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Chapter Thirteen

 
We could wait no more
In the burning sands on the ride to Agadir.
Like the dogs of war
For the future of this land on the ride to Agadir . . . 

—Mike Batt, "Ride to Agadir"

Firebase Pedro de Lisaldo, Pashtia, 28/2/468 AC

"Sayidi, it's not like they don't know we're coming for them," said Qabaash, in the confines of the conference room tent near the main command post for the legion's expeditionary force. "And, to a considerable degree of certainty, when. We can choose the exact time and the place and even the manner, but we cannot choose the fact or the season. The Kibla Pass must be cleared; they know this. They will be waiting and they will be prepared."

"'Prepared' is possibly an understatement, boss," added Triste. "Even if what the FS Army has caught moving into the area represents ninety percent of everything that was sent up there by the Ikhwan, and it doesn't, that other theoretical ten percent is going to be a bitch, taken head on."

"What are we facing?" Carrera asked.

"A reinforced brigade," Triste answered. "I can't tell you exactly how reinforced they might be. Assume more than their fair share of heavy mortars, possibly even a few tanks, lots of RGLs . . . fair amount of antiaircraft, guns and shoulder-fired guided missiles, both. That's all pretty concentrated on the best landing zones, too. Some of the guns are reported to be in caves that cover the LZs and which are a just plain bitch to see until it's too late.

"Assume mines and booby traps and major improvised explosive devices. Assume the sides and underbeds of the road through the pass are wired for sound"—milspeak for wired to explode—"and that most of the LZs will be mined and covered by direct and indirect fire."

Miguel Lanza, head of the air ala, usually kept fairly quiet at these little brainstorming sessions. Today was different.

"Jefe, there are half a dozen LZs within six or eight miles of the summit of the pass in which I could set down Qabaash's entire brigade in no more than three or four lifts. Every one of them is entirely unsuitable; I'd lose nearly every bird I tried to set down."

"Fine. What's not unsuitable?" Carrera asked.

Qabaash raised an eyebrow at Triste, who proceeded to produce a photo and a large-scale map and hand them over to Carrera. "This one might work, boss."

Carrera's face looked highly dubious. The photo showed a somewhat narrow ledge—no more than fifty meters in width—hunched against a series of cliffs with serrations in them. On the side away from the cliffs was a sheer drop.

"What's this good for? Maybe five or six birds landing at a time. It would take forever to get Qabaash's brigade on the ground."

"I think more like four birds at a time, jefe," Lanza corrected. "And the cross winds coming around that rock outcropping will be very difficult. But no; it won't take forever. Assume we'll have to underload the helicopters some because of the thin air. Okay, so it takes damned near everything I have to get all of the Salah al Din brigade into the air at once. Call it one hundred and twenty choppers, anyway. At four per lift, or one per lift for the IM-62s, it will take just over an hour to get everyone in and out."

"But I can be moving on the pass on foot as soon as I have two companies landed," interjected Qabaash. "That's less than ten minutes . . ."

"Closer to five," Lanza corrected.

"Better still, closer to five minutes after the first chopper touches down and I am already on my way to the pass."

"And then what, Qabaash?" Carrera asked, frowning. "You've got two companies heading into a meatgrinder with at least a battalion dug in strongly." He looked over the map and photo again. "And you've got two, count 'em, two crappy trails from the landing zone to the objective."

"That's only if they all go towards the real landing zone," Lanza said. "I can buzz and false insert at every other good and even remotely possible LZ in the area. They'll never hear or see enough to know which is the real landing. I might lose a couple but . . . really . . . they don't have to commit to a landing, just to buzz the spot. The artillery can prep—"

"Not much artillery," interrupted Harrington, the logistician. "If you're moving all of Qabaash's boys at once there'll be nothing left to airlift guns and shells into range. Only the multiple rocket launchers can range to the summit of the pass from where we can resupply by truck."

"Okay," Lanza conceded. "Have a little faith. With the MRLs, the Finches, aerially dropped guided bombs from the Nabakovs, and gunship support we can still put on a good show of prepping enough landing zones that they won't know where we're coming from. That means Qabaash will face at most—"

"A company," Qabaash finished. "And the day two companies of Salah al Din can't handle a company of Ikhwan irregulars will be a cold, happy and batless day in Hell." He sounded very pleased at the prospect of demonstrating this point in the near future.

Carrera held up his hand for silence. Immediately the others shut up.

"We'll do it. As Qabaash and Lanza say. Terry?"

"Here, boss," piped in Terry Johnson, for the nonce commanding the Tercio de Cazadores. His new rifle project was progressing under his assistant, another Volgan enticed away from the Rodina.

