Carnifex (52 page)

Still, the
Salah al Din
Brigade and their fire eating commander were the first going in with the intention of finding a fight. They'd land and secure the landing zone—that narrow ledge lodged between cliffs—then fight their way overland to the summit of the pass. After that, it was intended that they spread our, north and south, to the military crests on either side. Even if they didn't take them, they'd attract enough attention in the south to make the climb up easier for Carrera's main column. In the north, if all else failed, they'd still be able to get a good jump off position for the rest to continue the attack.

Mines, of course, are going to be something of a problem,
thought Carrera.
What a pity the Gatineau Anti-landmine Ban was never effective against anyone who actually needed landmines. Well, what could one really expect?
He gave a derisive and contemptuous mental snort.
As if law was stronger than life. We're coming to butcher those poor
Ikhwan
bastards and the progressives think a little treaty to which they're not even a party is going to stop them from using whatever they can?

Distantly, Carrera heard the roars of massed diesels, hundreds of them. That would be the mechanized tercio moving up to their assault positions.
Damned shame about what the treads are going to do to the highway. Still, that's why God made sappers. We'll lay a better road down after we pass than this place has ever seen before.

Carrera waved—futilely, as the IM-71s lacked windows in the passenger compartment—at the departing Arabs from
Salah al Din
. "Good luck, boys, and good hunting."

As the last navigation light from the helicopters was killed by pilots interested in survival, Carrera got in his vehicle and instructed his driver to take him to headquarters.

It was an odd thing, really, the drive back. They passed column after column of infantry moving up on foot. That wasn't the odd thing; that was simply part of the scheme of maneuver. No, what was odd was that the columns all stopped to cheer him as they passed each other. He waved back, of course, and held out his hand to shake whatever hands he could, but uncertainly and even with a touch of embarrassment.

Why should they cheer me? The bloody Sumeris did, too. Makes no sense. I am nobody but a nasty bastard out for revenge and using them to get it.

The driver provided half the answer. "The boys sure seem ready for another fight, sir."

The other half, or perhaps it was more than half, is that soldiers love a commander who leads them to victory. It has ever been thus, and that, at
least
that, Carrera had done.

He felt his mind and spirit
click
into full battle mode.

They'd lifted an hour and a half before sunrise, Qabaash, as always, in the lead lift. Because they were flying so high to reach the summit of the pass, the helicopters had had to be underloaded. Even with it being so cold, the air was just too thin up there for them to hope to carry a full load. Underloading, in practice, meant that they could carry, at most, twenty-one men with full combat equipment, and with no sling load of additional supplies carried underneath. This meant that the rest of the supplies, especially shells for the 120mm mortars and the one battery of 160mm jobs Carrera had had attached to them, either had to go in on separate helicopters or be parachuted in by aircraft. And for the latter, they'd need to grab a piece of land considerably larger and flatter than their chosen landing zone.

There was a platoon of Cazadors, minus one squad keeping eyes on the objective, ringing that landing zone. Qabaash, wearing his night vision goggles was the first to spot their infrared strobe. He flipped the goggles up, waited a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, then looked generally in the same place, scanning for any visible indicator of enemy fire.

No flashes.
Qabaash breathed a sigh of relief.
Good, it was only the strobes and not machine guns.

He tapped the pilot and pointed. The pilot gave one thumb up where Qabaash could see it. What did he care if the signal meant something rather different in Sumer than in Balboa?

Qabaash felt the helicopter start to heel over, then begin its spiraling descent. The other three birds in the lift followed. Qabaash keyed the radio and spoke the signal to the waiting Cazadors. Suddenly, lights began flashing on all over the drop zone, marking safe spots for individual helicopters to land.

The landing zone was barely big enough for four helicopters at a time. This lift of four carried Qabaash, a small portion of his command post, and part of one infantry company. The next lift in would bring in the remainder of that company.

As soon as the chopper touched down, the clamshell door in the rear opened to disgorge the troops. Qabaash, sitting at the front of the passenger compartment was the last out. He threw himself to the ground along with his men while waiting for the choppers to lift off. It was easy enough to walk into a spinning tail rotor in the daytime. At night it was hard not to.

With a rush of air and a roar of engines the IM-71s lifted off.

Under two minutes until the next comes in.

Qabaash looked around with his goggles over his face. He couldn't hear a bloody thing for all the aircraft buzzing around. There wasn't a
lot
of light but what there
was
the goggles magnified more than ten thousand times. Though the picture was grainy, it was still clear enough to see squads of his men racing to the assembly area nearest the worser of the two trails out from the LZ. It would be a special beneficence of Allah if no one shot anyone on the same side.

"Light of the world, Maker of the Universes, let it be so," Qabaash whispered.

The CP was supposed to set up under a rock overhang to the west, between the trails. Grabbing the two radiomen who had accompanied him, Qabaash headed that way. Once there, he met his forward air controller and his operations officer, his fire support officer and his "intelligence puke." They had been scattered among the other three birds. By the time the command group had assembled, the second flight of helicopters was just touching down. For a few minutes vocal communication was impossible without shouting.

Twenty-four lifts of four IM-71s each would be just enough to bring in the combat, combat support, and command and control elements of three Sumeri battalions. After that, the heavier lift IM-62s, supplemented by airdrops, would bring in the rest of the men and the truly weighty stuff, along with the supplies required for several days' combat and several weeks' sustenance.

But I'm not waiting for anything
, Qabaash though
. "Boot, don't spatter," as that Old Earth general is reputed to have said. One company at the pass in one hour will be better than three battalions in three hours. And moreover, we can have
two
companies at the pass in an hour, since Carrera—Allah bless his infidel heart—approved landing one company right
in
the pass once we had their attention firmly fixed on us attacking from the east.

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.