The Lotus Eaters

'We could butcher them down there,' said Alexandr Sitnikov, late of the Red Tsar's Fifth Guards Tank Regiment, as he pointed from the shallow cave mouth down to the beaches to the north, northeast, and northwest.

Carrera nodded but said, looking around the shallow cave, 'I expected you would have made more progress than you have, Alexandr.'

The short and balding Volgan looked sheepish. (All Volgan tankers were short, though baldness was optional.) 'I know,' he said. 'And I'm sorry. But I ran out of money last year and Esterhazy'—the Legion's Sachsen-born comptroller—'wouldn't shit me any more money without your express order.'

Carrera thought, Query to self: Despite what was intended to be a training program that developed vast individual initiative, did my behavior the last couple of years before I cracked make people defensive and rob them of initiative? Ask Mac and Xavier; no one else will answer honestly. If so, how do I fix it?

He nodded his understanding, agreeing, 'Fair enough. Not your fault. The money will be forthcoming. Can you finish preparing the island for defense within three years?'

Sitnikov could remember a time when Carrera had been so worn out with the struggle, so tired, that he'd have lashed out viciously over any failing. The rest did him good, I think. Which is good for me, too.

'It will cost more,' the Volgan answered. 'The old rule still applies: You can have it quick or good or cheap; pick any two. And, of course, some preparations cannot be completed, per your guidance, until war is impending or has already begun.

Sitnikov's face took on an uncharacteristically mulish cast. 'And besides that, I've got the problem of running the cadets. They're a goddamned division all on their own, Patricio. I've been juggling the two for years, probably to the detriment of both. You really need someone to do both, separately.'

'I know,' Carrera agreed. 'And I am sorely tempted to make that someone Esterhazy, who is not only a trained engineer but also the fucker who should have taken the initiative and given you the money.' He sighed. 'But if I did, who would be comptroller?'

'That, happily, is your problem. I didn't sign on with you to specialize in personnel management.'

'You didn't sign on to run herd on teenagers or design a system of fortifications, either,' Carrera answered, drily, 'but you never bitched about either one.'

'Actually,' Sitnikov corrected, 'I signed on to teach your first troops to operate White Eagle tanks. You just bribed me into staying on for the cadets and this island.'

'Mere details.'

'Hmmm . . . details . . . tanks . . . I've got a demonstration for you, if you're up to it.'

'Demonstration of what?' Carrera asked.

'Bunkers, actually,' the Volgan answered. 'If I didn't have the money to build them all, I did have enough to build some of the prototypes we first discussed and to test a few of the designs.'

* * *

'Best put these in,' Sitnikov said, taking a pair of earplugs from a pocket and handing them to Carrera. He took another set out, rolled them in his fingers to collapse them to narrow cylinders then stuck those in his own ear canals. Carrera did similarly.

In front of them a Jaguar II (formerly 'White Eagle') tank sat with the tank commander's upper torso sticking out of the turret. Sitnikov gave the tank commander, or TC, a thumbs up. Immediately the tank commander dropped down into the turret, hurriedly closing the hatch behind him.

Sitnikov shouted, 'This is going to—'

KABOOMMM!

'—sting.'

Before the last word was out, indeed, before the concussion from the muzzle had dissipated, a concrete bunker downrange was blocked from view by the evil, black smoke of a good-sized explosion. Eight seconds later, after the turret had traversed a few degrees, the same thing happened to a second bunker, then, another eight seconds later, a third . . . a fourth . . . a fifth . . . a sixth.

'Jesus, I hate those things,' Carrera muttered, completely unheard by anyone but himself. 'Sting,' was something of an understatement. The Volgans made great guns, of tremendous power and range for their weight and complexity. A major downside, however, was that the muzzle blast from those guns was somewhat incompatible with maintaining human health.

The TC of the tank emerged and made an all clear signal. Sitnikov nudged Carrera's arm, even as he dug into his own ears to pull out the plugs. 'Come, let me show you.' The Volgan picked up a box and began to walk toward the still smoke obscured bunkers.

'The concrete we use,' Sitnikov explained, 'is special. For fill we use coral we blast out of the reefs around the islands. Remarkably strong stuff, that is. Plus the cement is very high quality, as good as made anywhere on the planet.'

Carrera nodded. It was no legend that, during the Great Global War, bunkers made of such material had taken direct hits from sixteen inch naval guns and very large aerially delivered bombs and survived intact.

The Volgan continued, 'While we may have to face a substantial aerial bombardment, heavy weight naval gunfire is a thing of the past. I think we carry the largest naval guns on Terra Nova today, in our Kurita class cruiser, and they're only six inchers. Still, what will resist a sixteen inch shell is likely to resist a thousand kilogram bomb, as well.'

'Not a deep penetrator,' Carrera pointed out.

'A penetrator of any size,' Sitnikov countered, 'would rarely or never be used on a bunker containing at most three men and a machine gun or light cannon.'