"I want you to start inserting teams all over the area within the next couple of days. In particular, get a platoon—a company if you think it needful and possible—into the area of the LZ . . . mmm, what should we call that LZ?"

"Let's call it 'Landing Zone Agadir,' Patricio," Qabaash supplied. "It was a small but lovely fight back on Old Earth, long ago."

"Agadir, then. Dan?"

"Yes, Pat?"

"Work up the orders for review within two days."

Compared to most modern command posts, headquarters for the legion was really rather sedate. True, underlings scurried about. Maps were updated. Occasionally one might hear a voice or two raised in argument. For the most part, though, it was calm and quiet. And so it should have been. There was little reason for frenzy in a force that placed a premium on individual initiative at lower levels and which rarely tried to manage a battle in too exquisite a detail outside of artillery preparations.

(On the other hand, if one really wanted to see frenzy, one could always go down to a cohort command post.)

Instead, the CP for the legion was a place for the housing and support of the commander and the staff, a place for planning future operations, and a meeting place for those times when face to face orders to groups of men had to be given. Ordinarily, there really wasn't any reason for frenzy.

Instructing his driver to get a meal and some sleep, Carrera entered the main tent, ordering, "At ease," before anyone had a chance to disrupt work by calling, "Attention." Stopping by the operations and intelligence maps, he took in an overview—updated about three hours previously—of the current operation. There were no surprises, he noted, with satisfaction.

He then grabbed a sandwich from a tray thoughtfully left there by the HQ mess platoon, before retiring to his own, attached, tent to catch up on correspondence.

On the top of the pile of printed off sheets was a missive from Parilla.

Patricio:

That you are willing to fund a major expansion of the reserve components helps us. I am awaiting the right time to make the announcement. Fernandez suggests forcing an "incident" with the Tauran Union troops here so that we can appeal to patriotism rather than simply looking like we're trying to buy votes. I like the idea in principle, but am concerned that forcing a small fight with the TU might turn into a large fight that we are not ready for. Especially are we not ready while you have eighty-five percent of the force—to include a hefty chunk of the training base returned to their parent tercios—over in Pashtia. Moreover, while you are over there, with your base areas surrounded by Tauran troops, you might be vulnerable. So I think I will not follow Fernandez's advice, at least for a while. Have you any ideas on how best to precede the announcement? One thought I had was not to make it at all, but to start major public works of a defensive nature, hiring fifty or sixty thousand of the unemployed, and making those defensive works plainly and obviously oriented against the Taurans. That might get us the patriotic response, coupled with self interest, and is also do something we ought to be doing anyway . . . 

"Note to self," Carrera muttered. "Have Sitnikov brief Parilla on plans for fortifications on the Isla Real and along both sides of the Rio Gatun. Also, check on progress in designing the expansion."

He tapped the side of his nose several times, thinking. "Hmmm . . . I hate to lose Kuralski but I think maybe I need to send him back to Volga for a bit."

. . . providing you and Fernandez are right—and, no, I don't disagree—about war with the Tauran Union and possibly the Zhong being inevitable.

It is strange to think of us being on our own against the second- and third-ranked powers of this world. Always before we lived under the shadow, but also the covering umbrella, of the Federated States. We never had to worry about defense against anyone but them; and defense against them, as you helped prove almost twenty years ago, was impossible . . . 

"It was impossible then, Raul. Now? Now, if the entire force were home? I think the FSC would probably get sick of the bloodletting before they conquered Balboa again." And what would I do in such a case? That's a no-brainer; my loyalty is to my legion.

Carrera continued with the letter:

There are moments when I seriously doubt the wisdom of the course we have undertaken, moments when I doubt it is worth it for me to become president. But then I think of the legion, of what we could do for Balboa if we could spread the wealth around without it automatically gravitating to the pockets of the idle, corrupt and useless rich.

In any case, enough of an old man's idle prattle for now. Your time is valuable and, so the newscasts and the intelligence reports say, well spent. Give my warmest regards to the officers, centurions, warrants and men of the legion. I miss you all very much and look forward to your speedy and safe return home.

"Fine old man," said Carrera, putting the missive aside and picking up the next, from Fernandez.

Duque:

The only good news I have to report is that our friends above are due to receive a visitor that has to be most unwelcome. Apparently the UEPF, too, has an Inspector General and apparently like any IG, theirs is a pain in the ass.

Yes, this comes from our very special intelligence source. How long this source can last is anyone's guess, however. Sometimes I think that the best use of this asset is not in the detailed intelligence we receive, but in what it tells us about the mindset of the UE and the UEPF.

