War World: Jihad!

by John F. Carr

  Chuluun observed that Altan saw him coming. The big man looked surprised, but he called out to the people around him. They were all younger than thirty years old. One of the few women in the group was Ganzaya, the daughter of Ganzorig. Tall and pretty, she stood out with her lush mane of long, unbraided hair. Chuluun did not take his gaze away from Altan, but he knew Ganzaya was watching him.

  Altan waited, not speaking.

  “Drive the herds forward,” Chuluun ordered, giving Altan his fair chance to stand with his khan. “Muskylopes first, cattle second. Not the horses or sheep.”

  The tribe members around Altan, all herders, glanced at each other in confusion.

  Chuluun, holding his reins in one hand, opened his coat with the other.

  “Forward?” Altan demanded. “We must keep our food safe. We will take the herds away from Karakorum.”

  “Drive them to the west side of town,” said Chuluun. He did not expect Altan to obey, but he repeated the order to be clear that he was giving Altan every chance.

  “You’re crazy, old man.” Altan laughed and nodded toward the west side of Karakorum, over Chuluun’s shoulder. “Aren’t you going to defend us? Or shall I take command?”

  Chuluun did not look back. “You want to lead the Free Tribe of the Steppes? Then prove yourself the old way!” He thumbed his rifle strap to show he was not intending to shoot and slipped it off his shoulder. “By the sword!”

  Surprised, Altan studied him for a moment. Then he smiled. “By the sword, Chuluun!”

  People in the crowd stared at Chuluun, shocked at his demand. Altan was many years younger, much heavier, and far more muscular. Slightly taller than Chuluun with a longer reach, he had every advantage with swords.

  That fact drove Chuluun’s choice. Shooting down big Altan would not strengthen his reputation as khan. If anything, doing so would make him look weak and scared.

  While Chuluun watched Altan hand his rifle to someone else, Chuluun gave his to Yuri, who was waiting next to him. Then he held up his thumb and forefinger to draw his Colt .45, demonstrating that he could not fire it as he pulled it out. After Yuri took it, Chuluun jumped to the ground and drew his old U.S. Cavalry saber.

  The crowd around them backed away, creating a rough open circle.

  Altan dismounted and raised his sword. Though different in many details, it was generally similar to Chuluun’s saber, a wide blade with a slight curve. He had forged it himself in his work as a blacksmith, shaping it after Mongol tradition.

  Chuluun heard hoofbeats and shouts in English far behind him, as more American refugees arrived. He could not take time to look. “Surrender to your khan, Altan!”

  Altan held his sword forward. Rejecting a backswing that would leave him vulnerable to a thrust, he started with a short swing from Chuluun’s left.

  Chuluun stepped forward and parried hard, striking Altan’s sword down near the hilt where he did not have to meet the full force of the swing. The blades clanged and Chuluun felt the power of Altan’s arm and weight. He angled his blade’s edge forward and swept the saber in a short backswing, but Altan simply stepped outside the arc.

  When Altan raised his sword and brought it down straight, Chuluun sidestepped to his right, his long coat swirling, and parried from right to left, knocking it away.

  Chuluun took a quick moment to glance at the ground. From a distance, the steppe appeared flat, but the sand and gravel around them had natural high and low spots significant to anyone on foot. He knew he could not last long against Altan’s strength and youth.

  Altan, still careful not to open his front, held his sword slightly to Chuluun’s right and swung down hard at an angle.

  Once again, Chuluun brought up his sword to parry, leaning into the move to bring his weight. When the blades crashed, the impact momentarily loosened his grip. He tightened his hold and stepped back.

  Altan grinned. Time favored him, because Chuluun would tire first. Some people shouted encouragement to Altan. Ganzaya, watching with her arms folded, remained quiet.

  Chuluun tried to look grim and scared, hoping to make Altan overconfident. He needed only one opening from the younger man.

  “Tired, old man?” Altan laughed harshly.

  Still eyeing Altan, Chuluun moved his boots along the ground carefully to his right. He focused on the feel of sand, soil, and rock under him. His back foot was on loose gravel. It angled down slightly behind him and he knew he could use it—if he maneuvered Altan to this spot.

