A Desert Called Peace

by Tom Kratman

  NA-23, Lolita, above Pumbadeta

  Jimenez's voice crackled in Miguel Lanza's headphones. "What have you got for me, Lolita?"

  "X-ray Juliet Five Two this is Lolita. I'm two NA-23s out of Ninewa Air Base carrying five two-thousand pounders, each, on GLS guidance systems. Per coordination my mission is to take out the bridges."

  "Do it, Lolita."

  "Wilco, out."

  The previous jury-rigged bombing system was history now. Instead of that, there was a specially built rack and drop system that could be installed for those rare occasions when a cargo aircraft was called on to do double duty as a precision bomber.

  Lanza flicked the switch for the ramp, which lowered itself with a vibrating, hydraulic hum. He was lead bird, thus he didn't have to buck the turbulence of a Nabakov ahead of him. At this altitude, and despite the season, cold air rolled in as soon as the ramp began to drop. The strong smell of kerosene exhaust entered the aircraft along with the thin, cold air. To Lanza the stench of the burnt kerosene was perfume. He smiled broadly.

  If there was going to be any substantial error on the bombing run, it was going to be along the axis of flight. Lanza played with his controls, hand and foot both, and brought the throttle down to reduce speed. A tone sounded in his headphones as he passed precisely through a checkpoint.

  "Pilot to crew, five minutes. Stand by to roll."

  "Chief to pilot, bomb crew standing by."

  Lanza waited for another tone, the one that would tell him to begin the bombing run. It came quickly. He keyed his microphone again, saying, "Roll to the ramp."

  He couldn't feel the bomb crew straining muscle to move the thing down the line to the ramp. He could and did feel the vibration of the bomb itself as it rattled along horizontally, then the final kachunk as the crew eased it into the down-angled cradle that held it locked in position on the ramp itself. Lolita nosed upward slightly with the rearward weight shift and Lanza adjusted the controls, his left arm pushing on the yoke while that thumb played with the trim button to keep her level. Another tone. "Releasing." For a brief moment he felt overweight as the plane ballooned slightly, then weightless as it dropped. Lanza's right hand adjusted the throttle to increase speed. No sense in hanging around, after all. Despite intel, the enemy just might have something in the way of air defense. Besides, he had to get well out of the way of Anabelle, coming in close behind.

  Lanza turned hard left, flipping his night vision goggles down and looking towards the ground. He didn't expect to see the bomb hit the target; there was too much cloud cover for that. But just seeing the flash was satisfying all on its own. Besides, he knew that all bombs were one hundred percent accurate. They never failed to hit the ground.

  "I love my job," he said aloud, as the flash of the two-thousand pounder lit up the clouds around him.

  Fadeel heard the aircraft overhead, but distantly, as if they were a noise coming from another room. He didn't hear the whistle of the bombs until after the first explosion.

  "What the . . . ?" he asked aloud from his perch on the trembling minaret. Why would the crusaders drop the bridges?

  Hastily, he descended from the minaret to where a few of his subordinates waited below. "Go to the bridges. Investigate."

  Fadeel wasn't worried. What matter if they take out the bridges, he thought. The worst it means is that we get no more resupply by that route. The Kosmos will find another.

  "X-ray Juliet, this is Lolita. Request bomb damage assessment on the bridges."

  "One's down, one's still standing," Jimenez answered. "The northern bridge is the one down. Repeat on the southern."

  "Wilco, X-ray Juliet. Lolita, out."

  This time, both Lolita and Anabelle dropped. The southern bridge went down.

  "Lolita this is X-ray Juliet. Both bridges are down. Go to your secondary targets."

  "Roger, X-ray Juliet. Heading for food warehouse number one now. Note, X-ray, we've got two more birds inbound. The warehouses are priority targets for them."

  "Roger," Jimenez answered. "So long as the food is destroyed, out."

  The messenger stopped at the base of the minaret and gasped out, "Sayidi, they're going after the food stockpiles."

