War World: Jihad!

by John F. Carr

The patrol leader glanced at her.

  “Go inside,” Chuluun said quietly.

  “Is there news of Bataar?” Tuya asked.

  The patrol leader said nothing.

  “Did you see Bataar?” Chuluun demanded, aware that the patrol leader was making a point of ignoring Tuya.

  “Yes, Chuluun Khan. He and Luke passed us on their way. They had not yet reached the United Front at that time.”

  “Did the United Front show any sign of their intentions?”

  “Not that we could see.”

  “Dismissed.” Chuluun waited as the members of the patrol rode to their homes. Then he gazed into the far darkness.

  “What is it?” Tuya asked.

  “Timur is unpredictable,” said Chuluun. “We know little about him. He may want to advance on us or he may want to lure us into attack, so he can choose his battleground.”

  “Which one is better for us?”

  “We need every day we can get, for Bataar and Luke to make a deal with CoDo.”

  * * *

  Major Garrison Tern, commander of Fort Stony Point at Karakul Pass and a cavalry officer of the Seventy-seventh CoDominium Marines, studied the two young men standing before him just outside the fort’s sentry house early on a brightday. His sentries had reported they had asked to see the fort commander. Curious more than concerned, he had come out rather than have two strangers from the wild north enter the fort. Their arrival broke up an otherwise routine day. They had shown the sentries that all their weapons remained with their mounts. Now introductions had been completed.

  Short and toned from a lifetime of riding, Tern wore fatigues today, like most days, because he thought of himself as a working man, not some egotist with dreams of grandeur. That might be why he now held this command, he reflected. He could not decide if this was a plum assignment with a future or a punishment and a dead-end.

  “You’ve had a long ride,” said Tern, just to say something. He glanced at their strings of strong but weary horses and considered their dust-covered clothes and faces. Luke Harrow, the American, wore a cowboy hat, long sheepskin coat, and loose trousers over leather boots. Bataar, the Mongol, wore a similar coat and boots, but a squarish leather cap. Tern expected young guys from the north to be rowdy, hostile, even demanding. Then again, maybe they were fugitives or defectors. If necessary, he would have the sentries throw them in a cell until he knew what he was facing.

  “We pushed hard,” said Bataar. “Glad to be out of the saddle for a while.”

  Tern nodded, noting that Bataar spoke English like the American. “You knew the way? Have you ridden with the women’s caravans down here before?”

  “That’s right,” said Luke. “A couple of times.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bataar.

  “Hmm.” Tern was startled to find them polite and respectful. “So this time you’ve come without a caravan. State your business, gentlemen.”

  “Our dads sent us to ask if we can work together,” said Bataar.

  “Work together?” Tern’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise. “What for?”

  Around them, the CD Marine sentries watched carefully.

  “You know about the United Front of Islam?” Luke asked. “They’re fugitives from the Jihad.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of them.” Tern commanded the fort’s single company from the 77th Marine Regiment, making the events of the Northern Plains and beyond one of his central concerns. “That bastard Timur split off when the 42nd’s gunships poisoned the wells and Crater Lake with pig parts. All the Mahdi’s folks were thrown by that. Timur ran away with anybody who’d follow him and took all the livestock and wagons he could get. The gunship crews saw them take off. At the time, we all figured, good riddance. Didn’t know who the hell he was till later, when some prisoners told us about him. The locals got no love for the guy.”

  “Our dads met with him,” said Bataar. “We were there. He got real rude—and now it’s war.”

  “War,” said Tern, thinking out loud. “He’s impulsive, if you ask me. He’s not all that religious, either—not from the way he ran from the Jihad when it suited him. So, Sheriff Harrow and Chuluun Khan sent you guys to see if Marines could help?” The idea shocked him and, after many years in the regiment, very little shocked him now.

  “We sneaked past the United Front to get here,” said Bataar. “The United Front can be caught between us.”

  Tern loved the idea of smashing the United Front—but the thought died as fast it came to him. His company had one hundred and fifty-three men. He had an armory with a lot of captured small arms and ammunition taken in the area’s cleanup after the Mahdi’s defeat, and little else.

