Carnifex

be. Assume more than their fair share of heavy mortars, possibly even a few tanks, lots of RGLs . . . fair amount of anti-aircraft, guns and shoulder-fired guided missiles, both. That's all pretty concentrated on the best landing zones, too. Some of the guns are reported to be in caves that cover the LZs and which are a just plain bitch to see until it's too late.

'Assume mines and booby traps and major improvised explosive devices. Assume the sides and underbeds of the road through the pass are wired for sound'—milspeak for wired to explode—'and that most of the LZs will be mined and covered by direct and indirect fire.'

Miguel Lanza, head of the air ala, usually kept fairly quiet at these little brainstorming sessions. Today was different.

'Jefe, there are half a dozen LZs within six or eight miles of the summit of the pass in which I could set down Qabaash' entire brigade in no more than three or four lifts. Every one of them is entirely unsuitable; I'd lose nearly every bird I tried to set down.'

'Fine. What's not unsuitable?' Carrera asked.

Qabaash raised an eyebrow at Triste, who proceeded to produce a photo and a large scale map and hand them over to Carrera. 'This one might work, boss.'

Carrera's face looked highly dubious. The photo showed a somewhat narrow ledge—no more than fifty meters in width—hunched against a series of cliffs with serrations in them. On the side away from the cliffs was a sheer drop.

'What's this good for? Maybe five or six birds landing at a time. It would take forever to get Qabaash' brigade on the ground.'

'I think more like four birds at a time, jefe,' Lanza corrected. 'And the cross winds coming around that rock outcropping will be very difficult. But no; it won't take forever. Assume we'll have to underload the helicopters some because of the thin air. Okay, so it takes damned near everything I have to get all of the Salah al Din brigade into the air at once. Call it one hundred and twenty choppers, anyway. At four per lift, or one per lift for the IM-62s, it will take just over an hour to get everyone in and out.'

'But I can be moving on the pass on foot as soon as I have two companies landed,' interjected Qabaash. 'That's less than ten minutes . . . '

'Closer to five,' Lanza corrected.

'Better still, closer to five minutes after the first chopper touches down and I am already on my way to the pass.'

'And then what, Qabaash?' Carrera asked, frowning. 'You've got two companies heading into a meatgrinder with at least a battalion dug in strongly.' He looked over the map and photo again. 'And you've got two, count 'em, two crappy trails from the landing zone to the objective.'

'That's only if they all go towards the real landing zone,' Lanza said. 'I can buzz and false insert at every other good and even remotely possible LZ in the area. They'll never hear or see enough to know which is the real landing. I might lose a couple but . . . really . . . they don't have to commit to a landing, just to buzz the spot. The artillery can prep . . . '

'Not much artillery,' interrupted Harrington, the logistician. 'If you're moving all of Qabaash' boys at once there'll be nothing left to airlift guns and shells into range. Only the multiple rocket launchers can range to the summit of the pass from where we can resupply by truck.'

'Okay,' Lanza conceded. 'Have a little faith. With the MRLs, the Finches, aerially dropped guided bombs from the Nabakovs, and gunship support we can still put on a good show of prepping enough landing zones that they won't know where we're coming from. That means Qabaash will face at most . . . '

'A company,' Qabaash finished. 'And the day two companies of Salah al Din can't handle a company of Ikhwan irregulars will be a cold, happy and batless day in Hell.' He sounded very pleased at the prospect of demonstrating this point in the near future.

Carrera held up his hand for silence. Immediately the other's shut up.

'We'll do it. As Qabaash and Lanza say. Terry?'

'Here, boss,' piped in Terry Johnson, for the nonce commanding the Tercio de Cazadores. His new rifle project was progressing under his assistant, another Volgan enticed away from the Rodina.

'I want you to start inserting teams all over the area within the next couple of days. In particular, get a platoon—a company if you think it needful and possible—into the area of the LZ . . . mmm, what should we call that LZ?'

