of those flaws. Small strike packages are quickly assembled and easily controlled. They do not overstrain fuel and ordnance units on their way out, or maintenance units when they return. Airfields are orderly and efficient. Aerial refueling is easy. Conversely, aerial refueling of up to twelve hundred aircraft in a few hours is impossible for the TU. Even the Federated States cannot handle so much.
"However, the conveyor belt has its own flaws. It cannot be used efficiently until air superiority or, in preference, air supremacy, is established. If one tries, one finds that an altogether inefficient mix of aircraft must be used, fully a third of them equipped not for ground attack but for aerial combat. Still others must carry munitions for suppression of air defense."
Yakubovski stopped speaking for a moment, searching Carrera's face for a glimmer of understanding. The latter, on the other hand, kept his face blank while leaning back in his chair and staring upwards at the junction of off white-painted wall and white hung ceiling.
After perhaps a minute's quiet, Carrera asked, "You're trying to tell me that if I can maintain the ability to engage and destroy small strike packages . . . hmmm, define small."
Yakubovski didn't miss a beat. "About fifty or sixty aircraft, maybe half of them strike aircraft."
"Okay. If I can meet and defeat something that size, then they'll have to go to larger, less efficient, strike packages, that are also less deadly on a per aircraft basis?"
"Yes, which for all the reasons mentioned, plus the difficulty of planning and coordinating a major strike, will not come all that often."
Carrera lowered his head, closed his eyes and held up one finger for silence. He pictured, in his mind's eye, a major air raid coming in to Balboa . . .
"So I need to be able to defeat a raid of sixty aircraft?" he mused.