Carnifex (81 page)

"What this one?"

"He's from among the faithful of Uhuru, come all this way to fight for Allah."

The tribesman asked a question of Jimenez, who stared pleadingly at Masood.

"He doesn't speak our language," the Subadar said. "Do you, perchance, know any of the Arabic dialects of Southern Uhuru?"

Scowling, the tribesman answered, "Not even know where this
Uhuru
place is. How speak language?" he asked, rhetorically.

Masood shrugged.

"Mustafa great man," the tribesman announced. "Give my people many gifts. You give gifts?"

"As the Prophet, peace be upon him, said, 'Give gifts to each other and love each other and hatred will disappear.' We would be happy to share our blessings with our brothers," Masood answered.

"Prophet, PBUH, he say that?"

"Indeed he did. We are
brothers
in our faith, are we not?" the Subadar asked.

"Not know nothing about no brothers. You give gifts?"

"Would money do?"

"Money do fine," the tribesman answered. "You give . . . one hundred rupees per man."

Two drachma, near enough, per man? About a thousand in all? Sounds very reasonable to me.

Masood reached into a pocket. "Can you accept FSD?"

"FSD good."

Robinson had slept in better places. Indeed it was hard to remember ever having slept in a worse.

Oh, the Salafis had
tried
to make him comfortable. They'd laid out for him and the marchioness a bedroll of stacked rugs and provided blankets. They'd even made provision of a slave girl—Volgan, Robinson thought—to warm the bed and entertain their guests.

She might have been more entertaining but for the whip marks Arbeit had added to her bare back; the girl already had a fair collection. Robinson had to turn off the light to keep the disturbing image of the girl's criss-crossed back out of his view.

The girl spoke no English. Neither did Robinson speak Arabic or Volgan. He'd had to make do with pointing and signs. She seemed to understand those well enough. In any case, she cooperated, albeit without any noticeable enthusiasm.

Which is perfect
, thought the High Admiral, drifting off to sleep with the detonation device clasped in his hand under his pillow.
The more of this world chained to these dolts the less of this world that will be a threat to
mine.

His sleeping arrangements were considerably less luxurious than the High Admiral's. Bashir made do as best he could against the cold and rocky ground with a couple of blankets and his pack for a pillow.

Having sent his message and—wonder of wonders—received an answer, Bashir was more than certain that an attack was imminent. This had its good sides and bad.

I've done my job; done everything they asked. My family should be safe now. But what about
me
? When they attack they're going to see that their men have been crucified. They'll kill everything moving. Allah knows,
I
would. Shit.

So how do I keep them from killing me, too?

He hadn't come up with an answer before sleep took him. As he nodded off, Bashir wondered if he'd see the next sunrise or if a bomb would kill him while he slept.

The eastern sky was just beginning to glow red when the first of the gunships began its roll down the runway. Heavily laden as they were, the birds needed nearly every foot of runway space before they achieved liftoff.

Once the first one, Miguel Lanza at the helm, was up and had gained some altitude, the next began its take off run. A few minutes later, with the last of the gunships airborne and circling overhead, the first of the nine Turbo-Finches in this attack wave likewise rolled down the hardened strip. These took off in half minute intervals and assembled at an altitude just below that of the gunships.

Even before the last of the 'Finches was airborne, Lanza looked out his cockpit window and saw Crickets lining up below, ready to join the others. Behind the Crickets came the heavier but much faster NA-21s and the Cazador-laden NA-23s.

Still in Lanza's view, the forty-one working helicopters of the
Ala
lifted almost as one, then turned to the north. It was an awesome and thrilling sight.

This
, Lanza thought,
this is why I joined.

Carrera watched the aerial armada assemble overhead from the railed walkway that ran three hundred and sixty degrees around the airfield's control tower. A warmed up Cricket stood idling near the base of the tower, its wings and fuselage bearing the legend "4-15." It had had installed a bank of radios and a map board. One pilot would fly its passengers, Carrera and two radio operators.