'Let's call it 'Landing Zone Agadir,' Patricio,' Qabaash supplied. 'It was a small but lovely fight back on Old Earth, long ago.'

'Agadir, then. Dan?'

'Yes, Pat?'

'Work up the orders for review within two days.'

* * *

Compared to most modern command posts, headquarters for the Legion was really rather sedate. True, underlings scurried about. Maps were updated. Occasionally one might hear a voice or two raised in argument. For the most part, though, it was calm and quiet. And so it should have been. There was little reason for frenzy in a force that placed a premium on individual initiative at lower levels and which rarely tried to manage a battle in too exquisite a detail outside of artillery preparations.

(On the other hand, if one really wanted to see frenzy, one could always go down to a cohort command post.)

Instead, the CP for the Legion was a place for the housing and support of the commander and the staff, a place for planning future operations, and a meeting place for those times when face to face orders to groups of men had to be given. Ordinarily, there really wasn't any reason for frenzy.

Instructing his driver to get a meal and some sleep, Carrera entered the main tent, ordering, 'At ease,' before anyone had a chance to disrupt work by calling, 'Attention.' Stopping by the operations and intelligence maps, he took in an overview—updated about three hours previously—of the current operation. There were no surprises, he noted, with satisfaction.

He then grabbed a sandwich from a tray thoughtfully left there by the HQ mess platoon, before retiring to his own, attached, tent to catch up on correspondence.

On the top of the pile of printed off sheets was a missive from Parilla.

Patricio:

That you are willing to fund a major expansion of the reserve components helps us. I am awaiting the right time to make the announcement. Fernandez suggests forcing an 'incident' with the Tauran Union troops here so that we can appeal to patriotism rather than simply looking like we're trying to buy votes. I like the idea in principle, but am concerned that forcing a small fight with the TU might turn into a large fight that we are not ready for. Especially are we not ready while you have eighty-five percent of the force—to include a hefty chunk of the training base returned to their parent tercios—over in Pashtia. Moreover, while you are over there, with your base areas surrounded by Tauran troops, you might be vulnerable. So I think I will not follow Fernandez's advice, at least for a while. Have you any ideas on how best to precede the announcement? One thought I had was not to make it at all, but to start major public works of a defensive nature, hiring fifty or sixty thousand of the unemployed, and making those defensive works plainly and obviously oriented against the Taurans. That might get us the patriotic response, coupled with self interest, and is also do something we ought to be doing anyway . . . 

'Note to self,' Carrera muttered. 'Have Sitnikov brief Parilla on plans for fortifications on the Isla Real and along both sides of the Rio Gatun. Also, check on progress in designing the expansion.'

He tapped the side of his nose several times, thinking. 'Hmmm . . . I hate to lose Kuralski but I think maybe I need to send him back to Volga for a bit.'

 . . . providing you and Fernandez are right—and, no, I don't disagree—about war with the Tauran Union and possibly the Zhong being inevitable.

It is strange to think of us being on our own against the second- and third-ranked powers of this world. Always before we lived under the shadow, but also the covering umbrella, of the Federated States. We never had to worry about defense against anyone but them; and defense against them, as you helped prove almost twenty years ago, was impossible . . . 

'It was impossible then, Raul. Now? Now, if the entire force were home? I think the FSC would probably get sick of the bloodletting before they conquered Balboa again.' And what would I do in such a case? That's a no-brainer; my loyalty is to my Legion.

Carrera continued with the letter:

There are moments when I seriously doubt the wisdom of the course we have undertaken, moments when I doubt it is worth it for me to become President. But then I think of the Legion, of what we could do for Balboa if we could spread the wealth around without it automatically gravitating to the pockets of the idle, corrupt and useless rich.

In any case, enough of an old man's idle prattle for now. Your time is valuable and, so the newscasts and the intelligence reports say, well spent. Give my warmest regards to the officers, centurions, warrants and men of the Legion. I miss you all very much and look forward to your speedy and safe return home.

'Fine old man,' said Carrera, putting the missive aside and picking up the next, from Fernandez.