Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Once the video review was complete, and the screen had been retracted into the ceiling, a pianist appeared. She was no more than sixteen years old but very talented. As the girl played, Salazar worked the crowd, telling jokes and slapping backs. Bo’s included.

“So,” Salazar said. “Do you smoke cigars?”

Bo didn’t but said that he did. “Good,” Salazar replied. “Follow me… We’ll light up, enjoy the evening air, and discuss the war.”

Bo felt a rising sense of excitement as he followed Salazar into the adjoining study. The president took a humidor off his desk, flipped the lid open, and offered the contents to Bo. “Cuban,” Salazar said, as if that was all his guest needed to know.

“Thank you,” Bo replied as he took a cigar. “These are hard to come by.”

“That’s true for most people,” Salazar replied as he returned the humidor to the desk. “But for men such as ourselves? Anything is possible. Come… We’ll light up outside. My wife hates the smell.”

Sliding doors led out to a dedicated patio, which was home to some high-end deck furniture and lit with wall sconces. Salazar made a production out of clipping his cigar, passing it under his nose, and lighting up. Bo followed suit. Shadows moved as bodyguards patrolled the grounds.

“So,” Salazar said, once their cigars were drawing properly. “Have a seat. The Confederacy sent its top general down to see me. Why? Is your Secretary of State on vacation?”

Bo smiled. “No, Mr. President. I’m here because this is a military matter—and the civilians figured we could discuss it general to general.”

Salazar was a general in his country’s reserve force, although to the best of Bo’s knowledge, Salazar had never participated in anything more dangerous than a parade. Still, maybe some flattery would work. It did.

“Yes,” Salazar agreed. “What do civilians know? It’s our task to advise them.”

“Exactly,” Bo agreed. “And that brings me to the purpose of my visit. The Confederacy is winning the war, albeit slowly.” That wasn’t true of course, but how good was Mexican intelligence? And it was the kind of thing the Mexican president would expect him to say.

“So,” Bo continued, “President Stickley wants to speed things up. And when she called on me for advice, I suggested that we examine the possibility of an arrangement with Mexico.”

“What sort of arrangement?” Salazar wanted to know.

Bo blew a column of smoke out into the night. “The Confederacy would like to hire four divisions of Mexican troops to help bring the war to a speedy conclusion.”

The tip of Salazar’s cigar glowed cherry red as he drew on it. Smoke dribbled out through his nostrils. “I see,” he said noncommittally. “Four divisions… What is that? Sixty thousand men? Tell me, General… What would the Confederacy offer my country in return?”

“Half a billion Confederate dollars for twelve months of service,” Bo answered. “Plus the supplies required to support your troops.”

Salazar had heavy eyebrows and a Tom Selleck mustache. His eyes narrowed. “You must be joking.”

Bo had arrived ready to negotiate. But the contempt in Salazar’s voice took him by surprise. Some ash dribbled onto his right pant leg. He brushed it away. “Joking? Why do you say that?”

“Because the price is too low,” Salazar replied. “Contrary to your claims, the Confederacy is losing the war, and losing it badly. What? You think that all of the mercenaries you hired are what they seem? Some of them work for our Inteligencia Militar. So, if you wish to secure our help, it will cost more. Much more.”

In spite of the fact that the air was cool, Bo was beginning to sweat. “Okay, I might be able to scrape up another two hundred million or so.”

Salazar threw back his head and laughed. “No, General… Mexico isn’t going to take sides in your civil war for seven hundred million dollars.”

“What then?” Bo wanted to know.

Salazar leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were unnaturally bright. “What we want is a large chunk of the land that was stolen from us during and after the Mexican-American War. Assuming the Confederacy wins, we want sovereignty over the states of California, Nevada, Utah, and Arizona. You’ll notice we aren’t asking for all of our territory… Just the section that is currently controlled by the North.

“And win or lose,” Salazar added, “we want two tons of gold. One ton of which will serve as a deposit.”

Bo felt his spirits plummet. Now he knew the answer to his question. Mexican intelligence was better than good—it was excellent. Because Salazar had not only known about the Confederate offer in advance, he’d been ready with a counter. And his demands made sense, from a Mexican point of view, anyway, which was the only thing Salazar cared about.

By taking control of the land Salazar was asking for, his country could not only regain what had been lost back in the 1800s, it could pocket some serious change and enjoy a measure of revenge for the anti-Mexican rhetoric American politicians had trafficked in for so long. All of which would be wildly popular with Salazar’s constituents.

And who would be seen as the father of all that? Don Luis Salazar, that’s who… And that’s why the man across from Bo had a big smile on his face. “So,” he said, “what’s your answer?”

“I will take your proposal to the president,” Bo replied stiffly. “We’ll get back to you.”

“Of course,” Salazar said as he leaned back into his chair. “Take your time. Would you like some cognac?”

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, THE UNION OF NORTHERN STATES

Sunlight streamed down through breaks in the cloud cover to bathe Chicago’s Near North Side neighborhood in gold. The soldiers stood in ranks, feet apart, hands clasped behind them. They wore new uniforms and had been inspected twice. Of the 277 POWs rescued from the Confederate prison in Ascensión, Mexico, 212 had been cleared to take part in the parade that was about to begin. The others were still being treated for injuries, malnutrition, and/or PTSD in Colorado. “Listen up!” Sergeant Major Deeds boomed. “You are going to ride in the buses parked behind you. You will wave, you will smile, and you will be happy. Do you read me?”

It was a joke, and the soldiers knew that. They replied with a loud “Hooah!”

Deeds grinned. “Good. Major Macintyre would like to say a few words. Major?”

Like her soldiers, Macintyre was wearing a dress uniform. When was the last time she’d had one of those on? For her court-martial? Yes. It seemed like a year ago even though only months had passed. Mac took three paces forward and stopped. A camera drone circled overhead. The craziness had begun.

“Good morning. The city of Chicago and the rest of the nation will be watching you during the parade and afterwards as well. So don’t pick your noses. I’m looking at you Corporal Moses.” The rest of the soldiers laughed, and Moses grinned proudly.

“Reporters will ask you questions,” Mac told them. “They’ll want to know what it was like in prison, the way you were treated, and how you managed to survive. Tell the truth.

“But remember, charges have been brought against Captain Roupe, and questions about his case should be referred to the public-affairs officer. She’ll take it from there. Do you have any questions?” There weren’t any.

“Okay,” Deeds said to a staff sergeant. “Load ’em up.”

As the ex-POWs boarded the double-decker tour buses, and climbed up to the top, where onlookers could see them, Mac led Deeds over to the point where the rescuers were assembled. They, too, had been asked to participate in the parade and the festivities that were to follow. The preboarding briefing that Mac gave them was nearly identical to the one that the ex-POWs had received. The soldiers were excited, and Mac knew why. Once the waving was over, they would be free to roam Chicago, the citizens of which were sure to wine and dine them.