by Tom Kratman
Unbidden, the leader of the Cazadors—still aboard the Crickets and Yakamovs - broke in. "Leave some for us, ya greedy bastards."
* * *
Montoya had slowed slightly, to allow the other three birds in his flight to line up on him. Now, with the first rays of sun creeping over the horizon, the four Finches divided up their prey then separated laterally themselves.
For himself Montoya picked a half dozen trucks, one of them already burning. As his thumb flicked off the red safety on his yoke, he sang out, "Hojotoho! Hojotoho! Heiaha! Heiaha! Hey, where the hell's a PSYOP chopper to play Ride of the Valkyries when you really need one?"
Veering left, Montoya's thumb pushed the firing button. Fifty-seven millimeter rockets lanced out at a rate of six per second, preset. The rockets were almost evenly divided into high explosive, incendiary—the classic shake and bake—and flechette. Still veering, Montoya switched to his second pod by twisting a dial with his free hand. Once again he thumbed the firing button. Downrange, Hell was materializing.
* * *
Junior couldn't believe his eyes. One minute he'd been riding forward in pre-triumph mode to punish the wicked infidel and earn the gratitude of his father and glory among his people. The next, his column was half turned into twisted wreckage, and the roar of engines was replaced with the screams of the dying. With the next, the darkness was illuminated by the combination of just-rising sun and just-spouting flame.
There was an explosion off to Junior's left. Seconds later virtually the entire complement of the rear of the truck in front of him fell down with a god-awful collective moan. The moan was soon replaced by the sound of a dozen men, weeping like brokenhearted girls, as their organs failed from flechette wounds and their life's blood gushed out to fill the bed of the truck and run out the back in a small wave.
Junior watched the blood well from the truck in stunned horror, oblivious even to the other explosions and bursts of some smoking stuff that billowed around him. Some of the smoking shit must have touched upon the contents of a ruptured fuel tank. The truck ahead suddenly burst into flame. The weeping changed to screaming.
It wasn't until one of the attacking aircraft passed by overhead and to the front that Junior awoke from his shock. It was the pilot passing by that did it, so close that Junior could see the whites of his eyes and the gleaming smile as he looked down to survey the damage.
In that moment Junior hated that pilot in a way he had never hated anyone before; fully, completely, with all his heart and soul. From that hate came the spur to action.
* * *
Bluejay Two came in from south of the column, three Finches in trail formation. The last two were separated by about three hundred meters each from the one ahead. The lead Finch's pilot selected the last third of the column to receive his attentions. Seeing what appeared to be two otherwise undamaged trucks unloading a couple score infantry, the pilot donated to them one of his rocket pods. He was rewarded with the blossoming of white phosphorus flowers and fertilizing of the ground with a mass of men tossed down and about by flechettes and high explosive. Another truck burst into flame.
The pilot pulled back on his stick, easing his dive and pulling up parallel to the ground and about fifty meters above it. Ordinarily, he'd have used his machine gun pods now. The execution paragraph of the order called for "maximum frightful and terror, initially," however. Since terror and napalm were virtually synonymous . . .
* * *
Junior's attempts to bring some order out of the chaos ended when he saw two tumbling cylinders coasting through the air. The sudden burst of bright orange flame at the tail of his column was enough. Hate was not forgotten, exactly. It was just that everything was forgotten as Junior began to run away from the ruined column as fast as his legs would carry him. It was a good thing he did, too, as more orange-colored hell burst first around the middle of the column and next along the front.
Even while running he turned and saw the long flaming tongue lick along the column, engulfing men, turning them into writhing, shrieking human torches. The tongue seemed to cover the entire horizon. This was an optical illusion, induced by stark terror. In length, the tongue of fire was actually no more than two hundred meters.
Like their chief, the violence and sheer frightfulness of the naval artillery and aerial assault proved simply too much for the mass of the men. In their hundreds—hundreds still because, for all its frightfulness, aerial attack is rarely completely effective—they streamed to either side of the column, abandoning weapons, leaving comrades and relatives behind.
* * *
Once safely away from the epicenter of the infidel attack, Junior was able to throw himself to the ground and take stock of the situation. Around him streamed hundreds of his followers, leaderless and half bereft of weapons. To the west he could hear the slapping of waves against the rocks of the shore. To the east bursts of machine gun fire told him that the enemy were herding the rest of his people toward the water.
"Do they mean to murder us all?" he wondered aloud. Then he heard the whop-whop-whop of incoming helicopters and the high pitched whine of turbines.
* * *
"Move it. Move it, you bastards," screamed the senior centurion, First Centurion Saldañas, of the fleet's Cazador detachment. Saldañas had a brother who was a squid, but that brother, Tribune I Saldañas, was currently back in Balboa.
As a practical matter, nobody could hear the centurion over the noise of the Yakamovs and Crickets. He was convinced, however, that the sheer vibrations of his voice were enough to add half a mile an hour to any group of infantry that ever lived. Most of the troops would have agreed with that assessment.