Patricio, they are not only more corrupt than we have imagined; they are more corrupt than we could imagine. For one thing, two slaves—and we didn't even know they kept slaves on their base on Atlantis Island—are going to be taken up to space shortly for the sexual amusement of their IG. The slaves are not necessarily expected to survive the experience. How do people like this get control of an entire world? How do we prevent them from gaining another?

"I'm working on it, Fern."

I think we are now in a position to begin to fulfill the other half of our contract with the Yamatans and move the classis to the Nicobar Straits. There are NO indicators that the Xamari pirates are anything but cowed for the moment, and even for the foreseeable future.

The rest of Fernandez's message was routine. Carrera finished reading it quickly and put it into the "save" pile. His AdC would see to it that the message joined several hundred others in a secure file with a self destruct mechanism integral to it.

The next report was from Obras Zorilleras—or OZ, though it had passed through Fernandez's office before being sent onward and bore his initials. It concerned several of the projects Carrera had been briefed on over a year ago.

Progress has been mixed, Duque. The auxiliary propelled stealthy glider, which we are calling the "Condor," exists in prototype and has been tested using ground based radar. The reduction in signature is between two and three orders of magnitude. We are planning a test using the FSC's airborne warning radar. This, however, requires three things: that we know the flight schedule of the drug interdiction patrols they run off our coasts, that we manage to get one of our people aboard their AWR flights, and that we have the prototype in position . . . 

Carrera read a handscrawled note in Fernandez's writing on the margins of the page. "I'm working on it."

On the other hand, the submarine—the Megalodon—has been nothing but problems. We've had to redesign the thing twice, and scrap half a dozen proposals for the power plant. The acrylic casting apparatus from Anglia is still on order. Undersea gliding has proven to be somewhat problematic, once we did the rest of the math, and unless slightly aided by the propeller it makes more noise than simply using the propeller on its own. That said, in combination the two are quieter than either is alone.

Right now, it is a thin teardrop-shaped outer hull, a much thicker and cylindrical inner pressure hull, which will be powered either by molten carbonate or solid oxide fuel cell These are both expensive but almost within the budget you gave us. (Can we have more money?)

While we have dropped the idea of using a facetted fairing for the outer, non-pressure, hull, the better to reduce flow noise, we have modified the principle by connected the inner and outer hulls with conoidal projections which will do much the same thing. By this we mean that, once active sonar has reached and passed the thin, outer, streamlined hull, the conoidal connections will further scatter it and absorb it. This is only effective for active sonar, of course . . . 

"Yeah . . . right . . . "of course" . . . what the fuck do I know about this shit?"

. . . and active sonar is the least likely to be used. Still, the inner and outer hulls needed to be connected somehow and this way gives us something out of the arrangement.

The test ballast tanks for the Megalodon are prepared in prototype, since we were able to obtain the necessary acrylic casting machines (which are much smaller) and other materials needed for them. This is a new concept, and not one that everyone is in favor of. Still, they have the potential to be remarkably silent as compared to any other system in existence.

Basically, they take advantage of the very low boiling temperature of ammonia. The ammonia is kept inside of flexible tubing made of fluorocarbon elastomer with a sputtered layer of aluminum (750 Angstoms) followed by silicon monoxide (500 Angstroms) with an aerogel insulation layer. We are working on a different system, one using carbon dioxide rather than ammonia. This has issues.

"Pity I never studied any of the hard sciences but chemistry. This is all Greek to me. Still, OZ has produced before. They probably will again."

Carrera skipped ahead to the line, We believe we can have a working submarine within fifteen months, and produce two every three months thereafter. Greater funding would increase this.

"Something to think about, anyway. But let's see some progress before we commit, shall we?"

We have a fixed prototype of the Self-Propelled Laser Aid Defense (SPLAD) and are working on motorizing it.

Work on the Self-Propelled, Anti-tank, Heavy Armor (SPATHA) has gone well. Design of the modification of the Volgan T-27 to a turretless antitank vehicle is complete and the Kirov factory has produced the first three prototype vehicles. We have been successful in boring out the tubes from 152mm guns to 165mm, as well as in reducing the length of the tubes. Mechanisms to handle the reduced recoil from the shorter, lower velocity tube are designed. Kirov has subcontracted for three full, reduced recoil 165mm guns to mount in the prototypes' fighting compartments. They have also arranged to have the requisite machinery built and forwarded to us. Test firing of the High Explosive Plastic shell against standard tanks with pigs strapped in place of the human crew has shown catastrophic kills to the crew can be achieved by the HEP shell. (FYI, one test pig was impaled to its seat by the coaxial machine gun being torn from its mount and driven backwards. Most of the others suffered broken necks along with other injuries.) Kirov has further produced a composite armor design which can be mounted to the front of the SPATHA and which is demonstrated to be good against the best Tauran cannon for at least one shot in any given area.

