Chapter Four
"War is pusillanimously carried on in this degenerate age; quarter is given; towns are taken and people spared; even in a storm, a woman can hardly hope for the benefit of a rape."
—Philip Dormer Stanhope, Fourth Earl of Chesterfield
Officers' and Centurions' Club, Camp Balboa, Ninewa, Sumer, 4/Intercalary/466 AC
Carrera had extended his leave to spend local Christmas with his family. And he'd felt like a rat, too, camp-sick the whole time for his army and guilty that all those deployed couldn't be home with their families.
Patricio Carrera, Dux, in Latin, or Duque, in Spanish, commander of the deployed portion of the Legion del Cid, drummed his fingers with irritation while watching the projection screen set up in the main room of the club.
"What are you going to do if you win, Adnan?" Carrera asked of the Sumeri, Adnan Sada, seated to his right.
"To answer that question, Patricio, you have to answer the question of why the people would have voted for me."
"Because here, in Ninewa and over in Pumbadeta provinces we've got relative peace?"
Sada laughed, slightly and cynically. "That's a part of it, too, of course. But the real reason, only somewhat related to that, is that I am not a nut, either tribalist, sectarian, fascist or leftist, that I am not really a democrat, and that I am ruthless enough to hold things together. If they vote for me, they're voting to hold the country together, whatever it takes. They're also voting to get rid of this experiment in parliamentary democracy which scares the living shit out of most of them."
"You mean they want to have 'one man, one vote, once'?"
"Pretty much," Sada agreed, then amended, "or rather, they don't want there to be a chance for the rise of the sort of lunatics democracy tends to throw up in this kind of society. They also want their traditions and their tribes respected. They want someone able to keep the Farsi at bay; yes, even the ones who share sect with the Farsi would prefer being a majority in a non-sectarian Sumer to being an Arab minority in a non-Arab state."
"Are you planning on de-socializing?"
"There's no way to," Sada answered, definitively, "not entirely. It's the curse of a single-resource economy. When someone tells me how to divide up the oil without just pouring money into corrupt hands . . ."
Sada's face suddenly looked grim as his voice acquired a hint of despair.
"Most Arabs, you know, think Allah gave us the oil as a special gift because he loves us. I suspect he gave it to us as a trap because he hates us."
Carrera looked down, thinking, Balboa, too, is something of a single resource country, the Transitway. The other major income producer, the legion, is not, strictly speaking, a part of the economy. How would Balboa divide the Transitway? When they've tried it just meant huge bribes for private profit.
Sada continued, "I am of a mind to de-socialize most of those things the previous government took control of: agriculture, construction, liquor distilling. Who knows, maybe I'll be able to buy a decent local beer and whiskey someday, rather than having to rely on the legion's unofficial imports."
Sada was not one of those Moslems who took the proscription against alcohol too very seriously.
"In any case," Sada finished, "I will deliberately wreck this doomed-to-fail, absolutely impossible experiment in parliamentarianism and work to create what can work, a federation of the tribes with a national army. And, after all, what the hell difference what kind of government we have provided it doesn't try to govern much? I will never be able to eradicate corruption so I'll just have to work with it, even to regularize it."
That sparked a thought for Carrera. When the day comes, as it will, when the government of Balboa has to go, how will Parilla and I organize the country? Around the provinces that, outside of Valle de la Luna, don't mean much? Around the tercios of the legions? It's something to think on. Of course, first we'll have to fight the Taurans who are only in Balboa to ensure we can't get rid of the government.
Carrera's thoughts were interrupted by a loud cheer and some warbling from the female serving staff at the club, which included several dozen Sumeri hookers, war widows mostly, that the legion had taken under its wing. He looked up and saw that the main screen showed election returns from Pumbadeta and its environs; a sweep for Sada.
"They appreciate that, as far as they can tell, I saved them from you," Sada commented, with a grin.
It was true enough. Without Sada's personal example and intervention Carrera had been determined to kill every Pumbadetan male capable of sprouting a beard. And they'd known it.
Nice to see they pay their debts, Carrera thought.
There was another cheer, and more female warbling, as the results for Ninewa were shown on the screen. It was rather more subdued, though. There had never been any doubt of how the base province for Sada's own force, now a near mirror image of Carrera's, would vote.
"Babel is the real question," Sada observed. "It's going to be close."
The officers and senior noncoms—centurions, sergeants-major, signifers, tribunes, and legates—couldn't have been more interested in watching the election results on the main room's four-meter projection screen than they would have been if the election had been held in their base country of Balboa. After all, it was their man, their ally, Adnan Sada, running for the highest office in the Republic of Sumer.
Surrounded by the others, Carrera's and Sada's fingers continued to drum. Watching the numbers shift was as nerve-wracking as any battle.
No, thought Carrera. It's more nerve-wracking than a battle. For in battle I have control, a control I know how to use to good effect. Here, with this election, I have little. Unconsciously, he stopped the drumming with his right hand, moving the thumbnail to his teeth to nibble.
Sitting to Carrera's left, Sergeant Major McNamara noticed the nervous biting and, thinking to kill two birds with one stone, poured a fresh drink into the crystal glass on the armrest between them. The whiskey made tinkling sounds as it splashed over the ice.
Thank God, John McNamara thought, that he's cut down on the drinking since seven years ago.
Still unconsciously, Carrera stopped his nail gnawing to pick up the glass. Unseen by Carrera, Sergeant Major McNamara smiled slightly at the Sumeri, Qabaash, seated behind Sada. Qabaash rarely smiled outside of battle. He did offer his glass behind Carrera's back to McNamara for a refill.
"Heretic," Carrera whispered when he turned and saw the drink in Qabaash's hand.
"It's not what you Nazrani would call a mortal sin, sayidi," Qabaash answered. "Besides, Allah is the all merciful, the all-forgiving, despite what some Salafi assholes would have you believe. And He knows I need the bloody drink now, if ever I did."
Carrera nodded, then replaced his own drink on the armrest. Re- fixing his attention on the screen he went back to his gnawing. This time McNamara gave off an "ahem" to remind his chief of the proper decorum.
"Well, dammit," Carrera answered, "this election decides the war. If we win it, we'll have won. If Sada loses . . ."
"Civil war," Qabaash supplied. "There is no one else to hold the country together, just a bunch of corrupt tribal and sectarian idiots who'll pull us apart. And no, I don't mean random terrorism; I mean civil war."
Carrera and McNamara tactfully refrained from mentioning that civil war in Sumer was potentially just another employment opportunity for the Legion del Cid. Besides, they really did want to win the war in Sumer. It wasn't as if there would be a lack of other employment opportunities, after all, not in the long run.
