Carnifex. Part 21

Ashraf felt a small surge of relief. They weren't going to cut his throat. And he was going to get out of action for a while. It would feel odd though, leaving the first home in which he'd felt comfortable, for certain values of comfortable, in years.

2/7/467 AC, Hovercraft pads, Main Cantonment, Isla Real In contrast to Cara's happy smile, Cruz's face was a stone mask, a study in "Man, hiding his misery." While Cara played with the kids, he just looked longingly in the general direction of his tercio tercio's camp, a few miles up the coast.

Their household goods were long since packed up; the 3 bedroom bungalow they'd shared turned back over to LHD, the Legionary Housing Directorate. They had a place waiting in the city now, while Cruz attended university. He'd met the new neighbors and found he had nothing in common with any of them. Maybe his cla.s.smates at the university would be better.

Maybe, but I doubt it.

Somewhere in his personal bag Cruz had the orders a.s.signing him to Seventh Cohort (Reserve) of the First Tercio Tercio ( (Principe Eugenio). At least he'd be able to soldier one long weekend a month and a month over the summer. The three month's pay he'd earn would come in handy, too, since a legionary veteran's student stipend, even for a centurion, was something less than generous for a married man with two children. Really, it wouldn't be enough to live on, but for the guaranteed loans. And those came with strings.

Cara never thought about that. She was happy enough that her man would be home and out of danger. She never seemed to have considered how miserable he was going to be without that danger, and always stuck at home.

Cruz heard a growing whine and looked out to sea. Yes, there it was; the huge, Volgan-built hovercraft that would take them from the island to the landing point in the City. From there they'd take a taxi to their new apartment, their new "home."

Home? Cruz thought. Cruz thought. What is home? It's not just the place you live; it's not just the place your woman is. I think...maybe...it's the place you're happiest. And I'm leaving home. What is home? It's not just the place you live; it's not just the place your woman is. I think...maybe...it's the place you're happiest. And I'm leaving home.

2/7/467 AC, Hamilton, FD, FSC Dating from early in the history of the colonization of Terra Nova, the Federated States' Executive Mansion looked less a home and more a fortress. Within it, in an office marked by golds and greens and tasteful old woods, the President of the FSC conferred with his secretary of war.

"Cut the bulls.h.i.t, James," said the President of the FSC to his secretary of war. "The war in Pashtia is not not going swimmingly. Our 'allies' are not doing their part, despite what you promised me, they promised you, and I promised the people who elected me and the newspapers and television stations that supported me. Right now, the Office of Strategic Intelligence is convinced that Pashtia will fall about two months before mid-term elections. going swimmingly. Our 'allies' are not doing their part, despite what you promised me, they promised you, and I promised the people who elected me and the newspapers and television stations that supported me. Right now, the Office of Strategic Intelligence is convinced that Pashtia will fall about two months before mid-term elections. That That, my advisors a.s.sure me, will cost us both the House and the Senate. Losing those will stymie the social programs we counted on getting pa.s.sed to be re-elected. All of which means that, unless the Pashtian situation is turned around, we'll all be looking for jobs after that election."

"But Mr. President..." Malcolm began.

"Can it, James. No bulls.h.i.t. We're in trouble and no two ways about it. Now how are you going to fix this and save our skins? And, please, spare me the nonsense about ma.s.sive formation of TU troops to turn the tide. They're not coming, not today, not tomorrow, not ever. ever. And if they did come they still wouldn't And if they did come they still wouldn't fight fight."

Malcolm hung his head. He'd been so sure that troops would be forthcoming. He'd been convinced that with the right plat.i.tudes, the proper kowtowing to the Tauran Union, the World League, the humanitarian activist NGOs and the world press, he could persuade the Tauros to really commit to the war. He'd been absolutely certain that the Gauls and the Sachsens would really help if only they were approached the right way. He'd been equally certain he had that way.

Bah! I couldn't even talk them into providing what they promised promised, let alone more. I couldn't talk them into allowing what little they have sent to actually go out of their bases and fight. fight.

