A Desert Called Peace

by Tom Kratman

  "Are they all cowards, Boss?" he asked Carrera. "We offer to take prisoners and they surrender. We kill everything moving and they still try to surrender. I just don't understand it. Seems chicken to me."

  Carrera, sitting on the canvas seat next to Soult took a moment before answering, simply, "They're no more cowardly as a people than anyone else. Cowards don't fly airships into buildings. Cowards don't load themselves with explosives and try to get close enough to do us some harm before detonating themselves. No, Jamey, they're not cowards. But they have some problems. It's the problems that account for most of the violations of the laws of war they engage in."

  Seeing from his eyes, the only uncovered part of his face, that Soult didn't really understand, Carrera continued. "The sociologists call them "amoral familists." What that means is that they are raised in such a way that they cannot really conceive of legitimate loyalty to someone who isn't a blood relation. For that matter, when it is a question of loyalty to two blood relations the one with the closer relationship is the one who gets the loyalty. Religion counts to them, too, and a lot, but that makes very different demands on them. Nation? Means nothing to most . . . or less than nothing, often enough. The family is where their important loyalties lie, the family is what will protect them from a hostile world, the family is their law and their guide."

  "Yeah . . . but so?" Soult plainly didn't understand.

  "It means they're completely alone, Jamey, completely alone in the most terrifying place man can exist, the modern battlefield. They can't trust their squad mates, they can't trust their officers, unless those are also blood relations. For any given soldier in a Sumeri—or Yithrabi, Jahari or Misrani—unit under serious duress the only questions are, 'Can I run or surrender before the rest do? Am I going to be stuck here, alone, to face the enemy while the rest run?' It's a self-fulfilling prophecy, true. But the way a prophecy becomes self-fulfilling is by being destined to be fulfilled." Carrera sounded sad.

  "You actually like them, don't you, Boss?"

  "Jamey . . ." Carrera hesitated, "I used to like them a lot. It's . . . harder now.

  "Sometimes they can break out of that self-fulfilling prophecy, by the way," Carrera added, perhaps only to change the direction in which the conversation had turned. "Some of their tribally based units aren't bad, though they've got problems when the tribal chain of command and the military one don't mesh. They've also got problems in that the tribe, while it might fight well, has a very finite tolerance for casualties.

  "The other way, and it has happened occasionally, is when some outsider is in command who refuses to have any truck with tribes. If he can assemble a group that has no tribal majority, preferably if he can assemble one where each member has no tribal link with any other, sometimes he can make a good unit. Sometimes. It's harder than hell to do."

  Ninewa, Sumer,

  22/2/461 AC

  Sada walked from building to building, inspecting the positions his men were preparing as they made ready to defend the town. It was a relief to go inside, if only to escape from the dust. Some of his boys were digging up the streets to excavate trenches to connect the buildings. That would, Sada was sure, come in handy.

  The lieutenant in charge of the platoon was new. Sada searched his memory. Lieutenant Rashad is from the Bani Malik tribe. His platoon sergeant is one of my old boys, from the Farsian War, an al Hameed. Squad leaders are . . .

  "Sergeant Major?" Sada questioned.

  "Sir," began the sergeant major, "no two members of the same tribe in this platoon." Sada's brigade sergeant major, and McNamara would have approved, had grown very good at reading his boss' mind over the preceding decades.

  The units of Sada's brigade were organized in one of two ways. About a third of them were strictly set up along tribal lines, the only caveat to that structure being that the leadership of the unit and the leadership of the tribe within the unit had to match. The amid had run off more than one sergeant, senior in the tribe's hierarchy, who had thought to ignore his captain, who was junior.

  The other two thirds, roughly, Sada and his right-hand man, the sergeant major, went out of their way to ensure had no tribal identity. It seemed to Sada that one of the problems—and he understood them even better than Carrera did—was that extra-tribal loyalty couldn't grow wherever there was a focus for tribal loyalty, but could, potentially, where there was none. The toughest part had been the officers, whom one could ordinarily have expected to loot their units if the men in those units had no blood ties.