"Il hamdu l'illah!" exclaimed Qabaash. To God be the praise.
Carrera looked back at the screen. The precincts for Babel had begun to report in. The few initial reports quickly became a cascade. Mentally echoing Qabaash, he thought, Thank you, God or Allah, or whatever name You prefer to go by.
Turning to Sada, Carrera offered his hand. "Congratulations, Mr. President."
The hookers' warbling grew to a torrent of sound to compete with the thunder of slapped backs and smashed crystal.
Executive Mansion, Hamilton, FD, Federated States of Columbia, 12/1/467 AC
James K. Malcolm should have been president. Everything he'd ever done in his life, from serving in the armed forces, to taking initially unpopular antiwar and progressive stands, to his series of marriages to increasingly wealthy and connected women, to being photographed windsurfing off the coast of Botulph; everything had been geared to one sole end, that he should rest his feet on the presidential desk and guide the country to his version of a progressive future.
But it had not yet come. He'd had his chance and blown it almost three and a half decades before he'd made his runs. Twice he'd tried. The second time he'd even failed of nomination, despite his latest wife's money and even a substantial portion of his own. He'd been offered the vice-presidential slot and turned it down, instead taking the job of secretary of war, an infinitely more important job than vice-president as long as the country was at war. He had one more chance at the office of president, and SecWar seemed the best place to spend his time before he took that chance.
And to do that, I need to be remembered as the man who ended the war in Sumer. Moreover, I need the extreme Progressives to see me as the man who surrendered. I also need to be seen as the man who disengaged favorably by the Independents. And I need to do that without at the same time looking like I surrendered to the Federalists.
I also need to be the one who oversees final victory in Pashtia. For that is what will be remembered in eight years.
After having been announced via intercom by the receptionist, Malcolm politely knocked at the door to the president's office, then waited patiently to be asked in. When he entered he affected not to notice that the president was rearranging his trousers even as a female intern was reapplying her lipstick.
After a second's more fussing with his belt line the president stood and advanced, offering his hand. The intern slipped out a side door.
"Good of you to come by, James," President Karl Schumann said as the two shook hands by the desk. "Please have a seat." Schumann indicated a couch on the other side of the Trapezoid, as the presidential office was known.
After Malcolm had seated himself, and Schumann had taken a chair opposite, the president asked, "What are we going to do about Sumer and Pashtia?"
"As far as Sumer goes, Karl, we can do pretty much as we like. Their election two weeks ago of a man who has expressly vowed to get rid of the parliamentary constitution we gave them fairly well absolves us of any further obligations there. On the other hand, I am reliably informed that that man, Adnan Sada, is very capable and very ruthless and quite possibly doesn't need any more support from us. Win-win, and we can start pulling out in a couple of months."
"All to the good," Schumann agreed. "What about Pashtia?"
"That one we must fight out," Malcolm said. "It's the only campaign in the war that has strong bipartisan support. Moreover, the last administration, mostly by virtue of invading Sumer and sucking up jihadi money and fighters that would otherwise have gone to Pashtia, made Pashtia look like it was won already."
"And wasn't it?"
"No, Karl," Malcolm said. "With Sumer lost to them, the Ikhwan know they must fight it out in Pashtia or give up all claim to legitimacy. Moreover, the money and fighters that used to go to Sumer will now go there. Worse, they have developed other sources of funding. Worst of all, the programs the last administration tried to use to interfere with that funding we caused to be destroyed to discredit the Federalists in order to regain power. We can hardly use those programs ourselves."
Schumann chuckled. "Are you really a man of principle, James? Is that even possible? Never mind; the same media who undermined the last president to get us back into power will completely ignore anything we do that helps us stay in power."
"I'm not so sure of that, Karl."
"Never mind that, either, James. I am sure. The press has a price though."
Malcolm cocked his head, inquisitively.
"The mercenary group from Balboa must go. The editor of the First Landing Times was explicit about that."
"Oh, Mr. President, they're going."
Camp Balboa, Ninewa, 25/1/467 AC
Carrera had known what was coming, at least in rough outline. This explained why he had had VIP quarters assigned to Virgil Rivers and a dusty tent with an unmattressed cot to the assistant deputy undersecretary of war, the disgustingly fat Kenneth O'Meara- Temeroso. Rivers, being a gentleman, had, of course, protested. Carrera had answered, "It's the quarters you're assigned or the guard house for both of you." Rivers had then immediately walked in the direction of the guard house before being escorted back to his quarters.
"He'll get even for that, Pat," Rivers said, later that evening, over drinks in Carrera's adobe brick bungalow. The quarters were fairly cool in themselves, made more so by a small and straining window air conditioner and several overhead fans. Rivers was a little surprised to see that his own, temporary, VIP quarters were considerably more ornate and comfortable than Carrera's permanent hooch. He didn't know that the VIP quarters were actually the ones Carrera had shared with Lourdes.
Carrera shrugged. "What's he going to do that he isn't going to do anyway? Don't sweat it, Virg; I'm just getting my digs in first. He is here to fire us, right?"
Rivers just nodded, half saddened and half embarrassed.
"Oh . . . cheer up, for Christ's sake. It isn't like there's much to do here anymore. Sada—he's the Sumeri we've been working with since shortly after the beginning—anyway, Sada wants to hire one reinforced cohort of about two thousand men as a backup reaction force. I'll give him a cut rate, something I would never do for your SecWar. That will help pay the bills. And then I think there may be some private contracts here and there from people who need a little muscle. Have to see how that rolls out, though. In any case, we have enough to get by on until the FS realizes it needs us again."
"That won't be long," Rivers said. "One of the big advantages you've got is your troops are well trained and well equipped, but they're not spoiled. You can get by in a logistically austere environment better than FS troops can. I give it eighteen months and we'll be begging to hire you."
Carrera agreed, "Yes, we need about a third to a half the transport an FS division does. So, again yes, we're better suited to a place— Pashtia, say—without good road, rail or ports. As for Pashtia, do you really think it will take eighteen months?"
"Maybe not," Rivers conceded.
Carrera checked his watch. "Virg, I'm accompanying a Cazador maniple on a raid tomorrow morning at o-dark thirty. It's more of a training opportunity than a serious problem but I really need to hit the rack now. A driver will be parked outside all night. I won't offer you the full hospitality of the camp but I will point out that the O' and C' Club has several dozen women available for hire."
Rivers held his hands up in mock terror, then said, "Tempting, but no thanks."
"Up to you. We should be done by noon or so. I'll see you and his lowliness tomorrow about fourteen thirty; will that suit?"
"Just fine."