This was too uncomfortable a train of thought. Malcolm quickly added the mental amendment, If only the previous administration hadn't so thoroughly poisoned the waters. If only the previous administration hadn't so thoroughly poisoned the waters.

He never considered that maybe the water was poisoned to begin with.

2/7/467 AC, First Landing, Federated States of Columbia Although the local virus had the effect of substantially reducing the harmful effects of some of the things found in tobacco, they had done nothing to make its nicotine less of a poison in sufficient dosage. Indeed, in the form of nicotine sulfate, it was one of the better insecticides and lethal to humans in dosages of as little as fifty or sixty milligrams. It was even more useful since it was readily absorbed through the skin.

Khalid could have purchased simple cigarettes or cigars to prepare his mixture. There was, however, a simpler way, taught to him by his Volgan instructors. This was to purchase a commercial insecticide and distill out the impurities, leaving fairly pure nicotine sulfate. This he had done, achieving a highly concentrated and extremely deadly form of the stuff, with only enough liquid to make it free flowing.

In his hotel room he attached a baby's snot sucker to some clear, flexible tubing cut to the length of an umbrella. With the squeeze bottle at the end of the snot sucker, he vacuumed an appreciable quant.i.ty of the nicotine sulfate solution into the tube. This he plugged with a small cork, very tightly. The entire a.s.sembly he then taped to the cane of the umbrella, making a small slash in the material to allow the corked tube to protrude through slightly.

The umbrella stood by the hotel room door. Meanwhile, Khalid, his hair lightened and green contacts covering his own brown eyes, studied the picture in the folder he'd been given. The picture was of one Ishmael ibn Mohamed ibn Salah, min Sa'ana, a very minor scion of Mustafa's clan, currently attending school in First Landing. The boy was only twenty and lacked both the finely developed paranoia of the older members of his clan, as well as their money to hire guards and drivers.

Boy, thought Khalid. Boy, I don't know why you have to die. Nor do I care. But enjoy the morning, even so. You will not see the sunset. Boy, I don't know why you have to die. Nor do I care. But enjoy the morning, even so. You will not see the sunset.

With that, Khalid closed the file and stood, walking to his bag to place the file within it. He closed and locked the bag. With that he left, taking the umbrella with him and placing a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the room's door.

Outside the hotel, Khalid hailed a taxi which brought him to the corner nearest Ishmael's small, student apartment. He waited a short time, then saw the boy leave, smoking a cigarette.

Which is why I chose this method. It will take a while for them to notice the outrageous amount of nicotine in your system. With doctors in the Federated States as they are now, they may not even care to look. After all, you are are one of those utter unmentionable, those vile untouchables. You smoke, boy, and it's going to be the death of you. one of those utter unmentionable, those vile untouchables. You smoke, boy, and it's going to be the death of you.

The boy, Ishmael, disappeared into a nearby subway entrance. Khalid followed him down, neither so closely as to be obvious nor so far behind that he couldn't run to catch the train should his target enter one.

There was no train. There was, however, a fair crowd. Using the crowd as cover, Khalid moved to within two feet of Ishmael. Then he settled down to wait for a train.

Unfortunately, the next train entered the subway on the other side. Khalid really wanted not just the noise, in case the nicotine caused the boy to cry out. He also wanted everyone's attention focused on the train's arrival, and movement to begin in the crowd, to cover his own withdrawal.

As expected, the next train arrived on his side, with a tremendous rattle. Nearly everyone but Khalid turned their attention to the train, and about half-lurched forward half a step, as if to gain an advantage for boarding.

Khalid was prepared to make a similar half-lurch, if his target did. This proved unnecessary. He pointed the tip of his umbrella at the boy's calf. At the same time, he reached the other hand over and gave a squeeze to the snot sucker. As little sound as the popping cork made, there was no chance of it being heard over the sound of the train. The nicotine sulfate sprayed out, soaking the target's cloth-covered calf. Khalid immediately turned away, and walked into the ma.s.s of humanity gathering by the edge of the platform.

When Khalid turned and looked through the window of the subway car, there was a small crowd gathering around a prostrate, quivering form.

