Carnifex. Part 27

Hard, hard, Noorzad mourned, in thinking of the men he'd left behind. Hard it is to break up this band I worked and fought so hard to build. Hard to lose the company of comrades until we meet in Paradise. Hard to hear the screams of the wounded and the dying. Hardest of all to think that the horrible things I've done might be for nothing. Hard it is to break up this band I worked and fought so hard to build. Hard to lose the company of comrades until we meet in Paradise. Hard to hear the screams of the wounded and the dying. Hardest of all to think that the horrible things I've done might be for nothing.

"No," he said aloud. "It can't be for nothing. Allah would never permit such a fate."

"Chief, we've got company," said, Malakzay, gesturing as he rode to Noorzad's left.

"Eh? Oh, s.h.i.t, not again."

Noorzad looked over his shoulder and saw two of those d.a.m.nable planes these infidels used. Even this small core of his band had been struck three times from the air in the last two days.

"They're just circling," he observed. "We probably don't look like much from above."

Malakzay looked around at the loose column and answered, "Maybe not, but from the ground we look a lot like what we are."

"They're coming low to look us over," Noorzad announced at the top of his voice. "Look innocent, innocent, boys." boys."

The planes indeed came in low, not more than one hundred meters above the ground. At just about that distance from the tail of Noorzad's column they began emitting smoke as if from the mouth of a volcano. Noorzad's eyes caught numerous small objects-indeed, hundreds of them-erupting from squarish containers on the planes' undersides. The first of these hit ground yet, to Noorzad's surprise, did not explode. He was just digesting this bit of information when one of the cylinders in his view sent out what looked like six or seven almost invisibly thin wires with small weights on the end. One of his fighters reached for one of the wires.

"Sto..."

Boom.

Quiroz had watched with keen interest as the planes swept over the guerillas, dispensing their cargo. He didn't know too much of the technical details of the scatterable mines. From where he lay, though, it looked like the two Turbo-Finches had laid down a fairly thick pattern.

He saw in his binoculars as one of the guerillas reached over to touch either one of the mines or one of the tripwires they emitted. He then saw a good sized puff of angry, black smoke appear as that guerilla was tossed backward. Best of all, he saw that the guerilla didn't arise and that no one went to his aid.

"Salazar, you can take your shot anytime now."

"Roger, Sarge," answered the sniper, easing himself into firing position behind his .34-caliber, scoped rifle.

"s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t! These b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are as evil as the Blue Jinn!" Malakzay exclaimed, glancing down at the torn and faceless body laying on the ground.

"Blue Jinn, indeed," answered Noorzad. "but cursing them does no good. How do we-?"

The bullet's crack came as a surprise. Not far away from the two a single man was struck down with a small hole in his chest and a much larger one in his back. As he fell he hit a mine's tripwire very near to where the wire emerged from the mine. The mine promptly jumped up and blew up, scattering guts to the wind. Another guerilla, too near to the explosion, went down shrieking and clutching at his groin where a largish fragment had torn off his s.c.r.o.t.u.m and testes.

Quiroz grunted with satisfaction as he saw the guerillas drop. "Good shot, Salazar."

The sniper didn't answer. Already he and his spotter were scanning for another target. Unfortunately, the guerilla band had gone to ground-albeit not without setting off another mine. Of good targets they saw none.

After visually sweeping the entire area, the sniper announced. "No good targets, Sarge."

Quiroz muttered, "True, but only for some interpretations of 'good targets.' Buuut...kill the horses, Salazar. Radio; get on the horn and tell headquarters we've got a band pinned. Tell them we can't take them all and if they want prisoners they need to reinforce."

Quiroz stopped speaking for a moment, tapping his face with his fingers. His eyes settled on his a.s.sistant, Cabo Cabo Vega, then on the other sniper, Legionary Guzman. Vega, then on the other sniper, Legionary Guzman.