On the floor beneath the tower a temporary command post was set up. This would provide back up control until another command post was set up near the objective. In the interim, Carrera was capable of running the entire thing in his head with only minimal assistance. Even bone weary, complex operations bothered him not a whit. It was creative thought that had become hard; that, and judgment. And he had Jimenez to help with judgment.

Looking to his right, Carrera saw that the heavily laden Cazadors were struggling into the Nabakovs' cargo bays, one man above pulling while two below pushed to get them up on the ramps.

There hadn't been time to get rough terrain jump suits for the Cazadors. Instead, they'd made their own, after a fashion, using duct tape to attach wooden leg braces and substantial foam padding. If they normally looked like waddling ducks before a jump, now they looked like children so insulated from winter cold they could barely move.

Even over the roar of engines, one could make out the singing as the men loaded aboard:

Thundering motors leave each man alone.
He thinks one more time of his loved ones back home.
Then come
mis compadres
to spring on command
To jump and to die for our legion and land.
And from our airplanes, and from our airplanes,
Compadre
there's no going back,
Except in victory or fee-eet first.
Now make ready to jump. Attack!

The speaker radio in the control tower crackled. "Checkpoint Zulu Omega." That meant that Jimenez and the Scouts had sent the burst signal that they were at the bridge that served as the checkpoint for "two hours out." That was also where the cavalry would link up with them.

With a head motion to beckon his radio operators Carrera left the control tower, passed quietly through the crowded command post below, and walked out to board the waiting Cricket.

"Incoming aircraft, Centurion!"

Hurriedly Cruz closed his wallet to put away the picture of his wife and children.
I've done this before; I can do it again.

"Stand by your loads," he shouted to the mortar men who were already standing by. "Guide parties, assume guidance as soon as you have a bird."

Because they were under radio silence, the detailed operational control was a bit odd. There was a cross marked out off to one side of the PZ. The lead helicopter made for that, followed by another dozen in trail behind it. When the lead was about forty meters out it stopped and assumed a hover. The first of the guides stood up and pointed directly at himself and then at the helicopter pilot, who nodded his recognition. Then the guide made the hand and arm signal for "assuming guidance," two arms with flattened palms thrust straight up and parallel to each other, palms inward. He lowered his arms, turned, and began to run toward the first load. The helicopter followed slowly.

At that first load the guide turned and again made the "assuming guidance" signal. With more hand and arm signals he brought the IM-71 down to a soft landing. Immediately the clamshell door on the back opened up. A second helicopter was just setting down as this happened.

It was no easy matter for eight men to manhandle a 160mm mortar across rough ground and into the helicopter's cargo bay. Cruz had detached a couple of men from his platoon to assist with each. This was barely enough. Indeed, it might have proven impossible but for the fact that over the last ten years there had been plenty of opportunity to practice.

Once the heavy mortar and its eight crewmen, to which could be added one or two men from the mortar maniple headquarters, were aboard, the guide again took control of the helicopter, directing the pilot to shift left to where a large bundle of mortar ammunition awaited, the ammunition being bound up in a cargo net. As soon as the chopper was directly over the net, the guide thrust both arms directly out to his sides, parallel to the ground: "Hover."

Underneath, one of the two men who had assisted in loading the gun climbed atop the ammunition. In his hand he held a plastic handled screwdriver from which wire led downward. That wire was connected to another screwdriver, stuck into the ground a few feet away. Electricity arced from the hook underneath the helicopter to screwdriver. The wire carried the static charge to the ground, harmlessly. Then the legionary picked up a "donut roll"—a multi-layer thick circle of strap material, held together by a metal shackle—and attempted to slip it onto the hook. He missed. He tried and missed again. Cursing, on the third try he caught the shifting hook and pulled back on the donut roll to make sure it was firmly attached and the hook working properly. He jumped off of the ammunition and gave a thumbs up to the guide.