4/7/467 AC, St. Ekaterina Caserne, Fuerte Cameron, Balboa The stiffly marching Volgans sang in voices designed to knock birds dead at a mile.

"Pust' yarost' blagorodnaya Vskipaet, kak volna Idyot voyna narodnaya, Svyaschennaya voyna!"

"Catchy," Carrera complimented. "What's it mean?"

Samsonov, the Volgan colonel of paratroopers Kuralski had contacted and hired-along with the bulk of his regiment-some years back, puzzled over the translation for a moment before answering, "Comes from Great Global War...but maybe older than that. Not sure. Means...mmm...something like, 'Let waves of righteous fury...Swell up as never before...And spur us to the victory of...Our sacred people's war.' You like?"

"It's excellent. Can you have one of your men make a translation and send it on to Professor Ruiz. Maybe send him a small chorus to demonstrate, too."

Samsonov, old, stout and blond where he wasn't balding, answered, "Easy...not those men singing now, though." He gestured at the company marching by. "Those men aren't bad but...regimental chorus much better."

"As you prefer."

The Volgans, roughly thirteen hundred of them, weren't on the Legion's official strength. Rather, they were employees of Abogado's Foreign Military Training Group, a subsidiary of Chatham, Hennessey and Schmied, that had provided training expertise to the Legion since the beginning. Most of FMTG now was, in fact, Volgan since the Balboans and other Latins were long since capable of conducting Initial Entry Training and most specialty training, along with the Cazador School and other leadership courses. With the bulk of the aircraft being Volgan and a fair number of the ships of the cla.s.sis cla.s.sis likewise, those departments were staffed almost entirely with Samsonov's countrymen, as well. Even for the aircraft bought from the FSC, the instructors were a mix of qualified Volgans and Balboans. likewise, those departments were staffed almost entirely with Samsonov's countrymen, as well. Even for the aircraft bought from the FSC, the instructors were a mix of qualified Volgans and Balboans.

Samsonov's regiment, and it was a reinforced Volgan parachute regiment in organization, provided both the Controller-Evaluators and the opposing forces at the Legion's Centro de Entrenamiento para el Ejercito Expedicionario, Centro de Entrenamiento para el Ejercito Expedicionario, or CENTIPEDE. The CENTIPEDE had served to put the finishing touches on cohorts just before they deployed to the war. Even without a contract, for the nonce, training continued. Being elite soldiers from an Army with an impressive tradition, this suited the Volgans just fine. It suited them even better that they weren't in Volga, anymore. or CENTIPEDE. The CENTIPEDE had served to put the finishing touches on cohorts just before they deployed to the war. Even without a contract, for the nonce, training continued. Being elite soldiers from an Army with an impressive tradition, this suited the Volgans just fine. It suited them even better that they weren't in Volga, anymore.

It was possible that there was a more anti-Tsarist-Marxism leaning group in the world than Samsonov's paratroopers, indeed someone had once suggested as much. No one had ever proven it, though. Samsonov's men loathed Marxism as only those who'd lived under it could. They likewise didn't much care for the corrupt rump of the Volgan Empire that still lived.

One reason they were pretty content to be in Balboa was that they earned standard legionary wages-for the enlisted men about fifteen times more than Volga paid its army-and lived and ate, oh, much much better. better.

Many had married into the locals and some had even transferred over to the Legion. In turn, there were now to be found the odd Garcia and Gomez, seconded from their home tercios tercios and standing among the Gureviches and Gregoriis of Samsonov's regiment. In time, Carrera expected something like complete a.s.similation. The notion that FMTG was anything but an arm of the Legion was rather fictive, anyway. and standing among the Gureviches and Gregoriis of Samsonov's regiment. In time, Carrera expected something like complete a.s.similation. The notion that FMTG was anything but an arm of the Legion was rather fictive, anyway.

"These dirty rotten Fascist pigs We'll shoot between the eyes.

The garbage of humanity Is headed for demise."

"What's the t.i.tle?" Carrera asked.

This time the translation came more easily. "We call it...'Holy War' or...maybe better, 'Sacred War.'"

"Oh, yeah yeah" Carrera smiled. "I want that in the Legion's song books."