  Give the dictator this much, thought Sada. He kept his own tribe out of my brigade, excepting only a couple of spies, and didn't mind how many men from other tribes I had shot for corruption.

  Sada had shot a few of them personally. He still smiled sometimes at the memory of Faush's predecessor, caught with his hand in the till. Sada had simply drawn his pistol and shot the man at point-blank range. That was how Faush had inherited the job.

  Pity what the blood did to the books though, Sada thought regretfully.

  The lieutenant of the platoon misinterpreted the look on his amid's face. "Sir, the men are working as hard as they can . . ."

  "Show me your hands," Sada ordered.

  Still uncomprehending, the lieutenant held up clean hands with unbroken nails.

  Sada smiled indulgently. He leaned over to whisper in the young officer's ear. "You're new, my son. So I'll forgive you . . . this once. But officers in my brigade work. Officers in my brigade lead. You will work if you want to continue to lead. Or would you prefer to go to the penal platoon, minus your rank, now?"

  Eighty miles south of Ninewa

  The sun was setting on a desolate scene, made all the more so by the dust that covered everything in swirling, choking eddies. Red leaflets, prepared by the Psychological Operations Century and dropped by Cricket recon plane ahead of the legion as it advanced, also blew in the breeze. The leaflets proclaimed the list of Sumeri violations of the laws of war, to date, and the legion's bloody-handed response to them.

  The press was . . . stymied. When no one responded to their charges, except to admit them and insist the reprisals were lawful, they found they had no recourse. There was no blood in the water, no struggling body filled with fear of the righteous wrath of the media. The sharks couldn't go into a feeding frenzy.

  On the other hand, admitted Carrera to himself, as he exited his vehicle, while the press is defanged, if the Sumeris had a half-functioning chain of command at army level and a couple of battalions of working armor, I'd be fucked.

  Logistically, the legion was a mess. Carrera had one cohort detached from the line to guard prisoners. There were so many of these that his one century of military police camp guards, even supplemented by the field police century, the walking wounded and as many service troops as could be spared, simply couldn't guard them all. In point of fact it was more important that he was feeding his prisoners than that he was guarding them. For food, they'd stick around. Guards? Eh? They could be ducked in a thick enough sandstorm.

  The rest of the legion was strung out over forty miles of bad road. The trucks were overtasked, especially given the sandstorm. The helicopters were grounded. Roughly half the armor was stuck, broken down or about to break down and waiting along the side of the road for recovery or repair. And the artillery? It was more disorganized and strung out than any other cohort in the legion.

  Thank God I listened to Harrington and Lanza and paid for the B- 300 Dodos. Otherwise we'd have no means of reliable resupply. As is, the Dodos can drop us enough, just enough with what the trucks can bring through, to keep us going.

  About the only good thing one could say was that, between the Yezidi taking over security in the towns the legion cleared and the fact that Carrera was taking and holding prisoners rather than letting them go to become a threat to his communications, at least the trucks were getting through. When they didn't break down . . . or get lost . . . or crash into something invisible at ten feet for all the dust in the ai
r.

  There was a small school house just outside this small, insignificant Sumeri town. Kennison had grabbed it for the legion's command post. All three of the operational staff teams, Operations itself, Logistics and Intelligence, were set up there. The doors were off as were the windows, though actually it was a matter of some conjecture whether the place had ever had doors and windows. In any case, blankets were hung over whatever openings there were. It cut the dust down, but could not entirely eliminate it.

  Carrera pushed aside a blanket and entered. Behind him, in the road fronting the school, a column of infantry struggled forward against the biting sand. The men were too tired to even curse. He thought this a bad sign.

  Inside, Triste and Fahad the Chaldean were engaged in a low volume but still heated discussion. A Sumeri officer, a captain, Carrera saw on closer inspection, sat in obvious incomprehension on a folding metal chair off to one side.

