Carnifex

light to keep the disturbing image of the girl's criss-crossed back out of his view.

The girl spoke no English. Neither did Robinson speak Arabic or Volgan. He'd had to make do with pointing and signs. She seemed to understand those well enough. In any case, she cooperated, albeit without any noticeable enthusiasm.

Which is perfect, thought the High Admiral, drifting off to sleep with the detonation device clasped in his hand under his pillow. The more of this world chained to these dolts the less of this world that will be a threat to mine.

* * *

His sleeping arrangements were considerably less luxurious than the High Admiral's. Bashir made do as best he could against the cold and rocky ground with a couple of blankets and his pack for a pillow.

Having sent his message and—wonder of wonders—received an answer, Bashir was more than certain that an attack was imminent. This had its good sides and bad.

I've done my job; done everything they asked. My family should be safe now. But what about me? When they attack they're going to see that their men have been crucified. They'll kill everything moving. Allah knows, I would. Shit.

So how do I keep them from killing me, too?

He hadn't come up with an answer before sleep took him. As he nodded off, Bashir wondered if he'd see the next sunrise or if a bomb would kill him while he slept.

Camp San Lorenzo

The eastern sky was just beginning to glow red when the first of the gunships began its roll down the runway. Heavily laden as they were, the birds needed nearly every foot of runway space before they achieved liftoff.

Once the first one, Miguel Lanza at the helm, was up and had gained some altitude, the next began its take off run. A few minutes later, with the last of the gunships airborne and circling overhead, the first of the nine Turbo-Finches in this attack wave likewise rolled down the hardened strip. These took off in half minute intervals and assembled at an altitude just below that of the gunships.

Even before the last of the 'Finches was airborne, Lanza looked out his cockpit window and saw Crickets lining up below, ready to join the others. Behind the Crickets came the heavier but much faster NA-21s and the Cazador-laden NA-23s.

Still in Lanza's view, the forty-one working helicopters of the Ala lifted almost as one, then turned to the north. It was an awesome and thrilling sight.

This, Lanza thought, this is why I joined.

* * *

Carrera watched the aerial armada assemble overhead from the railed walkway that ran three hundred and sixty degrees around the airfield's control tower. A warmed up Cricket stood idling near the base of the tower, its wings and fuselage bearing the legend '4-15.' It had had installed a bank of radios and a map board. One pilot would fly its passengers, Carrera and two radio operators.

On the floor beneath the tower a temporary command post was set up. This would provide back up control until another command post was set up near the objective. In the interim, Carrera was capable of running the entire thing in his head with only minimal assistance. Even bone weary, complex operations bothered him not a whit. It was creative thought that had become hard; that, and judgment. And he had Jimenez to help with judgment.

Looking to his right, Carrera saw that the heavily laden Cazadors were struggling into the Nabakovs' cargo bays, one man above pulling while two below pushed to get them up on the ramps.

There hadn't been time to get rough terrain jump suits for the Cazadors. Instead, they'd made their own, after a fashion, using duct tape to attach wooden leg braces and substantial foam padding. If they normally looked like waddling ducks before a jump, now they looked like children so insulated from winter cold they could barely move.

Even over the roar of engines, one could make out the singing as the men loaded aboard:

Thundering motors leave each man alone.

He thinks one more time of his loved ones back home.

Then come mis compadres to spring on command

To jump and to die for our legion and land.

And from our airplanes, and from our airplanes,

Compadre there's no going back,

Except in victory or fee-eet first.

Now make ready to jump. Attack!

The speaker radio in the control tower crackled. 'Checkpoint Zulu Omega.' That meant that Jimenez and the Scouts had sent the burst signal that they were at the bridge that served as the checkpoint for 'two hours out.' That was also where the cavalry would link up with them.

With a head motion to beckon his radio operators Carrera left the control tower, passed quietly through the crowded command post below, and walked out to board the waiting Cricket.

12/8/469 AC, Pickup Zone Papa Echo

'Incoming aircraft, Centurion!'

Hurriedly Cruz closed his wallet to put away the picture of his wife and children. I've done this before; I can do it again.

'Stand by your loads,' he shouted to the mortar men who were already standing by. 'Guide parties, assume guidance as soon as you have a bird.'

Because they were under radio silence, the detailed operational control was a bit odd. There was a cross marked out off to one side of the PZ. The lead helicopter made for that, followed by another dozen in trail behind it. When the lead was about forty meters out it stopped and assumed a hover. The first of the guides stood up and pointed directly at himself and then at the helicopter pilot, who nodded his recognition. Then the guide made the hand and arm signal for 'assuming guidance,' two arms with flattened palms thrust straight up and parallel to each other, palms inward. He lowered his arms, turned, and began to run toward the first load. The helicopter followed slowly.

At that first load the guide turned and again made the 'assuming guidance' signal. With more hand and arm signals he brought the IM-71 down to a soft landing. Immediately the clamshell door on the back opened up. A second helicopter was just setting down as this happened.

It was no easy matter for eight men to manhandle a 160mm mortar across rough ground and into the helicopter's cargo bay. Cruz had detached a couple of men from his platoon to assist with each. This was barely enough. Indeed, it might have proven impossible but for the fact that over the last ten years there had been plenty of opportunity to practice.

Once the heavy mortar and its eight crewmen, to which could be added one or two men from the mortar maniple headquarters, were aboard, the guide again took control of the helicopter, directing the pilot to shift left to where a large bundle of mortar ammunition awaited, the ammunition being bound up in a cargo net. As soon as the chopper was directly over the net, the guide thrust both arms directly out to his sides, parallel to the ground: 'Hover.'

Underneath, one of the two men who had assisted in loading the gun climbed atop the ammunition. In his hand he held a plastic handled screwdriver from which wire led downward. That wire was connected to another screwdriver, stuck into the ground a few feet away. Electricity arced from the hook underneath the helicopter to screwdriver. The wire carried the static charge to the ground, harmlessly. Then the legionary picked up a 'donut roll'—a multi-layer thick circle of strap material, held together by a metal shackle—and attempted to slip it onto the hook. He missed. He tried and missed again. Cursing, on the third try he caught the shifting hook and pulled back on the donut roll to