A spinoff of this is in the realm of fortifications. When we looked at the design of the composite, and realized that the hexagonal plates within it, if scaled up, would serve equally well against aerially dropped deep penetrating bombs . . . 

"Well that's an interesting concept. Note to self: Advise OZ and Sitnikov to get together, too."

Speaking of air, we have been approached by an Anglian company that has a very interesting design for a series of lighter-than-air ships. We think you should consider it, or at least consider the smallest version that is intended for long term aerial surveillance. Their proposal is attached.

"Hmmm. Maybe."

Moreover, they have one mid-sized version built, capable of medium airlift or surveillance—if outfitted—that they are willing to provide, with flight crew, for testing in Pashtia. They say they will only charge for operational costs. The chief advantage to their system is that it is not actually lighter than air, but only almost as light as air. It is aerodynamically shaped, more or less like a pumpkin seed, and gets some lift from that. The shape is such that it does not need nearly so elaborate a ground setup to operate. Thus, it would be the first airship capable of tactical and strategic lift to undeveloped theaters of war.

"All right, then. Note to self: Have OZ set this up."

We have closed down the program on the terminally guided, reduced bore artillery shells, as Volga already has such a shell and is willing to sell. Their shell, which is 122mm with a sabot to fill the bore of a 180mm gun, seems adequate for the purpose you gave us.

Lastly, for purposes of this report, the Suvarov-class heavy cruiser has been reequipped with new 152mm, long range guns, the pebble bed modular reactor is installed and has passed initial testing, and the refit is other wise 90% plus, complete. Crew have been assigned but are still in billets at Puerto Lindo pending completion of the refit.

XXXX

Report ends.

XXXX

"Well, that's not bad. Let's see what Lourdes has to say." For a moment Carrera felt an almost overwhelming surge of sheer horniness.

Most of Lourdes' letter was expressly designed to increase that level of horniness. In self-defense, Carrera skimmed over much of that. Then something caught his eye.

It was as expert a roping job as I have ever seen, Patricio, and I grew up on a cattle farm. Artemisia Jimenez culled your Sergeant Major from the herd, lassoed him, trussed him, and branded him hers with a dexterity I can only admire. And all in less than two weeks. The wedding is tentatively set for the week after the current contract in Pashtia is up and you, and the bulk of the legions, have returned.

And, yes, my love, I know what you are going to say, that he's more than twice her age, that he's a simple soldier and she's a sophisticated very near winner for Miss Terra Nova. I've spoken to her, personally and privately, and when she says she's in love, and moreover in love for the first and only time in her life, I believe her. Please trust me in this.

Besides that this is good for John, I must tell you it is good for me, too, as he's stopped whining about joining you in Pashtia and settled down to doing good work, the kind of good work he is better at than anyone, right here.

"Wow. The beauty queen and the old centurion? Wow. Note to self: appropriate wedding gift. Money? Possibly. House? Maybe. All expense paid honeymoon for a bare minimum."

They've asked me to set up the wedding and be the chief bridesmaid and I think John would like you to be best man. Xavier is, of course, going to give away the bride. I've been making one of the nicer upstairs rooms available to them so that Xavier can pretend not to notice that she's acting like a cat in heat and Mac's acting like a teenager.

Speaking of which, beloved, I will be wearing a mattress on my back when I meet you at the airstrip, just as you said. But you had best make sure you're the first one off the plane.

"Gotta love that girl . . ."

Kibla Pass, Pashtia, 14/3/468 AC

Gotta love it when a plan comes together, Carrera thought as he watched the huge flight of helicopters pass overhead carrying Qabaash's brigade north to seize the summit of the pass. Qabaash had begged for the chance to go in first and, after a phone call from Sada, insisting that he needed the good press back in Sumer, Carrera had agreed. Besides, he'd seen the Salah al Din brigade in action both here in Pashtia and in Sumer. They were . . . 

Well, Hell. They're good soldiers under a first rate commander. I don't have anybody any better for this than Qabaash. Oh, sure . . . maybe Jimenez, back in Balboa. But he is back in Balboa while Qabaash is here.

Atop the mountain range the enemy awaited; intel from both the FSA and the legion's own sources confirmed that. The air had been pounding their positions for two hours and would continue to do so for the just over an hour's flight to Qabaash's landing zone.

The pickup zone, here well below the mountains, was already hot enough to have to cut the helicopters' combat load. There would be no sling-loads underneath, either. Not that it would have helped all that much if the ambient temperature south of the mountain range had been less; the air above was thin enough that the choppers had to fly with reduced load anyway, despite the cold helping with the air density.