The next morning O'Meara-Temeroso awoke and discovered he had not, after all, slept alone. Filthy, and having no clue about communal washing facilities, he scratched at his obscenely obese and smelly flesh in rage and misery until Rivers found him and drove him to his own quarters and the blessed shower.
Seeing the comfort which with Rivers had spent the night enraged O'Meara-Temeroso even more. After that, the bureaucrat was not only frantically scratching; he was spitting with fury. Rivers made no comment, but merely pointed to the shower and handed the assistant deputy undersecretary of war a bar of harsh but fast-acting flea soap. To add injury to deliberate insult, the soap burned like the devil, especially around the more tender spots.
Thus, when Rivers and O'Meara-Temeroso arrived at the camp and legion headquarters, and were escorted to Carrera's office, the undersecretary was almost apoplectic with anger, rage and hate. Carrera could see a vein throbbing in his head.
The undersecretary proceeded to spit out, "You're fired, you fascist mercenary bastard. Do you hear me? EFF-EYE-ARR-EEE-DEE. FIRED! When your contract runs out in three months there will be no more, d'ya hear me? No more! Moreover, we're going to pay whatever is due you directly to your sponsoring government. You can go to them to beg for scraps from the table."
Click.
Carrera smiled serenely. He admonished, "Please, Mr. Undersecretary; control yourself. Three months, you say? That's no problem. Since you have just announced a material breach of our contract this legion will be gone from Sumer in two weeks. Oh, we'll have to turn over some of our equipment and supplies to the Sumeris; that or burn them. Never fear though. 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. Hope you appreciate having to send an additional FS division over here in a hurry even though your administration promised to draw down the war."
The serene smile became positively radiant.
"Good day to you, sir. You can thank General Rivers that I haven't had you shot. But before you leave answer one question; is your name O'Meara-Temeroso because your mother wasn't quite sure who your father was and just decided to split the difference?"
Xamar, 9/2/467 AC
The tough part had been coming up with a single sailor from the Yamatan ship, Tojo Hidecki Maru, willing to beg for his life. Twenty- one of the twenty-two captives had simply glared at their captors, returning curses and spit for kicks and blows. Courage was perhaps the most notable trait for the Yamatans. With no other audience to their bravery, they endured for the sake of their ancestors.
One had been younger and weaker. After beating him mercilessly, tearing out his finger- and toenails, crushing his testicles, and applying flame to the soles of his feet, that Yamatan had been turned into a weeping, pleading caricature of a man. He begged for the camera now.
In mid-plea a single shot rang out. In the camera's view the sailor's head exploded in gory technicolor. The body flopped bonelessly to the tiled floor and twitched. The firer raised his rifle over his head and shouted, "Allahu Akbar!"
The camera shifted angle to the leader of a Xamari pirate band. The chief's head and face were covered. He spoke no Japanese and so made his announcement in English.
"You were warned. That was one. We hold another twenty-one of your sailors. Meet our just demands or those will also be killed at a rate of one per day, beginning tomorrow at sunrise. The rate—either of payment or of execution—will not change. If you pay us our just demand of twenty-two million FSD by this evening, the remaining twenty-one will be released unharmed. If you do not pay before twenty days have passed, it will cost you the same amount but all you will receive is the last man and the bodies of the other twenty-one. The choice is yours."
Within a few hours copies of the tape were on their way to Yamato . . . and al Iskandaria news.
MV Uhuru Mercy, off the Xamar Coast, 12/2/467 AC
To the four hundred and seventy-four crew of the Mercy there was no choice. Rather, the choices were either continuing on, canceling their mission to the small and impoverished Uhuran state of Mpende, asking one of the world's navies to grant an escort, or hiring armed guards themselves. Abjuring violence, they chose, not without a certain nobility, to remain true to their principles and continue on, without escort or guards, and even with the warning that piracy along the Xamar coast was growing completely out of hand.
There was no large cross—hateful symbol to the pirates—to mark the ship. Neither was there a large red star. The cross would have been little more than an aiming point but the star would have declared the ship quite off limits.
The Xamari pirates came at night, a night virtually without moonlight. The engines of their three small craft were muffled. They had arms in their hands.
Their boats, too, had been muffled, with rubber inner tube bumpers around the prow to absorb the shock and sound of coming close alongside a target ship. The boats' captains eased back on the throttles as they came alongside, matching speed with the Mercy.
At each boat's prow a man stood with a grapnel and rope. These they swung to a blur before launching them upward. Two of the three took hold immediately. The third took two tries before it found purchase.
As fast as the grapples were set, other men, one per rope, scampered upward bearing rope ladders on their backs. A single good climber, armed but otherwise unencumbered, followed the ladder bearers and stood guard while the ladders were affixed.
It all went very smoothly after that. A dozen men climbed up one rope ladder, fifteen up a second, nineteen up the third. Once assembled on the deck their leader, a son of Abdulahi by a not very important wife, gave his last minute instructions.
"Go forth from top to bottom. Capture all and assemble them here. Kill only when you can't help it or when the infidels disobey. Rape none of them; there will be a fair division of spoils later. Report to me here when you have found the ship's safe. Destroy none of the medical equipment or supplies; they can be sold. Now go forward and do your duty by your clan and your faith."
UEPF Spirit of Peace, 13/2/467 AC (Old Earth Year 2521)
Going after the filthy capitalists, down below, was one thing. After all, how much sympathy could one summon for a class always eager to underbid each other for the rope that would be used to hang them all? But going after nongovernmental organizations, the shaft of Robinson's spear; that was something else again.
"It's pretty depressing," observed Peace's captain, Marguerite Wallenstein. "Bad enough that the local office of Amnesty, Interplanetary was defanged. What do we do when one part of our overall program attacks another?"
Robinson nodded his head glumly at the tall blonde. Though Wallenstein was approximately a century and a half old, antiagathic treatments kept her looking, and acting—in bed at least—like a twenty-five year old. Overall, Robinson much preferred her to the other crew with which he made do from time to time.
"Depressing is hardly strong enough," he said with disgust.
The news was all over television, down below. Likewise, the local net was eaten up with it; a hospital ship captured, its safe robbed, a dozen of its crew butchered for the cameras. Even now the broadcasts showed a long line of impressed civilians in the former capital of Xamar unloading everything from crates of morphine and antibiotics to X-ray machines to cots.
Worse, the captors had announced that unless ransom was paid the crew would be auctioned off as slaves. Since the going ransom was what had become the standard of late, a million FSD a head, no one who was willing to pay was also in a financial position to. No more was Robinson, even had he been inclined.
On the other hand, the new progressive administration in the Federated States, which did have the wherewithal to pay, simply could not for political reasons.
