The Lotus Eaters

Headquarters, 4th Corps, Cristobal, Balboa

A silver-draped Christmas tree from uplands in the eastern part of the country could be seen from the street. James Soult glanced at it only briefly before he parked the staff car at the curb to let Carrera disembark. That human fireplug, Mitchell, bearing a submachine gun, was already on the sidewalk with his eyes searching for trouble before Carrera's feet touched the pavement.

A sentry called the building to attention as Carrera walked through the main doors. Carrera wished the man a merry Christmas and continued on to Jimenez' office. He found Jimenez hunched over his desk, a sheaf of paper spread out before him.

Jimenez stood to attention when he realized Carrera was present. "How can I help you, sir?"

That, in itself, was odd. Normally Carrera and Jimenez were on a first name basis on any occasion that didn't absolutely require formality.

"Nothing, Xavier," Carrera shook his head. "I just had nothing better to do for the morning and thought I'd stop by and see how your troops are doing."

"The corps grows, Patricio," the lean black answered. "I, on the other hand, am not doing so well."

Carrera had started to ask the problem when he glanced down at the papers scattered across Jimenez' desk. He picked one up, scanned it, glanced at the return address "The Estado Major's Ib wants to know how many of your machine guns are functional? Why? It's too trivial a concern for national level staff."

"I don't know," Jimenez answered, shrugging. "I just answer the mail. And, frankly, I and my staff have fallen behind. We've been in the field training. Sorry."

Carrera fingers continued sorting through the mess on Jimenez's desk, looking over the paperwork. "What? The II shop wants to know what percentage of potential recruits pass their physical. The Provost wants a list of crime statistics from the 4th Corps?" He read another: "They want to know how many people attend Sunday services in the regimental chapels?! That's absurd!"

Carrera replaced the papers on Jimenez' desk and thought, And I've a sneaking hunch it's my fault for not being there to prevent this sort of nonsense. It wasn't enough, apparently, just to keep staffs small so that people couldn't create the demand for this kind of crap. It has to be killed at the source.

Jimenez shrugged once more. "It's been getting worse lately, too. Ah, Patricio; it's not like it was when we were getting ready for the war. Those were good days, damned good. Just train, train, train and to hell with paperwork."

Carrera nodded, then asked, "Got anything to drink, Xavier?"

"Rum and coke? Wouldn't mind one myself."

"It'll do." Carrera took a seat as Jimenez rang for an orderly. A couple of flies buzzed above the top of Jimenez' desk. Carrera glanced at the flies with a certain interest.

As he waited for the drinks to arrive, a muttering Carrera looked over each demand for information littering Jimenez's desk. He looked back at the flies, now buzzing near a window. Finally he spoke. "Xavier, don't answer any of this shit. Still, I want you to do one more report. Nobody's asked for it, and I really don't want the information. But make up a flypaper report."

"A flypaper report?" Jimenez looked incredulous.

"Oh, yes," Carrera grinned. "A flypaper report. Direct it to the attention of the acting chief of the Estado Major. Put down the number of rolls of flypaper used, where they were placed, how high, how many flies were caught by placement. Throw in anything you can think of that might conceivably have a bearing on that critically important question: the efficacy of flypaper. Then send it up with an letter of apology for being late."

"Apology? Late? But no one's asked for a 'flypaper report' until now."

"I know." Carrera smiled knowingly. "Now let's have those drinks. And Merry Christmas."