The guide then whirled one arm over his head and pointed into the direction of the wind. With a sound of straining engines, the helicopter lifted up, shuddered a bit at the load once the straps connecting the donut roll and the ammunition pallet lost their slack, then pulled the net off of the ground and began to move forward, gaining altitude and leaving a whirlwind of dust, rocks and vegetation behind.

Dust spurted from each of the wheels as the column moved up the winding pass. Some had broken down on the way and been abandoned, their passengers can cargo being stuffed into the other vehicles as time and space permitted. Cavalry rode to either side with Cano on the left and his brother-in-law, Rachman, leading the right. For this mission, both for her own safety and the intelligence insight she could provide, Alena was back at the Camp San Lorenzo.

Jimenez, riding in front with Masood, recognized from aerial photographs taken by the RPVs of the Legion the steep sided pass that led into the enemy fortress.

The trucks and buses were adorned with white banners painted in black and green. "There is no God but God," said some. "Mohammad is the Prophet of God," proclaimed others. More than a few carried the message, "The sword is the key to Heaven and Hell." Still others proclaimed, "Death to the infidel."

"The horns, do you think?" asked Jimenez. "Really? Isn't that overkill?"

Masood shook his head in the negative. "If we were what we proclaim ourselves to be, we would announce our presence among friends fearlessly. That means, yes, sir, the horns and the cavalry firing their rifles into the air."

Swallowing, Jimenez then said, "The horns then. Let them know we're coming so they won't guess who we are."

It had once been something of a day of mourning, in London, the anniversary of the Declaration that had utterly screwed up the proper ordering of the world. It was a happy day, now. And why not? The United States of America had ceased to be decades prior. It was now split among four governing regions, each with its own UE-appointed archduke to rule them. The world celebrated the Fourth of July now in memory of what
wasn't
.

Lucretia seemed to her father even more jubilant than the day called for.

Louis Arbeit, the Marquis, had barely aged in all those years since he'd first assumed the mantle of leadership for Amnesty, Interplanetary. He'd spent those years well, moving the company from the relatively unremunerative harassment of unfriendly governments to more solid, sounder, and infinitely more profitable business arrangements. If there were political prisoners languishing in prisons and psychiatric facilities now, and there were, they were unenlightened, anti-progressive opponents of the UE. Amnesty had no interest in such.

One would hardly know that Lucretia was, herself, well along in years. She, too, had had the best anti-agathics available. She could, and did, pass for twenty-two or -three, regularly. She bounced out to her father's favorite patio, bearing with her their morning coffee. The coffee came from the highlands of Panama where High Judge Nyere maintained extensive holdings farmed by the serfs that had been made of the locals. That land included what had once been the ranch of Belisario Carrera. It was worked by, among others, Belisario's collateral descendants, laboring under the lash.

"I made it especially for you, Father," Lucretia announced. They were still a very close family, even though Louis had stopped fucking his daughter decades ago.

He smiled, picked up and sipped at the coffee.
Ah, just right.

Lucretia's lips smiled around her own cup. She, too, sipped, then said, "The world really is wonderful now, for people of our class, isn't it, Father?"

"Well . . . of course," Louis agreed.

"It's not so wonderful for people of my generation though," she said. "We have to wait and wait and . . . "

"We've had this conversation before, Lucretia. You'll just have to wait until . . . "

"No, I won't, Father," the daughter said. "I'm glad you like your coffee."

It was at about that time that the Marquis of Amnesty noticed that his vision had become very narrow, and that his hand trembled as he lifted the cup back to his lips.

De l'audace, encore de l'audace, toujours de l'audace.

Napoleon, quoting
Georges Jacques Danton

The scout plane carrying Carrera and his small party flew alone. Above it, the thundering transports, gunships, and attack aircraft moved in formation. Below, flights of helicopters, some the huge IM-62s, ferried men, supplies and equipment forward.