actually the kind of friends he would trust with a personal problem. He thought about whether this was the kind that he could… or even should.
'I am beginning to feel like a disloyal rat, Jamey.'
'Lourdes, right, Boss?'
'Yeah,' Carrera admitted. Who said enlisted men were stupid? 'I find myself thinking about her at odd times.'
'Uhhh… Boss… we all find you looking at her at odd times, too.'
'Everybody's noticed?' Pat asked.
'I think so. I mean… well, I'm sure you try not to look and all… but, yeah; sometimes you're pretty obvious.'
Carrera sighed and turned his face to the right, watching the trees go by. After several minutes he turned back.
'The problem is, Jamey, that my wife and kids are dead less than a year. It just seems wrong for me to be looking at another woman now. It might be wrong ever to look at another woman with… any… oh… significance.'
'If you don't mind my saying so, Boss, that's bullshit. A man needs a woman. A soldier needs one more than most.'
'Maybe,' Carrera half conceded before turning his gaze back to the passing jungle.
The staff car pulled to a stop near the large asphalt parking lot where Sitnikov had once given his introductory presentation on tanks. There was an infantry cohort-the schedule said it would be the 1st Cohort-sitting on the mown grass east of the asphalt, eating lunch from pouches.
'Hey, Cruz, look. It's the Gringo.'
By now, everybody knew who the Gringo was. It was also known that he was a former Federated States military officer. It was rumored that he had lost his family during either the terrorist attacks on the Terra Nova Trade Organization in the FSC or during the attacks shortly thereafter in the Republic of Balboa. No one, no one at Cruz's level, at least, knew for sure which it was, though.
Cruz looked up to see Carrera watching another century as they practiced mounting and dismounting from the Ocelots. Each cohort had four, for general support, in the Combat Support Century. Any couple of sections might need to mount them in the coming fight so all had to be at least familiarized beforehand.
Cruz asked a question of common concern. 'Why do you suppose he's here with us?'
Not quite understanding, his squad mate answered, 'To make sure we're training all the time, not eating properly, and getting little rest. Why else?'
'Don't be more stupid than you absolutely must,' Cruz said. 'No, I mean what is he doing here in Balboa? It doesn't make sense to me.'
'I heard a rumor that he is planning to overthrow the government and establish himself as dictator. I also heard, from an equally reliable source, that he is an agent of the Gringo imperialists to make sure we never rise again.'
'Oh, antania shit. He spends way too much time training us to think he's against us. Nothing he's done suggests anything but that he's on our side. He spends all his time out in the field with us, trying to make sure we're ready to fight. That means he is not trying to keep Balboa down. I heard he refused the command of the legion, so it doesn't look like he wants to be dictator. No. He is here for some other reason. If he really did lose his family, like rumor control says, could it really be that he's here just for revenge?'
Sergeant del Valle, who was at a level to know why Carrera was there, interrupted the conversation to say, 'Why he's here is none of your goddamned business, Privates. And since you two seem to have all this idle time on your hands to philosophize, you can wash out the Ocelot tonight after we're finished.'
Casa Linda, 26/5/460 AC
While the maids puttered and dusted, Lourdes sang, softly but happily, as she busied herself with preparations. Carrera and his boys, most of them, were coming home from Fort Cameron for the first time in weeks.
'Over there, Maria,' Lourdes said to a maid. 'Put the whiskey out where they can find it first. After all that time in the jungle they'll want a drink. And I want Patricio…'
Lourdes stopped with sudden confusion. She steadied herself with one hand on the dining room table while pulling a seat out with the other. She sat down heavily.
I want Patricio? I missed them, sure, but… no, girl, be honest with yourself, at least. You missed him; Patricio. It was that name that set your heart to beating fast.
Why? Why should I? He hardly ever even talks to me outside of my job. 'Translate this, please, Lourdes.' 'Is my car ready, Lourdes?' 'Lourdes, have you seen the report from Professor Ruiz?' He cares more for his men than he does for me. At least he'll spend time with them when he isn't working.
Lourdes looked into the next room where, over the fireplace mantle hung Linda Hennessey's portrait. How can I compete with that? I'm pretty enough, I guess… no gross defects. Not a lot of equipment but it isn't bad, what I do have. But she's dead, so she's a saint. Sometimes I hate that picture so much!
The woman stood again, a trifle unsteadily, and walked into the living room. She looked up at Linda's portrait and asked aloud, 'Do you want him to be alone? I could make him happy; I know I could. But he sits and stares and pines and, when he thinks no one is looking, he cries for you. Would you mind so much…?'
The portrait didn't answer. Lourdes turned on her heel and walked up the stairs to Carrera's room, near her own. She stood there quietly, at the foot of his bed, merely sniffing. It smelled right to her, whatever trace of him was left in the bedding and furniture. She went to the clothes hamper, opened it and pulled out a T-shirt left from his last, very brief, visit home. Have to speak to Lucinda about cleaning out the hampers more regularly, she thought.
Scrunching the T-shirt in her hands she pressed it to her face and inhaled through her nose and deeply. Oh, yes, this smells just right. Why are men so stupid that they can't tell a proper match the way women can?
Presidential Palace,
Ciudad Balboa, 13/6/460 AC
' Tio Guillermo, you were badly mistaken.'
'Mistaken, Manuel? How?'
'They are going to get this legion finished, and properly. And there's precisely nothing I can do about it. I haven't ever seen anything like this level of… oh, efficiency. Certainly not since I left River Watch.'
'I assumed you would do your duty and sabotage them, Manuel. Obviously you have failed,' the president sneered. 'You were born a failure. You remain one, a disgrace to a proud name. I wish the gringos had killed you twelve years ago. Your existence is an embarrassment.'
Rocaberti cringed under his uncle's tongue-lashing. 'Uncle, whatever I am, I can't do this. Parilla? You know him. He isn't so bad. But that gringo of his? Uncle, he frightens me. And Jimenez, you remember him? Jimenez wants me dead. He blames me that he lost the fight at the Estado Mayor; blames me for losing most of his men. I see it in his eyes. Can't you please, please get me out of this?'
'No. Get back to where you belong and report, at least, if you are too much the coward to do anything else. Go and at least pretend you're someone with balls!'
Casa Linda, 15/6/460 AC
Carrera, Parilla, McNamara, Johnson, Kennison, and Sitnikov sipped cool drinks on the rear deck of the house, overlooking the Gulf of Balboa. The atmosphere was informal but there was business to attend to. The legion was almost finished with the second phase of their training, what would be called ACT-or Advanced Combat Training-for infantry and tankers in the Federated States Army.
Setting down his drink, Carrera began, 'Aleksandr, how do you rate our men?'
Sitnikov had been asking himself the same question for weeks. He made his answer honestly.
'On a purely technical level your men have done well, especially with the heavy vehicles. My instructors say that they have learned to drive, shoot, and maintain better and faster than a typical group of Volgan recruits would have. This is unsurprising, to a degree, since both the Civil Force and the new Legion have been able to be very selective in the recruits accepted. However, you have weaknesses in higher-level maintenance. Your NCO's seem as good, or probably, since they are regulars, better than average Volgans. However…'
