Carnifex. Part 56

The air over the other side of one of the surrounding ridges suddenly lit up in a ball of orange flame. That was a Finch-dropped thermobaric bomb, intended to make as sure as possible that the jumping Cazadors weren't shot to bits on the way down. Nothing was likely to survive such a blast, even should the targets be bunkered in. More such blasts followed the first.

A twin series of pops pops, one from the east, one from the west, grabbed Jimenez's attention. He'd heard the sound before. It was the small charge that caused the heavy rockets, fired from almost fifty miles back, to dispense their cargo; in this case, mixed anti-personnel and anti-vehicular mines to help Cano's cavalry seal off both of the entrances to the valley.

And then the small pops of the mines being laid were lost amidst the tremendous roar of thermobaric bombs dropped from the ANA-23 gunships. These smashed up every known and suspected air defense position on the hills ringing the valley fortress.

The angle of the view over the ridges to the south was such that Jimenez had only the briefest glimpse of dark dots descending from the low-flying Nabakovs before they were lost to sight. He knew the men were jumping without reserve 'chutes and from a height of a mere four hundred and fifty to five hundred feet over the ground. They'd have jumped lower still except that the irregular terrain meant that while some would jump at four-fifty, others would touch down hard from as little as two hundred and fifty feet.

Deep below, in a conference room not far from where Mustafa had interviewed Bashir, the men and serving women felt and heard nothing of the turmoil above until a breathless Abdul Aziz burst in to make the announcement.

"Sirs...we're...we are attacked! attacked! The infidels already hold the ground above us. Their paratroopers are descending all around to seal off the base." The infidels already hold the ground above us. Their paratroopers are descending all around to seal off the base."

"What?" Mustafa asked. "How..."

"I don't know...panicked rumors only. Some say that a column came in pretending to be reinforcements force and just opened up on our people."

Robinson turned instantly white. "The special weapons..."

"d.a.m.n your 'special weapons,' you infidel b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Mustafa snarled. "That's probably what the pigs came for."

"I've got to get to my shuttle," the High Admiral insisted. "If they find those nukes we're all screwed."

Peshtwa, Kashmir The office was... Tasteful Tasteful, Siegel thought, looking about with approval. It was Anglian Anglian tasteful. There was no gilt, no tacky decorations, just simple and elegant wood with a mix of Kashmiri and Tauran art on the walls and a beautiful series of rugs covering the floor. tasteful. There was no gilt, no tacky decorations, just simple and elegant wood with a mix of Kashmiri and Tauran art on the walls and a beautiful series of rugs covering the floor.

Siegel stood beside the amba.s.sador from Pashtia to Kashmir. The amba.s.sador, underpaid and, being out of the country, without any serious opportunity for graft, had jumped at the one hundred thousand drachma offered to set up this meeting. Siegel was reasonably certain that he'd have gone for less but it wasn't like he was spending his own money.

"Mr. President," Siegel apologized, "there really was no choice. You know you don't control the Tribal Trust Lands and you know that the Salafis have a major base there. We know, and we would have thought your Central Intelligence Directorate would have told you, that a nuclear weapon is coming in, possibly more than one. My principle has begun an attack by ground and air to seize that weapon or those weapons with-I hasten to add-the full backing and support of the Federated States. You can try to resist, and get in a war with the FSC or you can do the smart thing and announce that this operation is entirely with your approval. One way makes you look weak and foolish, especially when your air force goes down in flames. The other makes you look strong and decisive."

The prime minister, Baraka, short and dark, listened attentively. His face showed only a trace of hostility. After all, all this emissary-without-portfolio said was true enough. He didn't have control of CID. He didn't have control of the Tribal Trust areas. And it was entirely conceivable, even probable, that the Salafi base could be about to play host to one or a number of nuclear weapons. It was even possible that the weapon was coming from his own country's stockpiles.

He still didn't have to like it.

Siegel understood perfectly well. To the amba.s.sador who had accompanied him to the meeting he said, "Would you leave us for a moment, sir?"

