by Tom Kratman
Sanda was picked as the first town to be cleared as being the most likely to contain terrorists. The townsfolk were ordered to line up and come forward in single file to a point west of the town. They were met by troops from the MI using dogs specially trained to smell women. When people wearing women's clothing that did not smell quite right passed the dogs, the canines alerted.
Three of Noorzad's band were caught that way and carted off for rigorous questioning.
Other dogs sniffed for explosive residue and weapons oil. Several more terrorists were captured. Another was shot down on the spot for being a potential suicide bomb. The Legion preferred to use shotguns for this purpose as they had much better immediate knockdown and endangered bystanders less. People behind the victim suffered little beyond being splattered with blood and bits of flesh.
From the initial dog-sniffing station the townsfolk were sent through a medical station which not only administered inoculations but also drew blood for DNA samples. There, too, everyone was subjected to facial recognition imaging which went directly to military intelligence. The DNA results from the medical screening would arrive at the MI headquarters sometime in the next 24 hours.
Men were then separated from women. The men were kept under intensive guard and required, on pain of death, to be utterly silent. One shooting was sufficient to make the Legion's determination is this regard very plain. The women and children, on the other hand, were left in groups and much more lightly guarded.
It was with the women that questioning began, the interrogators being among the relatively few—and absolutely critical—women in the Legion del Cid. "Who is your husband? Who is your father? How many brothers do you have? What are their names and ages? Where are they? Your sister is where? Married to whom? Look at this picture. Who is this man? Look at this one. Is that your father? Your brother? Look at this one. Is that your house? No? Who lives there?"
By day's end, the Legion had a complete family tree for the town of Sanda, imperfect only insofar as someone had lied. It also had some leads and partial family trees for some of the neighboring towns.
And that was where the DNA came in. Noorzad had dispatched thirty-two of his men to Sanda after his column was attacked. Those men could threaten the townsfolk into lying for them. They could not fool the DNA analysis that identified them as genetic outsiders. Of that thirty-two, eight had already been captured or shot. The remaining twenty-four were ostentatiously separated out from the rest of the men and, again, sent for rigorous questioning.
At that point blankets, water, and food were passed out to the men.
Only then, when the rest of the men in the town saw that the most serious immediate threat to their families was identified and removed, were the men questioned, privately and individually. In particular, the MI folks were interested in who within the town could reasonably be said to be part of the infrastructure of the guerillas. Those that were so identified, in secret, were further questioned. Some were sent away for more serious inquisition. After questioning, the rest were taken, one at a time, to search out portions of the town and especially the houses the women had identified as their own.
At about that point certain discrepancies crept up. Those responsible, male or female, were taken away to be questioned, once again, rigorously. Most of the discrepancies were cleared up in fairly short order. A few more people were sent to trial as potential guerillas. All of those were sentenced to be shot. Most then decided that discretion was, after all, the better part of valor.
The quality of voluntary information delivered to the MI suddenly grew to amazing heights. Sentence was then suspended, and prisoners released, on the understanding that if there were ever again any reason to suspect those half-pardoned people of further guerilla activity that not only would they be killed, but the Legion would send their own auxiliaries, Arabs or Pashtun, back with pictures and orders to kill every relation on whom they could get their hands.
A few of the captured guerillas were kept on hand for further questioning. The rest were given a very quick trial, made to dig their own graves, and then shot.
Then the group, less one platoon to watch the town, moved on to the next.
19/9/467 AC, Kibla Pass, Pashtia
In anyone else's army Sergeant Quiroz probably would have been a commissioned officer. He had a university education, from the University of La Plata. His IQ was in the range of the low 120s. He had no criminal record and was, all around, a good soldier, respected by superiors, peers and subordinates alike. Hell, Quiroz had been an officer in the army of La Plata.
In the Legion del Cid? "No, not good enough. Especially are we suspicious of you having been an officer in an army we consider, at best, fourth-rate. Centurion track is the best we can offer, and you'll have to prove yourself as a noncom first."
