Carnifex. Part 19

"I don't expect you to actually hit anything until we're within two thousand, so hold you fire until then."

"Aye, aye, skipper."

"Aye."

The rocket grenade launchers, or RGLs, were the older version. They could reach out to eleven hundred meters; the rocket motor would drive them that far, but the integral fuse self-detonated them at just over nine hundred. They could hit a target the size of a tank at three hundred, but would generally miss at four. A larger target, something like the eighty-two-foot length of a patrol boat like the Trinidad Trinidad or or Agustin Agustin, they could, at least conceivably conceivably, hit at something like six hundred.

It didn't really matter that the RGLs weren't very likely to hit. They were the best the pirates had and so they had had to try. to try.

Lungile pushed and cuffed his RGL gunners, four of them to the forward deck where the backblast wouldn't endanger the ship or the other crewmen, the other two to the rear. He ordered the two to the stern to load fragmentation rounds. These were forty-millimeter, rather than seventy, and might, he thought, extend the practical range of the sh.e.l.ls as the fragments reached forward in a cone after the sh.e.l.ls exploded. Other crew, armed with rifles and light machine guns, he put to lining the gunwales on the side he was presenting to the enemy.

They'll never close to where we have a decent chance of a hit, thought Lungile. thought Lungile. Best to try for the longer shots, then. At the speed they look like they're making, that would be...mmm...maybe two minutes. We'll wait... Best to try for the longer shots, then. At the speed they look like they're making, that would be...mmm...maybe two minutes. We'll wait...

Then Lungile saw the flashing flame and the puffs of smoke from the forward deck of the infidel boat.

The 40mm, L56 gun was not so much a lightweight as a miniature heavyweight. In the other version, the longer and higher velocity version purchased for the Dos Lindas Dos Lindas, it fired up to four-hundred-and-fifty, eight-hundred-and-seventy gram sh.e.l.ls per minute from a one hundred and one round magazine. On the patrol boats the Legion had mounted the lighter weight, simpler, slower firing, and frankly obsolescent, land version. This had only a forty-three round magazine but, on the plus side, the weight and recoil were not enough to capsize the boat. The crews thought this was a pretty good tradeoff.

Guptillo's job wasn't to keep the magazine filled under full rate of fire; that was impossible. Rather, he and the other feeders were tasked to reload the fixed magazine after it went dry. This took considerably longer than emptying the thing did.

It could have, perhaps even should have, been a much more sophisticated system then it was. Ideally, given the rise and fall of the bow, the gun would have had an integral laser range finder and pseudo-stabilization system that allowed it to fire only when the elevation matched the sight. It didn't have anything like that. Instead, it had Clavell and the finest fire control computer in the known galaxy, the human brain.

The problem with using the brain as one's fire control computer, however, is that it is an absolute b.i.t.c.h b.i.t.c.h to program. to program.

With the first salvo of infidel sh.e.l.ls, Lungile knew he had a chance, if not a great one. He thought he saw four short-falling sh.e.l.ls impact and explode on the ocean's surface. At least one sh.e.l.l, he knew for a fact, overshot the boat. He knew it because it went right through one of the crew standing above the open-backed wheelhouse, waving his rifle around and shouting imprecations at the enemy. Apparently the pirate's body didn't create enough resistance to detonate the sh.e.l.l. This helped, though the body practically exploded anyway, showering the crew with blood, bone and meat, and sending one other pirate down with a chunk of rib buried in his throat.

And still the enemy boat was too far away to engage.

"Wait for the order, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Lungile shouted at his gunners.

"Clavell, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you missed!" Pedraz shouted into the intercom.

"Sorry, skipper. But hey, I bracketed it. Did you see that f.u.c.ker go poof?"

Pedraz simply grunted, then said, "Hold fire until we're closer; twelve hundred meters should do."

"Aye, skipper."

"And Santiona and Panfillo, you're going to have the same problem Clavell did, the rise and fall of the bow. Hold fire till we get to eight hundred."

Lungile's eyeball was no better calibrated than Clavell's. His weapons were considerably less sophisticated. Yet, as his mother was fond of saying, "The lion runs for a meal; the antelope for his life."

He couldn't run, of course, the pitiful ancient engines of his craft would get him nowhere when pursued by such swift opponents. Unlike the antelope, however, he he had fangs. had fangs.

"Fire!"

Pedraz saw the flash of flame and the b.a.l.l.s of smoke erupt from the pirate ship at the same time Clavell opened fire again with the 40mm.

The forty is high velocity, but not that that high. I wonder... high. I wonder... f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k!

"Incoming!" Pedraz screamed, loud enough to be heard over the engines even down in the galley, just as half a dozen much larger b.a.l.l.s of flame and smoke appeared in the air between his boat and his chosen target.

