by Tom Kratman
Developmental History:
Although it is sometimes jokingly said that the F-26 began over drinks at the Zion Embassy in Ciudad Balboa, the better truth is that it is the result of several developments, none of them major in themselves, coming to fruition in different parts of the world at about the same time. For example, the semi-cased ammunition is a clear development of two varieties of caseless ammunition, one conventionally primed and one electronically primed, developed independently in Sachsen and Ostmark. The rammer which is so critical to the very high rate of fire and effectiveness of the burst feature is similar to, albeit simpler and sturdier than, that developed for the Volgan Abakanov. The snail drum magazine clearly owes its parentage to the sturdier but much more expensive double snail drum magazine developed for the FSC's Wakefield rifle. The miniaturized computer which controls the rate of fire was a development of Nihon Teppu Jutsu, Inc, of Yamato.
However informally the project may been initiated, very quickly a consortium between ZMI and BAC had been formed to begin development.
The 6.5mm projectile was an early, and happy, compromise between Balboa, which wanted something more in the 6mm range to suit its jungle conditions, and Zion which wanted something closer to 6.8mm in caliber but of great cross sectional density to suit its more commonly found desert and urban environments. Testing and simulation showed that the 6.5 was possibly ideal for neither but certainly more than adequate for both.
Thus, the caliber of 6.5mm was agreed upon.
Development thereafter becomes a very murky and perhaps even sordid subject, with charges of industrial espionage, pirating of personnel, and illegal reverse engineering being raised frequently. Certainly it is true that some design engineers from Volga and chemists from Ostmark and the Federated States of Columbia did emigrate to Balboa and Zion in the few years before the rifle was finally prototyped. It is also true that the magazine bears a suspicious, but apparently superficial, similarity to the double snail drum in use by the FSC (some copies of which, apparently, found their way to Zion).
International Sales:
Although acknowledged to be a superior battle implement, the F-26 and its cousins do only marginally well in international sales. This is for two reasons. The first is that the rifle is extremely expensive, at least twice the price of its next nearest competitor. The other is that both the Legion del Cid and Zion absolutely refuse to sell the rifle to Salafi and certain other states at any price, though the Legion does issue it to its Islamic mercenary battalions, the Pashtun Scouts.
PART III
Chapter Nineteen
La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid.
—Pierre Ambroise Francois Choderlos de La Clos
12/6/469 AC, Camp San Lorenzo, Jalala, Pashtia
Fernandez shook his head ruefully and placed the report from Mahamda, his chief of interrogators, down on his disk. The intelligence coming from the von Mises had dropped alarmingly. Mahamda's report was clear on why, too. He picked the report up again and reread the key paragraph.
"The Pashtun are simply too tough," Mahamda had written. "They're not like the soft city boys from Sumer and Yithrab we were used to dealing with. Oh, yes, we can break them; but it takes three times longer. That's no different, in practice, from cutting my interrogation staff by a factor of three. And when they do break, the intelligence we gain is almost always old, too old to be useful tactically, though it usually retains its strategic value. Only when we have family members to threaten do they turn quickly. Nor will simply giving me more men do much better. This is delicate work, work that requires great talent and much training. Simply inflicting duress is rarely enough."
"And I don't have a solution to that," Fernandez muttered. "Patricio is still too delicate about threatening innocents; though he has made great strides. I wonder if we spoiled ourselves a little by going for the easy route and not developing enough tactical intelligence capability. Something to think on, anyway."
North of Jalala, Pashtia, 12/7/469
Alena sat up abruptly. She'd had another of her visions, this time in a dream. It hadn't been a particularly good one, nothing like when she had seen her husband presenting the calf's carcass to her on the playing field, nothing like the vision of their first night together (though the reality of that had far surpassed the dream). In fact, it had been downright horrible, all smoke and fire and screams and struggling, dying men.
She glanced at the horses, hobbled and guarded, a hundred meters away. No . . . it wasn't them.
Alena's eyes looked overhead. No, no aircraft.
Alena herself wasn't sure whether her visions came from somewhere else or if they were just the result of having a mind that could take and match a great many disparate bits of information and come up with probabilities from that, probabilities that that same mind imagined into visions. It didn't really matter which it was, she supposed, since the visions turned out to be right, more often than not. Best of all, unlike most men, her husband—she looked down warmly at the sleeping form beside her—listened. How could she not love a man who listened?
This vision was different from most. She sensed that the action she had seen was not to be immediate, nor close by.
What could have caused it? she wondered.
Her conscious mind was at least as good as her subconscious. She began to tally what she knew.
Point: the war is going fairly well, with new information coming in every day and deserters from the Ikhwan giving themselves up regularly. This will make the other side desperate. Point: I have seen my husband's higher commander. He is a tired man, breaking down and unwilling to admit it to anyone. He is desperate, too. Point: the action has mostly moved to the border, but is stuck there because we can't cross to where the enemy shelters. Point: support for this war among those who fund it is waning. They, too, are desperate for it to end.