  Fort Stony Point was not a big place, though it was built by the book. Like most CD Marine forts, it was a rectangle of adobe and fused silica walls, with towers at the corners. It had a plowed strip surrounding it and barbed wire beyond that to keep civilians out of the minefield. The sentry post was a building of wood and adobe solid enough to protect sentries from the wind and big enough to have a fireplace, table, and cots. The sentries’ primary duty was to monitor anyone traveling on the trail in either direction through the windy pass, so it had been built outside the fort. Since the end of the Jihad, not much of anything had happened here, and Tern liked it that way.

  Luke started to speak, but Bataar shook his head tightly.

  Interesting, Tern thought, as he realized Bataar was the more dominant personality.

  “Do you have an offer to make?” Tern asked.

  “We’ll take the lead,” said Bataar. “On the far side, we’ll engage the United Front and you guys can move on them from behind. Otherwise, they could still change direction and come back this way.”

  “That’s true,” said Tern. He turned to one of the sentries, a ramrod-straight Gurkha. “Take a couple of men and bring out food for our friends. They can relax in the sentry post. Plenty of water and a bottle of rye whiskey from my office.”

  “Yes, sah!” The sentry marched away.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Bataar.

  “Yeah, especially the rye,” said Luke, with a slight grin.

  “You men have a good plan,” said Tern. He would not tell them that the CD troops remaining on Haven were exhausted and spread thin. Likewise, he would not reveal to them the small size of his garrison, which meant he could not allow them to enter the fort. Last, he knew that he could not justify cooperating with the Free Tribe of the Steppes and the Americans of Independence to his superiors under any conditions. “I must decline.”

  Bataar and Luke both looked surprised.

  “It’s not much,” said Bataar, his voice strained for the first time. “Just a feint would force Timur to watch his back, even divide his forces. You wouldn’t have to fight.”

  “No can do,” said Tern. “That’s the way it is.”

  “There must be a way we can work together,” said Luke, his voice also anxious. “Major—if Timur ever moves this way, against your fort, we’ll tell our dads to hit him from behind, the same way.”

  Tern just nodded, wishing the food and drink would arrive. He liked these two guys. If he had just one gunship, he thought, he would make one attack on the United Front and his superiors be damned. He would love that.

  Bataar straightened and looked him in the eye. “CoDo would rather have us just kill each other—is that right?”

  Tern looked right back at him. “Haven’s a tough place. Always has been.”

  “Damn!” Luke swept off his cowboy hat and ran his free hand through his hair. “Is that it? You’re just going to let us destroy each other? Until we die out on the steppes?”

  Tern said nothing. Luke was right. Tern’s superiors would tell him to do exactly that, if he asked.

  “Okay, look,” said Bataar. “I’m going to come clean. Here’s the deal. They blocked our caravan route. Timur demanded tribute to let a caravan of pregnant women go through and the caravan didn’t have it, so they turned back. Then he got real nasty
at the parley. We’re—well, we’re desperate.”

  So finally Tern got it. The two communities feared they would never again be able to send their women down through the Karakul Pass into the Shangri-La Valley to give birth. Without that freedom, both populations would wither away in a generation or two. Bataar had not wanted to admit that to a CD Marine officer.

  Tern had a sudden vision of what might happen if the Free Tribe and the Americans defeated the United Front without any help from him: An all-out war for their survival against Fort Stony Point to keep the pass open for their caravans. It could happen soon or a long time off—any time, with no warning. If he brought on that war, the brass might throw him out of the regiment and send him to those damned Dover mines to work till he dropped.

  “So what’s the problem?” Luke asked. “Is it because our dads led the raid on Purity? It was a hell of a long time ago.”

  “The Marines weren’t present at that raid, from what I hear,” said Tern. “Lucky for your fathers. It was before my time on Haven. This fort hadn’t even been built.”

  “That was back then,” said Bataar. “This is now. What would it take for you to help?”

