The Lotus Eaters

'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.

No sense in repeating what they know, she thought, so she didn't. Instead taking a position next to Samsonov at the head table, she reminded them of all they owed Carrera. She spoke of what she knew of the raid on Santander and how he had saved one of their companies. She explained that, no matter what the politicians might promise them, they could have no faith in those promises. She moved them, she could see, but not enough. Finally, she walked over to where Menshikov, one time translator and aide to Carrera, stood.

'Miro' she said, giving him the nickname he would have had had he been born Balboan but with the equivalent first name, Vladimiro. Menshikov had been promoted to Tribune II and had taken command of Chapayev's company. 'Miro, where would you be now, if not for my husband.'

Menshikov couldn't answer. He hung his head in shame, thinking, In a dead end job in a dead end country . . . that or really dead and probably unburied in Santander.

Samsonov, sitting at a table with his face cupped in his hands, looked thoroughly miserable. Then, briefly, his face lit up as he seemed to have an idea. Sure. Why not. Fuck 'em.

He lifted his chin from his hands and spoke, 'You know, gentlemen, this is really a mercenary organization. All through history, regiments like ours have been noted for their lack of discipline, their almost democratic structure. I really don't know what I could personally do if, say, Menshikov here decided to take his company and help Carrera against my orders. Or even if a maximum of one other platoon decided to go with him . . . oh, say, yours, Chekov. Why, if even one of your tank sections elected to disobey orders and go with them— Dzhugashvili, are you paying attention?—it would only further the point. Why, in an undisciplined organization like ours, I wouldn't be surprised if my own Operations Officer decided to take the lead.' Samsonov looked pointedly at that man, Rostov. 'And, of course you would need to have the cooperation of one of the anti-aircraft boys in case the Taurans decided to try to stop you from the air.'

'But if you gentlemen decided to disobey orders, and take Mrs. Carrera to the nearest television station, and capture and hold that station while she broadcast an appeal for help from the legions, the rest of the regiment could hardly be held to blame. But, of course, you couldn't do any serious planning for such an eventuality with me sitting watch over you. Besides, it is quite impossible for you to do such a thing, undisciplined as you no doubt are, before the President speaks at zero nine hundred, sharp.'

Samsonov consulted his watch. 'Oh, my' he said. 'I have summary punishment to administer in just a few minutes. My wife's cat is going to be given extra duty and have his rations docked for failure to catch a mouse that's been pestering us. So I must be hurrying along to take care of my administrative duties. Good day to you, gentlemen.'

Lourdes didn't understand a word that was spoken, as it was all in Volgan. But as soon as Samsonov left, Menshikov let out an 'Urrah!'. Officers clustered around him and Lourdes, smiling and laughing. The ones mentioned by name by Samsonov, or implied by their commander's name, smiled more ferociously than the others.

Television Studio, Canal Seven, Ciudad Balboa, Terra Nova

Lourdes hadn't ridden in an armored vehicle since Artemisia's wedding. Then she had been afraid of soiling her dress. Now she just wanted the damned thing to move and to hell with her clothing. Menshikov had put her in his own Ocelot, ordering her to keep inside until further notice. Occasionally she heard gunfire, barely audible over the engine's roar. Twice she had seen the turret turn and a shower of smoking, stinking cartridge cases pour onto the floor of the track. Finally the track came to a stop, jarring her in its suddenness. The back doors opened. Menshikov again told her to stay put until further notice. Then he, with his RTO, dismounted.

The Volgans had discussed whether or not to demand surrender from any Balboans who might be guarding the TV station. They had decided there just wasn't time. 'If we knew who was in on this and who was duped,' Menshikov said, 'we could ask for surrenders. As is, we just can't know and can't take the chance.'

This, since the Garzas and their men were guarding the studio in all innocence, was the stuff of tragedy.

Assaulted suddenly and unexpectedly by three tanks, thirteen Ocelots, two rapid firing, four barreled rolling anti aircraft guns and sixty or so dismounted infantry, the platoon of the 7th Tercio hadn't lasted long. They might not have fought at all except that the Volgans who dismounted were all white and wore somewhat unfamiliar uniforms. They looked, if anything, Tauran. The Balboans hadn't even had the chance to call for help, it was over so quickly. Then again, they hadn't had even the possibility of being attacked mentioned to them. Nonetheless, after tank guns, lighter cannon, and explosives had blasted out windows and walls to let shrieking Volgans in, the men under the two Garzas, such as remained standing, had given a fair accounting of themselves. Not all the bodies carried out of the studio were Balboan, in the end.

Shortly after he had left her, Menshikov returned to the Ocelot. 'Mrs. Carrera, it's over. Come now, quickly.'

Lourdes dismounted and saw a few Volgans being treated for minor wounds. A couple of others were plainly dead. Others still were dragging Balboan bodies out of the way, perhaps twenty or so of them. Lourdes began to cry as a squad of Volgans clustered around her to shield her from even the chance of fire.

Menshikov led Lourdes upstairs. A number of civilian clad Balboan television workers were cowering on the floor when they arrived in the studio.

'On your feet, all of you!' Menshikov shouted. 'Who's in charge!'

A wide eyed man, fortyish, identified himself timidly as the station chief.