Carnifex

platoon of allegedly about twenty-five men had departed a refugee camp in Kashmir three days ago and was expected to use this pass. Intel was right about such things perhaps one time in five or six. That was often enough to justify the effort. (Alena Cano's record was much better than this, but who knew outside of her husband's group of cavalry?) Moreover, the ratio had been improving over the months as the Legion discovered that the best way to ensure that the enemy did not come when and where expected was to land a helicopter anywhere within miles of the spot. Instead, the ambushers almost always trekked in on foot or, in the case of some of the Pashtun Scouts, on horseback, moving at night, with a few donkeys to help with the load.

A small bud in Cruz ear beeped low. 'Cruz,' he whispered.

'Centurion, this is Optio Garcia. The RPV reports thirty-two men entering the pass with fifteen donkeys. Heavily laden. Heavily armed. Light gunship'—a Cricket with a dual machine gun mounted to one side—'standing by. Two Turbo-Finches waiting at the strip. Reaction platoon waiting to reinforce, loaded on helicopters.'

'Roger.'

Cruz had had fourteen directional mines laid along a rough line of almost four hundred meters. He did some quick calculations. Thirty-two men and fifteen donkeys . . . . subtract four or five for point and rear guards . . . moving at night they'll close it up a bit . . . say, four or five meters per man, two staggered lines. They should fit inside the kill zone before we initiate. Of course, the point and rear guards will probably not be in the kill zone when we open up.

Cold forgotten amidst the excitement of impending action, Cruz reached up and pulled the passive vision monocular down over his right eye. Then he tapped awake Majeed, his attached Pashtun scout. 'Pretty soon. Make ready,' he whispered.

Majeed sat up with a smile. With luck, there would be a bonus for this one. Majeed had his eye on a third wife. Legion scouts made a lot of money in comparison with the Pashtian norm. The multiple wives this allowed the scouts to support added much to their status and kept the recruiting lines for the few open positions somewhere between long and longer.

* * *

Carefully, the two Pashtun sniffed at the air. Nothing. They moved bare feet along the cold rock as they advanced into the pass, eyes scanning for any sign that the infidel awaited.

Brothers, Bashir and Salam had once thought to join the Scouts. Having been shamed by rejection, they'd vowed revenge for the insult and made their way north to the refugee camps that lay just far enough across the ill- defined border that there could be no doubt they were in the territory of Kashmir rather than that of Pashtia. There, the brothers had sought work and been hired to lead formed units and caravans of donkeys into Pashtia. The pay was not as good, not nearly as good, but at least they could strike back at those who had insulted them.

This was their third trip. They'd begun to consider the possibility of retiring after this one. While the pay was not so good as that given to the infidel Legion's scouts, it was enough at least to pay for a wife each and a small plot of decent land. With that, they could grow enough of the poppy to eke out a decent living.

It was beginning to look like eking out a living would be better than continuing to lead convoys forward and dying in the process. Neither brother knew anyone who had managed to lead four convoys safely through.

Besides, they had already begun to loathe the Yithrabis, who looked down on them, criticizing everything from their illiteracy to their manner of dress.

* * *

Covering himself almost completely behind his rock, Cruz watched the two point men walk through. Even at a distance of one hundred and twenty-five meters, and in the fuzzy and grainy picture given by his monocular, they seemed fairly professional. He had to hope that one of the other point ambushes in the area ambush would get them. No sense in letting pros survive.

He shifted as quietly as he could to look to his left, the direction from which the sounds of donkeys came. Yes . . . there they are. Cruz saw thirteen or fourteen men, in a staggered double column, enter the kill zone. Behind those were the donkeys, tied together in strings of five or six with a man leading each string. Another group of thirteen or fourteen took up the tail of the caravan.

Shame about the donkeys.

He waited, his heart racing so fast he could not have marked the time by it even if he'd thought of it. Unconsciously, his hands reached for the two directional mine detonators he'd placed carefully against the rock to his front.

It took almost six minutes from the time the point of the main body entered the kill zone to when its tail did. All that time, Cruz's heart beat so heavily that he thought the enemy must hear it. Of course, they did not hear it. In fact, the only thing they did hear was . . .

Kakakakakakakaboomoomoomoomoomoomoomoomoom.

 . . . as the directional mines went off. These, more Volgan-made munitions, were flat cylinders with one point seven kilograms of explosive on one side and four hundred cylindrical bits of steel buried in a plastic matrix on the other. Most of the bits went high or low, of course, though even then some of the low ones would ricochet at man height across the Kill Zone. In all, tests had confirmed that at least a third, in this case about two thousand, bits of flying steel would cross at an acceptable graze to the ground. The mines were more directionally focused than the FSC-made versions and so had been laid at angles to sweep along rather than across the kill zone.

More than half the infiltrators were blown off their feet, screaming and spurting blood and bone. Immediately the men along the ambush line opened fire, while a machine gun to the right raked directly long the line of march. A few tried to return fire. They were shooting in the dark at barely seen muzzle flashes. Cruz's men, on the other hand, had F- and M-26s with integral thermal sights. They did not shoot blindly at muzzle flashes but instead were able to take careful aim at standing or kneeling men.

The fire went on for what seemed a very long time but was really no more than forty-five seconds. By the end of that time all of the obvious targets were down. Cruz thought he saw a few running pellmell across the rocks to his front.

Good. Right into Corporal Lopez's position.

A single white star parachute flare, hand held and fired, flew up with a bang and a whoosh to burst overhead. The squad leader of the squad Cruz had accompanied blew his whistle three times. Firing ceased. Another whistle blast sent the men into the kill zone. Most of them, as they crossed, carefully shot each of the bodies laying there once again, in the head, to make sure. A central team, two men, looked around quickly and identified someone still breathing who might be a leader. One of the team rapped the supposed leader on the head with his rifle stock and dragged him off. Another two man team went rifling packs and pockets for items of intelligence. Some was kept, maps and notebooks, typically, along with cell phones and the one radio they found. The rest, along with weapons, were dropped beside the intel team.

What was just business sense for the enemy infiltrators was a mercy to their donkeys. These were shot quickly and even with regret. After all, the Legion could always use more strong and healthy beasts of burden and, as anyone who dealt with them knew, the Pashtian animals were the best.

Cruz had watched the squad go through its motions. No sense in taking over from a perfectly competent sergeant, after all. Nonetheless, while half the squad provided far security to the kill zone and half assisted the intel team in the search, he went out to look over the intel gathered.

A map caught Cruz's eye. Picking it up and looking at it under the moonlight, Cruz spontaneously whistled.

* * *

Bashir and Salam cowered behind a rock as the infidel ambush went out into the kill zone. Bashir began to raise his rifle to engage them, when Salam slapped it down.

'Foolish Brother, do you think you can do any good?'

'What do we do then, O wise Brother?' Bashir asked quietly but sarcastically. 'Do you think they don't have this place surrounded? We are not going to escape. Better to take one with us.'

'God curse the day we ever left to join the Ikhwan,' Salam said. 'But, if we kill one of the infidels, they will certainly kill us. Then, if the tales are to be believed, they will take bits of our bodies and blood to identify our clan in the evil ways the infidels have. Then our clan will suffer. Do you want that?'

'No . . . no, not that,' Bashir admitted, relaxing his grip on his rifle. 'But what are we to do?'

'We escape,' Salam counseled. 'To Hell with the Ikhwan. Drop everything. We'll crawl out under cover of the night.'

* * *

The Cricket's machine gunner saw the brothers through the thermal imager mounted over his gun. 'I've got two in sight,' he told the pilot, 'but I don't think they're interested in