Santiona, like the other side machine gunners, scrunched down over his .41 to take any fragments on his helmet and the shoulder-reinforced lorica lorica body armor. This left his legs open and unprotected but for the greaves. The greaves, moreover, didn't quite cover his bulky legs. That, of course, was where he was. .h.i.t. body armor. This left his legs open and unprotected but for the greaves. The greaves, moreover, didn't quite cover his bulky legs. That, of course, was where he was. .h.i.t.

He felt a sort of plucking in three or four places on his legs and thought little of it until he looked down and saw his uniform rapidly reddening. Santiona felt suddenly nauseous. Then the burning began, a result of the hot bits of metal lodged in his flesh.

Shouting, "Medic!" the wounded gunner released the spade grips and sat heavily to the deck, his hands pressing to staunch the flow of blood. As soon as his rear hit he remembered his duty and also shouted, "Replacement gunner!"

The medic hustled up from a spot at the rear of the deck from which he could normally keep his eyes on all the crew in action. He stopped at the hatchway just long enough to shout down to the engine room, "Replacement gunner on Number Two!" before dashing over to render aid to Santiona.

Lungile felt a momentary rush of joy mixed with relief when he saw the half dozen RGL warheads self-detonate and then one of his enemies fall to the deck. That rush was shortlived, as the apparently wounded man was replaced almost immediately and someone else-a medic, Lungile a.s.sumed-began tended the man on deck before dragging him off.

Another reason for the short duration of the pirate's joy was that the enemy boat veered sharply to Lungile's right, slowed to about twenty knots and opened fire again. This time, at that slow speed-still twice that of his own bucket-and with the range closed and the bow no longer doing the Samba with the sea, the 40mm proved deadly. Another five round burst lanced out. This time, three of the five sh.e.l.ls found the bow of his boat. It half disintegrated in fire and metal shards mixed with smoldering wood splinters. A dozen men screamed in pain as splinter and shard found them.

One of the sh.e.l.ls. .h.i.t very near the waterline, near enough to it, in fact, to blast a hole large enough to let the sea come pouring in. The bow lowered and the boat slowed with the increased resistance. As it lowered, still more water gushed in.

Clavell switched his fire to single shot, traversing left to right and then back again, raking the gunwales. By this time he knew that his shipmate was. .h.i.t. Clavell was in no mood for the niceties. His sh.e.l.ls smashed in the wooden bulwark, knocking pirates down like ninepins. Especially did he concentrate on those who seemed most willing to fire; for them he would sometimes donate a second sh.e.l.l.

After about thirty rounds of 40mm, two .41-caliber heavy machine guns, one amidships and the other near the stern, kicked in. At that point Clavell felt free to concentrate on the stern and the engine compartment. Four shots and the thing was not only dead in the water and sinking, the parts still above water were beginning to burn. Pirates, such as still could, began dropping their weapons and jumping overboard. Many of those who could not rise to jump began to pray and scream as water rose or fire spread around them.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" Pedraz ordered. "Cris, hard a starboard. Let's go help Agustin." Agustin."

Lungile trod water fifty or sixty meters away from the ruin of his boat. His heart seethed with hate for the enemies that had killed his men, robbed him of his first command, and caused him to fail his father.

"I'll make you pay, infidel filth. I swear I will."

That would have to wait, however, for Lungile's next incarnation. Since the Salafis did not believe in reincarnation, it might have to wait forever. Lungile, struggling in the water, looked over to see an impossibly large shark's fin towering above the surface and veering towards him.

So much for oaths, the Xamari thought, sadly and hopelessly.

The shark slowly cruising a few feet below the water, and not very far from Lungile's scissoring legs, didn't really care about revenge or reincarnation. It did care about lunch and it did care about the invigorating aroma of blood in the water. Mostly it cared that lunch was, apparently, served.

I love love Uhuran food Uhuran food, thought the carcharodon megalodon, as it slid over onto its side to take Lungile at the waist, slicing him crudely in two and filling the water with the invigorating scent of very fresh blood.

Interlude

Clichy-sous-Bois, France, 6 June, 2100 The immigrants had served their purpose. They had bought time for the populations to be regularized regularized. They could go now. According to the papers, they should have gone ten years prior.

Spain and Italy were Islamic now, except for the Vatican in the latter. And the Vatican's independence was merely formal. The imposition of sharia sharia law had allowed the central and important European powers, the core of the EU, to cast those southern Latin states out. Both sides were happy enough with that, though the dethroned Pope, residing in a dank dungeon beneath Saint Peter's while awaiting his ritual burning at the stake, was law had allowed the central and important European powers, the core of the EU, to cast those southern Latin states out. Both sides were happy enough with that, though the dethroned Pope, residing in a dank dungeon beneath Saint Peter's while awaiting his ritual burning at the stake, was not not.

