Newspapers littered the desk, each with a screaming headline of 'War Crime.' The secretary of war's elbows rested on the papers, heavily. Campos adjusted the hands he had cupped around his face just enough to glare at Virgil Rivers with one eye. He did not like being reminded.
'Be that as it may, Virgil,' Campos answered, 'who would have expected this shitstorm?'
Well, Rivers thought, frankly, I did. I'd have been surprised, as a matter of fact, if Hennessey hadn't done something, at least, to create one. It's one of his two or three natural talents. Wisely, Rivers kept the thought to himself.
Instead he offered, 'I've had the JAG here look over the statement Hennessey issued. They say that it's legally true, if unpleasant, except for one small detail.'
'And that would be?' Campos asked, still glaring with one eye.
'There are actually seven requirements to making a legitimate reprisal. Hennessey snuck in an eighth. His statement said that a proper reprisal must be 'not merely proportional but also sufficient to deter future violations of the law of war.' The JAG says that is not part of the law, though it is logically and therefore legally defensible.'
'But he's just a fucking… what was that rank he used? Legate? What's that mean? Colonel? Lieutenant Colonel? Lieutenant? '
'Umm… no, Mr. Secretary. There is, in the fine print of the contract between us, a little section that says that Legio del Cid ranks will be treated as, and have the power and authorities of, their traditional titles. The actual meaning of 'legate' is not lieutenant or lieutenant colonel, but lieutenant general. Therefore, even by our rules, he has all the authority he needs.'
'Sneaky bastard,' Campos said, without heat.
'Yes, sir. He is a sneaky bastard.' Oh, to hell with it. 'I warned you.'
'So what do we do?'
Rivers took a moment before answering. He walked to the window and looked out at the broad, slow-moving river that separated the War Department headquarters from the rest of the Federal District and simply stared at it for some minutes, thinking.
When Rivers turned around, he asked, 'Does it make any difference, sir? I mean, really? What has Patrick done except bring into the open something that would have been just as true, even if hidden, if he had not? The press are the enemy. The 'international community' is the enemy. The cosmopolitan lawyers and bureaucrats are the enemy. They have been since colonization here and, back on Old Earth, for a lot longer.
'A horde of angels could come down from Heaven and make sworn depositions that everything Patrick said was true and that he acted completely correctly. That news would be buried on page one hundred and fifty-five of the First Landing Times. And meanwhile every paper and television station in the world, every cosmopolitan progressive, every humanitarian activist who manages to do pretty well by doing good, would still be screaming 'War Crime.'
'And if he hadn't ordered a reprisal? They would just find something else. There is no satisfying them because the only thing that would satisfy them would be if we lose the war completely.'
Ar-Ramalia, Sumer, 15/2/461 AC
'Jesus, it must suck to lose,' Cruz muttered as the convoy bearing him and the 1st Cohort moved into the town. The streets were full of garbage. Bodies, mostly uniformed but many not, littered them as well. Green colored leaflets-Cruz recognized them as some of those the legate had had dropped ahead of the legion-blew in the dry desert wind. A Sumeri tank burned to one side of the broad highway, its commander hanging lifeless half out of his hatch. Flames arose around the body, cooking it and lending the smell of overdone pork to the air. Cruz's nose scrunched in distaste.
The convoy stopped with the mass screaming of brakes. The first centurion of the cohort began walking the line, slapping vehicles with his palm and ordering, 'All right, boys and girls, everyone off. And buckle up your goddamned armor, Sanchez.'
Cruz reached over and slapped the side of Sanchez's helmet, moderately hard, before standing himself, tossing his rucksack over the side, and shuffling to the back of the truck. He jumped off, landing easily on both feet, then walked around to retrieve the ruck. When he returned, the signifer was assembling the century.
'This afternoon,' the signifer announced, then consulted his watch, 'in about four hours, we're going to relieve 3rd Cohort and continue clearing the town. Orders at…' again he looked at his watch, '… call it noon. Centurion?'
'Sir!'
'I'm going forward with the tribune to coordinate the passage of lines with 3rd Cohort. We own those buildings over there.' The signifer pointed out the ones he meant, a series of two-story, cinder block structures with stores below and apartments above. 'Take charge of the century; security, weapons maintenance, food and rest, in that order.'
'Sir. Century; atten… shun. On my command, fall out and into those buildings the signifer indicated. Section leaders, priority of work is local security, weapons, food, rest. Report to me when you're up on the first. Be prepared to brief me on your rest plan. Fall out.'
A PSYOP loudspeaker was blaring out something in Arabic as the small party from 1st Cohort arrived at the 3rd Cohort Command Post.
'What the hell is that?' the tribune asked of the 3rd Cohort's Operations Officer.
'We've had some trouble,' that officer answered. 'Twice we've had Sumeris come forward appearing to want to surrender and then open up when they got close enough that even their shitty standards of marksmanship were adequate. Another time, one came close enough to detonate himself. We lost three dead and half a dozen wounded. The loudspeaker's telling them that they're all responsible for the actions of each of them, that from now on, and because of their own treachery, if they want to surrender they have to strip buck naked and approach with their hands in the air and absolutely nothing in them.'
The tribune snorted. 'Any takers under those conditions?'
'Some. A few. On the other hand, we haven't lost any more of our own since we started shooting anyone approaching who wasn't stripped down.'
'What about the women? We making them strip, too?'
'We're telling the civilians to run the other way, away from us, if possible. For those who insist on coming this way, the women have to get down to just their panties. We have some sense of decency, after all?'
'Okay,' the tribune agreed. 'Now, show me where you want our advanced parties to link up with you?'
Waiting for the order to go in, Cruz's heart thundered in his chest.
In the same room, the assistant section leader's tubular feed grenade launcher went foomp-kaclick-foomp- kaclick… foomp-kaclickfoomp. Two 43mm grenades sailed through each of the windows to the building opposite the one the section, which included Ricardo Cruz, had assembled in for their attack across the narrow street. The explosions blew out the windows' remains, and were followed by a horrible, keening cry in Arabic.
'Smoke!' ordered the section leader. Two green canisters popped as their spoons were released. The canisters landed in the middle of the alley, well to either side of the buildings concerned. The section leader waited a few seconds, to allow the smoke from the canisters to build up. Then he ordered, 'Covering fire! First Team, go.'
Cruz's team, Number Two, and the other one, Number Three, began blasting from their side. First Team raced through the back door and across the alley, flattening themselves against the wall when they reached it. More grenades sailed in through the windows, while the fire team leader and another man from First Team broke down the door. The Arabic cries ceased with the explosion of the hand grenades.
The section leader shouted, 'Second Team, with me.' Cruz's group stopped firing and followed the sergeant across the street and into the other building. When they had disappeared, the assistant section leader led the last team, plus the weapons team, across.
'Cruz,' said Sergeant del Valle, 'take your men and clear upstairs. Be careful, son.'
The interior of the building was dark, despite the recent destruction of the windows. Cruz took a moment to partially accustom his eyes to the dim light. When he could see the staircase that led upstairs clearly he ordered, 'Follow me,' and took a bent-legged crouch.
'Sanchez, left side.'
Sanchez mimicked Cruz's posture. Behind them the last two men in the team, Privates Rivera and Escobedo,
