The Lotus Eaters

Samsonov snorted. 'In Tsar's Army? Hah! Psalm singers stayed behind while men went out to fight.'

'Thought not. We'll keep trying.'

Seeing that Samsonov was content with that, Carrera changed the subject. 'Ivan, what kinds of mission are your men capable of? I don't mean being an Opposing Force to train my troops. What kinds of combat operations can you do?' Carrera looked down at Hamilcar and added, 'You can speak freely in front of my son.'

Samsonov answered, 'We can do air parachute drops to seize vital targets: airports, bridges, chokepoints. Airmobile operations also, if someone else provide helicopters and aircraft. We get helicopters?'

Carrera nodded. 'Working on that, too.'

'We do also most typical anti-guerrilla missions: ambush, raid, reconnoiter, counter-terror. I don't usually care for counter-terror, bad for discipline.'

Carrera knew that counter-terror meant to the Volgans pretty much what it had meant to himself and the Legion in Sumer and Pashtia. It meant not just destroying terrorists so much as inflicting greater terror than terrorists on the same target population: hangings, burnings, mutilation, massacre. Never, officially, rape but that had happened, too. Which often led to more hangings, of course.

'How about amphibious landings?'

'Difficult. That was mission of Naval Infantry. Perhaps we could if beachhead not contested.' The Volgan considered that for a moment more, then amended, 'Probably we could, with a little practice.'

'Would your men fight for Balboa?'

The Volgan hesitated. He said he wanted and honest answer, but can this one take an honest answer? Deciding that Carrera likely could, he said, 'Realistically, no. They do not think of themselves as mercenaries. Even though they—we—are. They don't know any more of Balboa than jungle they are training in. Those . . . and bars and brothels. But they fight for me. And if good reason, I will fight for you. Do not expect suicide mission from me, my regiment is my country; I must preserve it above all. Is most important consideration. But I would be willing to undertake some real operations. It would be good for Regiment. They get . . . soft . . . without some fighting.'

Carrera was content with that for now. Reaching the mess hall, Samsonov called the mess to attention and led the way to the officers' area. Carrera did not really approve of interrupting the troop's meal, nor of the fact that he, Hamilcar, and Samsonov sat down without waiting in line. An orderly brought them their meals: kasha—a sort of porridge with meat or fish—meat in this case, bread, butter and jam, Balboan sausage, hard boiled eggs, some kind of pastry, and glasses of hot tea. At a glance and nod from Samsonov, another Volgan officer, also sitting for breakfast, hurriedly finished and left. The officer hid his distaste at passing between two of Hamilcar's Pashtians on his way out. There was one more Volgan there; a youngish looking Tribune whose name tag read 'Chapayev.' The boy ate mechanically, with no real interest in his food, as if greatly preoccupied with some difficult problem. Oddly, Samsonov didn't indicate that Chapayev should leave.

Carrera dipped a spoon into the kasha, trying to hide a lack of enthusiasm. Again he changed the subject. 'How goes your training?'

Samsonov pointed at the tribune. 'Victor, tell the duque how training goes in your company.'

Chapayev gulped before answering. 'My Spanish is . . . atrocity. Casus Belli, all on own. I try.'

Nodding, as if searching for words and discovering that, perhaps, he had enough, if only just, Chapayev continued, 'Is great problem, learning be like Tauran infantry. Some have many drill . . . no . . . drills. We, too. Others . . . none.'

'That's so,' answered Carrera. 'Also, it's hard to be what you're not. I understand that. Also, I don't want you to lose everything you already have, just for a little more accurate presentation of the various Tauran forces.'

'Tell me, how are you training for helicopter missions without helicopters?' That question was directed at Samsonov, who answered that his troops were doing most of their work on mock ups, maps, blackboards.

'Fine for now. Kuralski is working on recruiting more helicopter pilots for your detachment of IM-71s when they arrive.'

* * *

'What did you think of the Volgans, Ham?' Carrera asked as the convoy sped over the gravel road in the jungle- striped, fast diminishing light.

'Besides that some of my Pashtians hate the Volgans guts, Dad, they seemed pretty decent.'

The father looked directly at the boy, raising one eyebrow.

'Oh. You wanted an assessment. Okay, Dad. Morale seems high, probably because however shitty—'

'Hamilcar!'

'Sorry, Mom,' the boy sniffed, then turned his attention back to his father. 'However poor their living conditions now, they're a lot better than they were back in Volga. They seem disciplined, Dad, maybe a little too disciplined. And they put too much into appearances. Lots of painted rocks and tree trunks at Fuerte Cameron. They know they're an elite group and like that a lot. Proud, I think. From the demonstrations Legate Samsonov gave us, they seem pretty sharp on the attack.'

'They rehearsed all that, you know,' Carrera said. 'Don't take it at face value.'

The boy nodded. 'I figured they probably did, Dad. Even so, they couldn't have done so well, even with rehearsals, if they weren't pretty good to begin with. I mean, that mortar fire was close to their assault line.'

'Good,' Carrera said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the Phaeton's cushions. 'Very good.'

He felt Lourdes stiffen suddenly, next to him.