  Looking up, Triste saw Carrera observing himself and Fahad. "Boss, we gots problems," the intelligence officer announced.

  Carrera made a give forth motion with one hand.

  "The captain here," and Triste indicated the seated Sumeri, "has been most cooperative. He's a supply and transportation type and before we captured him had passed directly through Ninewa. He says the commander there is a Sumeri brigadier named Sada."

  "I know this man," Fahad interjected. "I know him well. As Tribune Triste says, 'We gots problems.'"

  "Where do you know him from, Fahad?" Carrera asked.

  "I was his instructor in English at the War College outside Babel. That's one way. But I also know him from elsewhere, when I was medic on the Farsian front twenty years ago. He was my commander."

  "Fahad says this guy is really good, Boss, tough and brave and smart. Says the men love him."

  "Oh, yes," the Chaldean interjected. "Best officer in whole fucking Sumeri army. Should be in command of whole army, too, but . . . wrong tribe." Fahad shrugged.

  "Does he play by the rules, Fahad?"

  "Rules, sayidi?"

  "Laws of war? Treatment of prisoners? Maintaining status of lawful combatancy?"

  "Oh. Yes, Legate. Sada is straight up. Tricks, yes. Dirty tricks? No."

  Carrera pondered that for a few minutes, standing in the dusty room in silence. When he had thought it through, he ordered, "Get me the PSYOP people. And Fahad, sit down and prepare to translate. Kennison, have we got a Cricket pilot crazy enough to fly in this shit?"

  Ninewa, 23/2/461 AC

  The sun was far from up when Faush knocked on Sada's room door.

  "What is it?" Sada demanded as he sat up and began pulling his boots on.

  Faush hesitated, not because he feared his commander's wrath at being awakened but because he himself was very confused.

  "Is that you, Faush?" Sada thought he had recognized the knock.

  "Yes, Amid," Faush answered through the slightly cracked door. "There is something you need to see. Leaflets from the enemy. The streets are full of them."

  "Come in then." Sada struck a match to light a kerosene lantern on a table next to his narrow bed.

  Faush handed his commander a green piece of paper. On the paper was printing in Arabic script. Sada read:

  To the defenders of Ninewa:

  It has come to my attention, from a reliable source, that despite the near continuous pattern of violations of the laws of war which have come to characterize the Sumeri defense over the last ten days, it is a distinct possibility that these violations will not be repeated in your town or by your unit. Thus, although I have previously given orders that no prisoners will be accepted unless they strip completely naked to demonstrate that they have no hidden weapons or explosives, and that—because of treachery on the part of men pretending to be wounded to gain an advantage—all remotely suspicious bodies, apparently dead or plainly living, were to be shot again for security's sake, I am temporarily rescinding these orders in your case.

  Those orders will remain rescinded for so long as, and not one moment longer than, the defenders of Ninewa themselves continue to obey the laws of war. It is up to you to police your own. If some of your men pretend to be wounded to gain a treacherous advantage, all of your wounded will suffer. If some abuse the flag of truce, the flag of truce will no longer be honored. If some use the symbols of the Red Crescent Organization treacherously, those symbols will not be respected further. If surrendering men attack, surrenders will not thereafter be accepted. If any of my men who fall into your hands are mistreated, yours will be butchered in return. If you fight from hospitals and mosques they will be obliterated. If you fight from behind women and children, we will take extra casualties to capture you alive so that you can be hanged in front of those same civilians whose sanctuary you will have violated.

  The choice is yours.

  You are reputed to be good soldiers. I hope, personally, that you and your commanders choose well.

  Signed,

  Patricio Carrera

  Legate, Legio del Cid

  Acting Commander

  "What do you think of it, Amid?" Faush asked.