Wallenstein rested her chin on slender, graceful hands. "The cheapest way to get them back, you know, would be to send someone to bid on them ourselves. They couldn't go for more than twenty or thirty thousand FSD each, not at open auction."
Robinson smiled. "Aren't you clever, Marguerite? But that's still more than we can lightly pay. This fleet operates on a shoestring, as you know as well as anyone."
"Not us . . . but what if we drop a hint in a friendly ear?"
"Whose ear? The World League couldn't even pay that; it might mean they'd no longer be able to have servants to fill the water carafes at their meetings. The Taurans aren't interested since the crew is Columbian. And the progressives in the FSC would be turned out of office if they paid or even if they bid."
Wallenstein began to smirk, then snicker, and finally to chuckle.
"What's so funny?" asked Robinson.
"Well . . . I was just imagining the World League killing two birds with one stone. They bid on the captives but then keep them as slaves to fill the water carafes at the meetings."
Though Wallenstein was joking, Robinson considered it seriously for half a minute. Sighing, he answered, "Nah . . . they'd need to keep them either at the headquarters in First Landing or at the other one in Helvetia. Slavery's illegal both places."
"I was only joking," Wallenstein insisted.
"In any case, the problem appears insoluble without intervention. No, not the problem with these captives. They really matter for little, whatever happens to them. But we must damage Terra Novan commerce even while the Kosmo movement damages the social cohesion of its nations. Make me an appointment with Mustafa, would you Marguerite? And have my shuttle prepared to bring me to Atlantis Base for that appointment."
Parade Field, Isla Real, Balboa, 13/2/467
It had actually taken closer to three weeks, rather than the two Carrera had said it would, to pull the deployed legion out of Sumer. At that, they'd left a bit under twenty percent of its strength—one reinforced cohort—behind to serve as a palace-guard-of-last-resort for Sada as he assumed the extraordinarily dangerous job of President of the Republic.
Even then, it wasn't precisely a moneymaking arrangement for Carrera. Sada and Sumer just couldn't afford to pay what the FSC had paid. Instead, they paid only the operational costs. Fortunately for all concerned, these were low now since the serious fighting had ended.
"Adnan," Carrera had told Sada, "look at it this way; it isn't a gift. I'm not losing any money on the deal. Besides, you're our ally. We have few enough in the world that we're not about to let one go under. Besides, I just hate to lose."
Less that not-quite-twenty-percent, the rest of the legionaries were back in Balboa in time to celebrate the sixth anniversary of their baptism of fire back at Multichucha Ridge in Sumer. That celebration had begun with a parade. The parade was now ending.
"Pass in review," ordered the legionary adjutant.
Immediately the drums picked up a marching beat, followed by the pipes playing "The Muckin' o' Geordies' Byre." The order was repeated and modified by the cohort and maniple commanders.
"Maniple . . . forward . . . mark time . . . right wheel . . . mark time . . . forward . . . MARCH," carried down the serried ranks.
Cruz stood in the first rank of his maniple, fourth from the right, next to Arredondo. His eyes scanned the reviewing stands for signs of his wife and children but, with the stands packed to capacity and then some with well-wishers and close family come to give the returned legion a good homecoming reception, there was no way to pick out one small cinnamon woman and two still smaller children from the mass. No matter; I'll find them when the parade's dismissed.
Cruz heard the maniple commander call out, "Maniple . . . right wheel . . . MARCH."
He stepped off as did the rest of the unit, but adopted a half step to keep the front rank relatively dressed. The half step continued until the wheel was complete. At that point, all moved out with a full step down the field. At the right edge, as the troops faced, there was a shiny coffee can lid nailed to the ground. Here the commander ordered, "Left wheel . . . MARCH." Another thirty meters on there was another shiny lid. Here the unit wheeled left yet again. At that point they were very close to the pipes and drums. Whatever randomness was in their step, and the legions didn't practice parading all that much so there was some, was beaten out of them by the heavily pounding drums. As the maniple approached the band and reviewing stands, and the music and the "ooohs" and "ahhhhs" from the crowd grew, the legionaries threw their shoulders back and walked even more proudly erect. Cocks of the walk, indeed.
Instead of eagles, maniples carried small upraised palms atop their guidons. Cruz saw the palm rise on the commander's preparatory command, "EYES . . ." The entire maniple gripped the slings of their rifles with their left hands, freeing their rights. When they saw the palm and pole drop parallel to the ground on the order, "RIGHT," they turned their heads toward the stand and brought their right hands up to salute.
On the stand, Parilla and Carrera—Carrera to the left—returned the salutes and held them until the guidon had passed. Once the two leaders had dropped their own salutes, the maniple commander ordered, "READY . . . FRONT." Immediately, salutes dropped, right hands returned to rifle slings, left arms lowered to the sides to swing normally and eyes returned to the front. From that point, it was only a question of marching off, and meeting the families. There was no need to turn in individual weapons; in the legions, soldiers were trusted to keep their weapons at home or in the barracks. This was so despite a few suicides and a couple of unfortunate incidents where a legionary had come home to find out his wife had not been all that lonely in his absence.
Cruz's mind was just beginning to dwell upon unpleasant possibilities when he felt a light and gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned around and . . .
Holy shit!
Cara was there. So were the children. So were two women he didn't recognize. The two unknown women, however, were with a couple of men he did recognize.
"Señores!" he said, bracing to attention and saluting.
Both Carrera and Parilla returned the salute; then Carrera reached over and took Cruz's rifle from his shoulder.
Smiling, Carrera said, "See to your family, Centurion. I think Duque Parilla and I are competent to watch your rifle for you for a while. I'll have my driver drop it by your quarters this evening."
Later—much later—in bed, Cruz asked Cara, "Where did you meet Parilla and Carrera?"
Cara snuggled into his shoulder and answered, "Actually I'd never met them before today. But the day you went off to the war the first time, when I saw you off at the airport, Lourdes Carrera—well, actually her name was Nuñez-Cordoba back then—and Mrs. Parilla were nearby when I started to cry. They came over to comfort me and we all ended up crying together. They saw me and the kids outside the reviewing stand and invited us up. That's where I met the duques."
"Oh."
The couple lay silently for a long time, neither sleeping but both enjoying the warm feeling of being together again; that, and the afterglow from making love. Admittedly, this separation had been much shorter than most. Still, Cruz had been away at the war for two and a half of the last six years and had spent more than half the remainder training in the field. More than three quarters separation in the first six years of marriage would have done—indeed, had done—for many marriages. That theirs had lasted so well so far was mostly attributable to Caridad. Even so . . .
"Ricardo?"
"Si, mi amor."
"When this enlistment is up . . ." She hesitated, nervously, before continuing, "when this enlistment is up, could you consider getting out?"