"I am further authorized, Mr. President," he said, once the door had closed behind the amba.s.sador, "to offer you and your family sanctuary for life, in the Republic of Balboa and to..." he dug into an inside pocket of his coat and withdrew a small red booklet..."to offer you a substantial guaranteed honorarium if you cooperate in this."

He handed the booklet over to Baraka who opened it and read without comment. Finished reading, the President placed the booklet into a desk drawer and sat, silently, for a few minutes.

"What's Balboa like, Mr. Siegel?" he asked.

"Wonderful place, Mr. President," Sig answered. 'Warm though a bit wet, rather like here. Clean. Beautiful women. Low cost of living. Best of all, sir, it's very secure."

Baraka slowly nodded before reaching out one finger to an intercom. "Achmed, call the General Staff duty officer. I want every plane in the Air Force grounded. Further, I want the Army's regiments in the posts bordering the tribal lands to the south confined to barracks. Lastly, set me up a press conference for noon, to be held here."

Already he felt the vultures circling. The important thing, the President knew, the President knew, isn't whether or not our borders have been violated. The important thing is that I act like I am confidently in charge. isn't whether or not our borders have been violated. The important thing is that I act like I am confidently in charge.

The Base Mustafa felt his confidence wilting like a desert flower-quickly and completely. His closest followers sat stunned. This This was not supposed to happen, not here, not in the sanctuary that G.o.d, in the form of the Kashmiri government's inability to control their southern border, had ordained. was not supposed to happen, not here, not in the sanctuary that G.o.d, in the form of the Kashmiri government's inability to control their southern border, had ordained.

Stunned transformed to horrified when another messenger burst in saying, "The stinking President of Kashmir has come on the television. He says that the attack is with his permission. He says his air force is staying out of it only due to incompatibility between the FSC's Air Force and Kashmir's. We'll get no aid from that quarter."

Was it the nukes that brought them here? Mustafa wondered, dully. Mustafa wondered, dully. But then, how could they know? I told no one but Abdul Aziz and Nur al-Deen. But then, how could they know? I told no one but Abdul Aziz and Nur al-Deen. They They wouldn't tell any one. They are the most faithful of the faithful. Robinson couldn't have told. If he had, he'd have been out of here last night. Sometimes it makes me wonder whose side G.o.d is on. wouldn't tell any one. They are the most faithful of the faithful. Robinson couldn't have told. If he had, he'd have been out of here last night. Sometimes it makes me wonder whose side G.o.d is on.

"What are we to do, Mustafa?" al-Deen asked.

"Fight," Mustafa answered, fatalistically. "What else can we do? But," his eyes fixed on Nur al-Deen, "begin collecting the cadres, the most important ones, and the families. We may lose here, but that will only be Allah's test of our faith. If we can get the key people out," his finger pointed, "along with that one weapon, we can continue the struggle."

"I'll send an advanced party out now," Nur al-Deen said, "to gather some of our followers further north, their vehicles and animals, to provide us a cover when we emerge."

"Excellent, my friend, except..." Mustafa looked at the bomb. "Not to the north. We'll take the southern route. And we will prevail yet."

Camp San Lorenzo "What is it, Alena?" Fernandez asked. "Worried for your brother and your husband?"

"I am," the girl admitted. "But that's not it. I am missing something and I don't have a clue of what."

"Maybe it's only nerves."

"No," Alena insisted. "I know nerves and I know when there's a truth staring at me from nose length away. This is the latter. Why Why can't I can't I see see it?" it?"

To that Fernandez had no answer. He operated off of hard evidence, not the half mystical insights of this Pashtian witch-girl, however d.a.m.nably effective those insights might sometimes be.

His father had told him to pack his rucksack-and little Hamilcar was very proud that he'd been issued the very same model the legionaries carried-and to report to Fernandez. He'd packed himself, though his father's driver had taken him to Fernandez's office in the main headquarters building. Gaining entrance was no problem; the troops were used to Ham having the run of the place.