"Vega," he said, "take charge here. I'm going to take Guzman forward and act as his spotter. We'll be"-Quiroz finger pointed-"somewhere over by that boulder that looks like a t.i.t. Keep on the horn nagging headquarters to get some infantry here."

As usual, Noorzad found the screaming of the horses somehow more disconcerting than the screaming of his own men. After all, was not the horse especially praised by Allah? And yet the Holy Koran held out no hope of Paradise for them, even should they be killed in G.o.d's cause.

The one good thing Noorzad could see was that the enemy fired infrequently, however well. It must be only the one sniper, It must be only the one sniper, he presumed. he presumed. Thank Allah for small favors. Thank Allah for small favors.

Then came the moment when two beings, a man and a donkey, screamed out almost simultaneously. That told him there was a second sniper team out there. Worse, perhaps, while he could make out both the shot and the sonic boom of the initial sniper butchering his men, this new source of fire made neither. That, That, that possibility of being killed silently, was terrifying. that possibility of being killed silently, was terrifying.

"Malakzay?" Noorzad called out. "Are you still with me?"

"Yes, Sahib Sahib. Here I am."

A bullet snapped overhead. A miss, thankfully A miss, thankfully. Yet another struck a rock nearby but that one made no snap beyond the striking of the lead on the rock. The snipers had given up on surprise and, to an extent, even very careful shots. It was as if they were trying to hold the mujahadin mujahadin in position for some greater menace. That was worrying, as well. in position for some greater menace. That was worrying, as well.

Noorzad hesitated. He hated hated giving the order. But... giving the order. But... crack. crack.

"Pa.s.s the word to stampede the horses straight up the eastern side of the trail, herding them north."

"But Noorzad..."

"Just do do it!" the latter snapped. it!" the latter snapped.

It was only a couple of horses, at first, Quiroz saw. Quickly that brace became a herd and, moreover, a herd with some riders in it as a few of the enemy used the horses to try their own breakout attempt. The horses set off mine after mine. But what would fell a man immediately didn't necessarily do the same with animals five times bigger. It was a strange and horrible scene, the more horrible as more horses were swallowed up in the billows of evil, black smoke only to emerge moments later trailing dangling intestines and broken limbs.

"What the f.u.c.k have you stopped firing for, Guzman?"

The .51 sniper shook his st.u.r.dy brown head and answered, "It's just too...nasty...sorry, Sergeant." He settled back into the stock to resume firing.

"I think the way is clear, Noorzad," Malakzay announced. "The last couple of animals standing made it through."

The sun was setting to the west now. Soon it would be dark. Did the infidels have their cursed night vision equipment? Noorzad had to presume that they did. But...he knew from his experience with the Taurans that the things were limited. He thought he could escape under cover of night.

Crack!

20/9/467 AC, Kibla Pa.s.s The sun was high overhead, casting a shadowless light down onto the gruesome scene. The Cazadors had come out, dressed in the pixilated tiger stripes they shared with most of the Legion. Beside them, lined up on the road, were about one hundred tall, lean and fierce looking men mounted on hungry-looking horses. All stood well to the north of the minefield. It was long duration and was not supposed to self-detonate for another two weeks. Still, quality control at the factory being, at best, imperfect, it generally didn't pay to take chances.

"Quien esta el jefe aqui?" one of the ruffians asked.

Quiroz did a double take on seeing a mounted, bearded, dirty horseman who spoke such clear Spanish. He'd been advised over the radio of the Pashtun Scouts arrival, and so had held his fire. Still, the incongruous appearance of border bandit and good Spanish came as a shock.

He saluted the speaker and announced, "Sir, Sergeant Quiroz reports."

Cano returned the salute from horseback, then dismounted. "Tribune Cano, Sergeant, Fourth Infantry Tercio seconded to the Pashtun Mounted Scouts."

Cano took a moment to look around at the scattered bodies of men and horse. He put out his hand and said, "d.a.m.ned fine job."

"Thank you, sir. We got maybe half of them. Maybe even two thirds. The rest got away."

