Part 15 (1/2)

Ordinarily Abogado would have played a little hard to get, to sweeten the deal, whatever it was. However, at about that time the wind outside s.h.i.+fted and an overpowering whiff of recycled and recycling human feces a.s.saulted his nose. ”Where do I sign?”

”Not so simple,” Carrera cautioned. ”You haven't even heard what I need.”

”Seems obvious. You need someone to train and lead an expeditionary force.”

Carrera sighed. He hated to disappoint the old man. A b.a.s.t.a.r.d Abogado may have been, but he'd been very kind and patient with up and coming lieutenants. Yet...Abogado was was old. He might have been quite something in his younger days. Indeed, he had been quite something. But he could never stand that kind of pace again. old. He might have been quite something in his younger days. Indeed, he had been quite something. But he could never stand that kind of pace again.

Carrera sighed and shook his head again. ”No, sir. We have a commander already. And a deputy. And a staff. What I need is a school. You have done that, and done it very well. That's why I am here; to offer to let you do so again.”

Abogado kept the disappointment off of his face and out of his voice. Yet, I am not too old I am not too old, a part of his mind insisted. I am not! I am not!

”Details?” he asked, resignedly.

”In the big picture,” Carrera said, ”I am having a lawyer down there form a corporation. It will be called FMTGRB: ”Foreign Military Training Group, Republic of Balboa.” Inc., of course. Or, rather 'S.A.' Means the same thing.

”If you accept my offer, the day to day running of this corporation will be yours, within certain guidelines my people in Balboa are working on.”

”And this corporation is to do precisely what?”

”Well, I am willing to listen to reason on this but basically I need a group to train officers, warrants and senior noncoms. I need one shortened Command and General Staff College course for about one hundred officers. Then I need that CGSC to morph itself into a general purpose, all-arms advanced course for about another hundred. Then I need it to morph again into a combined Officer Candidate School and Officer Basic Course. After that, this group is to change back into a small CGSC, a small Advanced Course, and a continuing OCS.”

”Clear enough. I would need maybe twenty...oh, possibly twenty-four good men for that. I could find them, I'm sure.”

Carrera nodded. This was close enough to his own estimate. ”Secondly, I need a Non-commissioned Officers Academy. We will need to take Senior NCOs and bring them into the real military world, take middle and junior NCOs and prep them to be platoon leaders and platoon sergeants...”

Abogado interrupted, ”You mean send them to OCS?”

Carrera shook his head in an emphatic no no. ”They'll need much of the same training, yes, but I intend to follow the Sachsen model in this and keep a very small officer corps, about three percent of strength. Most platoons will be led by NCOs. Anyway, call this Group Two of FMTG; the officer group being Group One.

”Then I need something like F.S. Army Ranger School call it, 'Cazador School' to take the best of new privates and select from them those who have that...oh...certain something that makes for a really good officer or senior NCO.

”The last groups are a little fuzzy right now. My staff is still working on requirements. Basically, though, we'll need a center for training and testing of large battalions or small regiments, a service support training group that will also train specialists and warrant officers, a small naval school, a flight school for both helicopters and fixed wing aircraft, and you will need a small headquarters yourself.”

Abogado whistled. ”Tall order.”

”Yes. Very. Can you do it?” Carrera asked.

The old general raised one quizzical eyebrow. ”Can you fund it?”

”Not yet,” Carrera conceded. ”Rather, I can fund part of it now, but not all, not just yet. That must await developments.”

”You mean, 'Don't quit my day job,' right?” Abogado's voice was heavy with disappointment.

Carrera pondered for a moment. ”No. Quit your day job. Get away from the smell of s.h.i.+t and come back to the land of flowers. You, at least, I can support for a term of years.”

”Let me make a few calls, first. Is that all right?”

”Surely, General. But, to be fair, I ought to tell you I have appointments over the next two days with General's Schneider at the Catlett Foundation and Friesland on the other side of Phoenix Rising.”

Abogado scowled. ”Cancel 'em. I'll take the job. By the way, what does it pay?”

Carrera smiled broadly despite the smell of sewage. ”Enough.”

First Landing, Hudson, 23/9/459 AC ”I have had about enough of this place,” announced Bowman. Daugher muttered agreement under his breath.

The two had had flown to Dragonback. There they'd met some of Daugher's old motorcycle gang and borrowed a car. Then they'd driven to First Landing in an all our all nighter. flown to Dragonback. There they'd met some of Daugher's old motorcycle gang and borrowed a car. Then they'd driven to First Landing in an all our all nighter.

Daugher and Bowman hated the city, hated the stink, hated the noise. They hated the silly disguises they felt called upon to wear yuppie gla.s.ses and false mustaches, a slight amount of stage makeup, and practiced walks. Likewise they hated Hennessey's nasty little cousin for putting in jeopardy their own best hopes for the life they wanted to lead.

(For they still could not think of him as Carrera. For too many years had he been ”that motherf.u.c.ker, Hennessey” for them to change easily.) They were following Eugene now. He hadn't been hard to find and he was not hard to follow as he walked from his upscale apartment to some unknown destination. Though the streets were dark, there was just about enough light to make out Eugene's dainty mince.

They almost lost Eugene when he turned a street corner. Racing to catch up they saw no sign of him when they had made the same corner. Music blasted from somewhere. The two raced to the next corner. Nothing, no sign.

”s.h.i.+t!” said Bowman. ”Lost the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”

The two turned back, frustration seething within them. After a few minutes walk, Daugher tapped Bowman on the shoulder before pointing upward to the opposite side of the street.

”The Peeled Banana?” Bowman could hardly believe it. ”You think?”

”I think it's worth looking looking,” said Daugher.

Bowman shrugged, ”Maybe so. After you.”

With a similar shrug Daugher led the way. The interior was not so bad. Oh yes, it was full of more h.o.m.os.e.xuals than Daugher had seen since being let out of prison on an overturned conviction for murder. But they seemed not the terribly aggressive type. He began to relax...slightly. Then he saw two men, neither of them Eugene, kissing in a corner and a flood of unpleasant memories returned.

”I hate queers,” he whispered, too softly to hear.

Daugher and Bowman went to an open spot at the bar, one where they could see the no pun intended comings and goings of the clientele. There they sat, nursing their drinks and avoiding mixing, for nigh upon two hours.

”Not a sign,” observed Daugher. ”Might as well hit the road; try again tomorrow.”

Bowman nodded agreement, then said he had to visit the men's room. Daugher thought about counseling against that, then decided the joke was too good to spoil.

Thus it was a very surprised Bowman who entered the men's room and saw a kneeling Eugene, servicing what was almost certainly a very new acquaintance. Ignoring his intended victim, Bowman did his business and left. Before he left, however, he had cause to note a window, about head-high, that ventilated the men's room.

”b.a.s.t.a.r.d's in there,” he told Daugher when he returned, ”blowing somebody. One window, big enough to stuff a body out of. You'll have to be quick.”

”Then he's been in there since we arrived,” whispered Daugher. ”Must be 'ladies night out.' Anyone else inside?”

”Just the blowee.”