  Fadeel's eyes went wide. What was wrong with these crusaders? Didn't they understand that the entire world would condemn them for destroying food? Didn't they care?

  "By Allah," he whispered, a measure of truth finally dawning on him, "what will we do if the crusaders stop caring about their image among their undeclared enemies?"

  Pumbadeta, Sumer, 2/7/462 AC

  "Tighter than a houri's hole," Sada announced triumphantly, when Carrera emerged from the IM-71 helicopter that had carried him down to the landing zone west of the city where he planned to make his command post.

  "It's cut off," Jimenez agreed. "So far, there's been no reaction. I mean, I expected something by now. A probe . . . some mortar fire . . . maybe a little sniping. But . . . nothing."

  "I don't think they contemplated the possibility of being actually besieged," Carrera said. "If you look at it from their point of view, they had no worries. They had absolute political control of the town; their logistics were being handled by the Kosmos; and the FSC's coalition was obviously unwilling to risk the casualties."

  "Big mistake on their part," Sada said. "Speaking of the Kosmos, Patricio, there's a representative of GraceCorps that wants to speak to you, a Ms. Lindemann. They've got a column of trucks loaded with food that we stopped."

  "Fine. I expected that, or something like that, anyway. I'll speak with her."

  Sada pointed at a long line of tractor-trailers, led by a white- painted sedan. "She's over there."

  Carrera didn't consider GraceCorps to be the enemy. Did he think they were stupid? Absolutely. Misinformed? Generally. Inexact? Especially. Hopelessly optimistic? Of course. But they weren't the enemy. They did what they did, help the needy, and they did it rather better than most of their sort. They were among the few Kosmos of whom it could be said, in his opinion, that they were more interested in doing good than in doing well.

  So he was polite, unusually so for him in his dealings with the Kosmos.

  Smiling affably, he began, "Ms. Lindemann, how can I help you?"

  She smiled as well. "You could begin, sir, by having your men let us through."

  He shook his head, as if with regret. "No . . . no. I'm afraid that won't be possible. This town is besieged."

  Lindemann didn't seem to understand. "What difference does that make?"

  "It means we've cut off all access. If you have medicine that might be needed by the inhabitants, I can arrange an airdrop. The law of war requires that. But no food is going in and no people are coming out anytime soon."

  "You can't do that!"

  "Why?" Carrera's face seemed genuinely puzzled.

  "Food's a human right," she answered. "Those people will starve."

  "So?"

  She opened her mouth again, as if to speak. No words came out.

  Carrera reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sheaf of folded paper. This he handed over, saying, "This is the law of war as regards sieges. I intend to abide by it completely. Read it, then come back to me. Note that while the country that has sponsored us, Balboa, is a signatory to the Additional Protocols, neither my organization, nor our principles, the Federated States, are."

  Lindemann was at least somewhat familiar with the laws of war. After all, her organization often came in on the tail end of human- inspired and created destruction.

  "You're required to let out pregnant women, the very ill, and very young children," she said.

  "Really? What a surprise," Carrera answered. Then he asked his own question. "When?"

  Lindemann looked confused. "When?"

  "Yes. When does the law of war say I must let them go? I'll save you the trouble. It doesn't."

  "But the garrison may not feed them!" she countered.

  "That'll be their doing, not mine," he answered.<
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  At that time another series of explosions rocked the town. Even at this distance, several kilometers, Lindemann and Carrera were rocked by the blasts.

  "What was that?" she asked.

  "We're destroying the food stocks in the town," he answered, calmly. "This is a siege, Ms. Lindemann, not a game. This is war, not a boxing match. Now, you can take your trucks back, or you can sit here, or you can do whatever you like . . . except resupply that city. That you will not be permitted to do."

  "What about when the people try to escape? You know they will."

  "Then, Ms. Lindemann, we will do what the law of war permits. Besides, before they get out they'll have to clear mines. They're not really equipped for that. We won't let them, anyway."

