Carnifex

other way, had certain things not come to pass some years before.

'Did he give you any specific indicators?' Arredondo asked, then continued, ' . . . Ah . . . never mind. The pooch's already alerted. They're in the wheat growing to our left front.'

Cruz couldn't see the attached scout dog from his position in the back of the platoon, but did see the men sinking to their bellies along the dirt road that led between the irrigated fields. He joined them.

'Artillery?' he asked Arredondo over the Comsys.

'No . . . no. I don't want to fuck up the farmer's crop; be a damned poor way to repay him for trying to help. What's available for air?'

Air support was well out of the range of the Comsys, which were, by design, limited to no more than a mile in range. Cruz turned to the chief of the forward observer team, bellying down beside him.

'What can we get from the air?' Cruz asked.

The corporal made an inquiry over his longer ranged radio. A few minutes later he answered, 'We can have a brace of Turbo-Finch Avengers'—crop dusters reconfigured for the close air support role—'in about twenty minutes, or there's an armed Cricket recon bird we can have in five. The Avengers are carrying some flechette rockets and a gun pod each. Mostly they're carrying bombs though.'

'Can we have both?' Cruz asked. After all, we don't necessarily have to use the bombs.

'Don't see why not.'

'Get 'em both. We'll let the Cricket flush them and use the Avengers to help us pursue. Rockets and machine guns only though.' He passed the same on to Arredondo via the Comsys.

'That's fine, Cruz,' Arredondo answered. Cruz then heard him say, 'O Group,' or orders group. All four squad leaders immediately answered with their ordinal numbers, 'First . . . Second . . . Third . . . Fourth.' Fourth was also known as the weapons squad.

Cruz himself announced only his name, and that only to let the squad leaders know he was there and listening.

'Here's the deal,' Arrodendo announced. 'I think we've got a group of guerillas up ahead in the wheat to the left. They probably know they've been spotted by the fact we took cover. That's ok. We're going to kill them anyway.'

'We've got air inbound in five . . . no, about four now . . . minutes. Once that's overhead, we're going to start moving forward by bounds, by squad. Second Squad will bound first. Once we take fire we'll return it and develop the situation a bit. I want to flush them into the open where the air can kill them. Questions?'

'First, negative . . . Second, no questions, Centurion . . . Third, roger, out . . . Weapons, no sweat.'

'Centurion, this is Cruz. The machine guns can range the wood from the road and can see it, too.'

After a short pause to think, Arredondo said, 'Right . . . keep weapons by the road, Cruz. You stay with them to control the air. Now, good hunting, gentlemen. The war's been dull of late. This should give the boys a little much-needed excitement.'

* * *

The Cricket was heavily muffled. Cruz didn't see or hear it until the pilot came up on the radio to announce he'd arrived.

'Keep out of light missile range,' Cruz cautioned. 'We're going to try to flush them out of cover.'

'Wilco,' answered the pilot. 'Hey, Cruz, that you?'

'Montoya?' Cruz asked in return.

''Oh, Cazador Buddy,'' Montoya answered.

'I didn't know you were going to flight school.'

Montoya sighed over the radio. 'I didn't do well enough in school'—he meant Cazador School, a miserable exercise in starvation, sleep deprivation, danger and sheer hard work; it was also the Legion's sine qua non for leader selection—'for them to actually trust me as an officer or centurion. So I hung around the Cazador Tercio until someone came to talk to me about becoming a pilot. So it's Flight Warrant Officer Montoya now.'

'Good job,' Cruz answered, and meant it. Unlike most armed forces the air component of the Legion was a part and parcel of the whole; treated like crap the same as everyone else, rather than as spoiled children with too many privileges. There was, therefore, quite a bit more affection between ground and air than was true of most armed forces. The air loved the ground because they were the honorable edge of battle. The ground loved the air because there was none of this 'our pilots are too precious to risk' and 'but we need our crew rest' nonsense and because they'd always be there when needed, even at the cost of pilots' lives.