Besides, he knew better than to ever mentiona word of what went on there, not even in the thrice weekly electronic letters his father insisted he send to his mother.

Half carrying and half dragging the rucksack behind him-"Dig your own hole; carry your own roll," his father insisted-Ham stumbled in the direction of Fernandez's voice, saying, "Maybe it's only nerves."

Alena heard a small sound, something like an oversized mouse scurrying, and looked towards it. A small boy, bowed under the weight of a rucksack bigger than he was, staggered and stumbled towards Fernandez. She started to smile and then looked again at the boy's face. She'd seen that face before...somewhere...

"Iskander, our Lord," she whispered, before dropping to her knees and then placing her face and palms to the floor.

The Base Jimenez lay beside a Pashtun Scout bearing a laser designator. He pointed at a stream of tracers rising to the sky. The tracers chased behind a Turbo-Finch, just pulling up and away from a strafing run. Almost Almost they closed the gap before the 'Finch pulled away. they closed the gap before the 'Finch pulled away.

"Bring fire down on that," Jimenez ordered the scout. "Right at the base. Pulverize it."

"Yes, sir," the scout answered, aiming his designator at the target while another man on a radio called the artillery for supporting fires.

Jimenez crouched above the military crest. He was in plain view of hundreds of Salafis on the surrounding hills, but out of their range. For the enemy that were in range, he had the ma.s.s of the crest for cover. Even so, bullets from below struck the trees and branches above him steadily, sprinkling him with bits of wood and bark they had chewed off.

Crouching lower still Jimenez moved closer to the crest where the Scouts had set out a perimeter and were battling fiercely to keep the huge numbers of charging and firing Salafis at bay. As he got closer still he went to his belly to crawl forward. A commander has to A commander has to see see the action; not just rely on reports of others to guide him. the action; not just rely on reports of others to guide him.

He crawled, he lay, he saw, he thought, Holy s.h.i.t. Holy s.h.i.t.

The hill sides and valley floor below were crawling with the enemy.

"Good fighting," Masood announced, approvingly, as he flopped down next to Jimenez.

"Maybe too much of a good thing," Jimenez answered with a smile.

Despite a pretty severe case of nerves, and the incessant shaking of the helicopter, Cruz forced a smile to his face. There was a lot of acting involved in combat leadership and he'd been to some of the best training for actors available. What, after all, was Cazador School except some hundreds of men in utter misery pretending that they liked liked it? it?

The helicopter would have been a little bit overstuffed if it had borne, as it was designed to, Taurans or Volgans. For the smaller and slighter Balboans who made up the bulk of the Legion it was possible to cram several more, sometimes many many more, troopers than the design had called for. more, troopers than the design had called for.

In this case, with forty-seven men of his own platoon, a two man and one pooch scout dog team, another two forward observers, the one platoon medic, a piper and Majeed, twelve men sat each side of the two helicopters carrying Cruz's platoon, and three more on each of the cargo bays' floors. The dog, tongue lolling, sat in the middle of Cruz's.

Cruz's smile almost disappeared at the helicopter crested the high ridge to the south of the target and began a rapid descent to the valley floor outside the fortress.

I f.u.c.king hate hate elevators. elevators.

He had a bad, heart-pounding moment when a stream of tracers pa.s.sed by, visible from the pa.s.senger compartment through the pilots' windscreen. The tracers stopped abruptly mere moments before the IM-71 would have been forced to pa.s.s through them. Flying in tight formation going around the fire might have been worse than flying right through it.

Better to lose a couple of men to anti-aircraft fire than all of two birds to a crash.

Again, like an elevator, the chopper stopped descending and pulled up suddenly to gain a little more alt.i.tude. Cruz's stomach sank sickeningly. It did so again as the pilot made some turns to bring the bird around to the north side of the target. Then, once again, the chopper rose rapidly.

"Two miinnuutteess," the crew chief announced, holding up two fingers and showing them to the men lining both sides of the compartment. The infantrymen in the back immediately began making last minute adjustments to their load bearing equipment and loricae loricae.

