Carnifex (87 page)

As bad as it was down here in the karez, and it was even more cramped than the narrow escape tunnel had been, there was at least breathable air and a modicum of light from the air shafts so high above.

"Yes, I can find them, Captain," answered the intelligence officer. "What's in it for me?"

Like the Captain, the IO was a Class Two, almost—but not
quite
—the highest caste. Like most other Class Twos he lived for the chance of that rare rise in caste, a rise in caste almost unobtainable outside of the Peace Force and the Clergy.

"A rise in class, of course," Wallenstein answered.

"You can't give me that."

"I can if the High Admiral never comes back and I take his place and become a Class One myself."

"What proof do I have you won't just raise yourself and tell me to screw off?"

"The best of all possible reasons; I have no vested interest in keeping Class One so aloof and elite, not being one myself, and I will need friends at the same level."

The IO considered this for a moment. "Give me a couple of hours, then."

Carrera had found himself, over the last several years, sleeping more, rising later, and still always bone weary. He'd left Jimenez to clean up back at the enemy base, finishing the search, extracting their men, pulling back the mechanized cohort that had moved forward into Kashmir to guard the operation, and taking out the prisoners, of which there were some.

For his part he slept. He was so tired, of late, that even the nightmares generally failed to wake him when they came. Thus, the orderly had to pound on his door for several minutes before getting an answer.

"Sir, there's . . . someone . . . someone on the radio for you. Said to tell you it was 'Marguerite.' Sir, why would a stranger be calling on our tactical push?"

"I'll be there in a few minutes," Carrera answered, rising from his bed and beginning to pull on his boots. He'd slept in uniform. "Have my vehicle brought around."

"Already done,
Duque
."

"Carrera."

"Why,
Duque
, how pleasant to speak to you again," Wallenstein said, over the radio. "Do you have a map that shows the karez system near your camp?"

"Near my camp? Yes, of course but . . . near my
camp
?"

"Yes,
Duque
, near your camp. I don't know why they'd be heading there but there they are definitely heading. I mean, if they still had one of the . . . packages . . . "

Shit. "Twelve," she'd said.

"Give me the coordinates," he answered. "Maybe they just think we won't look so close."

"Makes a certain amount of sense," Wallenstein agreed. "By the way, I don't have your grid system. Polar coordinates from the center of your camp are . . . " and she read off a direction and distance. "They're moving continuously along that major karez."

"Thank you, Captain. Carrera out."

"Good hunting, Legate."

They've got a nuke, still. What would
I
do if I had a nuke and no other way to strike the people who had just chopped all
my
followers to dogmeat? That's a no-brainer; I'd use it.

"Get me the staff! Put the group which just returned from Kashmir on alert! Tell the Cazadors to be prepared to jump again in six hours. I want a maniple of Pashtun Scouts ready to go at the same time. Notify the Air
Ala
! Now!"

Click.
This time, the click hurt.

The karez split, one branch continuing straight ahead into the gloom while the other took a left turn which opened up after several hundred meters to a pool fed by a small stream. The pool was icy cold but the air outside was warm.

Even at the slow pace at which the column moved toward the oval of light ahead, when she finally emerged into the sun, Khalifa's eyes watered and blinked. She had to cover them with one hand to protect them from the sun until they could become accustomed to it once again.

When she could see again, Khalifa saw a half dozen vehicles, several dozen horses, scores of people, men and women both, along with over a hundred head of livestock. The air was filled with the smell of roasting meat.

As soon as he reached open air Robinson pulled out his communication device and began to call the
Spirit of Peace.
He stopped when he felt the cold muzzle of a rifle pressed against the back of his head.

"I don't
think
so," Nur al-Deen said. "We can't have you calling for rescue before you have completed your task. Take it from him. Search the infidel houri," a nod indicated Arbeit—"as well to make sure she cannot speak to her people."