  Sada didn't answer immediately. This was a strange development, unique in his personal experience. An enemy lecturing you on the law of war? Bizarre. On the other hand, he's got a point. The conduct of the irregulars . . . and even the regulars, has been a disgrace to this army. Perhaps here, maybe, we can redeem ourselves and our country's reputation. It will take some thought . . .

  "I think I need to talk to my senior officers and noncoms," Sada finally answered. "Assemble them at daybreak, here. And have a few dozen of these leaflets, enough to pass out, collected."

  Interesting, thought Sada, that my enemy is giving us this chance.

  Surrounded by a dozen men he trusted, Sada's sergeant major listened attentively as the instructor explained to fifty of the Fedayeen as-Sumer, the civilian irregulars ordered raised and armed by the dictator, the finer points of convincing the enemy you were harmless in order to get close enough to them to detonate an explosive belt. The design of the belt, in particular, he thought clever.

  When the instructor had finished the sergeant major stood up and asked, enthusiastically, "Are you all prepared to give your lives like this?"

  "Aywa! Aywa!" the fedayeen answered, with an enthusiasm to match the sergeant major's own. Yes! Yes!

  "Good," the sergeant major said calmly. Then he said to his men, "Arrest them and put them in the penal platoon. All except for their instructor. Take that one outside and shoot him."

  "Ah," said Faush. "Very clever indeed." The object of the major's admiration was an ambulance bearing the Red Crescent symbol which had had its sides reinforced with plate steel to serve as a clandestine armored personnel carrier. Two others in the hospital bay had been likewise converted, while a fourth and fifth had been made into suicide truck bombs.

  "Don't you agree, Sergeant Achmed, Private Omar, that this is a clever set up?"

  "Oh, yes, Major," the two submachine gun bearing enlisted assistants to the logistics officer agreed. "Very clever. Absolutely clever!"

  "Yes. Now please shoot the men responsible."

  The major was out the door and on his way to his next inspection before the submachine guns stopped chattering.

  The damnable thing is, thought Sada, I can't help but use the hospital. It's the tallest building in town and the only one that will give the miserable air defense guns half a chance of covering the troops.

  He stood in the walled yard of a mosque, looking up at the hospital building that dominated the skyline even through the dust that still swirled in the air. A company of Sada's soldiers were engaged in removing a substantial armory of everything from small arms to explosives from the mosque's interior. It was neither a small mosque nor a small armory.

  While most of the company were busied with demilitarizing the mosque, one squad was engaged in removing the bodies of the mullah, two fedayeen, and one operative from the national secret police. Another squad had marched
off the rest of the fedayeen to the penal platoon, which had grown to be a very large company.

  Sada looked around, thinking hard. This compound would do for a hospital, he thought. Big enough. Covered. And there's a generator inside, which is more than the hospital can say. Still, using a hospital for an air defense site . . .

  Then he considered the other reason, the secret reason, the really, really big secret reason he had to play by the rules. His gaze wandered in the direction of the local university—Damned secret police had better get here and take those packages off my hands—and then back to the hospital.

  Well, I am the local governor, after all. I have the authority to close or move a hospital. Outside of a mosque a place doesn't become sacred merely for what it once was or could have been or even what it might be. Then again, what do I get out of it? One aircraft, maybe two. Then they flatten the building anyway.

  Sada sighed. Still, one or two are better than nothing. And I have to try.

  "Faush?" Sada asked, "How long to totally move the hospital from there to here?"

  "Amid . . . I'm not sure," the logistician answered. "It could be done in a couple of days, I suppose. It might be less time if you let me use the penal platoon as slaves."

  "Do it," Sada ordered. "But when you do it remove every trace that suggests the building is a hospital. And paint big target symbols on the sides. Yes . . . big ones."

  Command Post, Legio del Cid, 25/2/461 AC

  "Pat," Triste began, "it's the funniest thing. We got a message over the radio, from the enemy commander. It was in the clear. He wanted us to know that the hospital has been closed and may be considered a legitimate target. He spoke really excellent English, too."