Carnifex

by Tom Kratman

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

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

  Idiots do so by shouting "Allahu Akbar!"

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

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

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

  "And pass the word: Fix bayonets."

  * * *

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

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

  Kaboom. Boomoomoom. Kaboom.

  * * *

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

  * * *

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Aywa, Amid." Yes, Brigadier.

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  25/3/468 AC, The Base, Kashmir

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Interlude

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "They got airplanes, too, jefe."

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

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

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

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

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Your opponent can't talk when he has your fist in his mouth."

  —President William Jefferson Clinton

  35/3/468 AC, UEPF Spirit of Peace

  Transfer between ships was always a pain for someone. Given the nature of the cargo, it was critically important that whoever it was a pain for, it not present the slightest difficulty or discomfort for the hereditary Marchioness of Amnesty, Lucretia Arbeit. One of the crew of the shuttle already had a bright red welt rising on her face from the Marchioness' leather riding crop. Arbeit was an absolute stickler for protocol and the unfortunate Class IV had regrettably failed to go belly down in full proskynesis as Arbeit passed through the shuttle's portal.

  There were two ways to make transfers when two spinning ships were involv
ed. One was very difficult, involving lining the ships up stern to stern, killing rotation in both, docking and then recommencing spin, with one spinning opposite to its usual direction.

  That was almost never done. Instead, shuttles were used, the receiving ship taking control of the shuttle and matching its spin to that of the ship. This was the method used to bring Arbeit aboard the Spirit of Peace.

  The hangar deck could only accommodate a few dozen in the reception party. They, excepting only High Admiral Robinson, executed full proskynesis as the Inspector General emerged from the shuttle. Proskynesis was for lowers; among Class Ones a broad equality reigned. He and the imperious Marchioness settled for shaking hands as the crew ungracefully arose from their supine positions of homage.

  "Lucretia, how truly delightful to see you once again," Robinson said with no obvious insincerity. Then again, Old Earth's elites learned to mask their feelings quite young.

  "Martin, dear boy, you cannot imagine what a simply ghastly trip this has been and how pleased I am to see you at the end of it."

  Robinson smiled warmly. "May I present my staff and crew?"

  "Please."

  Turning, Robinson introduced Wallenstein first. She bowed, saying, "At your service, madam." Then, as she lifted her head, she also licked her lips slightly just in case the IG had any doubts as to how completely at her service Wallenstein intended to be.

  "Charmed, Captain," Arbeit answered with a nod and a subtle swipe of her tongue across her own lower lip.

  "My ship's sociologist, Lieutenant Commander Kahn."

  Kahn the wife practically quivered in anticipation of the pleasurable beatings she expected the IG to administer. "I'm sooo thrilled to meet you, Admiral," she gushed.