than two or three are actually on duty at any given time.'
'And the rest?' Welch asked.
'At this time of the morning? Asleep. Probably with one of the slave girls each.'
Fuck. More slaves. I will not, not, NOT take on responsibility for liberating any more slaves.
'Your slaves?' Terry asked, a note of malice creeping into his voice.
'No,' Jama Dayid said. 'I follow the teachings of al-Nabhani, UHBP, that times have changed, that slavery is wrong, and that Allah intended that when times changed slavery would be seen as wrong. But . . . I am probably in the minority.'
Terry just grunted. How did one answer that? He tolerates? Am I as guilty because I've tolerated? I don't feel a twinge of regret about those Afghan men Stauer and his commandos killed; but what about the women and kids they carted off? I tolerated . . . and I have much to make up for.
'How many slaves in the town.'
'Hundreds,' Dayid said. 'Too many. Mostly individually owned, and . . . maybe, too . . . maybe all not that unhappy.'
In a way, the discussion of the plight of the slaves put Terry in the proper mood. Thus, even though he might have been able to force the guards on the gates to Dayid's house to surrender, the thought didn't even cross his mind. The limo rolled up; a guard came over, and Terry shot him down like a dog even as Pigfucker cut down the one on the other side.
Then Terry got out of the limo, shot first one then the other man again, to make sure. He opened the lift gate himself, then waved Hammell through. A few brisk steps brought him to the guardhouse, a small mud brick structure built against the wall. That half-sleeping guard he shot with a short burst, every round of four slamming the man's midsection.
'Go round up your family,' He told Dayid. 'Pigfucker, go with him.'
As Dayid and Hammell walked off, Terry called out, 'Semmerlin, come with me. Hey, Mr. Dayid, where's the guard barracks?'
While Mr. Dayid and Pigfucker, along with several men of Dayid's family, helped children and older people onto the back of the fiveton, Graft standing just behind the cab, with a machine gun, watched Welch and Semmerlin walk back from the barracks. Both Terry's submachine gun and Semmerlin's VSSK smoked from their muzzles. A half dozen veiled women walked behind the two. Some of the women wept, softly, half bent over, bodies shuddering with shock and fear. Still others skipped on dancing feet.
'You always were a soft touch, Terry.' Graft shouted. 'How the fuck you plan on fitting them all in two helicopters?'
'I don't fucking know. Have them all piss, shit, and puke first, maybe?'
D-Day, Bandar Cisman, Ophir
While bullets still occasionally snapped overhead, the shooting was rather desultory now, on both sides. That was fine, as far as Cazz was concerned. He wasn't expected to take the town on his own, anyway.
And fat chance I'd have doing it, with seven or eight hundred armed men in the buildings, and a hundred and twenty or so of us, and no heavy armor.
Besides, I'm only required to make sure everyone stays put until the Irish bastard gets back with the heavy shit and his captives.
Cazz hadn't yet had call to use either the one helicopter-Fucking green beanies; I was supposed to have two-or the two armed CH-801s to actually strike the town. The Hip was engaged in running ammunition, especially mortar ammunition-seven and a half tons of it-and small arms to his own men, while the two fixed wing jobs, having wrecked all the boats, circled counterclockwise above, keeping well outside of machine gun range, reporting whatever there was to be seen.
Another reason Cazz was perfectly happy to wait to assault was that the dustoff bird, carrying the colonel's lady, so he'd heard, was off somewhere to the west where Reilly had apparently executed the ambush he'd intended.
D-Day, Rako-Dhuudo-Bandar Cisman highway, Ophir
The CH-801 seemed to be straining to get back in the air, shuddering as its engine and propeller pushed almost enough air to lift it, then lost that air behind and below. The propeller also picked up smoke from the still- burning vehicles, sucking it in like a fan with cigarette smoke, and pushing it out behind, too.
'I could use some more morphine for my nine expectants,' Coffee said to Phillie. 'Expectant' was a code word for 'expected to die.' Since the Ophiris, who made up Coffee's entire population of expectants, were unlikely to speak English, it didn't really matter if they'd spoken freely. Still, old habits die hard.
'There are ninety one-hundred-milligram ampoules in the plane's kit,' Phillie answered. 'You can have half. I'll need the rest to sedate our own.'
'Fair enough,' Coffee agreed, turning for the plane.
Phillie, an ER nurse with several years experience of terribly hurt people behind her, couldn't quite figure out what was wrong with the scene. It wasn't the burning vehicles or the rent, burnt, crushed, and sundered bodies littering the road. It wasn't the smell. It wasn't the roar of armored vehicle engines as Reilly's first sergeant lined them up to push on. It wasn't . . .
Nobody's whining, she thought. There's no 'oh, my back,' no 'oh, the pain, the pain,' no ‘I wanna lawyerrr!' They're stoic and tough. I didn't know people could be like this.
Somebody did groan, though. Phillie looked over and, by the light of the burning tanks, saw someone being bounced on a stretcher.
'Gently, you assholes!' she shouted.
'Yes, ma'am,' the two men at either end said, together. 'We thought speed . . . '
'Speed won't do a fucking bit of good if you put him into shock.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'It's a tough call, Phillie,' Coffee said.
'Yeah, I know,' she answered. I'm a big girl. If I stay here, we can fit four of the worst wounded on the plane instead of three. They won't have any medical attention in flight, but the flight will only be about fifteen minutes. And they are tough men; they don't need me holding their hands which is nearly all I could do in the cramped confines of the plane.
And here there's enough work to keep me busy for a while. And Coffee's got to move out with the main column . . . and . . .
'Can you leave me one medic?' she asked. 'And some guards?'
'I know Reilly,' Coffee answered. 'He won't give up able bodied troops for guards. Hell, he's taking some of the walking wounded with him. But . . . three or four of our wounded can still use a rifle. He's leaving them to guard prisoners. Will that do? And I can leave a medic. My junior one.'
'It'll have to,' Phillie said. 'I'm staying. I'll go out with a later flight.'
Coffee nodded and began to turn away. He turned back, suddenly, and said, 'Phillie, I'm awful sorry for dumping you into the mud back in Brazil.'
'Oh, shush,' she answered, reaching out to spin him back around and send him on his way. 'Don't sweat it; did me a world of good.'