By the time the marching company of Volgans had pa.s.sed out of earshot, Samsonov was leading Carrera into the regimental headquarters. They pa.s.sed by banners more or less dripping with battle honors from the Great Global War, the Volga-Pashtia War, and everything in between. Carrera stopped to finger the streamers, respectfully.

"An honorable regiment," he whispered.

Samsonov answered the whisper. "Was my father's regiment...uncle's before him. Eventually...fell to me but in worst of times. When your man, Kuralski, found us we were reduced to raising corn and pigs to eat. That would be fine for some non-ent.i.ty motorized rifle regiment but we... paratroopers. paratroopers. Even at that, government going to close us out. They begrudged us...cost of our uniforms...and of heating oil for winter." Even at that, government going to close us out. They begrudged us...cost of our uniforms...and of heating oil for winter."

The Volgan colonel spat.

Reluctantly, Carrera released the battle streamers. "How many of your men are veterans of the war in Pashtia?" he asked.

"About three in ten, or perhaps bit more," the Volgan answered. "Why?"

"I'm not just operating off faith, here," Carrera said, "and I am reasonably certain that we'll be rehired soon to go to Pashtia. It's a different environment from Sumer, one my men aren't used to. We're capable of doing the mountain training and such ourselves-"

"And better than we could," Samsonov interjected.

"-but I don't know how the Pashtun act and think and neither do my men."

"We can help there. Quite lot; truth. But have you considered Pashtun? They're...first cla.s.s...mercenaries and, if well treated, loyal to salt."

Carrera nodded. "I've got someone over there looking to do just that. But it's hard, he told me, to sort out the worthwhile ones from the infiltrators. Actually, he said it's impossible and I told him to forget it and concentrate on buying up land and pack animals, while collecting intelligence."

Samsonov rubbed his nose. "I can help with that. Some tribes trustworthy; some not. And I know mullah, name Ha.s.sim, who is very learned, very scholarly, and-fortunately- utterly corrupt atheist."

"Can you send a recruiting team over to help my man and to round up this Mullah Ha.s.sim?"

"Sure...what else you want?"

"I want you to restructure to prepare us for Pashtia. Abogado knows."

7/7/467 AC, War Department, Hamilton, FD Kenneth O'Meara-Temeroso squirmed in his chair in Malcolm's plush office. He couldn't, he just couldn't couldn't, do what the secretary was demanding of him. Besides, it was Malcolm who had sent him to Sumer expressly to fire, hurt, and humiliate Carrera. How could he go back and beg for help now?

"It won't even work," O'Meara-Temeroso objected. "It's a waste of time. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d will never forgive us for trying to stiff him. And he won't take the pain he caused us by pulling out so abruptly as sufficient payback, either."

Malcolm smiled warmly. His tan seemed particularly orange today, to match. "I don't care if you have to suck his d.i.c.k. I want troops for Pashtia and I want them fast fast."

Whatever his failings, and they were many, ranging from obesity to a remarkable arrogance coupled with stupidity, O'Meara-Temeroso was still, at least arguably, a man. This was too much. "You suck his d.i.c.k. I'm resigning." suck his d.i.c.k. I'm resigning."

And with that he stood, abruptly turned, and walked out.

One worthless, arrogant bureaucrat gone, mused Malcolm. mused Malcolm. Hmmmm; who might this Carrera person listen to? Hmmmm... Hmmmm; who might this Carrera person listen to? Hmmmm...

"Suzy," Malcolm said pleasantly into the intercom, "get me General Rivers, would you?"

"I remember his last words on the subject very distinctly, Mr. Secretary. He said, 'We'll keep track and when you come looking to hire us again everything you've cost us will be added to our fee, with interest from today.' Are you prepared to pay that, Mr. Secretary? The bill is going to be enormous. And since we tried to send funds Carrera considered due to his organization to another, the national government of Balboa, he's not going to give us credit."

"What do you think he'll charge us?"

"As much as he can squeeze. In fact, as much as he thinks it takes to hurt us. We p.i.s.sed him off pretty badly and he is not the...forgiving type."