  "You are going to let them out at some point, aren't you, Patricio?" Jimenez asked.

  "'Course I am, Xavier. I can't tell you when, exactly. I'll let the Kosmos beg, and chide and nag for ten days or maybe a couple of weeks. Then, I'll exact some concessions from them. I'm still thinking about what concessions I'll want. Maybe we'll make them grovel and thank us for abiding so completely by the law of war. Maybe we'll just make them feed us first. Maybe both and maybe more.

  "After that, we'll drop some leaflets and let the pregnant women and the sick out. Then the Kosmos can care for them a few miles downstream."

  Pumbadeta, Sumer, 9/7/462 AC

  The leaflets fell from the sky—specifically, they were dropped by Crickets—before sunrise. On one side they showed pictures and diagrams of who would be allowed out and where. The pictures showed one woman with a large belly, a man on a stretcher, and a very small child. The diagram was simply the place where Highway 1 met the encircling berms and minefields. More complex instructions were written on the back. Most of Pumbadeta's adult residents, male and even female, could read.

  Fadeel was mixed about the prospect. Food was already scarce; this would reduce the number of mouths he had to feed. On the other hand, he was counting on the presence of large numbers of noncombatants, when the assault finally came, to sully the reputation of the coalition. Then he remembered:

  This part of the coalition doesn't care a goat's ass for their reputation with the humanitarians. They'll kill without compunction. Better, then, to let go whoever will be allowed out, to stretch out the food that remains.

  Three hundred thousand people, give or take, had been trapped when the siege fell on the city like a thunderclap. Of those, perhaps five or six thousand were truly sick. An additional ten or eleven thousand women may have been pregnant or nursing. And there were many small children.

  Nothing like that number came out. Nursing women would be allowed to leave, but what if they had children over the age of six, which was Carrera's stated cut off? Would they leave those behind? For the most part, they would not. What about women with children who would be allowed out as well as children who would not be? They tended to stay behind as well. And the sick? If they were truly ill, they needed to be carried. Stretcher bearers from the legion were standing by to take their litters. Few men inside the town were willing to bear them to the demarcation berm.

  In all, perhaps five thousand, or a few more, of the citizens of the town actually left. Then the wall closed down again.

  As that wall closed, Fernandez and his people, supplemented by Sada's, descended on the refugees, pumping them, without violence, for any information they might have on the defenses and the defenders. Most knew little. A few were better informed.

  "Why so few sick?" Lindemann asked. When Carrera explained, she volunteered, on behalf of herself and her workers, to go in and carry the deathly ill out.

  "No . . . you would just be held and become hostages," he answered, feeling a measure of grudging admiration. "They get out on their own, or with the help of those inside, or they stay there. I'm still willing to airdrop medicine, remember."

  "What good is medicine without doctors to administer it?" she asked.

  "Not my concern. But if you can talk Mustafa into letting Doctor Nur al-Deen—he's the enemy's overall number two, you know?— jump in by parachute, I'll be glad to let him do so. Course, I'll hang the bastard right after we take the town."

  Pumbadeta, Sumer, 11/7/462 AC

  The air defense maniple that loosely ringed the city was useful only for low flying aircraft. For any that flew higher Carrera had Turbo- Finches armed with machine gun pods. These, with a top speed of only about two hundred and fifty miles per hour, were extremely poor interdiction aircraft.

  On the other hand, the Castilla-built Hacienda-121 was a very good light cargo aircraft, but its top speed was only two hundred and twenty-five miles an hour. Thus, when the pilot of the circling Turbo- Finch saw the Hacienda kicking bundles out the door, he had little trouble closing the distance and investigating. The Hacienda was decorated with a Red Crescent, sign of the Islamic version of the Red Cross. The serial numbers on the side of the Hacienda indicated Yithrabi registration.