Give the people in charge their due, though; this was not to be a racist pogrom. Former Moslems who had cast off their worn shackles and joined the secular humanist majority of Europe were welcome to stay. It was only these, these wretches still resident in the cramped and filthy banlieues banlieues of France, or the slums of England and Germany, who had to go. of France, or the slums of England and Germany, who had to go.

Moslem Spain and Italy would not take any. They were poor enough and growing poorer still by the day. There was no room within either of them, or both together, for the forty or fifty million disenfranchised Moslems of the central powers. Switzerland, perhaps the premier military power of the Continent, had said, "Nein," and ma.s.sed its troops on the borders.

That left only one outlet...

While French troops went to England, mostly via Calais, for the great clearing out, and English Guards regiments landed at Bremen before marching to surround the Moslem quarters of Berlin and Stuttgart and Frankfurt; German troops, a full corps of them, had rolled to Paris on a mission that the EU called, "Human Hygiene." It was believed that the troops-German, French, or British-would be as harsh as necessary only if they did not share a language with the bulk of the people they were to uproot. The Scandinavians and the Benelux had likewise exchanged troops for the same reasons.

Gendarmes waved-well, not all all the French were the French were always always sorry to see the Germans roll into Paris, after all-as the grenadiers and pioneers of Second Panzer Division relieved them of responsibility for securing that portion of the electrified wire perimeter. While grenadiers climbed ladders, and others stood by their armored vehicles, the pioneers cut a portion of the wire fence for the rest to pour through. sorry to see the Germans roll into Paris, after all-as the grenadiers and pioneers of Second Panzer Division relieved them of responsibility for securing that portion of the electrified wire perimeter. While grenadiers climbed ladders, and others stood by their armored vehicles, the pioneers cut a portion of the wire fence for the rest to pour through.

From loudspeakers mounted atop heavy vehicles came the command, "Kanacken...RAUS."

Chapter Eight.

And all the time-such is the tragi-comedy of our situation-we continue to clamour for those very qualities we are rendering impossible. You can hardly open a periodical without coming across the statement that what our civilization needs is more 'drive', or dynamism, or self-sacrifice, or 'creativity'. In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful.C.S. Lewis, The Abolition of Man The Abolition of Man

27/6/457 AC, Xamar Abdulahi was stuck in three ways. All three were exquisitely painful. In the first place, he found himself forced to pay compensation to the families of the men he had lost at sea a couple of weeks prior. In some cases this included coming up with new dowries for old wives, always an expensive proposition. Secondly, he had to deal with Lungile's bereaved mother. This was particularly bad as she had no other children. The reason reason, however, that she had no other children was that after the first she had become unpleasantly and unattractively fat. Abdulahi had never been able to bring himself to touch her again, given that he had younger and slimmer wives, concubines and slave girls to spend his time on. But now, in good conscience, he had to give her some of his...attention. Worst of all was that he had neither the means of retaliating against those who had so unrighteously slaughtered his men and his son, then stood by smiling as sharks took care of the survivors, nor could he even go to the world press for justice. If he did, the news that it was possible for pirates to be made to suffer so severely would have most of his followers back to farming and hauling fishing nets in no time.

He'd expected the infidel mercenaries to broadcast the news of their success. It was quite a surprise that they had not. Perhaps those for whom they worked had vetoed pa.s.sing on the news. Or perhaps the mercenaries had some reasons of their own for keeping quiet. It was something to think upon.

Mustafa had promised him that it had been a fluke, that the mercenaries couldn't repeat their trick. Abdulahi had his doubts. Already he could think of a couple of ways, a couple of different tricks, that his enemies could use against him. He'd had rumors from ports and ships up and down the coast of helicopters flying in heavily armed, uniformed men to stand guard on certain ships. He'd placed those ships off limits to his followers, of course. But what of the armed men he didn't know about? What of the loss in revenues from ships he could no longer attack safely?

Dear G.o.d, what if the shipping companies paying the Jizya Jizya decided to pay the mercenaries for protection instead? Will I have to cut my tolls? Can I afford to cut my tolls? Will some successor rear his head if I do, and if I have to reduce the stipends to my followers? decided to pay the mercenaries for protection instead? Will I have to cut my tolls? Can I afford to cut my tolls? Will some successor rear his head if I do, and if I have to reduce the stipends to my followers?

Abdulahi shivered at the thought. In the hard world in which he had grown up and lived, the rule of the wolf held sway. If he lost his power, he would also lose his life.

I must go to Mustafa, Abdulahi thought. Abdulahi thought. He has the ships and the trained men to handle this problem. He has the ships and the trained men to handle this problem.