Strictly speaking, Qabaash's brigade was not going to be the first in. The Cazadors had claimed that honor as much as two weeks ago for some units, back when snows were still falling. Indeed, it was under the cover of the snows that they'd been able to come in by Cricket, chopper and even parachute, without being seen. It had been under the snow's cover that they'd been able to build hide positions undetectable to the enemy.

Still, the Salah al Din Brigade and their fire-eating commander were the first going in with the intention of finding a fight. They'd land and secure the landing zone—that narrow ledge lodged between cliffs—then fight their way overland to the summit of the pass. After that, it was intended that they spread out, north and south, to the military crests on either side. Even if they didn't take them, they'd attract enough attention in the south to make the climb up easier for Carrera's main column. In the north, if all else failed, they'd still be able to get a good jump off position for the rest to continue the attack.

Distantly, Carrera heard the roars of massed diesels, hundreds of them. That would be the mechanized tercio moving up to their assault positions. Damned shame about what the treads are going to do to the highway. Still, that's why God made sappers. We'll lay a better road down after we pass than this place has ever seen before.

Carrera waved—futilely, as the IM-71s lacked windows in the passenger compartment—at the departing Arabs from Salah al Din. "Good luck, boys, and good hunting."

As the last navigation light from the helicopters was killed by pilots interested in survival, Carrera got in his vehicle and instructed his driver to take him to headquarters.

It was an odd thing, really, the drive back. They passed column after column of infantry moving up on foot. That wasn't the odd thing; that was simply part of the scheme of maneuver. No, what was odd was that the columns all stopped to cheer him as they passed each other. He waved back, of course, and held out his hand to shake whatever hands he could, but uncertainly and even with a touch of embarrassment.

Why should they cheer me? The bloody Sumeris did, too. Makes no sense. I am nobody but a nasty bastard out for revenge and using them to get it.

The driver provided half the answer. "The boys sure seem ready for another fight, sir."

The other half, or perhaps it was more than half, is that soldiers love a commander who leads them to victory. It has ever been thus, and that, at least that, Carrera had done. He felt his mind and spirit click into full battle mode.

 

They'd go in underloaded and would need another piece of land considerably larger and flatter than their chosen landing zone for their supplies.

There was a platoon of Cazadors, minus one squad keeping eyes on the objective, ringing that landing zone. Qabaash, wearing his night vision goggles, was the first to spot their infrared strobe. He flipped the goggles up, waited a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, then looked generally in the same place, scanning for any visible indicator of enemy fire.

No flashes. Qabaash breathed a sigh of relief. Good, it was only the strobes and not machine guns.

He tapped the pilot and pointed. The pilot gave one thumb up where Qabaash could see it. What did he care if the signal meant something rather different in Sumer than in Balboa?

Qabaash felt the helicopter start to heel over, then begin its spiraling descent. The other three birds in the lift followed. Qabaash keyed the radio and spoke the signal to the waiting Cazadors. Suddenly, lights began flashing on all over the drop zone, marking safe spots for individual helicopters to land.

The landing zone was barely big enough for four helicopters at a time. This lift of four carried Qabaash, a small portion of his command post, and part of one infantry company. The next lift in would bring in the remainder of that company.

As soon as the chopper touched down, the clamshell door in the rear opened to disgorge the troops. Qabaash, sitting at the front of the passenger compartment was the last out. He threw himself to the ground along with his men while waiting for the choppers to lift off. It was easy enough to walk into a spinning tail rotor in the daytime. At night it was hard not to.

With a rush of air and a roar of engines the IM-71s lifted off.

Under two minutes until the next comes in.

Qabaash looked around with his goggles over his face. He couldn't hear a bloody thing for all the aircraft buzzing around. There wasn't a lot of light but what there was the goggles magnified more than ten thousand times. Though the picture was grainy, it was still clear enough to see squads of his men racing to the assembly area nearest the worse of the two trails out from the LZ. It would be a special beneficence of Allah if no one shot anyone on the same side.

"Light of the world, Maker of the Universes, let it be so," Qabaash whispered.

The CP was supposed to set up under a rock overhang to the west, between the trails. Grabbing the two radiomen who had accompanied him, Qabaash headed that way. Once there, he met his forward air controller and his operations officer, his fire support officer and his "intelligence puke." They had been scattered among the other three birds. By the time the command group had assembled, the second flight of helicopters was just touching down. For a few minutes vocal communication was impossible without shouting.