"I'll have to think about it, corazon. I'm forty percent of the way to earliest retirement. That would be a lot of money to throw away."
"You can't spend it when you're dead, Ricardo." Count on a woman to come up with a reasonable answer. Dammit.
Puerto Lindo, Balboa, 14/2/467 AC
Carrera could be pretty damned unreasonable. He had given Fosa, Dos Lindas' skipper and commander of the classis, eighty-seven days, from commissioning to first sailing. This would probably have been impossible except that Fosa had begun training nearly four months prior to commissioning and for certain elements, pilots and maintenance crews, three months before that.
It would be another three months, too, before the ship was expected to be fully operational. Oh, yes, each of the parts worked. The pilots could take off and land from the short, narrow and pitching deck. The aircraft maintenance personnel were fully capable of keeping the planes serviceable. The deck crews could recover the planes and strike them below; or refuel them and rearm them on deck. The navigators could navigate; the cooks could cook; the black gang could oversee and keep up the reactor and the generators. Intel was getting fairly deft at incepting radio and cell phone transmissions, along with the more routine intelligence gathering skills. The demi-battalion of Cazadors was perhaps the most ready of the ship's divisions, as there was really nothing important aboard ship that changed things when they got to the land: load helicopters, fly, dismount; then spot, capture or kill; then reload and go home.
Simulators and training exercises aboard ship helped, of course. And there was one simulator for every third aircraft except the remotely piloted ones. For those, their normal control stations with a simulator program loaded were sufficient. Moreover, all the simulators were linked onto the ship's main computer so that entire exercises could be run without ever leaving port.
The Cazadors could not be fully linked into that simulation system, though the leaders could, after a fashion. Instead, every fourth or fifth night for the last month, they'd launched from the stationary ship via helicopter to raid some or another spot ashore. Most of the rest of the time, when not spent planning a raid, the Cazadors trained on the limited training facilities of the Academia Militar Sargento Juan Malvegui; there or at Fort Tecumseh, on the other side of the Transitway to the east.
Underway replenishment, or UNREP, had not been practiced. The nearest the Dos Lindas' skipper could come was to force resupply through the means that would be available at sea; via air and from ship to ship. This was a substantially different undertaking, though, in the calm waters of Puerto Lindo, than it would have been in a Force Twelve hurricane. (Actually, nobody tried doing UNREP in Force Twelve. Fosa intended to give it a shot, though.)
In any case, none of it could yet be said to work together properly, under exactly realistic conditions. They'd not yet really tried.
Tonight, with almost no moonlight and bay lit only by the lights of town, the shipyard, and the military academy, that would change.
It began to change as soon as Dos Lindas' skipper, Roderigo Fosa, turned to his executive officer and ordered, "Take her out, Tribune."
High Admiral's Quarters, Atlantis Base, 19/2/467 AC
In the end, Mustafa had refused to travel unless the UEPF sent a shuttle for him. Even a private charter was impossible, especially so as—whatever their other failings, national security-wise, were concerned—the FSC's Progressive administration was even more fanatically dedicated to getting him than even the Federalists had been. Mustafa didn't know that the Progressives were so determined to get him precisely so they could have an excuse to call off the war. There had been days when, had he known this, he might just have turned himself in, if only in order to take pressure off of his movement to allow it to rebuild from the twin disasters of Pashtia in 460, Sumer beginning in 461, and continuing on to the current day.
The shuttle, a pumpkin-seed shape, had come almost silently in the night, to a spot Mustafa had picked that would be safe from prying eyes. There he had boarded through the lit rectangle of the hatch, been strapped in by the crew chief—an act Mustafa felt deep down to be highly impious—and then been flown at a very high speed to the UEPF's base colony on the island of Atlantis, in the middle of the Mar Furioso. A darkened limousine bought by the UEPF from Sachsen had picked him up at the landing field and whisked him briskly to the high admiral's quarters.
Most Salafis, most Arabs or Moslems of whatever sect, would have spent anywhere from hours to days in small talk, beating around the bush, before getting to the point. Mustafa was not like that. Perhaps it was his nature, perhaps merely because he was not a well man and felt he might have little enough time left. Whatever the case; when Robinson went directly to the point Mustafa picked right up without further waste of time.
"You've got to stop this decentralized mayhem, to assert real control over your movement, and to begin to seriously plan, not just leave everything up to the will of your god," Robinson began, after the usual, but curt, greetings.
"I know," Mustafa said, and then lit a cigarette.
"You've got to begin a campaign of finan—what did you say?"
"I said that I know. The Nazrani have taught me; Allah helps those who also help themselves. Faith is still key, of course. Yet the Maker of Universes would not have allowed us to fall as low as we have, despite our perfect faith, unless He also wanted us to think, work and plan for our own good, and His."
"Oh . . ." Robinson was momentarily nonplussed. "Well in that case, we can begin to plan and fight a war, together."
"Before that, infidel, tell me why. Why are you willing to help us?" Mustafa raised his hands as if fending off a blow . . . or a lie.
"And do not speak falsely. I know you have no love for us. Not only do you not share our religion you do not share any religion."
Robinson poured himself a drink. And why not? If the Salafi can smoke, a custom I abhor; I can drink. And, indeed, the Salafi said not a word. That, too, suggested a very changed outlook.
"I don't really care who wins," the high admiral admitted. "Or if anyone does, provided that the Federated States and the civilization they share with the Taurans . . . oh, and Yamato, too, of course . . . provided they all lose. If the cosmopolitan progressives win this planet they will turn it into something that is not dangerous to my home, Earth. If you win you will turn it into something that would not have been dangerous to my world even a thousand years ago. Either is acceptable to me and I see no reason why it would matter if both of you got half a world. I care only that those who could be a threat to my world never become one."
Mustafa, lips pursed, rocked his head from side to side for a minute, thinking about that. "Are you so sure my people could never become a threat?"
"Yes, I am that sure. To be a threat you must travel space. To travel space you must progress technologically. And that kind of progress is everything your movement abhors. That much, at least, you share with the Kosmos. At least your side is honest about it."
Robinson hesitated briefly before adding, "And . . . frankly, the Kosmos have little long-term chance of global success, not here. They only succeeded on Earth because immigration patterns to Terra Nova pulled away more and more of the traditional, religious and nationalist sorts, leaving the Earth behind for my ancestors. There is no new world such people can leave for from here."
Mustafa nodded. That wasn't important. "And you wish to help, more than you helped with the attacks that began this war?"
"I will help more, much more. Still no nukes, though."
Mustafa shrugged an indifference he did not truly feel. Nuclear weapons . . . what a dream to have them and use them on the Nazrani and the atheists.