That "two minutes" was all the warning the crew chief would be able to give, Cruz knew, as the aviator turned his complete attention to the machine gun mounted on one side. This he began to fire in long bursts to the left front as the bird climbed up the side of a ridge. A bag caught the crew chief's hot, expended sh.e.l.l casings as they flew out the side of the gun in a steady stream.

Bad sign, Cruz thought. Very d.a.m.ned bad. Very d.a.m.ned bad.

Noorzad had, he thought, no good choices. He'd lost over a third of his men just to the sudden surprise fire when the column of light trucks and buses had opened up. He'd lost some more from the aerial attack and the artillery and mortar bombardment. He thought he might have as many as fifty men left, possibly a few less.

Forget the surrounding ridges and join the attack to free Mustafa's hill? He wondered. He wondered. No...a few more guns there won't help much. Better to stay here and hold the ridges as long as possible, take as many with us as possible. No...a few more guns there won't help much. Better to stay here and hold the ridges as long as possible, take as many with us as possible.

There was an air defense gun, a twin 23mm job, not far from Noorzad. The crew were dead around it but, in one of those peculiar effects of large explosions, and especially thermobaric ones, the gun itself was still standing and looked fine.

"Come...come!" Noorzad shouted to four of his followers. Not looking to see if they followed, he raced on foot to the gun. A quick visual examination showed the gun was loaded. There was a crude metal chair to sit on and what seemed to be a sight. At least there was an a.s.semblage that, lined up with a seated gunner's head, would define a line roughly parallel to the twin barrels.

Noorzad sat down in the chair and confirmed that the projection ahead of him was was a gun sight. An experimental press of each of the foot pedals swung the gun left and right. He tugged on the handles and the gun's muzzles raised up. When he pushed them forward the elevation dropped. a gun sight. An experimental press of each of the foot pedals swung the gun left and right. He tugged on the handles and the gun's muzzles raised up. When he pushed them forward the elevation dropped.

This took mere moments. By the time his men joined him Noorzad was lining the sight up on the leading of two approaching helicopters. He thought he knew enough to lead, but he overestimated how much was required. When the firing studs were pressed, the twin cannon spit out their sixty sh.e.l.ls in a few seconds. The electronically-fired gun clicked on empty as Noorzad ran out of ammunition. That was just before the helicopter would have crossed the path of the sh.e.l.ls.

"Get more! more!" he shouted to his men. "More sh.e.l.ls."

The unfamiliar flexible belts of cannon cartridges, sixty per belt, caused some problem as the men tried to control them and feed them into the ammunition slots. By the time he was ready to fire again, Noorzad saw that the helicopter was on the ground with dozens of armed and armored men spilling out of it and the others that had accompanied it. The dozens became hundreds as more helicopters touched down. c.r.a.p. c.r.a.p.

Well...if I can't kill enough of the infidel infantry I can can kill their helicopter. kill their helicopter.

Cruz was, per doctrine, the first man out. He stood at the edge of the rear door cursing and hustling his men off the helicopter, directing their leaders where he wanted them placed. A piper automatically took a position by the centurion's side and began playing the First Tercio Tercio's own theme, Boinas Azules Cruzan la Frontera. Boinas Azules Cruzan la Frontera.

"Sergeant Avila," Cruz shouted over the helicopters and the pipes, pointing, "I want your squad there, from ten o'clock to two o'clock." Then he turned his attention back towards the inside of the just-lifting helicopter and saw the left-side wall began to disintegrate in his field of view. The crew chief, still gamely firing his machine gun, was. .h.i.t by something that exploded, tearing his upper torso from his lower body at the waist and flinging the chief's remains to the right side of the compartment. Cruz had the briefest glimpse of one of the pilots being thrown across the c.o.c.kpit onto the other.

