Carnifex

three birds. By the time the command group had assembled, the second flight of helicopters was just touching down. For a few minutes vocal communication was impossible without shouting.

Twenty- four lifts of four IM-71s each would be just enough to bring in the combat, combat support, and command and control elements of three Sumeri battalions. After that, the heavier lift IM-62s, supplemented by airdrops, would bring in the rest of the men and the truly weighty stuff, along with the supplies required for several days' combat and several weeks' sustenance.

But I'm not waiting for anything, Qabaash though. 'Boot, don't spatter,' as that Old Earth general is reputed to have said. One company at the pass in one hour will be better than three battalions in three hours. And moreover, we can have two companies at the pass in an hour, since Carrera—Allah bless his infidel heart—approved landing one company right in the pass once we had their attention firmly fixed on us attacking from the east.

Ah, Patricio, how does one not admire a commander with the balls for that? How does one not love the man who saved his country? Infidel or not, we shall not fail you.

With a rare smile, Qabaash headed himself and his men to the flashes and the sounds of aerial bombs exploding in and around the pass.

* * *

The shout rang through caves and along little rock gullies and draws, 'To arms! To arms! The Crusaders come!'

Allah is there no end to these infidels, Noorzad mentally muttered.

After the losses of the previous year, and after escaping with only a small cadre, Noorzad's group had been built up again into something the size of a large company or small battalion. There had not been enough time to train them. Especially had there not been enough time to train junior leaders. And as for the theory of guerilla warfare? No, the men were very nearly clueless except for Noorzad and his closest dozen followers. It hadn't helped matters any that of the nearly two hundred and fifty new men given unto his care back at the base, just over half were oil Arabs from the Yithrab peninsula.

Spoiled rotten little huddlers at apron strings, was Noorzad's learned judgment.

Nonetheless, semi-trained or not, spoiled and pampered children or not, Noorzad's crew were still among the best available to Mustafa. Thus, they'd been dispatched to the Kibla Pass to reinforce the fifteen hundred or so mujahadin already there. They'd come with only their small arms, some RGLs and a few light mortars purchased from Zhong Guo.

Little enough to work with. And Nur al-Deen expects us to fight to the death for this? With these men and these arms? Mustafa understands better. No . . . I will do what any smart guerilla does. I will buy a little time, spill a little blood, make the enemy spend money. And then I will leave, splitting up my men into smaller groups to escape through the mountains as best they may and rally in Kashmir. And if they have to leave heavier weapons—mortars, machine guns and RGLs—behind? Well, so what?

The call to arms rang through caves and along little rock gullies and draws. It was picked up and repeated from man to man, bringing such of the mujahadin who were not already manning the trenches and the bunkers out of their early spring shelters and into the open.

This suited the Turbo-Finch pilots just fine as they swooped down from the skies to lace the rocks with machine gun and rocket fire and lay napalm and white phosphorus along any obvious or even likely defensive positions. There was return fire, enough to bring down one Finch and send another staggering home with smoke pouring out from under the wing.

Noorzad grunted in satisfaction at that. Cost them some time. Cost them some blood. Cost them some money. And when it comes time to run I'll leave the Arabs behind to cover the withdrawal of the rest. And good riddance.

* * *

Well trained troops initiate an ambush with their greatest casualty producing weapon.

Idiots do so by shouting 'Allahu Akbar!'

Up near the point, Qabaash heard the shout, as did the squad ahead of him, and flopped behind a boulder moments before the rocks began to ring and the air to crack with the sound of incoming bullets. He put one arm on his fire support officer's shoulder, squeezed once and said, 'Mortars. On those idiots ahead. No more than thirty rounds with two white phosphorus to mark the end. Now.'

They shame me by being from the same culture, Qabaash thought. They humiliate me that we share a religion. Well . . . we'll soon fix that.

By this time most of the Salah al Din was landed and the 120mm mortars, at least, were set up and ready to fire. Ammunition was still, and would be for some hours, rather limited. No matter; Qabaash just wanted to stun them a little. For the rest . . .

'And pass the word: Fix bayonets.'

* * *

Muamar al Rashid ibn Rashid had heard the shout and, like his comrades, popped his head over the lip of the trench to his front and let off a burst. It was a thirty-round burst and of that thirty rounds two went in the general direction of the enemy and the rest went well off into space. No matter. Muamar's job was to be there and to pull the trigger. Whether anything hit or not was the will of Allah.

And it certainly is exciting, thought the young Yithrabi. Just like I imagined. Mother and Father will be so proud. I wonder what that sound—

Kaboom. Boomoomoom. Kaboom.

* * *

Qabaash carefully counted the number of mortar rounds that came in. After reaching 'Twenty-seven,' he stood in plain sight of all his men. Unusually enough for an Arab leader, he carried a rifle, though in his case he'd selected a Draco sniper rifle. Affixed to the end of that rifle was a bayonet.

A couple of bullets sang by. If they weren't aimed, I'd be worried.

'Sons of Sumer!' He cried out loudly enough for even the tail of the column to hear. He lifted his rifle one-handed above his head for all to see. 'Grandsons of the great Sargon! For the honor of our brigade! For the glory of our country! To the exaltation of our God!' Qabaash' eye caught the two white bursts of white phosphorus that he'd asked for. 'Chaaarrrggge!'

* * *

None of the broadcasts on Al Iskandaria News Channel had seen fit to mention what it was like to receive fire. Some of the old timers could have told Muamar, but they were few and the new recruits many. That lesson had had to be skipped.

The shells had come in, exploding with a fearful crash and—far, far worse—making Muamar's innards ripple in a way that was as near to being raped as the boy could imagine. He heard a scream and turned to see a friend clutch at his face with blood pouring out through his fingers. Instantly Muamar felt the need to throw up. Then he heard a shout coming from the enemy side. When he looked he saw a tight knot of men coming toward him led by a laughing and screaming jinn in battle dress and carrying a long rifle. The Yithrabi shat himself and collapsed down to the bottom of his trench.

* * *

There is a difference between what is called 'marching fire' and the 'spray and pray' technique used by almost all Salafist forces. The Salafis pointed and shot, expecting that Allah would grace their piety by provided hits they had not really earned by dint of serious training. The marching fire used by the point company of the Salah al Din was also merely pointed, though it was well pointed. But Qabaash's crew knew they wouldn't get any hits or, at least, that they were most unlikely to. Instead, marching fire put a lot of bullets in the right general area to frighten the enemy down into his holes so that one could advance quickly and safely, for some limited interpretations of 'safely.'

As a practical matter, 'spray and pray' fails because it has no end game. 'Marching fire's' end game is to close with the bayonet, the rifle butt and the hand grenade. One works to advance the tactical objective; the other does not.

* * *

Qabaash had quickly sprinted ahead of the lead squad, then slowed to a jog. Though he carried a sniper rifle—a good commander is entitled to his little eccentricities—he held it low, rather than to his shoulder, and pumped out a single round every fourth step. The first squad took their cue from their brigade commander—that, and the way they had been trained to execute marching fire in the past—and likewise sprinted to catch up to him, then slowed to a jog. In their case, they fired short bursts rather than single rounds and fired them every other step, using the interval to bring their rifles back more or less on target. The remaining two squads of