Twenty-four lifts of four IM-71s each would be just enough to bring in the combat, combat support, and command and control elements of three Sumeri battalions. After that, the heavier lift IM-62s, supplemented by airdrops, would bring in the rest of the men and the truly weighty stuff, along with the supplies required for several days' combat and several weeks' sustenance.

But I'm not waiting for anything, Qabaash thought. "Boot, don't spatter," as that Old Earth general is reputed to have said. One company at the pass in one hour will be better than three battalions in three hours. And moreover, we can have two companies at the pass in an hour, since Carrera—Allah bless his infidel heart—approved landing one company right in the pass once we had their attention firmly fixed on us attacking from the east.

Ah, Patricio, how does one not admire a commander with the balls for that? How does one not love the man who saved his country? Infidel or not, we shall not fail you.

With a rare smile, Qabaash headed himself and his men to the flashes and the sounds of aerial bombs exploding in and around the pass.

 

The shout rang through caves and along little rock gullies and draws, "To arms! To arms! The crusaders come!"

Allah is there no end to these infidels? Noorzad mentally muttered.

After the losses of the previous year, and after escaping with only a small cadre, Noorzad's group had been built up again into something the size of a large company or small battalion. There had not been enough time to train them. Especially had there not been enough time to train junior leaders. And as for the theory of guerilla warfare? No, the men were very nearly clueless except for Noorzad and his closest dozen followers. It hadn't helped matters any that of the nearly two hundred and fifty new men given unto his care back at the base, just over half were oil Arabs from the Yithrab peninsula.

Spoiled rotten little huddlers at apron strings, was Noorzad's learned judgment.

Nonetheless, semi-trained or not, spoiled and pampered children or not, Noorzad's crew were still among the best available to Mustafa. Thus, they'd been dispatched to the Kibla Pass to reinforce the fifteen hundred or so mujahadin already there. They'd come with only their small arms, some RGLs and a few light mortars purchased from Zhong Guo.

Little enough to work with. And Nur al Deen expects us to fight to the death for this? With these men and these arms? Mustafa understands better. No . . . I will do what any smart guerilla does. I will buy a little time, spill a little blood, make the enemy spend money. And then I will leave, splitting up my men into smaller groups to escape through the mountains as best they may and rally in Kashmir. And if they have to leave heavier weapons—mortars, machine guns and RGLs—behind? Well, so what?

The call to arms rang through caves and along little rock gullies and draws. It was picked up and repeated from man to man, bringing such of the mujahadin who were not already manning the trenches and the bunkers out of their early spring shelters and into the open.

This suited the Turbo-Finch pilots just fine as they swooped down from the skies to lace the rocks with machine gun and rocket fire and lay napalm and white phosphorus along any obvious or even likely defensive positions. There was return fire, enough to bring down one Finch and send another staggering home with smoke pouring out from under the wing.

Noorzad grunted in satisfaction at that. Cost them some time. Cost them some blood. Cost them some money. And when it comes time to run I'll leave the Arabs behind to cover the withdrawal of the rest. And good riddance.

 

Well-trained troops initiate an ambush with their greatest casualty producing weapon.

Idiots do so by shouting "Allahu Akbar!"

Up near the point, Qabaash heard the shout, as did the squad ahead of him, and flopped behind a boulder moments before the rocks began to ring and the air to crack with the sound of incoming bullets. He put one arm on his fire support officer's shoulder, squeezed once and said, "Mortars. On those idiots ahead. No more than thirty rounds with two white phosphorus to mark the end. Now."

They shame me by being from the same culture, Qabaash thought. They humiliate me that we share a religion. Well, we'll soon fix that.

By this time most of the Salah al Din was landed and the 120mm mortars, at least, were set up and ready to fire. Ammunition was still, and would be for some hours, rather limited. No matter; Qabaash just wanted to stun them a little. For the rest . . . 

"And pass the word: Fix bayonets."

 

Muamar al Rashid ibn Rashid had heard the shout and, like his comrades, popped his head over the lip of the trench to his front and let off a burst. It was a thirty-round burst and of that thirty rounds two went in the general direction of the enemy and the rest went well off into space. No matter. Muamar's job was to be there and to pull the trigger. Whether anything hit or not was the will of Allah.

And it certainly is exciting, thought the young Yithrabi. Just like I imagined. Mother and Father will be so proud. I wonder what that sound—

Kaboom. Boomoomoom. Kaboom.

 

Qabaash carefully counted the number of mortar rounds that came in. After reaching "Twenty-seven," he stood in plain sight of all his men. Unusually enough for an Arab leader, he carried a rifle, though in his case he'd selected a Draco sniper rifle. Affixed to the end of that rifle was a bayonet.

