personal housekeeping staff, the KPs in the mess halls, and the Santa Josefinan veterans of Balboa’s Legion del Cid , which group he was pretty sure he was going to end up fighting, and soon.
Marciano’s command, so far, hadn’t seen any fighting, barring bar fights between his troops and the Santa Josefinans who resented their competition for the local women. There’d been quite a few of those, at least one of which had turned deadly.
“It’s the lackanookie theory of ethnic disharmony,” Marciano had judged, saying to his officers and senior noncoms, “This goes to the effect that two groups of men, in real or perceived competition for the same women, will automatically hate each other. I’ve often paused to wonder how much that’s fed various guerilla movements over the ages.”
During the Tauran Union’s failed invasion, Marciano had gotten his orders to attack into the Balboan province of Valle de las Lunas late, almost as if he and his command were an afterthought. By the time he’d been able to get any combat power approaching the Balboan border, the battle had already been lost. At that point, discretion had seemed much the better part of valor. He’d pulled back to his defensive positions, hoping like hell that the Balboans hadn’t noticed how close he’d come to invading them.
That was not cowardice, but sheer realism. If so much as one of his men had stepped foot, officially, across the border, Balboa would have been perfectly within its rights to turn its entire, huge , army against him and Santa Josefina, which had violated the core premise of neutrality, both.
But , thought the Tuscan commander, of course we didn’t violate Balboa’s borders. We only almost did. And came close enough that they surely intend to get us out of here, too.
“And that, Mr. President,” said the Tuscan, “is why you are screwed. You brought us in, because you had no army of your own, and thought that there would be no consequences. But the Tauran Union had its own agenda, and that agenda has made you an enemy of Balboa.”
“But you have ten thousand men or more,” said Calderón. “There are, at most, four thousand former Balboan legionaries here.”
“I have this,” said Marciano, handing over a list of his forces in Santa Josefina. “It’s less than eight thousand. It’s a nice little package to hold off an open invasion until reinforcements can be flown in, but it’s totally inadequate to defeat the guerilla campaign I anticipate. Against that guerilla campaign, reinforcement seems unlikely.”
The president read off, “Four infantry battalions, two of them from Gaul, one Anglian, one Sachsen . . . a Tuscan engineer battalion . . . Haarlem artillery battalion with eighteen guns . . . a single tank company from Hordaland and a Cimbrian commando company . . . Götalander air defense . . . Sachsen military police . . . then a mix of everything in the Tauran Union in small packets of this and that . . . what’s the problem, General? As far as we know the former legionaries here in Santa Josefina have no arms.”
“No arms?” Marciano sneered. “I don’t believe that. And even if true, arms are waiting just across the border.”
“Then what should I do?” asked Calderón.
“Invent a time machine, then go back and talk yourself out of asking for us?” Marciano suggested. “Failing that, start your own army . . . indeed, you might consider Balboa’s return of your sons to be an invitation to do just that, with them . . . and invite us to leave. I’m fairly sure I could talk the TU into giving you the arms we have here, too, if you did that.”
“Politically and philosophically impossible!” huffed the president, in high dudgeon.
“Yes, I’m sure,” agreed the Tuscan. “Well . . . failing that, expect the war here to kick off the minute the war in Balboa resumes. It may not take that long, either. You can assume it’s going to be nasty, too. I have seen more than my share of
Marciano’s command, so far, hadn’t seen any fighting, barring bar fights between his troops and the Santa Josefinans who resented their competition for the local women. There’d been quite a few of those, at least one of which had turned deadly.
“It’s the lackanookie theory of ethnic disharmony,” Marciano had judged, saying to his officers and senior noncoms, “This goes to the effect that two groups of men, in real or perceived competition for the same women, will automatically hate each other. I’ve often paused to wonder how much that’s fed various guerilla movements over the ages.”
During the Tauran Union’s failed invasion, Marciano had gotten his orders to attack into the Balboan province of Valle de las Lunas late, almost as if he and his command were an afterthought. By the time he’d been able to get any combat power approaching the Balboan border, the battle had already been lost. At that point, discretion had seemed much the better part of valor. He’d pulled back to his defensive positions, hoping like hell that the Balboans hadn’t noticed how close he’d come to invading them.
That was not cowardice, but sheer realism. If so much as one of his men had stepped foot, officially, across the border, Balboa would have been perfectly within its rights to turn its entire, huge , army against him and Santa Josefina, which had violated the core premise of neutrality, both.
But , thought the Tuscan commander, of course we didn’t violate Balboa’s borders. We only almost did. And came close enough that they surely intend to get us out of here, too.
“And that, Mr. President,” said the Tuscan, “is why you are screwed. You brought us in, because you had no army of your own, and thought that there would be no consequences. But the Tauran Union had its own agenda, and that agenda has made you an enemy of Balboa.”
“But you have ten thousand men or more,” said Calderón. “There are, at most, four thousand former Balboan legionaries here.”
“I have this,” said Marciano, handing over a list of his forces in Santa Josefina. “It’s less than eight thousand. It’s a nice little package to hold off an open invasion until reinforcements can be flown in, but it’s totally inadequate to defeat the guerilla campaign I anticipate. Against that guerilla campaign, reinforcement seems unlikely.”
The president read off, “Four infantry battalions, two of them from Gaul, one Anglian, one Sachsen . . . a Tuscan engineer battalion . . . Haarlem artillery battalion with eighteen guns . . . a single tank company from Hordaland and a Cimbrian commando company . . . Götalander air defense . . . Sachsen military police . . . then a mix of everything in the Tauran Union in small packets of this and that . . . what’s the problem, General? As far as we know the former legionaries here in Santa Josefina have no arms.”
“No arms?” Marciano sneered. “I don’t believe that. And even if true, arms are waiting just across the border.”
“Then what should I do?” asked Calderón.
“Invent a time machine, then go back and talk yourself out of asking for us?” Marciano suggested. “Failing that, start your own army . . . indeed, you might consider Balboa’s return of your sons to be an invitation to do just that, with them . . . and invite us to leave. I’m fairly sure I could talk the TU into giving you the arms we have here, too, if you did that.”
“Politically and philosophically impossible!” huffed the president, in high dudgeon.
“Yes, I’m sure,” agreed the Tuscan. “Well . . . failing that, expect the war here to kick off the minute the war in Balboa resumes. It may not take that long, either. You can assume it’s going to be nasty, too. I have seen more than my share of
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