Thus it was that Quiroz found himself leading a nine-man squad of Cazadors, in a hide position overlooking a donkey track that led through a pass on its way over the mountains to the north. His nearest friendly neighbor was six miles to the east. And he didn't even have all his squad with him as five of the nine were sleeping in a hide some hundreds of meters away.
"Company, Sergeant," one of Quiroz's men announced. "Thirty men . . . no, thirty-one, on horseback with a donkey train. They look awfully tired. Might just be nomads."
Quiroz crawled up to the scout's position and gestured for his binoculars.
"No . . . not nomads. Nomads would have rifles but not machine guns. Those fuckers are heavily armed. Hmmm . . . more than we can take in a heads up fight."
The sergeant scuttled backwards, snake-like, and pulled a map from the cargo pocket on the leg of his trousers. He knew, generally, how far the advance of the Legion had gone and also knew that they were not yet in artillery range. Even the rocket launchers wouldn't reach so far from the very front. And those, being soft-skinned, were rarely right at the front.
"What's available for air?" he asked his radio-telephone operator, or RTO.
"Nothing, Sarge. I asked. Well . . . there are two Turbo-Thrushes heading this way but they're each carrying loads of scatterable mines for further up the pass. Not even any gun pods."
"Mines, huh? Tell them I want those aircraft." Quiroz glanced at his long-range sniper. "Salazar, what's the range?"
"About fifteen hundred meters," the sniper answered. "It's a pretty long shot. They'll start to run right after the first shot too and then I'll never hit them."
"Can you make that shot?"
Salazar wet one finger and held it up in the breeze. "Possibly," he answered, reaching for the waterproof case to his rifle. "Just possibly. If I had a 'forty-one' I'd be a lot more confident."
"Get ready to try."
"Roger."
Quiroz looked at the last man in the group, a new private, and said, "Go back and wake the others. Bring them here, loaded for bear."
* * *
Hard, hard, Noorzad mourned, in thinking of the men he'd left behind. Hard it is to break up this band I worked and fought so hard to build. Hard to lose the company of comrades until we meet in Paradise. Hard to hear the screams of the wounded and the dying. Hardest of all to think that the horrible things I've done might be for nothing.
"No," he said aloud. "It can't be for nothing. Allah would never permit such a fate."
"Chief, we've got company," said, Malakzay, gesturing as he rode to Noorzad's left.
"Eh? Oh, shit, not again."
Noorzad looked over his shoulder and saw two of those damnable planes these infidels used. Even this small core of his band had been struck three times from the air in the last two days.
"They're just circling," he observed. "We probably don't look like much from above."
Malakzay looked around at the loose column and answered, "Maybe not, but from the ground we look a lot like what we are."
"They're coming low to look us over," Noorzad announced at the top of his voice. "Look innocent, boys."
The planes indeed came in low, not more th
an one hundred meters above the ground. At just about that distance from the tail of Noorzad's column they began emitting smoke as if from the mouth of a volcano. Noorzad's eyes caught numerous small objects—indeed, hundreds of them—erupting from squarish containers on the planes' undersides. The first of these hit ground yet, to Noorzad's surprise, did not explode. He was just digesting this bit of information when one of the cylinders in his view sent out what looked like six or seven almost invisibly thin wires with small weights on the end. One of his fighters reached for one of the wires.
"Sto . . . "
Boom.
* * *
Quiroz had watched with keen interest as the planes swept over the guerillas, dispensing their cargo. He didn't know too much of the technical details of the scatterable mines. From where he lay, though, it looked like the two Turbo-Finches had laid down a fairly thick pattern.
He saw in his binoculars as one of the guerillas reached over to touch either one of the mines or one of the tripwires they emitted. He then saw a good sized puff of angry, black smoke appear as that guerilla was tossed backward. Best of all, he saw that the guerilla didn't arise and that no one went to his aid.