A couple of bullets sang by. If they weren't aimed, I'd be worried.

"Sons of Sumer!" He cried out loudly enough for even the tail of the column to hear. He lifted his rifle one-handed above his head for all to see. "Grandsons of the great Sargon! For the honor of our brigade! For the glory of our country! To the exaltation of our God!" Qabaash' eye caught the two white bursts of white phosphorus that he'd asked for. "Chaaarrrggge!"

 

None of the broadcasts on al Iskandaria News Network had seen fit to mention what it was like to receive fire. Some of the old timers could have told Muamar, but they were few and the new recruits many. That lesson had had to be skipped.

The shells had come in, exploding with a fearful crash and—far, far worse—making Muamar's innards ripple in a way that was as near to being raped as the boy could imagine. He heard a scream and turned to see a friend clutch at his face with blood pouring out through his fingers. Instantly Muamar felt the need to throw up. Then he heard a shout coming from the enemy side. When he looked he saw a tight knot of men coming toward him led by a laughing and screaming jinn in battle dress and carrying a long rifle. The Yithrabi shat himself and collapsed down to the bottom of his trench.

 

There is a difference between what is called "marching fire" and the "spray and pray" technique used by almost all Salafist forces. The Salafis pointed and shot, expecting that Allah would grace their piety by providing hits they had not really earned by dint of serious training. The marching fire used by the point company of the Salah al Din was also merely pointed, though it was well pointed. But Qabaash's crew knew they wouldn't get any hits or, at least, that they were most unlikely to. Instead, marching fire put a lot of bullets in the right general area to frighten the enemy down into his holes so that one could advance quickly and more-or-less safely.

As a practical matter, "spray and pray" fails because it has no end game. "Marching fire's" end game is to close with the bayonet, the rifle butt and the hand grenade. One works to advance the tactical objective; the other does not.

 

Qabaash had quickly sprinted ahead of the lead squad, then slowed to a jog. Though he carried a sniper rifle—a good commander is entitled to his little eccentricities—he held it low, rather than to his shoulder, and pumped out a single round every fourth step. The first squad took their cue from their brigade commander—that, and the way they had been trained to execute marching fire in the past—and likewise sprinted to catch up to him, then slowed to a jog. In their case, they fired short bursts rather than single rounds and fired them every other step, using the interval to bring their rifles back more or less on target. The remaining two squads of the lead platoon did likewise until there was a fairly thick—thick in battle terms—line of men screaming and cursing and putting out roughly ten thousand rounds a minute into an area not more than one hundred meters by two and with ricochets off the ground thrown in to increase the effect.

A few of the people in the trench tried to surrender. The Sumeris weren't really interested. By the conduct of the great Salafi conspiracy across Terra Nova and especially within Sumer, these men had put themselves beyond the pale. By joining that conspiracy they had assumed personal responsibility for all the crimes committed in its name.

The short version of which is that most of those who probably wanted to surrender were simply shot down. The Sumeri troops had learned the laws of war from the Legion.

Qabaash dropped back as his troops swept across and over the trench. He looked behind him to see the remainder of the lead company racing up. Hearing a piteous, mewling sound he looked down and saw one of the Salafis cowering and shivering in the trench. A strong odor of human shit arose from the Salafi. Obviously he had no fight left in him. Just as obviously he had not made manifest his desire to surrender. As such . . . 

"God is great," whispered Qabaash as he placed the muzzle of his Draco against the back of Muamar's head and pulled the trigger.

The commander of the lead company, Naquib al Husseini, trotted up to stand beside Qabaash. Al Husseini looked down at the exploded skull of the Salafi in the trench and grimaced, then shrugged.

"Amid, you should not do that. Your job is not to lead charges but to direct them," the naquib chided.

"Time and place for everything," Qabaash answered, adding his own shrug. "I don't think there will be much more resistance. Push your men hard for the pass, Husseini."

"Aywa, Amid." Yes, Brigadier.

 

In the west the sun was setting on a day of disaster. It was said that the infidel had already pushed fifty kilometers to the north from his starting line in southern Pashtia. The summit was lost, of course. Noorzad had seen that happen himself, escaping with about half his followers—and almost none of them the dirty Yithrabi city boys he so generally despised.

The enemy had used none of their "EE-EM-PEE" bombs on his communications. No matter; by this time Noorzad's cadre knew to keep spare phones and radios in metal boxes called "Faraday cages" to protect them from the effects of the bombs. The enemy had had an equally dirty trick, though. Somehow they'd managed to dial every telephone number for every cell and satellite phone the mujahadin had set to detonate explosive devices along the highway. They'd done something similar with wide-spectrum radio. Between these, the infidel had detonated virtually every explosive device. Noorzad suspected they'd flown a plane up the road at high altitude to do this.