'Yeah,' Montoya agreed. 'Besides, I'm a better pilot than I was a grunt. I'll be standing by and watching,' he concluded.

* * *

The enemy opened fire first, at a range somewhat long for the rifles and light machine guns they carried. From the road, about twelve hundred meters away from the wood, the legionaries had no trouble returning fire with their excellent .34 caliber machine guns. Three medium guns, belting out three to four hundred rounds per minute, sustained, between them, and coupled with return fire from the infantry squads closer in, were more than the insurgents really felt up to dealing with. They began to run.

'Cruz, Montoya; I see them and I'm on it.'

'Get some, Montoya.'

For the first time that day Cruz heard the thrummm of the Cricket's engine as Montoya gunned it to close to range. Then, mere moments later, he heard the steady sound of cloth ripping as the dual machine gun mounted to side-fire from the Cricket opened up. He couldn't see if they hit anything, as the enemy was running away. He could see the rest of the platoon rise to their feet and begin to run forward, firing from the hip, urged on by Arredondo's wide-carrying shout.

'Cease fire! Cease fire!' Cruz ordered the weapons squad and then began to trot low from gun to gun, making sure the crews had heard.

Idly, Cruz wondered if there would be prisoners. Hopefully so; this is enough excitement for the day.

Then the brace of Turbo-Finch Avengers swooped in like eager hound dogs. 'Where you want it?' they panted. Their lives had been a bit short of excitement over the last year, too, and it showed.

'Save it,' Cruz answered, 'but thanks for stopping by. This party's about over.'

'Fuck!'

Over the radio Cruz heard Montoya laugh. 'What? You guys think me and my Cazador Compadre are going to leave anything for the likes of you.'

'Tell 'em, Montoya,' Cruz added, with a snicker.

'Hey, Cruz, I got a postcard from Khalid in Taurus a few months back. Nothing too personal but he says he's doing well.'

'Good old Khalid,' said Cruz.

21/9/466 AC, Westminster, Anglia, Tauran Union

The small brass placard above the mailbox said, 'Mahrous ibn Mohamed ibn Salah, min Sa'ana.' That name and address matched his briefing packet was no particular surprise to Khalid. This was his fifth hit in two years and, so far, there had never been a mistake in identity. What he would do if he ever was called upon to make a hit that turned out to be a mistake, Khalid didn't know. At this point, he suspected, he'd probably yawn, then go to a cafe and read the paper. He'd grown a steel shell, had Khalid, these last five years.

Unlike the previous four, this target was 'hardened.' This is to say that his house was detached, with broad lawns around it and a wall around them, that his sedan—sedans, rather; Mahrous kept four Phaetons—was armored. He had bodyguards, mostly veterans of the Royal Anglian Army's Special Operations Directorate, or SOD. He was believed to wear body armor of the very highest caliber, religiously. Moreover, Mahrous rarely traveled the same way from his home twice in a week.

If the swine wasn't so paranoid, thought Khalid, I'd have offed his ass months ago.

For those months Khalid had considered and discarded one option after another. Shoot him from a distance? No way; nothing elevated hereabouts and no really good firing positions. Besides, I'm a good long range shot, but not a great one. We Arabs rarely are; I don't know why. Shoot him close up? I'd never get through the bodyguards who are, let's admit it, first rate men. Bomb the house? No way to get close enough with enough material. Bomb the office? Similar problem. Bomb the Phaetons? Which one. How do I get to it? No way.

He'd even considered leaving a small bomb with a chemical agent in it but . . .  It wouldn't surprise me a bit if those SOD types carry atropine and nerve agent antidote.

In the end, Khalid had gone for something simple. There was a sewer that ran the length of the street Mahrous lived on. That sewer had one manhole cover not far from the driveway to Mahrous' residence. Khalid had simply made a radio control detonator from parts obtained at a local hobby store, then manufactured—as he had been trained to do in Volga— about fifteen pounds of PETN, pentaerythritol tetranitrate, in his apartment in the city. 'Factor P for