Carnifex

11/8/469 AC, Chabolo, Pashtia

A military headquarters in a theater of war is rarely precisely quiet. The Coalition headquarters here, in the capital of Pashtia, rocked with fury.

Virgil Rivers was as angry as the three stars on his collar allowed and encouraged him to be. 'How dare that bastard? How dare he present me this . . . this . . . . this fucking ultimatum.'

'It's not an ultimatum, Virg,' Ridenhour supplied calmly. Following his retirement from the FSA, he'd taken Carrera's shilling. 'And please keep your voice down. It's an advisement. He has information that there will be a nuke or nukes at the Salafis' main base in Kashmir . . . today. He is acting on that. He is asking you to keep the Kashmir Air Force off his back while he does so. If you don't, and he and his force are destroyed, or the nuke gets away . . . on your head be it.'

'John,' Rivers answered, forcing himself to calm, 'we both know that bastard and we both know it's an ultimatum . . . . a fucking order. To me. Doesn't the son of a bitch know he works for me?'

Ridenhour gave a meaningful smile before answering, 'The 'son of a bitch' works for nobody but himself. You know that. He did advise me to tell you that a similar message is going to President Baraka in Kashmir, but that it will be delayed a few hours until the attack is well underway. That message will say this attack is with FSC authorization and support. Baraka's no fool, if he doesn't get reports that you have scrambled your own fighters for air cover, he'll draw the obvious conclusion.'

'Why couldn't Pat have come to me with this sooner?'

'So you could buck it to Hamilton? So the Foreign Affairs pussies in Hamilton could press for a 'diplomatic solution?' So the nuke or nukes could get away? Be serious, Virg, he's doing exactly the right thing.'

'And another thing,' Rivers continued, 'how the hell does he know this? I've had not a word.'

Ridenhour sighed. 'Virgil . . . you boys give us a lot of technical intelligence. How often is it both right and timely, hmmm? The Legion gives you a great deal of intel from . . . other . . . . sources. How often is it untimely or wrong?'

That was troubling. Indeed, everyone suspected the ways the Legion obtained its information. No one on the same side, however, was willing to ask because no one wanted to know. The progressives never asked anymore because they were already certain that they did know.

'Why is it,' Rivers asked, throwing his hands in the air, 'that every time he does 'the right thing' it tends to be really fucking inconvenient for everyone around him?'

'It's more than a trick, I've discovered, Virgil,' Ridenhour answered. 'It's a genuine knack.'

Camp San Lorenzo, Pashtia

Not a man of the Cazadors thought they'd been pulled in early for a break. Excitement was in the air, along with deepest interest and a considerable flavoring of dread. That one side of the hangar had what looked to be six hundred main parachutes, harnesses and other air items but no reserve 'chutes added to the dread. More mysterious, and dreadful, another wall was lined with crates of foam padding, wooden sticks, and duct tape. The men talked and muttered among themselves, sitting on the cold floor of the hangar, until someone announced, 'The Duque, commanding.'

The nearly six hundred Cazadors assembled jumped to their feet and stood at attention as Carrera walked up to a low rostrum at one end of the hangar. A white sheet was hung behind him. 'At ease,' he called. 'Seats.'

Jesus, doesn't the boss look old and worn and thin? Man needs a break.

'Let's begin by asking a question,' he began. 'Does anyone here have a problem jumping at less than five hundred feet over ground without a reserve parachute? Come on now,' Carrera insisted. 'if you don't think you can or just don't want to try, stand up, report to Tribune Salinas of the Military Police there in the back. You'll be kept in isolation but no charges will be pressed. No hard feelings, either, at least from me. But if you can't do this we need to know now.'

There was a stirring in the mass of troops. Most of them didn't want to jump that low. None of them were willing to admit as much. Carrera gave them a few minutes to settle down.

'All right then. I won't bother asking if you've got issues with doing an incursion into another country. It's a given that you don't or you wouldn't be here at all. Lights,' he commanded.

Once the hangar had dimmed enough for a projector to work Carrera called, 'Map.' Instantly, a large map of the Kashmir-Pashtia border region appeared behind him. All the men recognized it, despite the distortion caused by the slight waving of the sheet.

Carrera pulled a laser pointer from his pocket, flicked it on and laid a red point of light onto the Jalala area. 'We are here.' The red point shifted across the sheet until coming to rest on a fortress symbol on the other side of the border. 'We are going there. Next map.'

The previous, large scale map disappeared to be replaced by one of the same scale but a smaller area, side by side with a small scale map of the objective area.

'Your mission,' Carrera continued, pointing at the objective map, 'is to seal this off from escape. Before you do that, just before, other forces will infiltrate and attack the center of the Salafi fortress. Still another force, Pashtun Cavalry that left some time ago, will seal the ends of the valley. Heavy infantry and artillery will move by helicopter to crack its shell and peel it. The mechanized cohort will cross the border here,' again the point of light shifted to mark the major pass between Kashmir and Pashtia, 'and take up a blocking position here,' the light rested a bit further north. 'The Federated States Air Force will provide air cover at a distance. Our own Air Ala will be in either the transport, the recon, or the close support mode.'

'There's been no time to rehearse this, nor will there be except by back brief. For that matter, if we tried to rehearse it, it would just tip off the enemy. Nonetheless, we've been planning this operation for weeks. Your commanders have the plan. Cohort commander?'

'Sir!'

'Take charge of your men. And good luck to you all. Kick their asses.'

Pickup Zone Papa Echo (Principe Eugenio), Pashtia

Every infantry cohort in the Legion carried enough landing lights, sometimes called 'beanbag lights,' to set up a pickup zone for helicopter movement. These were color-coded, different colors marking different spots and different functions on the chosen field.

Cruz's platoon had drawn the duty of setting up the PZ. Pulled at the last possible minute from their patrolling, they'd filled the beanbags of the lights with dirt and rocks to keep the rotor wash from blowing them away. They'd then placed them on the ground in the proper positions. With the duty of setting up the PZ had come the duty of running it. This meant not only arranging the rest of the maniple for pickup, but taking charge of the dozen 160mm mortars that were to fly out ahead of the infantry to take up a firing position in range of the objective and a couple of miles across the border.

The mortars and their ammunition had been dragged up by their integral trucks, the trucks having to make two or three trips each for the full load of projectiles. The shells were palletized, piled in nets that would be slung by hooks underneath the helicopters. The guns would be manhandled inside by their crews. The trucks would remain behind on the PZ; there were no roads or even trafficable trails where the guns were heading.

Cruz removed his helmet and wiped a hand across his brow; helping the mortar maggots to move that ammunition from truck to pallet by hand had been a backbreaking task.

'What now, Centurion?' Optio Garcia asked.

'Now we wait for a bit.'

Camp San Lorenzo

Three of the deployed Legion's twenty Turbo- Finches were down for maintenance, housed in hangars. Likewise was one of its four ANA-23 gunships. The remainder stood in their concrete floored and revetted, steel-covered bunkers. There were hinged steel walls in front of the bunkers, proof against heavy shrapnel and lowerable on their hinges to allow the aircraft to leave and enter. Only enough of the doors were lowered to allow ordnance crews, supplemented by nearly every clerk and cook in the camp, to trundle in, jack up, and load the bombs, rocket and machine gun pods, and napalm canisters required for the attack.

The gunships received a different load, mostly machine gun and