Fadeel smiled benignly at the martyrs to be, the smile changing in a moment from benign to ferocious. Voice rising, he said, 'By your courage, you will earn a place in Paradise and bring us victory here.'
Al Kuwaylid Girls School, Ninewa, Sumer, 12/5/462 AC
Ishmael felt ridiculous. Worse than ridiculous, he felt dirty.
Bad enough they'd shaved his face and made it up to look more girlish. After Fadeel's people had rigged him with a suicide vest they dressed him in hijab and even added a veil! It hadn't been made any better by the profuse apologies and explanations they'd offered either.
Ishmael had grown up in liberal Akka. He didn't think girls were all that inferior a sex, or not more so than most boys anywhere on the planet would think. But for all that he didn't want to be one or to look like one.
They'd insisted though, harping on the theme of, 'Your mother would be proud of you. More than changing clothes; she changed her entire face. ' In the end, of course, Ishmael had gone along, letting them shave him, make him up, load him with thirty pounds of explosive and shrapnel laden vest and bra, and rig him with a radio so that his handler could direct him and talk him through his part. They'd even coached him on walking like a girl, easier to seem to do in a burka than in any kind of infidel garb.
He wasn't allowed to drive himself to the vicinity of the school even though he'd had a license for almost two years.
'You don't know the area,' Fadeel's people had explained. 'You don't know which checkpoints are tighter than a houri's hole and which are manned by more easygoing sorts. You don't know where to park. Besides, how can your control direct you if he can't see you? You don't have the right accent if someone stops you. No, Martyr to the Cause,' they'd insisted, ' we will drive you.'
Ishmael had been dropped off around the corner from the school. Doing his best to walk girlishly he'd turned that corner, walked about fifty meters forward and joined the stream of girls-some dressed in burkas or hijab and others in more modern clothing-that flowed through the gate and into the school yard.
Once inside the gate the girls who wore them had begun immediately to remove their Islamic outer coverings. Several were quite pretty and shapely, Ishmael noticed, with big brown eyes being the norm. They spoke to each other in high musical voices he found most enchanting and…
'I can't do this,' he said into the radio that ran from his explosive vest to an earpiece cum microphone. He turned to leave the school.
Sadly for Ishmael, more sadly for the girls at the school and their families, the radio had another purpose besides control. It also served as a remote detonator. With or without any words from Ishmael, the controller's instructions were to detonate it when a certain time had passed after Ishmael had walked through the gate or if it appeared he wanted to back out. That time was up. So was Ishmael's.
So was the girls'.
Balboa Camp, 12/5/462 AC
The bottoms of Carrera's and Sada's boots were stained red. That was as nothing to the red Carrera was seeing, a seething bloody red that arose to infuse his brain and cloud all his thoughts.
Fernandez was waiting for them at Carrera's and Lourdes' quarters. Lourdes was horrified, weeping. Carrera was simply outraged, though he mostly hid it behind an automatic stone mask.
'Have you seen the al Iskandaria broadcast, Patricio?' Fernandez asked, after Lourdes had dragged Carrera to a chair and forced a scotch over ice into his hand.
'No, why?' Carrera asked evenly.
'Our girlabomber was the son of that woman we had taken out in Akka, Layla Arguello. It was broadcast half an hour ago.' Fernandez's look said more eloquently than could have any words, And that's your fault.
'Fuck.'
'Fuck,' Fernandez repeated. Neither he nor Sada bothered to remind Carrera of their advice concerning the family of the Arguello woman.
Unconsciously echoing Fadeel al Nizal's thoughts of a couple of days earlier, Sada observed, 'Your Christian heritage of individual accountability has no use here, Patricio. It can never be of use in a place where the individual places so much importance on family ties. Moreover, you seem to insist that groups cannot be responsible for the actions of individuals. This is nonsense, my friend, and worse, it's immoral. Mothers and fathers raise their sons to be such and must be held accountable. Moreover, by your own laws of war you hold organizations accountable. When the organization is a family it is illogical not to hold them equally accountable.'
Carrera leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It didn't help; he still saw a red-stained courtyard filled with the bodies and parts of bodies of young, innocent girls. I become just like my enemy, he thought. Well, so be it then. After all, I'm already better than halfway there.
'Is Fadeel responsible?' he asked.
'Clearly,' Fernandez and Sada said together.
'Grab his family. Do it as soon as possible. Kill whomever we can't get at otherwise. All ages and sexes. Punish this motherfucker !'
'You don't really mean that, Patricio,' Sada said. 'We don't have to go that far.'
'But you said…' Carrera began.
'I said you sometimes had to demonstrate a willingness to seriously hurt a tribe or family to control it. We can do that without exterminating it. Besides…'
'Besides?'
'You're not a complete barbarian, Patricio. Neither am I and neither is Omar, here. We still have to live with ourselves. We can be more selective.'
Carrera breathed deeply, realizing what he had ordered. Jesus, what am I becoming?
'Thank you, my friend. Yes, please… be selective.'
'Your boys, Adnan,' Fernandez offered.
'Yes,' the Sumeri agreed. 'It will take a while to set up.'
'Fine, so long as it gets done. I have to go to the FSC for a bit anyway.'
Hamilton, FD, 21/5/462 AC
Campos was considerably warmer in his greetings than he had been the first time he and Carrera had met. He was practically effusive in shaking Carrera's hand and welcoming him back.
'Legate Hennessey, it is so good to see you once again.'
'I go by Carrera now,' came the dry answer. 'That, or Pat.'
'Fine, fine,' Campos said. 'I wanted to talk to you about your new and expanded area of responsibility. That, and the way you are conducting the war in your sector.'
'For that,' Carrera answered, 'I could have spoken to your commander in Sumer or your ambassador. I didn't need to traipse halfway across the world with my… secretary. And I fight the war in accordance with the law, so don't bother.'
Campos decided to drop the question of war crimes. After all, technically the legion did stay within the bounds of the law, at least insofar as anyone could prove. Shrugging, he continued with the important part, 'Both General Abramovitz and the Ambassador thought it would be better coming from me. They seem to feel you're maybe a little hard to control.'
'I am,' Carrera admitted. 'I'd still have at least listened.'
'I'm sure you would have,' Campos tactfully lied. 'By the way, how many men do you have in Sumer now?'
'About seventy-seven hundred. And another five thousand or so back home, not counting those still in initial training. Why?'
Campos didn't answer directly. Instead he asked, 'And we're paying you how much?'
'Now? Now it's fifty-five percent of what it would cost you to field an equivalent combat force. It was just under eight billion per annum. It's now over twelve. It's still a bargain for you,' he added.
'Didn't say it wasn't,' Campos conceded easily. 'It's a great bargain. But…'
'But?'
'We need to adjust your sector from what we originally agreed to.'
I should have seen this coming, Carrera thought.
'Show me.'
Campos led him over to map spread across his desk.