  Tern looked at their strings of horses, stalling for a moment. The dominant strain was American quarter horses, though other breeds showed through. He did not see any sign of the Mongol breed and wondered if Haven had any. Probably not, he decided.

  Luke folded his arms and looked down at the ground. Frowning in thought, he whistled a tune very quietly.

  Tern found himself nodding along with the tune even before he realized it. He joined in, whistling “The Girl I Left Behind Me” until Luke looked up, startled.

  “Always one of my favorites,” said Tern. “The Brits, Irish and Americans all have their own words, but it’s a great tune.”

  Luke glanced at Bataar, silent now. Clearly, their mission had been to form an alliance with the Marines, and they had failed.

  “One of our favorites, too,” said Bataar.

  Odd, Tern thought, how an old marching tune could make him like these two even more. Tern studied their mounts again. He saw two old rifles in their scabbards, the tips of unstrung bows poking out of saddlebags, and two Kalashnikovs with their banana clips hanging by straps. Taken together, the weapons revealed a chronic weakness.

  “Major?” Luke scuffed his boot on the gravel. “Even a few riders—”

  “Maybe we can make a deal,” Tern interrupted. “How would you men like as many AKs as you can carry?”

  Bataar eyed him for a moment, cautious about the offer.

  Luke glanced at Bataar, giving himself away: Luke liked the idea a lot.

  “We need ammo,” said Bataar.

  “Agreed,” said Tern. “Again, all you can carry.”

  “And when it’s over, you still let our caravans go through.”

  “Done,” said Tern. “We have a deal?” He held out his hand.

  “Sure.” With a relieved grin, Bataar gripped his hand first, then Luke.

  “Excellent,” said Tern. “Listen, after you guys eat, you can catch some shut-eye here in the sentry post. Unsaddle your horses, water and feed them. Rest up here as long as you need.”

  Bataar hesitated. “Sure, thank you.”

  Tern stifled his amusement—Bataar’s tiny pause had revealed his real answer. These guys would be gone as soon as they chowed down and got the arms and ammo loaded. Neither of these northern men was going to sleep in a CD Marines facility and he could not blame them.

  “You men take it easy, sit inside by the fire, whatever you like.” His gaze took in the sentries, making clear that he was giving them orders to make it happen. “I’ll go give the order to bring out the weapons and ammo. Good luck to you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Bataar.

  Tern shook hands with them again and strode away, whistling “The Girl I Left Behind Me” under his breath. Buying the cooperation of the Free Tribe and Independence with captured AKs and ammunition was a damned good bargain—no Marines endangered and no money spent. His superiors did not need to know about it, since he had never bothered to send an official inventory of the captured arms. He would come out ahead no matter who won this war hundreds of kilometers from the fort.

  Too bad, he reflected, that these two tough but courteous young guys would probably be dead within a few weeks—but it served their fathers right.

  * * *

  At eyerise, the bloated orange Jovian planet rose over the horizon. Throughout the dimdays and brightdays, Bataar and Luke had been riding long hours, taking turns near-dozing in the saddle and changing mounts often. Every horse was laden with Kalashnikovs of many different models and airtight metal boxes of ammunition, safe from the elements. At truenight, Bataar and Luke had unloaded all their mounts to give them a break, but they rose early and pushed hard to get home fast.

  “Independence Valley ought to come in sight soon,” said Luke. “Over the next rise, I think.”

  “Yeah, one more.” Bataar had led them back along their former route, following their own tracks when possible. The slopes were on their right, leading down to the floor of the steppes to the left. The so-called valleys were barely divided by gentle rises in the terrain that helped mark the great expanse. “What the hell happened to the United Front? We should have seen them by now.”

  “Who cares? Maybe that bastard took them somewhere else.” Luke grinned at the idea, bit off a piece of jerky, and started whistling again. A dactyl flew from a tree branch at the sound.

  Right now Bataar was in no mood to whistle or sing. He wished they had more forward visibility, but they could not get it along the hunting trail.

  Bataar glanced up at Cat’s Eye, which finally was allowing enough light for them to move faster. “Let’s move down to the steppe. Something’s wrong.”

