Carnifex

raised his hands as if fending off a blow . . . or a lie.

'And do not speak falsely. I know you have no love for us. Not only do you not share our religion you do not share any religion.'

Robinson poured himself a drink. And why not? If the Salafi can smoke, a custom I abhor; I can drink. And, indeed, the Salafi said not a word. That, too, suggested a very changed outlook.

'I don't really care who wins.' The High Admiral admitted. 'Or if anyone does, provided that the Federated States and the civilization they share with the Taurans . . . oh, and Yamato, too, of course . . . provided they all lose. If the cosmopolitan progressives win this planet they will turn it into something that is not dangerous to my home, Earth. If you win you will turn it into something that would not have been dangerous to my world even a thousand years ago. Either is acceptable to me and I see no reason why it would matter if both of you got half a world. I care only that those who could be a threat to my world never become one.'

Mustafa, lips pursed, rocked his head from side to side for a minute, thinking about that. 'Are you so sure my people could never become a threat?'

'Yes, I am that sure. To be a threat you must travel space. To travel space you must progress technologically. And that kind of progress is everything your movement abhors. That much, at least, you share with the Kosmos. At least your side is honest about it.'

Robinson hesitated briefly before adding, 'And . . . frankly, the Kosmos have little long-term chance of global success, not here. They only succeeded on Earth because immigration patterns to Terra Nova pulled away more and more of the traditional, religious and nationalist sorts, leaving the Earth behind for my ancestors. There is no new world such people can leave for from here.'

Mustafa nodded. That wasn't important. 'And you wish to help, more than you helped with the attacks that began this war?'

'I will help more, much more. Still no nukes, though.'

Mustafa shrugged an indifference he did not truly feel. Nuclear weapons . . . what a dream to have them and use them on the Nazrani and the atheists.

'Details?'

'First, I need your support in taking over the direction of the pirates operating off the coast of Xamar and the Straits of Nicobar. They can—'

'Xamar I already control,' Mustafa interjected. 'The Nicobars listen to no one. I've tried.'

'Then the question is whether they should be attacked and brought to heel or if they can be induced by incentives.'

'What sort of incentives? And how do you provide incentives to ten thousand men, every one of whom considers himself a chief answerable to no one?'

'By helping one chieftain to become paramount, to rise above all others.'

20/2/467 AC, Isla Santa Josefina, Balboa

Montoya loved flying. He'd hardly imagined, as not much more than a boy standing in a Legion enlistment line, the power and the freedom and the sheer joy of flight. Though he'd known then that the Legion had, or at least intended to have, aircraft, he'd never imagined himself actually conning one. What was he? Just a poor farm boy from the interior. Who was he to think he'd someday be a pilot?

But the Legion del Cid was an equal opportunity employer, he'd found. It was also a miserly employer of human talent. While he'd not shown any remarkable leadership ability at Cazador School, he had shown toughness, determination, and at least a modicum of brains. He could be taught. Moreover, when he'd been talked into volunteering for some hit missions by Cruz, he'd shown considerable personal courage and determination. There were places in the Legion for people like that. In Montoya's case, that place had eventually come to be in a cockpit. And he just loved it.

What he hated, though, were the carrier takeoffs and the landings. Those scared him silly. Every time.

No, not landings on the ground, even on pretty rough ground; he'd had lots of experience in those, flying a Cricket. His plane could take it, no problem. On the other hand, landing or taking off from a pitching, weaving, postage-stamp-on-the-ocean? Trying to catch the arrestor cables? Reversing thrust at the last minute so he didn't overshoot and end up crushed or drowned –most likely, both—under the prow? Trying to time his take off so that he hit the leading edge of the flight deck on an upswing? (The deck crew was becoming a big help there, though, he had to admit; especially as they gained experience.) That sinking feeling as the plane dropped almost like a rock as he left the flight deck behind? Gag . . . shiver . . . barf.

He shivered again, half at the memory of the last take off when his landing gear had plowed furrows in the ocean before pulling up and half at foreboding over the next landing.

It got progressively worse, too. It seemed like the skipper was actually looking for rough seas and bad weather to launch in. They'd lost one pilot already, and cracked up both that plane and a Yakamov-72 helicopter. At least the Yakamov crew had gotten out.

From this and other evils, deliver me, O Lord.

In some ways, Montoya wished he'd been picked to fly a Cricket, as he used to, rather than a Turbo-Finch Avenger, usually called a Finch. With the Dos Lindas facing into the wind, and even a mild headwind, the Crickets took off practically straight up. And for landing, their stall speed wasn't much above the carrier's cruise speed. Piece o' cake.

On the other hand, Crickets don't generally fight. I'd prefer to fight, even if getting to and from the fight soils my flight suit. And speaking of which . . . 

The island—the Isla Santa Josefina—loomed out of the gloomy dusk ahead. Montoya adjusted his throttle to pick up speed, veered a little left, then right, and mentally reviewed his firing run. Trees began near the water's edge. A slight pull back on his stick, then an equally slight push forward, lifted the Finch and set it on a heading and altitude that would allow its fixed landing gear to just skim over the trees.

The central hill dominating the Isla Santa Josefina lay ahead. Again Montoya eased back on the stick, causing the plane to just miss the jungle below. He felt a pressure in the seat of his trousers. As soon as the plane cleared the summit, Montoya pushed forward to drop the nose, causing his stomach to lurch.

There's the target.

Ahead, in Montoya's view, three old, rusty armored vehicles sat in the open. As he aimed the plane by feel, his thumb flipped off the safety cover on the firing button over his stick and began to press. With each press of the thumb two rockets, one from under each wing, lanced out. As soon as he had bracketed the target Montoya pulled the stick to the right. The nimble Finch acted like the crop-duster it was and turned away athletically.

Damned good thing, too, thought Montoya. Looking to the left he saw the next bird in the training attack was firing almost before he had cleared away.

* * *

The Isla Santa Josefina had been purchased by the Legion as a range. No one actually lived there for the excellent reason that the Federated States had used it as a chemical warfare testing ground during the Great Global War and never spent a drachma or expended an ounce of sweat cleaning it up afterward. It had come to the Legion pretty cheaply.

The Legion hadn't spent much on it either. It had decontaminated a small landing area for boats and a couple of observation posts. Nearer the center of the island a few target spots in the impact area had been cleared. Cleared paths connected the landing, the OPs and the target spots. The rest was not only presumed to be at least somewhat chemically toxic, and much of that contamination being with very persistent nerve and blister agents, but had had an absolutely amazing amount of ordnance dumped on it over the last several years from the main island, the Isla Real, as well as three much smaller islands purchased to serve as firing positions for mortars and artillery. The new ordnance, too, had the effect of breaking open some of the three thousand dud chemical warheads believed to be still on Santa Josefina, either at the surface or just below it.

Even the few people, forward observers for the artillery the most part, that went there, went with full chemical protection—suits, rubber booties, gloves and masks.

It was not well know outside of Balboa, but the FSC had tried to use the islands, almost two decades before, as a dumping ground for economic migrants from the impoverished island of Ayiti. Both the government of Balboa and the then owners of the Isla Santa Josefina had objected, leaving the FS to drop the scheme. It would have been interesting, what the highly progressive First Landing Times would have said, if the Ayitians had been dumped there in guarded camps. The headline, 'Federated States Exiles Poor Migrants To Nerve Gas-Poisoned Island,' would have been the least of it. On the other hand, that headline, widely broadcast, might have served as a damper on the Ayitians' mass enthusiasm for emigrating to the Federated States. This may not have suited the FLT agenda.