Smelling aviation fuel and seeing sparks and smoke, Cruz turned to throw himself away from the bird. From behind came a loud whoosh whoosh as the fuel caught fire, exploded, and knocked Cruz and the piper, faces first, to the dirt. as the fuel caught fire, exploded, and knocked Cruz and the piper, faces first, to the dirt.

Seeing that someone was at least trying to do something something, more men, not all of them Noorzad's, rushed to reinforce the gun position. The column of smoke served as their orientation mark.

Noorzad and his men cheered when the helicopter began first to smoke and then to burst into flame. They saw what Cruz could not. One of the two pilots, trapped by flame behind him, tried to force his way through the strong plexiglas of the windscreen as fire rose all around.

Noorzad would cherish the open-mouthed agony writ on that pilot's face for the rest of his life.

Cruz and his men were shocked, yes, by the destruction of the helicopter and crew that had bravely brought them in. More than shocked though, they were deeply angered. A red mist descended across the centurion's vision.

"Fix bayonets, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Cruz called out, as he affixed his own. "Play you son of a b.i.t.c.h," he cursed at the shocked piper.

"Fix bayonets" usually meant a wild screaming charge with blood in your eye. It was not precisely a favored tactic in the Legion but this was a special case, a situation where time was more valuable than lives because it meant meant lives. The men of the platoon knew that. Even so they looked at their young centurion as if he were insane. lives. The men of the platoon knew that. Even so they looked at their young centurion as if he were insane.

"Fix BAYONETS!" Cruz repeated, as loudly as possible. This time the men knew he was serious. They reached to their belts and, still p.r.o.ne on the ground, pulled out the shiny blades (for the Legion knew that a bayonet was a weapon of terror and that, thus, shinier was better) and attached them to the muzzles of their rifles, jiggling the bayonets to make sure of a secure fix.

"Now...you sonsab.i.t.c.hes...FOLLOW MEEE..."

Looking out the right side window of his Cricket, Carrera saw one of his valuable IM-71s suddenly caught by heavy fire as it tried to lift off after landing its troops. He cursed as the chopper abruptly settled back to earth and began to pour out first smoke, then fire.

His first instinct, born of hate and rage, was to bring a cohort's worth of artillery down on the gun which had just slaughtered his men. He was just starting to pick up a microphone to do that when he saw a rare thing, a remarkable thing. What looked like about fifty men were streaming towards the enemy air defense gun in a single mad rush. Sunlight glinting upward told that those men had their bayonets fixed.

Racing forward in the lead, Cruz saw the enemy heavy gun fire a brief burst. The pa.s.sage of the sh.e.l.ls created a palpable shock wave around him. No matter, possessed by battle madness he continued his charge, screaming like a demon and firing from the hip.

Nearby, charging forward with fangs bared, the platoon's attached scout dog began to howl: ahwoooo. My pack is the greatest. ahwoooo. My pack is the greatest.

A bullet struck one of the gla.s.sy metal chest plates of Cruz's lorica lorica and bounced off, singing. With the angle of the strike and of his body, it shocked and slowed him but it didn't stop him. and bounced off, singing. With the angle of the strike and of his body, it shocked and slowed him but it didn't stop him.

Wild-eyed Salafis arose from the ground. Some were cut down by the legionaries' fire but others closed. Cruz put two three-round bursts of 6.5mm into the body of one, half emulsifying his target's innards. Wheeling to face another, this one thrusting forward a fixed bayonet, Cruz tapped the enemy rifle aside and lunged to plunge his own bayonet into the enemy's throat. Dropping his rifle to clutch at his wound, eyes rolling up in his head as blood rushed out to spatter on the ground, this Salafi sank to his knees.

Cruz put one booted foot on the Salafi's head and pushed him off of his now red-running bayonet. Again he whirled to face two more charging maniacs. He swung his b.u.t.t at one and missed, but then stepped forward and reversed the motion to slam the b.u.t.t into the Salafi's unarmored kidney. That one went down puking with pain. The next one up Cruz shot before spinning to plunge the bayonet into the back of his previous opponent.