"Details?"
"First, I need your support in taking over the direction of the pirates operating off the coast of Xamar and the Straits of Nicobar. They can—"
"Xamar I already control," Mustafa interjected. "The Nicobars listen to no one. I've tried."
"Then the question is whether they should be attacked and brought to heel or if they can be induced by incentives."
"What sort of incentives? And how do you provide incentives to ten thousand men, every one of whom considers himself a chief answerable to no one?"
"By helping one chieftain to become paramount, to rise above all others."
Isla Santa Josefina, Balboa, 20/2/467 AC
Montoya loved flying. He'd hardly imagined, as not much more than a boy standing in a legion enlistment line, the power and the freedom and the sheer joy of flight. Though he'd known then that the legion had, or at least intended to have, aircraft, he'd never imagined himself actually conning one. What was he? Just a poor farm boy from the interior. Who was he to think he'd someday be a pilot?
But the Legion del Cid was an equal opportunity employer, he'd found. It was also a miserly employer of human talent. While he'd not shown any remarkable leadership ability at Cazador School, he had shown toughness, determination, and at least a modicum of brains. He could be taught. Moreover, when he'd been talked into volunteering for some hit missions by Cruz, he'd shown considerable personal courage and determination. There were places in the legion for people like that. In Montoya's case, that place had eventually come to be in a cockpit. And he just loved it.
What he hated, though, were the carrier takeoffs and the landings. Those scared him silly. Every time.
No, not landings on the ground, even on pretty rough ground; he'd had lots of experience in those, flying a Cricket. His plane could take it, no problem. On the other hand, landing or taking off from a pitching, weaving, postage-stamp-on-the-ocean? Trying to catch the arrestor cables? Reversing thrust at the last minute so he didn't overshoot and end up crushed or drowned—most likely, both—under the prow? Trying to time his take off so that he hit the leading edge of the flight deck on an upswing? (The deck crew was becoming a big help there, though, he had to admit; especially as they gained experience.) That sinking feeling as the plane dropped almost like a rock as he left the flight deck behind? Gag . . . shiver . . . barf.
He shivered again, half at the memory of the last takeoff when his landing gear had plowed furrows in the ocean before pulling up and half at foreboding over the next landing.
It got progressively worse, too. It seemed like the skipper was actually looking for rough seas and bad weather to launch in. They'd lost one pilot already, and cracked up both that plane and a Yakamov-72 helicopter. At least the Yakamov crew had gotten out.
From this and other evils, deliver me, O Lord.
In some ways, Montoya wished he'd been picked to fly a Cricket, as he used to, rather than a Turbo-Finch Avenger, usually called a Finch. With the Dos Lindas facing into the wind, and even a mild headwind, the Crickets took off practically straight up. And for landing, their stall speed wasn't much above the carrier's cruise speed. Piece o' cake.
On the other hand, Crickets don't generally fight. I'd prefer to fight, even if getting to and from the fight soils my flight suit. And speaking of which . . .
The island—the Isla Santa Josefina—loomed out of the gloomy dusk ahead. Montoya adjusted his throttle to pick up speed, veered a little left, then right, and mentally reviewed his firing run. Trees began near the water's edge. A slight pull back on his stick, then an equally slight push forward, lifted the Finch and set it on a heading and altitude that would allow its fixed landing gear to just skim over the trees.
The central hill dominating the Isla Santa Josefina lay ahead. Again Montoya eased back on the stick, causing the plane to just miss the jungle below. He felt a pressure in the seat of his trousers. As soon as the plane cleared the summit, Montoya pushed forward to drop the nose, causing his stomach to lurch.
There's the target.
Ahead, in Montoya's view, three old, rusty armored vehicles sat in the open. As he aimed the plane by feel, his thumb flipped off the safety cover on the firing button over his stick and began to press. With each press of the thumb two rockets, one from under each wing, lanced out. As soon as he had bracketed the target Montoya pulled the stick to the right. The nimble Finch acted like the crop- duster it was and turned away athletically.
Damned good thing, too, thought Montoya. Looking to the left he saw the next bird in the training attack was firing almost before he had cleared away.
The Isla Santa Josefina had been purchased by the legion as a range. No one actually lived there for the excellent reason that the Federated States had used it as a chemical warfare testing ground during the Great Global War and never spent a drachma or expended an ounce of sweat cleaning it up afterward. It had come to the legion pretty cheaply.
The legion hadn't spent much on it either. It had decontaminated a small landing area for boats and a couple of observation posts. Nearer the center of the island a few target spots in the impact area had been cleared. Cleared paths connected the landing, the OPs and the target spots. The rest was not only presumed to be at least somewhat chemically toxic, and much of that contamination being with very persistent nerve and blister agents, but had had an absolutely amazing amount of ordnance dumped on it over the last several years from the main island, the Isla Real, as well as three much smaller islands purchased to serve as firing positions for mortars and artillery. The new ordnance, too, had the effect of breaking open some of the three thousand dud chemical warheads believed to be still on Santa Josefina, either at the surface or just below it.
Even the few people, forward observers for the artillery the most part, that went there, went with full chemical protection—suits, rubber booties, gloves and masks.
The Dos Lindas couldn't see either island, not even from its own island on the starboard center of the flight deck. It could, however, see the mass confusion on the flight deck as the crew attempted to crowd seventeen Cricket Bs and five of the Yakamovs in position to load troops and take off. It really shouldn't be as hard as they were making it look.
No matter, thought Fosa. Practice makes perfect and they'll practice until they puke and drop.
Though said to be "slightly modified" the B models were actually fairly substantial modifications to the basic Cricket. The cabin had been lengthened and widened to allow four (or if they were feeling really friendly, five) passengers. The wingspan had also been increased by about thirty centimeters a side. The single engine in the nose was taken out and replaced by two slightly smaller and individually less powerful ones on the wings. Also, and this was important given the mission, the two smaller engines were slightly quieter, together, than the original single was, alone. In the nose had been placed a fairly sophisticated thermal imager cum ground sensor for recon and for limited visibility landings. In addition, to either side of the engines were hardpoints, four in total, for rocket and machine gun pods. Underneath was a single hardpoint to which could be attached a light homing torpedo, just in case one of the Yakamov ASW helicopters happened to find a submarine where no submarine ought be.
Fosa and the commander of the Cazadors, Tribune Cherensa, had arranged for an opposing force at one of the training areas on the Isla Real. That was where the Crickets and Yakamovs were heading, once this batch of Cazadors was boarded. Twenty B models and five Yakamovs weren't quite enough to move the entire demi-battalion in one lift. A further three platoons and the unit's four Ferret light armored vehicles still waited below, assembled on the hangar deck.