29/6/467 AC, The Base, Kashmir "Can we take out this enemy?" Mustafa asked of his a.s.sistant, Abdul Aziz. we take out this enemy?" Mustafa asked of his a.s.sistant, Abdul Aziz.

"From what I've been able to gather, Prince, it will be very difficult. They have a good group of escorts and an absolutely amazing array of machine guns and anti-aircraft cannon-missiles, as well-to guard their major ship. Moreover, the pattern of their attack on Abdulahi's men suggests that the Federated States Navy is committed to a.s.sisting them, even if under the table, so to speak."

"Perhaps a submarine from heretic Farsia?" Mustafa suggested.

Abdul Aziz shook his head. "Too noisy. Even if the mercenaries lack sophisticated anti-submarine warfare capability, the FSN is the definition definition of sophisticated. For that matter, the mercenaries may not lack the capability. We simply don't know." of sophisticated. For that matter, the mercenaries may not lack the capability. We simply don't know."

"Hopeless, then?"

Abdul Aziz shook his head. "No, Prince, not hopeless. But...very difficult. At the very least, taking out their aircraft carrier will be very, very difficult. I do have an idea."

"Let me hear it then."

"We would need to expend a reasonably fast freighter and probably its crew."

Mustafa shrugged. Ships and mujahadin were replaceable, hence expendable. He had twenty-seven ships and nearly a thousand seamen, all dedicated to the cause.

"We would need to load the ship with explosive-I am not sure of the best mix-and ram the carrier."

"I don't have anything that fast," Mustafa answered.

"I know, Prince. We would also have to attack the carrier's propellers. I found a short bit on the GlobalNet that said the carrier has AZIPOD drive. This is very good but also, I think, more vulnerable if we can detonate a ton or two of explosive near the carrier's stern. If we can, we can jam, or perhaps even totally destroy, the drives. This would leave it vulnerable to ramming. Still, Prince, this in only an idea...almost off the top of my head. I need to plan more, much more. But before I can plan, I need to know if you are willing to expend a freighter, several smaller fast boats, and perhaps ten or twenty million FSD for torpedoes and missiles...and for something else, too."

"Define 'something else'," Mustafa said.

"It occurred to me, Prince, that one way to get a ship close to the enemy carrier would be to pay them for protection as some other shippers are doing. Our ship could be 'running from' Abdulahi's men toward the protection of the carrier. Or, at the very least, pretending to keep close under protection of the infidel ship. The small fast boat could be lowered over the side when they got sufficiently close. Torpedoes and missiles could be fired to add to the confusion. This is all very rough, of course."

Finished, Aziz bowed his head, awaiting Mustafa's decision. The chief thought hard for some time, in silence. He smoked two cigarettes, sipped absently at his coffee. In the end he decided.

"Make your plan carefully, Abdul Aziz."

29/6/467 AC, El Hipodromo, Balboa City Parilla had retired the week before. There'd been a parade, Carrera serving as Commander of Troops for the event to honor his friend. Speeches had been made, and more than a few tears shed. Lourdes and Mrs. Parilla had cried. Indeed, Raul Parilla, himself, had had to wipe a few unfeigned tears away at leaving the finest military force he'd he'd ever been part of, and the only one with which he had shed his blood. ever been part of, and the only one with which he had shed his blood.

His final comment had been, "If I didn't feel I had to do this, both for the Legion and for Balboa, you would have had to carry me off this island feet first."

Running a presidential campaign from the island seemed like a bad idea from any number of perspectives. On the other hand, Parilla's old home in Ciudad Balboa Ciudad Balboa was too dangerous a place for him to stay anymore. After all, the government still hated his guts. The Tauran Union's pet creature the Cosmopolitan Criminal Court-in effect a Tauran court, masquerading as a world court, for the prosecution of non-Taurans-still had a warrant out for his arrest. There were Tauran Union troops along the Transitway to execute that warrant, too, if he ever grew sloppy. was too dangerous a place for him to stay anymore. After all, the government still hated his guts. The Tauran Union's pet creature the Cosmopolitan Criminal Court-in effect a Tauran court, masquerading as a world court, for the prosecution of non-Taurans-still had a warrant out for his arrest. There were Tauran Union troops along the Transitway to execute that warrant, too, if he ever grew sloppy.

Carrera had turned the original "home" of the Legion, the Casa Linda, over to Parilla and his wife, rent-free. It had stood empty for the last several years, ever since the Legion's Headquarters had moved out to the Isla Real. It, and Parilla, would be the better for it being occupied again. From there, and with a couple of maniples of legionaries around it for security's sake, Parilla would run his campaign for President of the country.

The city's racetrack was one of only two places in the country that would really do for Parilla to announce his candidacy. Capable of seating upwards of fifty thousand, or perhaps even sixty in a pinch, the hippodrome was surrounded by open fields and parks, as well as a broad series of parking lots.