behind it. The line charge, roughly inch-thick demolition cord, set itself off after it had reached apogee and fallen to the ground. About a dozen antipersonnel mines went boom, in sympathy, when the shock wave reached them
And then the grunts were on their feet, screaming like a thousand banshees, charging through the gap with blood in their eyes and bayonets fixed.
Main Supply Route Zeus, north of Hill 1647,
Sumer, 0759 hours, 13/2/461 AC
Nineteen miles north of the twin hills, fifty odd vehicles of a Sumeri artillery battalion struggled in the dark along a winding road that led to the south. The trucks pulled behind them eighteen 122mm guns, generally similar to those used by the legion. It was no surprise that the guns were similar, both types had been built by the Volgans and sold for hard, desperately needed, cash. The guns represented the only artillery reserve available to Ali al Tikriti's uncle, the Sumeri brigade and regional commander.
If the guns could reach a position in range of the hill before it was lost, there was a chance of breaking up any assault before it could reach the summit and dig in. In time, even the shell-shocked Sumeri defenders would recover. They'd recover, in fact, a lot faster than their enemy could replace the shells expended so far on the bombardment.
A few thousand feet above the battalion, unheard over the roar of the trucks' diesel engines, a lone Cricket observation aircraft circled in the clouds, dropping down from time to time to observe the winding mountain road below.
The observer in the Cricket said to the pilot, 'Oh, God, I think I'm going to come just looking at this.'
The pilot banked the aircraft over, took one look, and whistled. 'Oh, baby, oh, baby, oh, baby, oh.'
The observer was still laughing when he used the radio to call, 'Zulu Lima X-ray Four Six this is Tango Mike Uniform One Two. Fire for effect… baby… over.'
The radio crackled back. 'Fire for effect… what's this 'baby' shit? Over.'
'Four Six; One Two. I've got fifty, maybe sixty trucks with a battalion of guns plodding up the highway vicinity Target Alpha Oscar Four Five.'
'Oh, baby.'
VI.
Far to the south, halfway from the hills to Hewler International Airport, the six heavy rocket launchers of the legion received the call for fire from the Cricket, Uniform One Two. Each of the launchers was capable of firing twelve 300mm rockets, bearing warheads of two hundred and thirty-five kilograms, to a range of seventy kilometers. At that range, the predictable error was under two hundred meters. Since the beaten zone of a full ripple launch was on the order of three quarters of a kilometer, square, per launcher, the dispersion was tactically insignificant.
Within four minutes from the Cricket's call, when the trucks dragging the artillery had moved perhaps five hundred meters, the area was deluged with something over fifty-one hundred two-kilogram bombs.
Two minutes after the last of the rockets had scattered its bomblets, the Cricket flew low and made a pass over the column to asses the damage. Not one of the broken, bleeding, burned or simply stunned men below even bothered to shoot at the plane.
'Oh, baby…'
Hill 1647, 0801 hours, 13/2/461 AC
All my life I just wanted to be a simple soldier, Parilla thought to himself as he struggled to force his armored torso up the slope while listening to the radio he held closely to his ear. Hard to do in Balboa. Hard to do any place in the undeveloped world. All my life I was forced into politics, starting with the coup after the riots in '21 and continuing right up through when that bastard, Pina, tricked me into resigning from the force in '41. Nothing but goddamned politics. And now- finally-and thanks to you, Patricio, you gringo maniac, I get to be what I always wanted to be. Late is better than never.
Yes, I don't have much to do. We planned and rehearsed the shit out of this. We trained back in Balboa for just this sort of thing. So I listen on the radio and provide a little moral support when I can. So what? At least I am here, a man among men, doing a man's job for once in my life.
Parilla looked up and to the right, where a legionary was carrying the gold eagle of the legion, the eagle shining bright atop its spiral carved staff. He felt a sudden warm glow. My eagle, too. My legion, too.
VII.
Mohammad Sabah saw the group of enemy soldiers struggling up the hill. He watched carefully, from behind a snow covered bush. Do their faces look like they're in the mood for mayhem? Or might they be willing to…
Sabah felt as much as saw the machine gunner push the muzzle through the bush that concealed them. He started to shout, ' Kif,' stop, but before he could even get the syllable out the gunner had fired.
Parilla felt the shock before he even heard the muzzle report. One bullet bounced off of one of the glassy metal plates on his chest. Two more, however, plowed into his torso, pushing aside the silk fibers of the armor and smashing meat and bone below. He went down, limp but still marginally conscious.
'It's all right,' he whispered. 'Better this than never knowing and always wondering what it was like…'
'Allah curse you for a fool!' Sabah shouted at the machine gunner as his group came almost immediately under heavy sustained fire. He had no choice but to fight now. Maybe if he could hold the enemy off for a bit they might calm down and be inclined to mercy. Maybe.
The leader of Parilla's small guard force stared in momentary disbelief when he saw his Dux go down. Recovering, he gave the command: 'Enemy in draw. Assault fire! Assault!' Leading the way, screaming, firing short bursts as they ran, the Balboans closed on the Sumeris.
The Sumeri sergeant was the first to fall. Under the legionaries' leaden hail the other members of the group were forced down into the depression in the slope. As the Balboans approached, the Sumeris threw down their arms and raised their hands in surrender. But, after seeing their commander shot, the men were not interested in taking prisoners. Muzzles spoke and bayonets flashed red under the snow- reflected light.
Several hundred meters to the west, and about one hundred and fifty forward, the recon section of Cruz's cohort, the First Infantry, reached the 'lift fires' line. The cohort commander called that in via radio. Mortars ceased fire on that section of the hill altogether. The recon section took their bayonets from their rifles and the scabbards from their belts, attached the two together to form wire cutters, and began gnawing their way through the last wire before the enemy trenches and bunkers began. Other groups, straight infantry and the cohort sapper section, did so as well as they reached the last obstacle on the hill.
Hill 1647, Ali's bunker, 0811 hours, 13/2/461 AC
Ali al Tikriti, worn out as he was, still noticed the change in fires. The boy had crawled under Ali's bed for shelter again and lay there whimpering.
'Shut up, you little worm,' Ali commanded. He reached for the field telephone on his desk and picked it up. Listening for a few moments to the empty sound, he turned a crank to ring the other phones on the system. No one answered.
Without the enemy artillery coming in, and even as exhausted by fear as he was, Ali felt confident enough to leave his bunker. He forced himself to his feet and left via the dog-leg that led to the communication trench. There was rifle fire to the south, and close.
Ali found his battalion's senior sergeant, along with about fifty soldiers, cowering in a bunker. He began trying to herd the troops out and into the trenches. The men stood up, staggering and swaying as their twitching hands fumbled with their rifles and machine guns. They did not, however, take so much as a single step to move forward. When Ali ordered the senior sergeant present to get the men moving, the noncom just stared at him without comprehension, not so much shell-shocked as shell-induced-fear-exhausted. The mukkaddam used both arms to physically turn the older NCO around and push him through the bunker entrance. Then he pushed the rest of the