The skipper looked out from the open bridge at the lead Cricket. He recognized Cherensa standing beside the plane. Cherensa saluted, which salute Fosa returned. Then the Cazador boarded his Cricket.
Picking up a radio microphone that looked more like an old-fashioned telephone receiver, Fosa gave Cherensa and the deck crew the time-honored command, "Land the landing force."
High Admiral's Quarters, Atlantis Base, 20/2/467 AC
It was really all very sickening to Mustafa, though he tried to hide it.
But the more Robinson explained, the more the Salafi realized how badly he had screwed up the war, to date, and how much had to be done to redeem it.
Robinson tried to be gentle with the Salafi, downplaying mistakes as much as possible while still making the point.
"You saw only Pashtia, the Federated States and the Tauran Union, Mustafa," the high admiral had said. "You assumed that, because the attacks originated in Pashtia that the FSC would only attack Pashtia. You assumed that all the mujahadin would come to Pashtia to fight. You thought that, because it was a place where there were no railroads, hardly any roads, no ports, no navigable rivers, and few good airfields, the FSC would not be able to support any very large army there. You were correct in this, of course. You thought that you could meet what they could support there on fairly equal terms. This, too, would have been correct had they elected to meet you there only. You forgot that they were able to attack somewhere else, somewhere closer to your holiest city, somewhere that would attract the mujahadin away from Pashtia, where they might have fought on more even terms, to Sumer, where the Feds held all the cards."
Mustafa could only accept it for it was nothing but the truth. He knew now that there had been other mistakes in plenty.
"I never even considered it as a possibility that Kashmir would turn against us, or even play a neutral part," he admitted. "I thought the Federated States would grow sick of the killing after they'd lost a couple of hundred soldiers. I counted on Allah doing too much, forgetting that he cuts the coat to fit the man, or that he might demand more of us than that we fight and be willing to die. The Nazrani have taught me though, and taught me well."
"You know I do not believe in your god, Mustafa. But, accepting for the moment his existence, let me tell you something a wise man of Old Earth once said. 'God is not willing to do everything and thus take away from us our free will and that share of the glory that belongs to us.' Within that man's mental framework, he was right, and you would be well advised to follow his teachings.
"It is a truth of war," Robinson had continued, "that groups in conflict tend to come to resemble each other. This is true tactically, technologically, and morally. You have learned from the FSC not to trust everything to God. What do you suppose they've learned from you? How have they become like you?"
Mustafa thought upon this for a long time before answering. When he did answer, he said, "They have learned to use terror, as well. In fact, they have learned to do it better than we do. We've knocked one country out of their unholy coalition, Castille. They've knocked out at least four from what should have been ours, Sumer, Pashtia, Kashmir by threatening genocide and Fezzan by threatening to extinguish its leader and his family."
"Those, yes," the high admiral agreed. "Other places, too. More than that, faced with a non-state adversary like yourselves, they have also learned to use and develop non-state allies."
"Those stinking Latin mercenaries."
"Well . . . following the same man who wrote about God and free will, they're not technically mercenaries. But, yes . . ."
"I think," said Mustafa, finally, on this, the last day of his conference with Robinson, "I think that we are agreed on all the important things."
"Yes," said Robinson, then recapitulated, "You will, with my help, gain complete control of your movement. This will leave you potentially more vulnerable to attack but will also make your own attacks make sense in the larger plan for the first time. Serious attacks on the FSC will end, though planning will continue. Within the FSC, you will build a group of supporters for when the time comes to renew attacks there."
"Agreed."
"You will make peace with the Royal Family in Yithrab. Active operations there will end so that you can continue to draw financing."
That was tougher. Mustafa loathed the Yithrabi government and longed to see it gone, but . . . "Agreed."
"To increase financing, I will take operational control of the pirates along the Xamar coast. Using the intelligence assets available to my fleet, I will guide Abdulahi to seize those ships most likely to yield good return and to intimidate the shipping companies into paying protection. When and if the time seems suitable, I will send a totally inadequate number of UE Marines to 'control' the coast and suppress piracy. They will, of course, fail to do so, but will help secure Abdulahi's position as paramount chieftain." Especially will they be inadequate and fail because half my Marines have been sent back to Earth.
"Agreed."
"Within one month, you will identify to me one lesser pirate emir in Nicobar. We will both then throw our efforts behind him to make him the paramount chieftain of the Nicobars. Then we will do with them as we intend to do along the Xamar coast."
"This will be tougher, you know?"
"It might be impossible," Robinson agreed, "but we must try."
"Yes. We must also try to get rid of those mercenaries."
"This is especially true," Robinson added, "since they have begun to develop a fleet which just may be aimed at the Xamari and Nicobars. For now, though, they appear to be unemployed and out of the war."
The high admiral continued, "Within Pashtia the first prong of our strategy will be to ensure control of the opium crop and that there will be a crop. This not only helps finance your movement; the crop ultimately helps to undermine the FSC. The second prong will be to go after the Pashtian collaborators who assist the FSC's coalition and terrorize them into supporting you while at the same time engaging and driving away the FSC's lesser and unwilling allies like Tuscany and Gaul. The third will be to drive out of the war the FSC's willing allies, Anglia and Secordia, by engaging their forces and driving their casualties up to politically unacceptable levels."
Mustafa, who had better intelligence on the Anglians and Secordians than Robinson did, commented, "Their troops always seem willing enough to fight."
"No matter, their politicians and most of their people really want out. Kill enough and they will leave. Moreover, while random terror has not worked with the FSC or Anglia, it has worked with Castille, appears to be working in Gaul and may well work to drive Sachsen out of the war."
"I agree about the others, but with the Anglians there is a problem even if it did work," the Salafi objected. "Without the Anglians and the Secordians, the Federated States might just rehire the mercenaries and they have proved much more effective."
Robinson shook his head. "Not for four years, at least, and possibly not for eight or more. As long as the Progressives are in power, the mercenaries are not likely to be hired." Robinson believed he had this on the very best authority. That said; the Khans were not nearly as certain.
The high admiral continued, "After the Anglians and Secordians are gone, and Pashtia has seen the last of the other allies in the coalition, you will begin actively seeking fights with the FSC troops."
"There is something else you can help with," Mustafa said.
Robinson gave the Salafi a quizzical look.
"They rule the air. They can find us from the air. They attack us from—"
"I can't do anything to interfere with that."
"I'm not asking you to. But you can balance things out. From space, surely, you can also tell us where they are, no?"
The high admiral went silent for a moment, scrunching his eyes in thought.
After several long moments he answered, "I can get you something to allow you to see our view from over Terra Nova, a direct feed from the fleet's sensors. What you do with that would be up to you."