  “Come on, old man!” Altan shouted. “Take my head off—if you can!”

  Hoping to look clumsy and panicked, Chuluun made a wild forward thrust, which Altan banged aside with a slight wrist movement.

  “Ha!” Altan sneered. “Give up, old man—I’ll let you clean the latrines to make saltpeter!”

  Chuluun looked for more chances to move to his right. As Altan swung harder and faster, Chuluun blocked and shuffled sideways on the uneven ground. The swords clanged repeatedly while onlookers shouted. Altan seemed to grow stronger, but Chuluun knew the truth: His own arms were growing weary.

  Finally Chuluun found that Altan had circled around to a position in front of the loose gravel.

  Taking his chance, Chuluun lowered his saber slightly and swung upward, bringing a hard downward parry from Altan. Then Chuluun took the saber in a large, rightward, overhead arc that Altan could easily see coming.

  Altan took a step back to parry the move. As the blades clanged hard overhead, his back foot stepped onto the loose gravel. He slipped backward only a tiny bit before regaining his balance, but the hesitation was long enough.

  Ready for the opening, Chuluun had not pulled his sword back. With his arm still extended, he swept his point across Altan’s forehead. The point of the saber only grazed him. However, the shallow slash ran wide.

  Then Altan bellowed in fury, and onlookers shouted and gasped. All of them knew what the slash meant: A forehead cut bled quickly, though the wound itself was not serious.

  Chuluun saw Altan’s uncertainty as blood began to flow from the cut.

  Altan pressed one hand over the wound as he charged, swinging his sword fast and hard against Chuluun’s parries.

  As the blades clanged, Chuluun allowed himself to be driven back, knowing that time now favored him.

  Blood ran down into Altan’s eyes, as he blinked and brought his sword forward in tight arcs that alternated left and right against Chuluun’s blocks. With his free hand, Altan wiped his eyes and tried to stanch the flow, but the blood kept streaming through his fingers. The metal of the blades sang against each other.

  Chuluun parried and slid his feet backward as he retreated, testing the ground before shifting his weight. He waited for his moment.

  Nearly blinded by the blood and unable to close with Chuluun, Altan finally panicked. He roared wordlessly, charging, and cocked back his sword arm for a long, overpowering sweep with his blade.

  When Altan drew back his sword, Chuluun took a long step forward inside the arc of Altan’s arm and thrust his saber into Altan’s abdomen. In the same moment, he twisted the blade inside Altan with his right hand and slammed his left elbow outward against the inside of Altan’s sword arm to block the remaining momentum from his swing. Then Chuluun yanked out his saber and stepped back as Altan staggered forward and fell to his knees.

  “Anyone else?” Chuluun shouted, raising one foot high and stomping Altan’s blade flat against the ground. He glared at the onlookers. “Anyone?”

  “Chuluun Khan!” Yuri brought up Chuluun’s mount, holding his rifle aimed at the crowd behind Altan in his free hand.

  No one challenged Chuluun. Some in the crowd looked in shock at Altan’s bleeding form, while others turned away. Ganzaya slipped out of sight, her long hair swaying.

  Altan went limp, his eyes glazing over as his lifeblood flowed onto the cold ground.

  “Drive the herds to the west!” Chuluun ordered, as he swung up into the saddle. He slipped his bloody saber int
o its scabbard and accepted his rifle and Colt .45 from Yuri.

  “Obey the khan!” Yuri shouted. “Prove your loyalty or die!”

  Shouts of agreement rose up from tribe members behind Yuri. The young herders who had backed Altan dispersed toward their herds.

  “Hurry!” Yuri shouted. “We have a war to fight!”

  Trusting Yuri to make sure the herds were driven forward, Chuluun reined away, looking out across Karakorum.

  * * *

  On the hunting trail across the foothills once more, Bataar looked down through the forest as he and Luke passed above Independence. Far below, the wooden buildings of the town were blazing. Many men of the United Front were riding about, firing their Kalashnikovs into the air. Some were on foot, breaking into warehouses with axes. Bodies of Americans and United Front riders lay on the straight, crisscrossed streets. Canvas-covered wagons with the United Front’s families waited in the rear, outside the town.

