The Lotus Eaters by Tom Kratman Page B

that. I had—"
    Mendoza was interrupted by a familiar voice, McNamara's. "Gentlemen, the President of the Republic and the Commander of the Legion."
    The enormous room hushed to a deathly stillness as every man braced to attention. The stillness was soon broken by the sounds of Carrera's and McNamara's boots, tap-tap-tapping down the stone walkway. Parilla's softer civilian shoes made no comparable sound.
    A murmur began right at the inner corners of the mass of humanity where the stone walkway divided them. It spread from there, across the rear rank and down toward the front like a wave. Too, like a wave, or perhaps a tsunami, the volume grew as more and more of the legionaries heard and passed on, "He's really come back to us. Our dux bellorum has returned."
    Discipline held until Carrera, Parilla, and Mac were almost two thirds of the way to the stage on which rested a podium and the gold and silver eagles. At that point a junior centurion along the central aisle twisted and looked over his shoulder and said to himself, To hell with it; I'm going to shake the commander's hand.
    The centurion broke ranks and stood right in Carrera's path with his hand outstretched. "Welcome back, sir," he said.
    Another commander might have been angry. Carrera was . . . more than touched. Tears glistening in his eyes, he took the centurion's hand in a firm grip, pumping it and saying, "Thank you. It's good to be back."
    At that point, the thing became a near riot, with legionaries jostling and pushing to get close to the man who had led them to victory through two wars and a police action of sorts on three continents. Even McNamara's voice couldn't get the men back into order until Carrera had shaken five hundred or more hands, and endured more back-slapping than was, strictly speaking, healthy or safe.
    In the end, Mac had to use his size and presence—he towered over the average legionary, to force his way past the throng, up onto the stage and to the microphone.
    "Enough, you bastards," he said, the words reverberating from the walls. "Cease and desist. You'll kill the man and here we've just gotten him back."

Headquarters, Tauran Union Security Force-Balboa, Bldg 59, Fort Muddville, Balboa
    The G-2's name tag read de Villepin. He entered Janier's office confidently. And why not? He was at least as politically well connected as the general and could do at least as much damage to Janier as the latter could do to him, rank notwithstanding. Moreover, Janier knew it. His words—"by the scruff of the neck"—had been for his toady, Malcoeur's benefit. And Malcoeur had basically shrugged that off.
    Before Janier could say a word, de Villepin raised a hand and said, "I didn't worry about telling you, or order that your time with your mistress be interrupted, because, however large it may be—and yes, it's almost twice the size of our little pocket division—it's not equipped to attack anybody. I have people inside, besides.
    "More importantly, the reason for the assembly is that their old commander, Carrera, is back. I had thought, we had all thought, he'd retired. Apparently this is not the case. The assembly is likely his little way of announcing he's back and in charge."
    "You say you have your people inside?" Janier asked.
    "Well . . . people who work for me, about eleven of them, if every one managed to attend." De Villepin smiled sardonically. "Technically and legally, I suppose they're Carrera's people. I'll have an admittedly incomplete report by tomorrow evening at the latest. More details will follow as more of my spies check in. It may be a week or so."
    "So late?" Janier asked.
    "If they aren't careful, Carrera's intelligence organization will catch them." De Villepin added, ruefully, "That ferret-faced bastard, Fernandez, is pretty good at what he does . . . and has methods available to him that are not permitted to me . . . usually. What would happen to my people if he caught them would not be strictly in