"That would be sufficient."
"Maybe not quite sufficient," Robinson countered. "If you started sending real-time intelligence to your guerillas, it would be traced to the Peace Fleet. Let me see what I can do about providing you some limited secure communications."
Village of Jameer, Pashtia, 5/3/467 AC,
Noorzad had understood immediately what Mustafa's message meant when he had received it, two days prior. During the Volgan imperial incursion, while Mustafa had been off collecting money and volunteers and living the good life in Kashmir, Noorzad had been at the bleeding edge, putting the theory of resistance warfare to the practical test. He had learned much in that time.
"And about bloody time, too," Noorzad said, to no one in particular.
Still, Malakzay, trudging along nearby, had heard. "What was that?"
"About bloody time," the one-eyed bandit chieftain repeated. "About bloody time Mustafa began to direct and control the jihad. About bloody time we got assigned some missions with a point greater than, 'survive and fight.' About bloody time every little band of mujahadin was not in the war alone. And about bloody time we had a concerted plan to take care of the collaborators."
"I've heard of no plan," Malakzay objected.
"It's suggested by the message Mustafa sent; that, and by this mission and by the device the messenger brought."
Malakzay thought upon that. He had to admit that if anyone was likely to be able to tie disparate bits of information together to make a coherent whole, Noorzad was that man.
"Any word from reconnaissance?" Malakzay asked.
"Yes, the village appears effectively disarmed."
The Taurans had an interesting approach to individually owned firearms; they banned them. No one had a right to arms except governments; that was the almost universal Tauran view. Still, they were reasonable. They banned the weapons and then paid for a buyback program. Since the buyback program paid slightly more than replacement cost (and normal Volgan firearms were frightfully cheap), there was no real bar to the local Pashtians selling their, generally poorly maintained, rifles to the Taurans operating in the south of the country and then buying newer ones.
The downside, though, was that once the Taurans had banned rifles and bought them "all" back, they presumed that anyone with a rifle was breaking the law and attempted to arrest them. These arrests usually fell out in one of two ways. If the potential arrestee was a mujahad, there would be a firefight which the Taurans were usually barred by their national governments from engaging in. If the arrestee was a simple otherwise harmless civilian, he would submit to arrest and the confiscation of the firearm. Since, however, the civilians did not want to give up their arms, they hid them. Sometimes they hid them too well.
The guerilla band entered the village in the dead of night, silent as a plague. In two- to three-man teams, they kicked in the doors and burst into each house on a prearranged signal, a shrill blast of a whistle. Men and women, boys and girls, were herded out into the dusty central square at bayonet point. The women were only just given the chance to cover themselves with whatever was to hand. Stumbling in the darkness, men cursed and the women and children either wept or stood in shocked silence as the mood took them.
Only one of the villagers had had his rifle near to hand. That one was shot as soon as he appeared.
Noorzad left them alone, but guarded, as the bulk of his band went through the village with a fine tooth comb looking for anything that might be of use. They found little; a couple of donkeys to add to the train, some food, a little ammunition. They also found some kerosene and wood.
The guerilla leader left the villagers alone, that is, until the sun had arisen. He wanted them to see clearly what was about to transpire.
"Who is the headman of this village?" he demanded, his one eye glaring in the sun.
Hesitantly, an older man, his beard long and half-gray, raised a hand.
"Where is your family?"
Several other hands were raised, two of them from women with small children clustered around. At a nod from the chief, a half dozen guerillas prodded the rest of the populace away from the headman's family until they stood alone in a distinct cluster.
At another nod, four guerillas seized the village head and dragged him to a wall. He was certain he was going to be shot and begged for the intervention of Allah. He would have been happier had his God intervened and caused the guerillas to shoot him.
First they beat the headman, but only enough to break his will so he would not resist. Still, the guerilla's hardened fists and booted feet bruised him, broke small bones, cut the skin over his skull.
When they were sure enough he would not resist even what was coming, one of them raised the headman's left arm to the wall. A second took a long iron spike with a broad head and held it, point first, to the villager's wrist. A third drove the spike through the wrist and into the wall.
The headman screamed like a lost soul when the cold iron tip drove through the nexus of nerves in his wrist. Unimaginable agony shot through that entire side of his body. The second nail elicited even greater screams.
Unmanned, ashamed, the village headman hung his head and wept.
Then, with the headman quietly weeping and his people in shock, Noorzad began to speak.
"You call yourselves Moslems. Yet I see a school built by the infidels to educate your youth away from the faith of your fathers. You call yourselves Moslem, yet I see that rather than trusting to Allah you have let the infidels dig a well for you." He glanced at the small clinic. "I see you have more faith in infidel medicine than in your God."
"You may keep none of this. Before we take them from you though, see what the price is that your headman will pay for his impiety.
"Bring out the headman's women."
Roughly, the guerillas parted the mothers from their children and forced them to the center of the group. Then they uncovered and took those of the girls who looked to be past the age of nine, forcing these too, into the circle. The first two of the brothers to object, one eleven and one thirteen, were beaten, stunned, dragged to the wall and—shrieking in agony—nailed up beside their father. The others stayed quiet or, like the women, wept as the mood and their age took them.
There were about one hundred guerillas and seven women and girls. The rape went on for a very long time, guerillas taking turns guarding and violating. When they were done, and even had seconds, the guerillas forced the men and boys of the village old enough to sprout a beard to likewise violate the headman's females. By the time they were done, even the youngest girl, a nine-year-old, had ceased to weep.
The nine-year-old didn't weep either, when two of Noorzad's band began to beat her with iron bars, smashing the little bones and pulping her skin, finally spilling out her brain in a shower of splintered bone and blood. She did scream, though. After all, they'd started at her feet.
When they were done with the nine-year-old, the other women were likewise beaten to death. In the end there were just seven piles of blood and bone and ragged scraps of skin.
After that, Noorzad had the villagers tear down their school and their clinic. He also made them pile the firewood at the feet of the headman and his two nailed-up sons.
Then he poured a measure of kerosene and lit the wood. The screams of personal agony which had lessened under the shock of watching their mothers and sisters, wives and daughters, raped and bludgeoned began anew and rose to a crescendo as the flames ate away skin and set subcutaneous fat alight.
As the chief and his sons burned down to greasy ash, Noorzad went around the circle of villagers, choosing from each family group one son to be trained as a fighter and to serve as a hostage. Lastly, he blew up the well.
Noorzad's parting words were, "Now you see the price of cooperating with the infidel. Now you see the price of forsaking your faith. Do not forget. Also do not forget that there are those among you who are also with us."
With that, Noorzad's band trekked into the night.