"Salazar, you can take your shot anytime now."
"Roger, Sarge," answered the sniper, easing himself into firing position behind his .34-caliber, scoped rifle.
* * *
"Shit, shit, shit! These bastards are as evil as the Blue Jinn!" Malakzay exclaimed, glancing down at the torn and faceless body laying on the ground.
"Blue Jinn, indeed," answered Noorzad. "but cursing them does no good. How do we—?"
The bullet's crack came as a surprise. Not far away from the two a single man was struck down with a small hole in his chest and a much larger one in his back. As he fell he hit a mine's tripwire very near to where the wire emerged from the mine. The mine promptly jumped up and blew up, scattering guts to the wind. Another guerilla, too near to the explosion, went down shrieking and clutching at his groin where a largish fragment had torn off his scrotum and testes.
* * *
Quiroz grunted with satisfaction as he saw the guerillas drop. "Good shot, Salazar."
The sniper didn't answer. Already he and his spotter were scanning for another target. Unfortunately, the guerilla band had gone to ground—albeit not without setting off another mine. Of good targets they saw none.
After visually sweeping the entire area, the sniper announced. "No good targets, Sarge."
Quiroz muttered, "True, but only for some interpretations of 'good targets.' Buuut . . . kill the horses, Salazar. Radio; get on the horn and tell headquarters we've got a band pinned. Tell them we can't take them all and if they want prisoners they need to reinforce."
Quiroz stopped speaking for a moment, tapping his face with his fingers. His eyes settled on his assistant, Cabo Vega, then on the other sniper, Legionary Guzman.
"Vega," he said, "take charge here. I'm going to take Guzman forward and act as his spotter. We'll be"—Quiroz finger pointed—"somewhere over by that boulder that looks like a tit. Keep on the horn nagging headquarters to get some infantry here."
* * *
As usual, Noorzad found the screaming of the horses somehow more disconcerting than the screaming of his own men. After all, was not the horse especially praised by Allah? And yet the Holy Koran held out no hope of Paradise for them, even should they be killed in God's cause.
The one good thing Noorzad could see was that the enemy fired infrequently, however well. It must be only the one sniper, he presumed. Thank Allah for small favors.
Then came the moment when two beings, a man and a donkey, screamed out almost simultaneously. That told him there was a second sniper team out there. Worse, perhaps, while he could make out both the shot and the sonic boom of the initial sniper butchering his men, this new source of fire made neither. That, that possibility of being killed silently, was terrifying.
"Malakzay?" Noorzad called out. "Are you still with me?"
"Yes, Sahib. Here I am."
A bullet snapped overhead. A miss, thankfully. Yet another struck a rock nearby but that one made no snap beyond the striking of the lead on the rock. The snipers had given up on surprise and, to an extent, even very careful shots. It was as if they were trying to hold the mujahadin in position for some greater menace. That was worrying, as well.
Noorzad hesitated. He hated giving the order. But . . . crack.
"Pass the word to stampede the horses straight up the eastern side of the trail, herding them north."
"But Noorzad . . . "
"Just do it!" the latter snapped.
* * *
It was only a couple of horses, at first, Quiroz saw. Quickly that brace became a herd and, moreover, a herd with some riders in it as a few of the enemy used the horses to try their own breakout attempt. The horses set off mine after mine. But what would fell a man immediately didn't necessarily do the same with animals five times bigger. It was a strange and horrible scene, the more horrible as more horses were swallowed up in the billows of evil, black smoke only to emerge moments later trailing dangling intestines and broken limbs.
"What the fuck have you stopped firing for, Guzman?"
The .51 sniper shook his sturdy brown head and answered, "It's just too . . . nasty . . . sorry, Sergeant." He settled back into the stock to resume firing.
* * *
"I think the way is clear, Noorzad," Malakzay announced. "The last couple of animals standing made it through."