Two platoons of Cazadors, plus the maniple headquarters, had come in on a dozen Cricket Bs. The remainder, three platoons, the company headquarters, medics, mortars, and the demi-cohort headquarters landed via helicopter. The Crickets had all landed on a short stretch of road to the north of the column. The Yakamovs had touched down in a line parallel to the column and opposite it from the sea. Once the troops had debarked, the Yakamovs again lifted off and began to sweep to the east, away from the column.
* * *
It was often held, as a matter of the customary laws of war, that there was an absolute right to surrender and to have that surrender respected. This was sheer ignorance, however. In practice, there was no such right, for in practice there were always circumstances in which prisoners could not be taken. Let a heavy bomber circle an artillery battery with nothing but white flags showing. The bomber's choices were limited to bombing anyway, or not bombing and leaving the battery to resume operation of its guns as soon as the bomber departed. This was not a choice at all. Bombs away!
Let a descending parachutist drop his rifle and take out a white flag which he then waved vigorously. If he was descending to an area where he could be taken captive, all well and good. But what if the wind, a factor out of his control, carried him toward his own lines where he could not be made prisoner and where he would be rearmed? Kill 'em quick, before they get away!
Similarly, when terrified men attempted to surrender to circling aircraft . . .
* * *
Door gunners to either side searched out and shot down whatever Xamaris they found in the grass. Some of those Xamaris tried to surrender, of course, but aircraft don't typically take prisoners. These didn't either; given the enemy's treatment so far through the war of any aircrew that came into their hands there was no surprise in this . . . except perhaps to those Xamaris who thought it worth trying.
The infantry, on the other hand, typically could take prisoners. Spreading out in a long, uneven line, they swept toward the sea. Any Xamaris about whom there was any question of intent were shot down on the spot, or double tapped as the need arose. The rest were herded toward the ocean. For those who begged for their lives, and who appeared to have no weapons, the Cazadors extended fingers and bayonets seaward, instructing them that there their surrender would be accepted.
Al
l the Xamaris clustered by the ocean shore, to include Junior, were certain they were going to be shot. They felt immense relief when they saw the Cazadors culling out groups of twelve or fifteen and taping their hands behind them but not shooting them.
In the end, three hundred and forty-nine prisoners were taken. Disarmed and searched, in some cases, strip searched, these were held under guard of a single platoon at the beach while the two corvettes and The Big ? came close inshore to receive prisoners. The rest of the Cazadors reboarded helicopters about noontime. They then went to teach the village of Gedo a very sharp lesson on the subject of supporting or encouraging piracy.
Gedo, Xamar
The village had not been close enough for the people to hear the gunfire and the explosions coming from the ambush of the column. Thus, it came as a complete surprise to them when suddenly a half dozen aircraft swooped in to rocket their small fishing fleet into so many disassociated splinters. Even as the Finches were destroying the place's livelihood, helicopters landed on the three landward sides and began disgorging heavily armed and armored men. Most of the men were dark, if not so dark as the villagers of Gedo. Mixed in among them were some light enough to have been Taurans, and others, very black and usually as tall and slender at the villagers themselves.
The villagers didn't even consider resistance. Most of the young men and most of the town's arms had disappeared at sea recently—no one knew why—and so there were few even to offer resistance. Loudspeakers directed them to move to the seashore and this they did.
Saldañas directed the men to separate out the women and children from the men. While this was going on, three Cricket Bs landed nearby on a short strip marked out on the sand. One of these disgorged some audio-visual equipment and what appeared to be a laptop computer, along with a couple of operators. From the other two emerged six men in naval dress uniform, six folding metal chairs, six small field tables and one gavel.
At the Cazadors' gestured directions, the men of Gedo, such as remained, stood up and faced a camera held by one of the men from the first Cricket. This was connected to the laptop held by another. The camera swept along the row of faces. All the prisoners were then faced left for another sweep of the camera, and right for a final set of shots. The Cazadors then ordered them, still with hand gestures, to sit while keeping the same positions. Sitting down on the sand, with hands bound, was no mean achievement. Several fell over and had to be righted by the Cazadors.
The laptop operator pressed a button. The laptop whirred as it analyzed the faces just fed into it with the images recorded previously, as the village had cheered its young men to sea. Circles began to appear around faces as the computer matched distances between eyes and noses, lengths of noses, distance from nose to the corners of mouths, and each of about fifty different features that combine to make each face unique. When it had finished, and the words, "análisis completo," appeared on screen, the laptop operators went down the line of men, separating out those who had not appeared previously, cheering on the pirates.
The rest were marched, one by one, before the four member court. The defense, for one of the six naval officers landed by the second and third Crickets was indeed the counsel for the defense, had a very tough time of it. No one spoke the local language and Arabic, a form of which was widely understood here, was quite a bit different in Xamar than in Sumer. Instead, a local was found who spoke English, as did most of the naval officers. Thus, charges were read off in Spanish, the defense counsel (not a lawyer, just a naval officer detailed for the purpose) translated those to English, and the Xamari translated that for the accused.