"But he needs money," Malcolm objected. "He doesn't have a national tax base to pay for his war machine."

"Someone-we think the Yamatans-are funneling a great deal of money to him right now. And he already had quite a lot. I don't think he's hurting."

Malcolm sighed, bleakly. It was so...frankly inconceivable, that a mere mercenary should be so difficult. Ah, well. Needs must... Ah, well. Needs must...

"General Rivers, I want you to go see him and see what he'll take. Don't commit us to anything yet. See what he might take that isn't in the form of dollars. The President doesn't want to go to congress over this. Maybe we have something he wants...weapons...gold...I dunno. But the President wants him and what the President wants-"

"I'll leave day after tomorrow, Mr. Secretary. But I can't promise anything."

9/7/467 AC, Motor Yacht Suzy Q, Xamar Coast The storm trick wouldn't work more than once. At least, it wouldn't work twice in a row. The cla.s.sis needed something else, rather, several somethings else.

The Suzy Q Suzy Q was one of those things. Oh, she was a real yacht, all right, one hundred and ten feet worth of outrageous luxury. Even the girls aboard were luxury models, hookers taken from the was one of those things. Oh, she was a real yacht, all right, one hundred and ten feet worth of outrageous luxury. Even the girls aboard were luxury models, hookers taken from the Wappen von Bremen Wappen von Bremen and paid a hefty bonus for sunning themselves topless on the forward deck. Everyone had been surprised that so many of the girls had volunteered when asked. Six had been needed, thirty-two had volunteered, and that was even before the danger bonus was mentioned. Who knew; perhaps they had begun to think of themselves as and paid a hefty bonus for sunning themselves topless on the forward deck. Everyone had been surprised that so many of the girls had volunteered when asked. Six had been needed, thirty-two had volunteered, and that was even before the danger bonus was mentioned. Who knew; perhaps they had begun to think of themselves as legionettes legionettes.

Whatever the motivation, they did a very impressive job, sunning and stretching, nonchalantly showing off their a.s.sets to the fishing boats they pa.s.sed. The cla.s.sis cla.s.sis a.s.sumed, not unreasonably, that at least a.s.sumed, not unreasonably, that at least some some of those boats reporting directly to Pirates-R-Us. of those boats reporting directly to Pirates-R-Us.

In antic.i.p.ation of that, the boat was not quite so yacht-like under the surface. Both sides and the stern had been heavily reinforced with resinated aramid-fiber armor plates. Three .41-caliber machine guns were positioned, each side, to fire outward, as was a seventh to fire astern. The machine guns had been modified with a special jacket for water cooling. They could fire for half an hour or more before the barrels overheated. As a matter of fact, the half hour was about as much as the testing committee had cared to check. No one really knew how long they could fire without a let up. Besides the .41s, under the forward deck a single front-shielded 20mm was poised to be raised by hydraulics. An additional seven Cazadors and an equal number of sailors posed as crew in civilian dress, over and above the hidden seventeen slotted to man the machine guns and 20mm.

The Cazadors didn't get the girls' danger bonus, though they drew normal combat pay.

Centurion Rodriguez, admiring the girls from the wheel house, thought, Screw the bonus; watching the girls is bonus enough. Screw the bonus; watching the girls is bonus enough. Standing next to him the Standing next to him the Suzy Q Suzy Q's skipper, Warrant Officer Chu, had much the same thought.

Both were making plans for their next scheduled visit to the von Bremen. von Bremen.

"Sweet duty," mused Rodriguez.

"That it is," agreed Chu. He pointed at the boat's radar screen. "But it's about to get a lot less sweet."

"Suzy Q this is this is Ironsides; Ironsides; company coming." company coming."

Chu picked up the microphone and answered, "We see 'em coming, Ironsides. Ironsides. No problem, just the one boat." No problem, just the one boat."

"Shall I have the girls start their routine?" asked Rodriguez.

Chu noted the distance on the screen by eye. He shook his head slightly. "No...wait a bit. They won't be here for half an hour. But why don't you have the Santisima Trinidad Santisima Trinidad close it up some?" close it up some?"