  Luke glanced at him in surprise, but reined after him.

  On the valley floor, Bataar studied the ground ahead with growing horror. “You see what I see?”

  Luke looked down.

  Bataar saw tracks and sign everywhere, indications of muskylopes, cattle, even wagon wheels.

  At the same moment, they looked up into the distance toward Independence. In the orange light of eyerise, billows of black smoke were rising over the reddish glow of flames.

  * * *

  In the saddle at eyerise, Chuluun watched Naran and Ma Lu drill the Free Tribe’s two troops of riders outside Karakorum. He carried an old bolt-action rifle slung over his shoulder and, mindful of symbolism, he wore an old American cavalry saber in a scabbard. Both weapons had been acquired for him by Bataar on one of the caravan journeys. Under his long coat, he had stashed a Model 1911 Colt .45 semi-auto in his belt. It had been a gift from the late Red Kelter, a mayor of Independence, when they planned the raid on Purity.

  Movement on the horizon caught his attention. A scout was riding back toward Karakorum at full gallop. Billows of black smoke rose in the distance behind the rider.

  Chuluun caught Naran’s eye and waved for him to join him before riding to meet the scout away from the troops. He reined in as the scout and Naran reached him.

  “Report,” Chuluun called out.

  The scout drew up. “Chuluun Khan. The United Front attacked Independence. They moved fast and overwhelmed the Americans. They’re coming—the American refugees!”

  “What happened?” Chuluun asked.

  “We do not know much,” said the scout. “The United Front attacked Independence just before dawn. Timur’s men must have caught and killed the scouts and sentries—ours and the Americans’—in the dark before an alarm could be raised. Many of the cowboys are in a fighting retreat to allow the families to escape first.”

  Chuluun understood. The sentries and scouts had been assigned to guard an area that was just too big for their numbers. He turned to Naran. “Tell the Home Guard to bring in the Americans fleeing the United Front. They can take them to the far side of Karakorum and find them shelter.”

  �
�Yes, Chuluun Khan.”

  “Tell Captain Ma to lead his troop out to our right, to wait on the open steppe. They must go far enough that the United Front can’t see them, then come fast when they hear the sounds of battle.”

  “I will give him the order.”

  Chuluun shook off the fact that his riders with their assorted and mostly antique weapons were no match in the open for more numerous riders firing Kalashnikovs. Captain Ma would have to handle that somehow. “Naran, prepare your troop in column for a counter-attack from the ridge straight west of Karakorum—but stand by for my order. Line up on the left side of the battle front. Send Home Guard riders to warn everyone!”

  “Yes, Chuluun Khan!” Naran rode away.

  Chuluun looked over the small community he led, without a town wall and without large numbers. Only great distances had protected them from their older enemies, CoDo and Dover Mining. They had no defenses from the United Front. Yurts stood to the northeast of Karakorum, with herders and their variety of livestock on the roughly level steppe.

  He needed numbers and suddenly he realized he was looking at them.

  Altan Zhang, his great, muscular body distinctive even at this distance, sat on his horse among the herders, watching the smoke rise over Independence. He spoke to a few other men. Other people were gathering around him.

  Chuluun watched Altan and his followers for a long moment.

  Then he looked again at Naran’s column, forming on the west side of Karakorum. Passing them, the refugees from Independence were coming in safely.

  Now, Chuluun thought. Now is the time. He could not lead his riders into battle with a traitor at his back.

  Chuluun reined toward Altan Zhang and spurred his mount into a trot. He kept his eyes on Altan as he steered through Karakorum. Families were calling to their children. Men and women were taking up their weapons, whether firearms, bows, or swords and knives. Shouts rose from all directions.

  As he rode, Chuluun grew aware that some members of the tribe were watching him, puzzled at why he was not with the troops of riders. On foot, one person after another ran behind him, sometimes swinging into the saddle of their own mounts to follow. Yuri Bai, the slender, white-haired powder smith, rode up alongside him, shouting for others to come.