While two began searching Arbeit, who huffed with the indignity, another one of the Salafis pulled the communicator roughly from the High Admiral's hand and passed it on to Nur al-Deen. He saw that it was not much different from the cell phones already being produced around this world. Yes, it was a bit smaller but not all that much so. The only really distinguishing thing about it was the UE logo and the letters, "UEPF," underneath that. Nur al-Deen slipped the slender device into a pocket and walked to rejoin Mustafa.

"This was well done, Hameed," Mustafa congratulated the leader of the small party Nur al-Deen had sent ahead to prepare. Mustafa's eyes swept the valley into which his people had emerged. He saw that it was about two kilometers by four, lush and verdant at its floor and with tall, tree-covered hills to all sides.

"Thank you, Sheik. Our people here came to cover your emergence as soon as possible. The animals are not as many as I would have liked to provide a screen for our group, but the caves are still well stocked and we can shelter many in them to avert prying eyes. As you can see and smell, food is being prepared. The weapons, particularly those for use against aircraft, are in tip-top shape, with plenty of ammunition."

"Yes," Mustafa answered, smiling broadly. "I expected they would be. Get parties to moving them from the caves and camouflaging them."

"I will do so, Sheik."

"How do we want to set the bomb off," asked Nur al-Deen, appearing beside Mustafa.

"Move it by camel, I think," the Sheik answered. "It's not that low yield a bomb. If we can get it within a mile or so, it should destroy the crusader camp."

"Very well, then. I'll arrange it. I'll also arrange some obvious punishment for the Old Earth infidel if he fails to cooperate."

Robinson swallowed hard. The Salafis had cut down half a dozen trees and made two tripods with them. They'd set the tripods over piles of wood they set alight and then let burn down to coals. The fire and the tripods were for he and Arbeit.

"We'll hang you and your houri belly down over the coals, once they're ready," Nur al-Deen explained. "Then we'll lower you to cooking level. It won't be that quick, of course, because we'll start you swinging so you only cook a little at a time. It will take hours, maybe a whole day, before you die. That is, it will unless you cooperate and set off the bomb when we tell you."

"Martin, you can't let them . . . whatever they ask . . . whatever I have . . . it's yours if you just don't let them . . . "

"Shut up, Lucretia," he snapped. "How is this any different from the games you play back on Earth or in the dungeon Wallenstein set up for you on the
Peace
?"

"The
difference
, Martin, is that what I do I do only to lowers while what they threaten to do is to
me.
"

Biting back a retort, Robinson hung his head. After a moment he told Nur al-Deen, "Drown your hot coals. Take down your tripods. I'll cooperate."

"Good. I thought you might. The bomb will leave tomorrow morning and should be in position by tomorrow night."

"Can we leave then?" the High Admiral asked.

"We'll see."

Havaldar Mohammad Kamal saw. Six foot two with blue eyes half hidden by his sun browned eyelids, he smiled from his hidden perch high on the slope of Jebel Ansar. The Blue Jinn—even some of his friends called Carrera that—had promised great rewards for the scout team which first spotted the enemy as they emerged. It was the will of Allah that Kamal's team was graced with that honor. Unheard by those below, Kamal radioed in his report. He was told to continue to monitor, to spot for any enemy air defense . . . and to be careful of incoming air and artillery attack.

"Friendly fire, isn't," one of the Balboan officers had reminded him.

There was no warning.

One moment the air in the high Pashtun pass was calm and cool with the morning's late summer breeze. Trees, tall evergreens from forests never harvested, swayed and danced in the gathering sun. Standing atop a high rock overlooking the dusty valley the muezzin called the faithful to prayer. "Allahu Akbar; Allahu Akbar."
God is great. God is great. Come to prayer. Prayer is better than sleep. God is great.

With the muezzin's call, the women stopped cooking breakfast for the holy warriors gathered in the camp and—like their menfolk—knelt, facing generally East-North-East. The warriors and children for whom those women cooked likewise abased themselves in the direction of Makkah al Jedidah. Their compassed prayer rugs showed the direction. Their heavy assault rifles and less common heavier weapons skewed those compasses, too. Yet the Beneficent, the Merciful, the Almighty would understand that a mujahad might be off a few degrees in the direction of his devotions. The thought
did
count for something, after all.