She, too, shook her head. No, those are not the keys. It was something else, but what?
"David," she said, nudging the sleeping form beside her. "Husband, awaken. I have a prediction. Let me see the map."
With a grunt David sat up next to her. He'd learned, over the past two years, one hundred and fifty or more firefights, several awards and decorations, and a promotion, that when Alena wanted to see the map he'd be well advised to deliver. He reached into the saddle bags beside his sleeping roll and took the map and a blue-filtered flashlight out, unfolding the map in front of her and focusing the light for her to see by.
Alena's finger began tracing the map, stopping at points and gliding right over others.
Point: a platoon from the Cazador cohort was ambushed yesterday here. Point: there was a report of donkeys being purchased by someone here. Point: there was a report of a delivery of explosives here, last month. Point . . . Point . . . Point . . . Point . . .
Alena closed her eyes and began to rock back and forth. It was eerie, but Cano wasn't about to object. When she opened them she pointed to a spot on the map, a junction of backwoods trails, and said, "Bring your men here, before first light. Thirty to forty of the enemy, heavily armed, and leading a caravan. If you hurry . . .
* * *
Some miles from where Alena studied her husband's map, Senior Centurion Ricardo Cruz shivered in the cold night air.
Despite almost ten years of the news networks' predictions about the "brutal Pashtian winter," it had so far failed to materialize anywhere below the high mountain passes. They were still waiting, expectantly, and devoted several hours a week to the subject.
On the other hand, while not exactly "brutal," the winter could be cold enough. Cruz thought it was "goddamned cold," for example. He thought so despite the roughly one thousand drachma worth of cold weather gear the Legion was now able to provide each man deployed. On the other hand, it could be worse. I remember that first winter, in the hills of Yezidistan . . . . brrrr. Ah well, at least the wind blows from the other direction so we can get a little shelter from these rocks. Fortunately, too, it also keeps our scent out
of the kill zone.
This was Cruz's third year at war and ninth with the Legion. In many ways it was the worst. He'd spent his second combat tour as an Optio. Federated States Army troops would have called the position, "Platoon Sergeant." Now, even with his break from the regular forces, he was a full-fledged senior centurion leading a platoon of fifty-one men, including the attached forward observer team, Pashtun scout, and the platoon medic. If all went well, after this tour he'd go to the First Centurion's School, alleged to be a gentlemen's course—And won't that be a fucking break?—and take over as first shirt for an infantry maniple. The pay he'd receive in that position, nearly two thousand drachma monthly, would place him and his family easily in the top quarter of income in Balboa. Add in the very nice four bedroom house the Legion provided on either the Isla Real or one of the new casernes, the schools, beaches and other recreational facilities and it added up to . . .
It adds up to: I still miss Cara and the kids . . . and I need to get laid. Badly.
Just over two hundred of the Sumeri whores—war widows, mostly—that the Legion had . . . acquired . . . had chosen to follow the eagles to Pashtia. These had been supplemented by several score more from the local community, generally slave girls purchased from the local dealers and given the choice of prostitution and care or freedom to go. Most stayed. Some of the girls had even managed to find husbands from among the men. This, however, was decidedly difficult in the close confines of the Legion. Cruz didn't know of a single legionary who had taken a hooker to wife who had remained with the colors. It was just too awkward when every one of your comrades had had her at one time or another. Whatever the justice of the matter—and Cruz thought it was damned poor—people usually just didn't think of hookers as really human outside of fiction. Nor could a typical man stand to be in the same room, sometimes the same universe, as someone who'd had the woman he loved.
Sometimes, he had to admit, Cruz had been tempted. The girls were segregated by the rank of the soldiers they serviced. The group dedicated to the centurions was, for lack of a better term, hot. They were also very clean as the Legion's own medical staff checked them, and the men, regularly. Moreover, careful, if confidential, record was kept of who'd screwed whom. While venereal disease made its way in, occasionally, it was damned rare.
Even so, when tempted Cruz had merely pulled out his wallet, opened it to a picture of Cara and the kids, and said, "Nope. Not worth it."
He pulled the wallet out now, looking at the picture once again in the moonlight.
Cruz lay with a squad from his platoon in a rock-strewn ambush position under the bright light of two nearly full moons. His own optio remained back at the objective rally point with the platoon's four donkeys, the medic, the forward observers, and a few other men. The rest of the platoon was out in three and four man ambush positions around the central one. Intel had confirmed that an enemy platoon of allegedly about twenty-five men had departed a refugee camp in Kashmir three days ago and was expected to use this pass. Intel was right about such things perhaps one time in five or six. That was often enough to justify the effort. (Alena Cano's record was much better than this, but who knew outside of her husband's group of cavalry?) Moreover, the ratio had been improving over the months as the Legion discovered that the best way to ensure that the enemy did not come when and where expected was to land a helicopter anywhere within miles of the spot. Instead, the ambushers almost always trekked in on foot or, in the case of some of the Pashtun Scouts, on horseback, moving at night, with a few donkeys to help with the load.