Cano heard the subtle rebuke. "We rode as fast as we could, Sergeant. But we got the word late and intercepted two small groups of guerillas on the way." Cano shrugged. Fortunes of war. Fortunes of war.

"What now, sir?" Quiroz asked.

"We're going to try to pursue up the mountains," Cano answered.

"Well...sir...make sure they don't do to you what we did to them.

"How could they, Sergeant? They are not men so good as yours, nor are my men so bad as them." Cano laughed, "And they they don't have aircraft to drop mines on our heads." don't have aircraft to drop mines on our heads."

Interlude

Turtle Bay, New York, 4 September, 2105 In over a century and a half, no one had been able to strip the UN bureaucracy of its perks. No matter how constrained the budget, and in olden days it had been sometimes very constrained indeed, free parking was their charter-given right. Remuneration at the highest level found anywhere on the planet their just due. Generous educational benefits for their children only fair. Fresh water poured by human servants an utter necessity to the forwarding of their sacred work on behalf of mankind.

One of those servants poured now for the three person hiring committee tasked with sorting out the right kind of people from the ma.s.s of aspirants.

"Goldstein won't do," said one of the committee, Guillaume Sand, placing the file aside.

"Of course not," agreed another, Ibrahim Lakhdar. "Like we accept Jews Jews anymore. They've served their purpose." anymore. They've served their purpose."

"To be fair, Goldstein claims not to be a practicing Jew," objected the third, Alan Menage.

"It's in the blood," Lakhdar sneered.

Menage shrugged. No sense it getting Ibrahim all worked up over it. Besides, it isn't like I really No sense it getting Ibrahim all worked up over it. Besides, it isn't like I really care care about the Jews. about the Jews.

"Here's an interesting one," said Sand, opening a different application file and diverting the subject away from Lakhdar's distressingly open open anti-Semitism. "Louis Arbeit. Harvard. Sorbonne. Early volunteer work with International Solidarity Movement. Parents are both Colleagues of Proven Worth. Mother: Christine Arbeit, D1 with the Human Rights Commission. An up and comer, I hear. Father: Bernard Chanet, Deputy Director for International Disarmament. His grandmother recently retired from the European Parliament." anti-Semitism. "Louis Arbeit. Harvard. Sorbonne. Early volunteer work with International Solidarity Movement. Parents are both Colleagues of Proven Worth. Mother: Christine Arbeit, D1 with the Human Rights Commission. An up and comer, I hear. Father: Bernard Chanet, Deputy Director for International Disarmament. His grandmother recently retired from the European Parliament."

Ibrahim took the file, impatiently, and began flipping pages. When he reached the background information page on the applicant's father, he signaled one of the water servants to bring a telephone. He spoke a number and, after a brief pause, a face appeared.

"Bernard? This is Ibrahim Lakhdar, with the hiring committee. Yes, yes...I am normally with Human Rights. I know your wife. I was looking over your son's application and I was wondering if you might not give a little boost to my nephew. He's a fine boy and he's interested in working disarmament..."

Chapter Eleven.

(Light ye shall have on that lesson, but little time to learn.)-Kipling, The Islanders.

1/1/468 AC, Kibla Pa.s.s Carrera stood in the fierce, bitterly cold winds of the Pashtian highlands. Despite the heavy wools, silks, polypropylene, and windproof outer sh.e.l.l, he shivered as the wind whistled through the pa.s.s and around the rocks. The wind seemed to be saying, "Avenge us."

"I'm trying; G.o.d knows I'm trying," he whispered back.