The sun was setting to the west now. Soon it would be dark. Did the infidels have their cursed night vision equipment? Noorzad had to presume that they did. But . . . he knew from his experience with the Taurans that the things were limited. He thought he could escape under cover of night.
Crack!
20/9/467 AC, Kibla Pass
The sun was high overhead, casting a shadowless light down onto the gruesome scene. The Cazadors had come out, dressed in the pixilated tiger stripes they shared with most of the Legion. Beside them, lined up on the road, were about one hundred tall, lean and fierce looking men mounted on hungry-looking horses. All stood well to the north of the minefield. It was long duration and was not supposed to self-detonate for another two weeks. Still, quality control at the factory being, at best, imperfect, it generally didn't pay to take chances.
"Quien esta el jefe aqui?" one of the ruffians asked.
Quiroz did a double take on seeing a mounted, bearded, dirty horseman who spoke such clear Spanish. He'd been advised over the radio of the Pashtun Scouts arrival, and so had held his fire. Still, the incongruous appearance of border bandit and good Spanish came as a shock.
He saluted the speaker and announced, "Sir, Sergeant Quiroz reports."
Cano returned the salute from horseback, then dismounted. "Tribune Cano, Sergeant, Fourth Infantry Tercio seconded to the Pashtun Mounted Scouts."
Cano took a moment to look around at the scattered bodies of men and horse. He put out his hand and said, "Damned fine job."
"Thank you, sir. We got maybe half of them. Maybe even two thirds. The rest got away."
Cano heard the subtle rebuke. "We rode as fast as we could, Sergeant. But we got the word late and intercepted two small groups of guerillas on the way." Cano shrugged. Fortunes of war.
"What now, sir?" Quiroz asked.
"We're going to try to pursue up the mountains," Cano answered.
"Well . . . sir . . . make sure they don't do to you what we did to them.
"How could they, Sergeant? They are not men so good as yours, nor are my men so bad as them." Cano laughed, "And they don't have aircraft to drop mines on our heads."
Interlude
Turtle Bay, New York, 4 September, 2105
In over a century and a half, no one had been able to strip the UN bureaucracy of its perks. No matter how constrained the budget, and in olden days it had been sometimes very constrained indeed, free parking was their charter-given right. Remuneration at the highest level fo
und anywhere on the planet their just due. Generous educational benefits for their children only fair. Fresh water poured by human servants an utter necessity to the forwarding of their sacred work on behalf of mankind.
One of those servants poured now for the three person hiring committee tasked with sorting out the right kind of people from the mass of aspirants.
"Goldstein won't do," said one of the committee, Guillaume Sand, placing the file aside.
"Of course not," agreed another, Ibrahim Lakhdar. "Like we accept Jews anymore. They've served their purpose."
"To be fair, Goldstein claims not to be a practicing Jew," objected the third, Alan Menage.
"It's in the blood," Lakhdar sneered.
Menage shrugged. No sense it getting Ibrahim all worked up over it. Besides, it isn't like I really care about the Jews.
"Here's an interesting one," said Sand, opening a different application file and diverting the subject away from Lakhdar's distressingly open anti-Semitism. "Louis Arbeit. Harvard. Sorbonne. Early volunteer work with International Solidarity Movement. Parents are both Colleagues of Proven Worth. Mother: Christine Arbeit, D1 with the Human Rights Commission. An up and comer, I hear. Father: Bernard Chanet, Deputy Director for International Disarmament. His grandmother recently retired from the European Parliament."
Ibrahim took the file, impatiently, and began flipping pages. When he reached the background information page on the applicant's father, he signaled one of the water servants to bring a telephone. He spoke a number and, after a brief pause, a face appeared.
"Bernard? This is Ibrahim Lakhdar, with the hiring committee. Yes, yes . . . I am normally with Human Rights. I know your wife. I was looking over your son's application and I was wondering if you might not give a little boost to my nephew. He's a fine boy and he's interested in working disarmament . . . "