A small bud in Cruz ear beeped low. "Cruz," he whispered.
"Centurion, this is Optio Garcia. The RPV reports thirty-two men entering the pass with fifteen donkeys. Heavily laden. Heavily armed. Light gunship"—a Cricket with a dual machine gun mounted to one side—"standing by. Two Turbo-Finches waiting at the strip. Reaction platoon waiting to reinforce, loaded on helicopters."
"Roger."
Cruz had had fourteen directional mines laid along a rough line of almost four hundred meters. He did some quick calculations. Thirty-two men and fifteen donkeys . . . . subtract four or five for point and rear guards . . . moving at night they'll close it up a bit . . . say, four or five meters per man, two staggered lines. They should fit inside the kill zone before we initiate. Of course, the point and rear guards will probably not be in the kill zone when we open up.
Cold forgotten amidst the excitement of impending action, Cruz reached up and pulled the passive vision monocular down over his right eye. Then he tapped awake Majeed, his attached Pashtun scout. "Pretty soon. Make ready," he whispered.
Majeed sat up with a smile. With luck, there would be a bonus for this one. Majeed had his eye on a third wife. Legion scouts made a lot of money in comparison with the Pashtian norm. The multiple wives this allowed the scouts to support added much to their status and kept the recruiting lines for the few open positions somewhere between long and longer.
* * *
Carefully, the two Pashtun sniffed at the air. Nothing. They moved bare feet along the cold rock as they advanced into the pass, eyes scanning for any sign that the infidel awaited.
Brothers, Bashir and Salam had once thought to join the Scouts. Having been shamed by rejection, they'd vowed revenge for the insult and made their way north to the refugee camps that lay just far enough across the ill-defined border that there could be no doubt they were in the territory of Kashmir rather than that of Pashtia. There, the brothers had sought work and been hired to lead formed units and caravans of donkeys into Pashtia. The pay was not as good, not nearly as good, but at least they could strike back at those who had insulted them.
This was their third trip. They'd begun to consider the possibility of retiring after this one. While the pay was not so good as that given to the infidel Legion's scouts, it was enough at least to pay for a wife each and a small plot of decent land. With that, they could grow enough of the poppy to eke out a decent living.
It was beginning to look like eking out a living would be better than continuing to lead convoys forward and dying in the process. Neither brother knew anyone who had managed to lead four convoys safely through.
Besides, they had already begun to loathe the Yithrabis, who looked down on them, criticizing everything from their illiteracy to their manner of dress.
* * *
Covering himself almost completely behind his rock, Cruz watched the two point men walk through. Even at a distance of one hundred and twenty-five meters, and in the fuzzy and grainy picture given by his monocular, they seemed fairly professional. He had to hope that one of the other point ambushes in the area ambush would get them. No sense in letting pros survive.
He shifted as quietly as he could to look to his left, the direction from which the sounds of donkeys came. Yes . . . there they are. Cruz saw thirteen or fourteen men, in a staggered double column, enter the kill zone. Behind those were the donkeys, tied together in strings of five or six with a man leading each string. Another group of thirteen or fourteen took up the tail of the caravan.
Shame about the donkeys.
He waited, his heart racing so fast he could not have marked the time by it even if he'd thought of it. Unconsciously, his hands reached for the two directional mine detonators he'd placed carefully against the rock to his front.
It took almost six minutes from the time the point of the main body entered the kill zone to when its tail did. All that time, Cruz's heart beat so heavily that he thought the enemy must hear it. Of course, they did not hear it. In fact, the only thing they did hear was . . .
Kakakakakakakaboomoomoomoomoomoomoomoomoom.
. . . as the directional mines went off. These, more Volgan-made munitions, were flat cylinders with one point seven kilograms of explosive on one side and four hundred cylindrical bits of steel buried in a plastic matrix on the other. Most of the bits went high or low, of course, though even then some of the low ones would ricochet at man height across the Kill Zone. In all, tests
had confirmed that at least a third, in this case about two thousand, bits of flying steel would cross at an acceptable graze to the ground. The mines were more directionally focused than the FSC-made versions and so had been laid at angles to sweep along rather than across the kill zone.
More than half the infiltrators were blown off their feet, screaming and spurting blood and bone. Immediately the men along the ambush line opened fire, while a machine gun to the right raked directly long the line of march. A few tried to return fire. They were shooting in the dark at barely seen muzzle flashes. Cruz's men, on the other hand, had F- and M-26s with integral thermal sights. They did not shoot blindly at muzzle flashes but instead were able to take careful aim at standing or kneeling men.