Down below, on the plains around Mazari Omar, his men were still busily rooting out the insurgency. It was probably a fruitless task. No matter what damage to the guerillas he did, the Taurans were taking back over even as he cleared areas out. They were good soldiers, many of them; he'd particularly been impressed with the Tuscan Ligurini under Generale Marciano. (Under cover of the Legion's combat operations, and in the absence of a treacherous press to report what he was doing, Marciano had pushed his own forces out to actively engage the guerillas. What would happen after the Legion del Cid Legion del Cid left, Marciano didn't know.) left, Marciano didn't know.) Ordinarily, using the kind of rules of engagement the Taurans had, it might take as much as fifteen years to destroy an insurgency, if, indeed, it could be destroyed at all. The Federated States' methods, having some of the stick to go along with the carrot, could do the job more quickly, if, again, it could be done at all. Carrera's methods used much less of the carrot, much more of the stick. It remained to be seen whether that would work any better. The Pashtian insurgency-ha! insurgency was practically a way of life for them!-had always been almost singularly tenacious.

It doesn't matter, he thought. I am not here, ultimately, to quell an insurgency, though I and my boys will give it our workmanlike best. Ultimately, I am here for the money that brings me closer to revenge and the revenge itself. I am not here, ultimately, to quell an insurgency, though I and my boys will give it our workmanlike best. Ultimately, I am here for the money that brings me closer to revenge and the revenge itself.

"It's a cold dish," whispered the wind.

That's all right. I've never minded cold food. But...

"But what?" asked the frozen breeze.

"But I miss Lourdes, and I miss the children. And I think maybe I need a break."

That was particularly telling. Only this morning he'd chewed out his chief logistician over something that, in retrospect, was just not that important. The week prior the G.o.dd.a.m.ned nightmares had come back with a vengeance. His drinking was up again; it had to be or he'd never get any sleep. Yet alcohol induced sleep was not very restful. And then he'd seen off a couple of dozen of his killed and wounded at the airport at Mazari Omar and found himself starting to cry. was particularly telling. Only this morning he'd chewed out his chief logistician over something that, in retrospect, was just not that important. The week prior the G.o.dd.a.m.ned nightmares had come back with a vengeance. His drinking was up again; it had to be or he'd never get any sleep. Yet alcohol induced sleep was not very restful. And then he'd seen off a couple of dozen of his killed and wounded at the airport at Mazari Omar and found himself starting to cry.

Bad sign, very bad sign. But what the h.e.l.l can I do?

2/1/468 AC, The Base, Kashmir Tribal Trust Territory If ever a man looked downcast, and in need of rest, it was Noorzad. Oh, he'd made it out, along with a critical dozen of his key followers. The rest? Bombed, burnt, butchered. Even after escaping from the mines dropped by air, he'd found a new group of fast horse cavalry on his tail, relentlessly tracking him over the mountains. He'd had to sacrifice the last of his newer people to those cavalry to buy time for the rest to escape.

His one weary eye, the white patches on his skin that told of frostbite, and the general air of sheer exhaustion he exuded; all said he needed a break.

There was one good thing, one tiny bright spot, amidst the disaster. Coordination between the lesser, mercenary infidels and the greater infidels in the north of Pashtia had been poor. Noorzad had half expected to be met by yet another ambush as he and the pitiful remnants of his band emerged from the snows of the central mountain range. Instead, there'd been nothing except some sympathetic tribesmen who'd provided camouflage for the guerillas on their way to the nearest city.

Once there, things had improved considerably. Noorzad had acquired a new satellite phone and reported in to Mustafa, seeking guidance and orders. Those had been simple, both to receive and to follow.

"Come home."

Now he was "home." However exhausted Noorzad might have been, he still could hardly wait to rebuild his force and return.

"That will be a while," Mustafa advised as he poured tea for the both of them with his own hand. "Our...infrastructure was not well rooted in the south of Pashtia. Our defenses were weak. And this enemy is not as weak as the Taurans. Worse, though he doesn't have the firepower of the greater enemy, he makes up for that with a ruthlessness to match our own."

"The men I left behind?" Noorzad queried.

"It was not your fault," Mustafa cut him off, insisting, "You had no other choice. To stand and fight would have meant being slaughtered. But..."

The lesser chief raised one eyebrow. "But?"