As the people abased themselves before their God, humbly and faithfully, smoke from hundreds of campfires passed on the breeze, carrying savory aromas to the noses of all the hungry fugitives in the camp.

It was a moment of peace before the first of the artillery shells began to lay their minefields to the south.

Even before the coming of the shells, Abdul Aziz felt no peace. He ignored the morning call to prayer as he ignored the sounds and smells of the camp, as he ignored his own murmuring stomach—slated to be full for the first time in days from the largesse stockpiled in a nearby cave against the day of need.

Abdul's eyes wandered seeking those other eyes he felt, he
knew
, were on himself, his comrades and their families.
Damned Pashtun mercenaries. Sell their souls and their God for a little pay, the chance to loot and rape.

But the Pashtun were as they were; nothing could change them, nothing ever had.
Il hamdu l'illah
. To God be the praise. Said differently; what could one do?

Finally, reluctantly, Abdul Aziz ibn Kalb, turned to his neglected prayers. In them, he began to find a moment's inner peace before returning to his wife, Khalifa—even now preparing the morning meal—and their children.

The next moment, as Khalifa—prayers likewise finished—added a bit of seasoning to the hummus, peace ended. First came the freight train rattle of artillery shells inbound. These exploded, apparently harmlessly, to the north, near and around the exit from the karez. The shells made only dull bangs in comparison to their usual crescendo.

The shells were never intended to explode, per se. Instead, small charges pushed off the shells' bases, causing them to release their cargo. The cargo, small things—thirty-six per shell—and shaped like pieces of cheesecake, fell to ground but did no apparent harm.

Other shells, mixed high explosive and ICM— Improved Conventional Munitions—began to pepper the camp. The high explosive went off on or above the ground. It fragmented the thick steel walls of the shells—they had to be thick to withstand the stresses of firing and the spin imparted by rifled cannon tubes—sending hot, razor-sharp shards whizzing through the camp. Limbs were ripped off, bellies opened, bones shattered. Women and children, and even a few men, began to scream, some in fright, others in pain.

The ICM was more subtle, to the extent that blood, fire, and death can ever be subtle. They were somewhat like the other shells, the ones that had kicked off their base plates sending apparently harmless cargo down. Instead of cheesecake-slice shaped mines, however, the ICM sent little bomblets, eighty-eight per shell, to rain down on the inhabitants of the camp. Also unlike the mines, the ICM bomblets exploded on touching down, sending small fragments and bits of serrated wire to drench the area with pain and death.

At the first explosion Khalifa shrieked something incoherent. Her face was visible and, normally, it had its attractions, kindness not least among them. Her children froze at the shriek and at the look of stark terror on their mother's face. She grabbed the nearest of them, then ran a few steps and grabbed the other by one arm. Children half-carried and half-dragged, Khalifa sprinted for something, anything, that would shelter her and—more importantly—them from the blasts. Khalifa felt like she and her children were targets already, though actually the artillery was directed at possible and likely sites for the defenders to have posted men with guided anti-aircraft weapons or—unlikely but possible, given the hasty and difficult flight of the last few days—heavy machine guns capable of engaging aircraft.

Those first shells lifted after a few disconcerting volleys. In the main, they had done their work well. Half a dozen light surface to air missile launchers
had
been posted on likely high ground. The artillery smashed them, turning the men who carried them into bloody pulp. Likewise did one heavy machine gun—it was tripod mounted but the low tripod rendered it unsuitable for anti-aircraft work—go up in fire and smoke.

The Pashtun mercenaries were clever, skilled, and persistent. Little had escaped their notice.

The artillery was followed within seconds by the malevolent whine of a dozen assault aircraft, in two waves of six, hugging the eastern ridge as they crossed it before plunging down to spit death and flame among the denizens of the camp. Rockets, cannon and machine gun fire raked out with hundreds—and in the case of the aerial machine guns, thousands—of rounds.