Carnifex

the lead platoon did likewise until there was a fairly thick—thick in battle terms—line of men screaming and cursing and putting out roughly ten thousand rounds a minute into an area not more than one hundred meters by two and with ricochets off the ground thrown in to increase the effect.

A few of the people in the trench tried to surrender. The Sumeris weren't really interested. By the conduct of the great Salafi conspiracy across Terra Nova and especially within Sumer, these men had put themselves beyond the pale. By joining that conspiracy they had assumed personal responsibility for all the crimes committed in its name.

The short version of which is that most of those who probably wanted to surrender were simply shot down. The Sumeri troops had learned the laws of war from the Legion.

Qabaash dropped back as his troops swept across and over the trench. He looked behind him to see the remainder of the lead company racing up. Hearing a piteous, mewling sound he looked down and saw one of the Salafis cowering and shivering in the trench. A strong odor of human shit arose from the Salafi. Obviously he had no fight left in him. Just as obviously he had not made manifest his desire to surrender. As such . . .

'God is great,' whispered Qabaash as he placed the muzzle of his Draco against the back of Muamar's head and pulled the trigger.

The commander of the lead company, Naquib al Husseini, trotted up to stand beside Qabaash. Al Husseini looked down at the exploded skull of the Salafi in the trench and grimaced, then shrugged.

'Amid, you should not do that. Your job is not to lead charges but to direct them,' the naquib chided.

'Time and place for everything,' Qabaash answered, adding his own shrug. 'I don't think there will be much more resistance. Push your men hard for the pass, Husseini.'

'Aywa, Amid.' Yes, Brigadier.

* * *

In the west the sun was setting on a day of disaster. It was said that the infidel had already pushed fifty kilometers to the north from his starting line in southern Pashtia. The summit was lost, of course. Noorzad had seen that happen himself, escaping with about half his followers—and almost none of them the dirty Yithrabi city boys he so generally despised.

The enemy had used none of their 'EE- EM-PEE' bombs on his communications. No matter; by this time Noorzad's cadre knew to keep spare phones and radios in metal boxes called 'Faraday cages' to protect them from the effects of the bombs. The enemy had had an equally dirty trick, though. Somehow they'd managed to dial every telephone number for every cell and satellite phone the mujahadin had set to detonate explosive devices along the highway. They'd done something similar with wide-spectrum radio. Between these, the infidel had detonated virtually every explosive device. Noorzad suspected they'd flown a plane up the road at high altitude to do this.

Bastards. Sons of whores. Is there no end to their iniquity?

There were about one thousand mujahadin caught between the enemy's point of advance in the south and the summit he had already seized. If they were smart they'd give up the defense of the pass as a bad job and simply fade into the surrounding mountains. Some would be that smart, Noorzad suspected. Others would not. Such was life. Of those who tried to escape, some would fall to the sniper teams the infidel scattered about so liberally. Others would not. That, too, was life.

The cave in which Noorzad and the remaining six-score of his followers sheltered was dark and dank and, overall, miserable. It did have some virtues, though. While expanded inside, it was a naturally occurring cave with only a crawlspace for an entrance. Thus, there never had been the usual crowd of trucks and workers outside it to tell the spying eyes overhead that it was there. The best proof that the enemy didn't know about it was that they were all still alive. Almost as important, the cave contained food. This, the men would need for their upcoming trek down the mountains and back to the Base. The cave also had money and that, too, would be needed.

'And so, what now, Noorzad?' asked Malakzay.

'And now we split up and return to the Base,' answered the chieftain. 'There we rebuild and then we do it all again . . . and again . . . and again until the last of our lands are freed of the invader's polluting footsteps. They will grow sick of it before we do because, after all, we have no place else to go and they do.'

25/3/468 AC, The Base, Kashmir

'Try to understand, Mustafa, there was no place Abdulahi could run to and they had his chief son and heir,' said Nur al-Deen. 'He had to give in to them. And, at least, he had the good grace to send us a message detailing all he has been forced into and what the enemy has not thought to force him into. He also promises to return to the fold as soon as possible.'

'Did he tell them about our little project for the enemy fleet?' asked Mustafa.

'He insists he has not, but has begged us to delay our strike until he can identify the ships his people—especially his son—are being held on and to avoid those ships or ship if at all possible.'

'Easy enough to promise,' Mustafa sneered. 'When the time comes we will act as we must.'

The Ikhwan chief turned his attention to Abdul Aziz. 'How goes that program?'

'Everything is ready and the ship sails for the Xamar Coast even as we speak, O Prince. Buuut . . . '

'Yes?'

'The infidels' foul work off Xamar is basically done; Abdulahi's message tells us as much. Will they stay there? I think not. I think they must head for the Nicobar Straits and very soon.'

Mustafa stroked his own beard in contemplation for some moments. 'Do you think they will leave before we can strike?'

'Not before we can, Mustafa, but perhaps before we should. That accursed aircraft carrier will be more vulnerable in or near the Straits then it would be off Xamar, being confined at the one but with the entire Sea of Sind to run through at the other.'

More beard stroking ensued, followed by extensive moustache tugging, and even some hair twirling.

'You are risking losing the assets we gained along the Nicobar Straits,' Mustafa objected, still tugging at his beard.

Abdul Aziz's head rocked from side to side. 'We are also risking them if we take this one shot at the infidel fleet and miss.'

'He speaks truth, Mustafa,' said Nur al-Deen. He'd come around. 'We will only have the one chance.'

'Let it be so, then,' agreed the Prince of the Ikhwan. 'I shall inform Parameswara and al Naquib of what we need.'

Interlude

7/6/47 AC (Old Earth year 2106), Terra Nova, Balboa Colony

'Tanks? Are you sure, Pedro? Tanks?'

'Jefe,' Pedro answered, half offended, 'you know something big as a house that still moves and has a gun even bigger 'roun' then my dick; you let me know.'

'Shit. Tanks.' Belisario paused, then said, 'Sorry, Pedro. It isn't that I didn't believe you. It's that I didn't want to believe you. Shit. How the hell do we fight tanks?'

Pedro shrugged and answered, 'We no fight, jefe. We stay the fuck away. They only three of them, anyway. Or maybe four; Pedro not sure.'

Belisario shook his head. 'Easy to say, Pedro. It's not that easy to do. I don't know much about tanks but I do know that they can go a lot of places you wouldn't expect. They can also move faster in anything but the thickest jungle than we can on horseback. And, then, where the tanks really can't go the helicopters we both saw can.'

'They got airplanes, too, jefe.'

21/7/47 AC, Balboa Colony, Terra Nova

Belisario never heard them coming. He had no clue as to how they found his band through the thick jungle canopy