Carnifex

go past first cousins to second, which Abdul Aziz was, in searching for a husband for their daughter. With no particular background in genetics, indeed without even the ability to read, Khalifa saw nothing wrong with either sort of match. It was not forbidden by the Holy Koran, of course, and was therefore permitted.

In any case, Abdul Aziz's tall and lanky frame was well matched to Khalifa's shorter and much more well rounded one. Though for all that, she was not a short woman at a meter, seventy. That height came from her pure Bedu ancestry. Along with it, she had inherited large, well shaped, not-quite-almond eyes, full lips and high cheekbones. Her husband, she knew, was as pleased with her appearance as she was with his. At least, in the five years they had been together his ardor had never flagged nor had it shown any signs that it ever would. This was a pleasure to the girl, and in more than her body.

Her two children were a boy, four, and a girl, two. She'd been disappointed in herself for failing to deliver a second boy. But her husband—wonderful man!—had shushed her apologies and told her, in all seriousness, that it was the women who would deliver this world to the sons of Allah. She should be proud, he'd said, as proud of her as he was. How could she not love such a man?

Khalifa knew a little, but only a little, of the outside. She knew she and her sisters were pitied by the women of the industrialized world who believed them to be little more than chattels. She could not for the life of her understand that. Oh, yes, there were men, even Salafi men, who abused their wives. But didn't those 'modern' women understand that every Salafi girl had a father and brothers who loved them so long as they were worthy? A father and brothers, uncles and cousins, too, who would not only take a very dim view of their female relatives being abused but were very likely to abuse right back? Salafis who mistreated their wives tended to wind up dead. Fortunately, her parents had chosen well. Her husband cherished her.

It was with that thought; that, and the warm glow still remaining from the night before, reinforced by anticipation of the night to come, that Khalifa ground the beans for the morning's coffee happily and with a smile.

* * *

'Well, you check out,' an unsmiling Noorzad announced to Bashir, alone, over the morning coffee. The rest of the company had already eaten and drunk and was back at work on the cavern.

'You are remembered both at the camp from which the lost column set out and in your home area. But I have some very bad news . . . ' the grizzled old fighter hesitated for a moment before continuing. 'Your family has been taken by the infidels.'

Bashir had to feign shock. He inhaled sharply, then allowed himself to exhale as his chin sank down upon his chest. 'Have they been . . . '

'No,' Noorzad answered. 'No word of a trial. None of any murders, either. They're just being held, apparently for questioning.'

'How . . . ?'

'The infidels have their ways,' Noorzad answered. 'They can find your whole life story and family tree from the smell of your camel's three-day-old fart, so say some. If they took your brother, or even the smallest part of his body, they can find out where he came from.'

'The crusaders will know I am missing,' Bashir wailed. That, too, had taken practice. 'They'll torture my parents to tell them where I am.'

'No matter,' Noorzad answered with a shrug. 'Your parents don't know. Nothing they can say can hurt the cause. Besides, the infidels rarely bother to torture, no matter what we might say to the contrary, unless they have some particular reason to justify the effort.'

Bashir restrained himself from saying, They'll beat the crap out of you for the slightest lie, or the merest failure to come clean, if they've got an interest. After all, he wasn't supposed to personally know that.

But I really want to know, need to know, what the hell is supposed to fit into that huge cavern we're excavating. Unfortunately, I can't ask you about it, just like I can't ask you about . . . or maybe I can.

'Will Mustafa want to speak to me again do you think?'

Noorzad shook his head. 'Not this week. Maybe next. He often commiserates with those who either have given, or may soon give, much for the struggle.'

'Okay . . . well, if he won't need me any time soon, I'd just as soon join the rest of the company at work.'

'Good lad,' Noorzad answered with a personable and friendly slap to Bashir's shoulder.

28/7/469 AC, Camp San Lorenzo, Jalala Province, Pashtia

No matter how closely or how much Carrera stared at the model of the Salafi base, he found no solution. It's logistically impossible. Impossible!

He tried picturing the attack under the most promising scenario developed to date. The Cazadors jump in by NA-32s—damn the broken ankles—and get by with nothing but air for fire support until the artillery is in range and ready. The helicopters move in the whole artillery cohort, except for the rocket launchers, which can move themselves, then go back for an infantry cohort. By the time they come back with an infantry cohort the enemy is completely ready. Any guests they may have—and Mustafa—are long gone. So we keep shuttling in the troops until we can reduce the place, get in a war with Kashmir, and after we take it we pull out, fight a border war while the diplo-shits try to patch up a peace . . . and do it all over again in a year or two.

Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! Maybe if I wasn't so fucking tired all the time . . . 

All right . . . lets start at the beginning. What do I want for an end state? I want to kill or capture every Salafi in the area, and especially their leaders, destroy the base, and pull out before it becomes a Kashmir-Legion ground war. That means I need an infantry cohort in the center, two more plus the artillery to make a breach and peel the edges, and Cazadors and Pashtun scouts to seal it off.

Ok . . . the Pashtun scouts could go in over a period of days by air. Some might even just cross the border on horseback. Let's see . . . eighteen Crickets of which fifteen work at any given time. Each carries three Pashtun. Do it over a period of days? No . . . not a chance. The longer they're out there the more certain it tips my hand, alerts the enemy and warns Kashmir. And they could be there for fucking weeks before we get word that the leadership will be there. Skip that idea.

Again he glared down at the terrain model, willing it to provide answers. Obstinately, the model refused.

Make a major effort to clear the area up to the border before we strike? That way we could march most of the way and cut the amount of lift needed. But . . . no . . . that will tip off the Salafis and Kashmir just as much as a bunch of my Pashtun wandering in their territory will. If only the base was in Farsia there'd be no problem; they're an open and avowed enemy and I can cross their border at will. If only Kashmir wasn't so completely in the Salafis' pockets while pretending to be a part of the alliance against the Salafis . . . 

Wandering in their territory? In their pockets? Pretending? And . . . . nukes. Carrera held the thought for a moment, searching for an answer that was almost at his fingertips. My God, could it be that simple?

His hand reached for the intercom. 'Get me Subadar Masood and Tribune Cano from the Pashtun Scouts. And Jimenez . . . . and Fernandez.'

29/7/469 AC, The Base, Kashmir Tribal Trust Lands

'But what the hell is this damned thing for?' Bashir asked plaintively of no one in particular. The work crew had hit a particularly tough section of rock. No one thought his question particularly out of place.

'You don't know?'

'No, I don't know,' he answered, resting on the sledge hammer he'd been using to drive wedges into the stone. 'And I don't suppose I need to. But this shit is tough!'

'Well,' his comrade began, conspiratorially, 'I heard that the chief of the Old Earth infidels is coming for a visit. All very hush-hush, mind you? This cave is to hide his shuttle . . . the little ship that usually carries him between the UE Peace Fleet and their base on Atlantis Island . . . from prying eyes.' The comrade's eyes went up and he made a sign as if to ward off either the Old Earthers or the Columbian's spies in the sky.

'All this trouble for one Old Earth infidel? Makes no sense,' was Bashir's judgment.

'Nor to me, brother. Perhaps Mustafa thinks to wheedle some help. Allah knows, we could use it.'

'Well, at least that explains why we have to dig this thing. But what's the hurry?'

'I heard from my cousin who works in headquarters that it's set for two weeks from today.'