Bastards. Sons of whores. Is there no end to their iniquity?

There were about one thousand mujahadin caught between the enemy's point of advance in the south and the summit he had already seized. If they were smart they'd give up the defense of the pass as a bad job and simply fade into the surrounding mountains. Some would be that smart, Noorzad suspected. Others would not. Such was life. Of those who tried to escape, some would fall to the sniper teams the infidel scattered about so liberally. Others would not. That, too, was life.

The cave in which Noorzad and the remaining six-score of his followers sheltered was dark and dank and, overall, miserable. It did have some virtues, though. While expanded inside, it was a naturally occurring cave with only a crawlspace for an entrance. Thus, there never had been the usual crowd of trucks and workers outside it to tell the spying eyes overhead that it was there. The best proof that the enemy didn't know about it was that they were all still alive. Almost as important, the cave contained food. This, the men would need for their upcoming trek down the mountains and back to the Base. The cave also had money and that, too, would be needed.

"And so, what now, Noorzad?" asked Malakzay.

"And now we split up and return to the Base," answered the chieftain. "There we rebuild and then we do it all again . . . and again . . . and again until the last of our lands are freed of the invader's polluting footsteps. They will grow sick of it before we do because, after all, we have no place else to go and they do."

25/3/468 AC, The Base, Kashmir

"Try to understand, Mustafa, there was no place Abdulahi could run to and they had his chief son and heir," said Nur al Deen. "He had to give in to them. And, at least, he had the good grace to send us a message detailing all he has been forced into and what the enemy has not thought to force him into. He also promises to return to the fold as soon as possible."

"Did he tell them about our little project for the enemy fleet?" asked Mustafa.

"He insists he has not, but has begged us to delay our strike until he can identify the ships his people—especially his son—are being held on and to avoid those ships or ship if at all possible."

"Easy enough to promise," Mustafa sneered. "When the time comes we will act as we must."

The Ikhwan chief turned his attention to Abdul Aziz. "How goes that program?"

"Everything is ready and the ship sails for the Xamar Coast even as we speak, O Prince. But . . ."

"Yes?"

"The infidels' foul work off Xamar is basically done; Abdulahi's message tells us as much. Will they stay there? I think not. I think they must head for the Nicobar Straits and very soon."

Mustafa stroked his own beard in contemplation for some moments. "Do you think they will leave before we can strike?"

"Not before we can, Mustafa, but perhaps before we should. That accursed aircraft carrier will be more vulnerable in or near the Straits than it would be off Xamar, being confined at the one but with the entire Sea of Sind to run through at the other."

More beard stroking ensued, followed by extensive moustache tugging, and even some hair twirling.

"You are risking losing the assets we gained along the Nicobar Straits," Mustafa objected, still tugging at his beard.

Abdul Aziz's head rocked from side to side. "We are also risking them if we take this one shot at the infidel fleet and miss."

"He speaks truth, Mustafa," said Nur al Deen. He'd come around. "We will only have the one chance."

"Let it be so, then," agreed the Prince of the Ikhwan. "I shall inform Parameswara and al Naquib of what we need."

Interlude

7/6/47 AC (Old Earth year 2106), Terra Nova, Balboa Colony

"Tanks? Are you sure, Pedro? Tanks?"

"Jefe," Pedro answered, half offended, "you know something big as a house that still moves and has a gun even bigger 'roun' than my dick; you let me know."

"Shit. Tanks." Belisario paused, then said, "Sorry, Pedro. It isn't that I didn't believe you. It's that I didn't want to believe you. Shit. How the hell do we fight tanks?"

Pedro shrugged and answered, "We no fight, jefe. We stay the fuck away. They only three of them, anyway. Or maybe four; Pedro not sure."

Belisario shook his head. "Easy to say, Pedro. It's not that easy to do. I don't know much about tanks but I do know that they can go a lot of places you wouldn't expect. They can also move faster in anything but the thickest jungle than we can on horseback. And, then, where the tanks really can't go the helicopters we both saw can."

"They got airplanes, too, jefe."

21/7/47 AC, Terra Nova, Balboa Colony

Belisario never heard them coming. He had no clue as to how they found his band through the thick jungle canopy overhead. One second he was riding his horse, half asleep and letting the animal pick its way along the jungle trail. The next, the world seemed engulfed in explosions as salvo after salvo of rockets came in on his narrow little column.

As quickly as the attack had come it passed, leaving only the screams of the wounded men and horses.

"How the fuck do I fight that?" Belisario cursed aloud.

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