The Lotus Eaters

Campo de los Sapos, Cristobal, Balboa, Terra Nova

The deployment's first wave was leaving at night. Stars shone down, twinkling off the waves of sea and bay that surrounded the Field of the Frogs on three sides. Loudspeakers placed around the field blared out a marching song, occasionally interrupted by commands from the headquarters, 8th Tercio, in charge of the movement.

Like the commander of the corps to which they belonged, like the population of the area from which they sprang, the 8th Tercio, was mostly black. As such, their marching song was Cara Morena, Dark Face, a glowingly appreciative piece on the girls of the province. They sang it from a dozen departure points, as they boarded a mix of hovercraft, coastal freighters, helicopters and medium cargo aircraft for their deployment to Jaquelina de Coco and Sangre de Dios, down in La Palma Province.

With much less fanfare, a number of Cazador teams had been shuttled down by submarine, over the past several weeks, from Puerto Lindo, just down the coast. They would land on the coast and infiltrate by foot to take up positions well in advance of the general interdiction line—some, in fact, into Santander, itself—the better to cover the coming relief in place of 2nd Tercio by 8th. Those teams would cross into Santander, if for no other reason than to remind the Santandern guerillas that there was no sanctuary for them, anywhere.

From loudspeaker and voice the song echoed:

"The hour of deliverance is nearing;

The day of liberation's surely coming;

The era when our Patria is sovereign,

No longer underneath the Kosmo boot.

Cara morena, mi chica linda . . ."

I really don't care for that song, Jimenez thought. Just doesn't grab me. But what the hell does it matter what I think, if the boys like it.

Jimenez's driver, Pedro, pulled up next to where he had let off his commander, sometime prior. "Legate Higgins"—there were a large number of Anglic names among the black denizens of the province—"wants to know if you've any last minute instructions," Pedro said.

Shaking his head, Jimenez answered, "No. I'm only even here because I'm bitter I can't go along. Just . . . go back and tell him I wish him and his boys good luck."

"Roger, sir."

I am bitter, too. I liked being a company commander, way back in the day. Now? Commanding a corps, three hundred times bigger than a company, or a maniple, as we say now, is too much like work, and too little like fun. I haven't even gotten to go out on a training exercise in months.

How much worse it would be, Patricio, if you didn't hate both excess paperwork and meetings, I shudder to think.

"Cara morena, mi chica linda . . ."

Oh, well; could be worse. At least I'll get to visit the boys down there, keep 'em on their toes to the extent the guerillas don't.