  “Kill ’em all,” Luke growled. “I’ll kill ’em all myself!”

  “Most of the townspeople got away,” said Bataar. “Just based on what we can see. They’re looting the town instead of moving on right away. That looks like most of their one thousand riders, give or take some scouts.”

  Luke raised his Kalashnikov, holding it toward the riders in the distance.

  “They’re out of range. Don’t waste the ammo.”

  “Shut up, damn it! I can get some of ’em.”

  Bataar put his hand over Luke’s Kalashnikov. “Don’t give us away. They don’t seem to know about this trail.”

  Luke jerked the weapon back. “My dad. My mom. Heather. Your brother Bat. Even that bastard Ray. I hope they got away.”

  “I hope so, too,” said Bataar. “Timur isn’t going to keep his guys in Independence long—come on!”

  * * *

  As the residents of Independence streamed into Karakorum, they were welcomed and protected by the young and elderly of the Home Guard. Chuluun saw Tuya and her Women’s Guard also helping guide the wagons with children and the elderly down the side of the town closer to the foothills. On the steppe side of Karakorum, he could see Yuri and the riders with him gathering the herds of muskylopes and cattle. He had given the Home Guard the additional duty of clearing everyone from the makeshift sand and gravel streets of Karakorum. Everyone either had to go into the homes or to the rear of the town with the refugees.

  Most of the men and some of the women from Independence split off behind Yates Harrow, who led them up to Chuluun with Batkhuyag, Chuluun’s sixteen-year-old son. Bat was taller and skinnier than his older brother, and wore a brown cowboy hat over shoulder-length hair.

  “Good to see both of you,” said Chuluun, knowing that Bat would translate.

  “We don’t have much time,” said Yates, by way of greeting. “Timur’s looting our town, but he’ll be here soon. We lost some men—I’m not sure how many. We didn’t inflict a lot of casualties. I think we should all move up into the foothills. We can counter-attack when they get here.”

  Bat translated quickly, looking around in wonder at all the activity.

  “I’ve already sent our Second Troop out onto the steppe to protect our right flank,” said Chuluun. He nodded toward the west. “Naran has his troop ready to respond.”

  “Now we have less than six hundred riders against almost a thousand,” said Yates. “Out in the open, with our old weapons against their automatic rifles?” He shook his head. “If we get into the foothills, we have the advantage of altitude and cover in the forest. We can wait for CoDo to hit them from behind.”

  Chuluun waited again for the translation.

  In the middle of it, however, Bat stopped and pointed toward the hills. “That’s Bataar! And Luke!” Bat shouted.

  Leading their strings of laden horses, Bataar and Luke rode forward from the foothills at a canter.

  Chuluun waited, relieved to see them safe but anxious to hear their news.

  “They’re not coming,” Bataar called out in Mongolian as he reined up. “The Marines turned us down but we’ve got a bunch of AKs and ammo.”

  Chuluun exchanged a worried look with Yates. “CoDo refused to help?”

  “This is their help,” Luke said in English, jerking a thumb back toward the burden their horses carried. “More AKs than we’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s a start,” said Yates.

  “Split it up,” said Chuluun, wishing the weapons had arrived soon enough to share them with Captain Ma’s riders. “Spread them around!”

  Bataar spurred his horse toward Naran’s patrol, while Luke turned toward the American riders waiting behind Yates.

  “No help from the CoDominium,” said Yates. “What do you say? Head up into the hills?”

  Bat translated.

  Before Chuluun could answer, motion to the west caught his attention. Flags were rising over Naran’s troop, reporting that the enemy was in sight and advancing.

  “Too late,” said Chuluun.

  Chuluun and Yates rode to the rise in the ground where Naran waited at the head of his column. From there Chuluun could see the United Front riders in a wide formation more than a kilometer away, walking their mounts forward at this stage. On one side, their line was up against the foothills; on the other side, their flank stretched far into the steppe. They would save their energy to charge after they were in effective range of the Free Tribe’s small arms.