  Since he was weapons free, meaning he could engage any aircraft that fit his rules of engagement, and since he was expressly instructed not to permit any airdrops or aerial deliveries into the town without prior authorization, he armed his gun pods. If he worried even in the slightest about his commander's reaction to his shooting down a civilian aircraft he had only to remember that this was the third anniversary of a very important date to that commander.

  It was unlikely that Carrera would mind, today, if he dropped a nuke.

  Before shooting, though, the Finch pilot tried to warn the Hacienda off with a burst that flew parallel to the cargo plane. The plane shuddered, as if the pilot were surprised, but quickly got back on course. It was as if the Hacienda pilot simply couldn't believe that anyone would violate the rules the Kosmos had set up to protect just such activities. At that point, the Finch pilot shifted slightly to line his guns up, and opened fire with a short burst of several hundred rounds. Perhaps a third of these impacted the Hacienda, which heeled over to one side and began a rapid smoking descent to the ground.

  And that was the last attempt at aerial resupply of the town by any Kosmo organization.

  "Don't you have any sense of humanity?" Lindemann asked, furious and in tears.

  Carrera thought about that for a few seconds before answering, "As you would define it? Perhaps not. Am I supposed to? If so, why?"

  Fadeel was shocked, shocked at seeing the Hacienda go down in flames. He'd never believed any of his enemies would have the sheer . . . the sheer . . .

  They're as ruthless as I am. And much better armed. I'd better figure a way out of here for myself and my key subordinates or I'm screwed.

  The sun had set several hours prior, leaving three spark-bright moons to shine onto the planet. They would set about midnight. In those hours, Fadeel had massed just over three hundred of his mujahadin and a thousand unarmed civilians in buildings on the north side of town, at a place where the ground was a bit rougher and where a man, once free of the encirclement, might have a chance to escape. He told his followers that this was a raid with the purpose of getting into the besiegers' rear area and ruining their supply arrangements. Liberally doped with hashish as many of those followers were, there had been no questions.

  Ordinarily, Fadeel would have waited until perhaps three in the morning to launch his raid. That would be the time when the enemy would be at his lowest level of alert. Unfortunately, that would also not give him enough darkness before sunrise to effect his escape. The attack would be at midnight.

  The legion had purchased two NA-23s for the express purpose of converting them to aerial gunships. Eventually, there would be four in a deployed legion, twenty total for the entire force, but for now, two would have to do. These were just enough, with maintenance schedules, to keep one on station throughout the night, most nights. Instead of "NA," these birds bore the designation "ANA"; "A" for Attack.

  Out the left-hand side of each of the planes stuck the muzzles of five tri-barrel fifty caliber machine guns. These wer
e chain guns, driven by electric motors to very high rates of fire, eighteen hundred rounds per minute, per gun. Between the five of them, the planes could spit out nine thousand rounds in just sixty seconds. The guns were carefully aligned so that number three, in the center of the left- hand side, fired to the center of the beaten zone, number one fired high, number five low, and two and four in between. The guns were somewhat loosely mounted as a certain amount of spread was deemed desirable.

  Modifying the planes had not been particularly cheap. It had seemed worthwhile, therefore, to give each a fairly sophisticated suite of sensors, especially low light television and thermal imagers. The thermals alone were an appreciable percentage of the cost of the final system.

  The price had been worth it. Alerted of the assembling enemy by the ever-roaming RPVs, the one ANA-23 on station was waiting when the mujahadin and the civilians emerged from their cover.

  The gunner for the plane tapped his monitor to mark one edge of the enemy formation. He then tapped the perceived center of mass, and then the other end of the group. A computer registered the taps and calculated a flight path and attitude for optimal dispersion of fire. This was fed to the pilot's console automatically. The pilot aligned his plane on the calculated path, heeled over and began his firing run.

  Fadeel's men crept forward, driving the civilians before them, toward the enemy-held berm that surrounded the town. He and his select followers waited in the covering buildings for a path to be breached. Any minute now . . .