  Naran waited at the head of his column on the left side of the gentle crest.

  “I don’t get it,” said Yates. “What are you guys doing?”

  At Bat’s translation, Chuluun turned and pointed to the far side of Karakorum. “We need more numbers.”

  The hoofbeats of muskylopes and cattle were growing louder. Some of the cattle were bawling. Yuri Bai and the men with him rode among the herders, driving the livestock ahead of them through the evacuated streets of the town. Some of the men fired weapons into the air, pushing the merged herds to go faster.

  At this stage, the long, gentle upward slope to the west hid the livestock from the United Front.

  “We’ll hit them on the left side as soon as they pass,” said Chuluun.

  “Cool,” said Yates, after Bat explained. He shouted instructions to his riders.

  Chuluun watched the enemy coming closer, still at a walk. His plan would not work until they committed their mounts to a charge. Meanwhile, Yuri and his companions had the muskylopes and cattle at a trot. If they stampeded too soon or too late, they would be no help.

  Bataar rode back, now without the string of extra horses. “We handed out all the weapons. I want to charge with Naran’s First Troop.”

  Chuluun was about to give his approval, but stopped, looking past Bataar toward the American refugees. “How did you get around the United Front? You came back through the hills?”

  “That’s right, on the hunting trail.” Bataar grinned.

  Chuluun looked to the west again, where one flank of the advancing United Front brushed the edge of the foothills. “What if they find it?”

  Bataar’s grin vanished.

  “Take one patrol of the Home Guard and protect the trail. Maybe their scouts haven’t found it, but be ready.”

  “Take Luke and some of our guys,” Yates added.

  “You got it,” Bataar said in English. He rode away.

  “I’ll take our guys up by Naran,” said Yates. He waved his men forward.

  Chuluun looked toward the United Front again. The riders were still out of range. They advanced with an inexorable calm.

  * * *

  Bataar and Luke trotted back through the hunting trail in the foothills at the head of twenty-five Home Guard riders, some of them elderly and the others between thirteen and sixteen years old. Ten Americans about the same age as Bataar and Luke joined them. As they were riding out of Karakorum, Bataar had glimpsed Heather Ratiger among the Americans who had fled safely, standing with her mother and Ray Malleen. He quickly put her out of his mind.
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br />   When Bataar had reached a point on the hunting trail almost parallel to the advancing United Front, he reined in to look down through the trees toward the steppe. Behind him, the column halted.

  In the distance below, the United Front riders had not yet begun their charge.

  “What do you think?” Bataar asked. “Shall we block the trail or set up an ambush?”

  “I say we keep going,” said Luke. “If we find those bastards on the trail, we shoot ’em. If not, we ride down the hill behind their main body and hit ’em from behind.”

  Bataar liked the aggressive attitude, but he shook his head. “We’re outnumbered all the way. We can’t risk going up against them face to face.” He examined the terrain to his left. The foothills were forested heavily but not too steep for the horses.

  “Well, let’s do something,” said Luke.

  Far ahead above the trail, two dactyls took flight from a tree and came toward them.

  “They’re coming,” Bataar whispered. “We’ll find positions above the trail. Pass the word, and tell everyone to keep quiet.”

  Bataar dismounted and led his horse quickly up into the dense for est. The column did likewise, obeying the order to keep down the noise. He had the thirty-five riders stop only about fifty meters above the trail, rather than keep moving and risk having the United Front riders hear their movements. Then, staying low, he moved to his left to peer forward through the trees.

  Startled, he drew in a breath. The United Front had sent far more than a scouting party. The double column of dusty riders, in a variety of clothes and turbans, stretched far out of sight. From what he could see, at least two hundred men were advancing along the trail.

  Bataar slipped back to Luke. “Pass this on. The last rider to our rear mounts up and rides back to Karakorum. We’re outnumbered about six to one and maybe worse.”

  Unusually grim, Luke turned to whisper to the rider on his far side.

  Distant whoops, shouts, and the rattle of small arms fire came up from the steppe far below. Still hidden, Bataar looked down the slope. The main body of the United Front was charging Karakorum.