Typically, the trials went something like this:
Judge Puente-Pequeño: "You are accused of being an accessory before the fact to the act of piracy at sea. How do you plead?"
Defense Counsel, after translation: "Not guilty."
Judge: "Let the record show that the accused has entered a plea of Not Guilty. Prosecutor?"
Prosecutor, pointing to the laptop which showed the accused cheering the pirates: "That's him there."
Defense: Eloquent shrug.
Judge: "Has the accused anything to say in his own defense?"
Defense, after translation: "He has four wives and seventeen children to support, Your Honor. Besides, this is on land. Piracy law runs only at sea. Moreover, the defendant claims ignorance of the purpose of the column we engaged while it was moving here and of the boats that left and never returned."
Prosecutor, very wearily: "The former nation of Xamar has dissolved, Your Honor. It lacks sovereignty. It has become a ward of the World League, which also lacks sovereignty. Piracy law runs at sea because no one can hold sovereignty there. It also runs here, because no one does hold sovereignty here. As far back as the time of Julius Caesar, on Old Earth, it has been proper to try for crimes committed at sea people caught on land but otherwise under the sovereign protection of no one and acknowledging the sovereignty of nothing. As for the ignorance claim, Your Honor, frankly, in a area which has fallen under control of piracy, where national sovereignty is extinguished, where the Big Bad Motherfucker in Charge is the chief pirate, where the relief column is led by his son, and where everyone knows what the family business is, I think that the 'I didn't know' defense is fairly weak."
Judge, even more wearily than the counsel for the defense: "This is the thirty-seventh trial in which the defense has made the same lack of jurisdiction argument and the thirty-seventh—word for word—rebuttal by the prosecution. It is also the thirty-seventh attempt at claiming innocence through ignorance, likewise thirty-seven times rebutted. Gentlemen, cease. The court has already found it has jurisdiction, that the members of the column understood the business upon which they were engaged, and that this village understood the purpose of sending armed men to sea."
Judge, picking up gavel: "The accused is found guilty." Tap. "He will be shot following termination of these proceedings." Tap. "Next case."
Defense: "But Judge, what about the women and children? We're leaving them with nothing."
Judge: "We're leaving them—" the judge pausing briefly as a Cazador sergeant leading a squad shouted, "A punta . . . Fuego!" and a fusillade rang out "—with their eyes to weep with, and their tongues to spread the word. For our purposes, that's all they need. Next case." Tap.
Interlude
Turtle Bay, New York, 18 November, 2105
The news had come in from Terra Nova and that news was grim: substantial parts of the new world torn apart in rebellion and the former secretary general's great-great-grandson, Kotek Annan, butchered by barbarians. Hardly an eye was dry, at UN Headquarters, with the thought of that brilliant boy done to death—without the slightest provocation; it could not be doubted—by regressives. The Secretary General, Eduoard Simoua, was beside himself with grief.
Unfortunately, though Simoua wanted to make the gesture of sending yet another Annan to govern the new world, none were suitable. This was the judgment of the clan's patriarch, and to that judgment Simoua had to bow.
Briefly, Simoua thought about sending one of the retired officers from the various national armed forces that worked for the Department of Peacekeeping out to take charge. But no, none of those with the requisite experience and ability is really to be trusted. Most certainly, are they not to be trusted unsupervised.
Well, in a sense it's a disarmament problem. Why don't we send off one of those people? They've all got the right attitude. And they can be relied upon. But who, specifically?
* * *
"Bernard Chanet is here to see you Mr. Secretary."
"Send him right in, Irene," said Simoua, rising from his seat to warmly greet his proposed new governor for the world of Terra Nova.
Warm and fulsome greeting or not, Chanet seemed, at best, disinterested. Rather, his interest was made manifest when he asked, "What's in it for me and mine?"
Oh, so that's how it's going to be, thought Simoua, with a mental shrug. No problem.
"What do you w
ant?"
Oh, so they want a patsy that desperately, do they? Thought Chanet. Things there are worse than I thought. My price just went up.
"Amnesty?"
"Amnesty for what? What have you done?" Simoua asked.
"No, no," Chanet said, explaining, "I want you to have my son put in charge of Amnesty, Interplanetary."
"But they're . . . "
Chanet's uplifted eyebrow stopped Simoua before he could say "independent." Not that the organization was a wholly owned or wholly funded subsidiary of the United Nations, but since the UN was much better funded now, what with direct levies of tax coming from the citizen of the United States . . .
"We have . . . influence," Simoua conceded. "This could be arranged . . . "
"For life," Chanet amended. "With right to select his successor."
"That's impossible! Why, in the last thirty years since I took over as Secretary General, we've only made appointments like that twice. And both of those were special cases."
"More special than a war being waged against our control of those portions of Terra Nova that aren't under the governance of major powers here?" Chanet asked.
"Perhaps not," Simoua conceded. "Note, though, that the major powers here do not govern Terra Nova; they dump there."
Chanet nodded his head at the correction, then went silent, leaving the Secretary General to think.
If there were some clamor to take this job, Simoua thought, I'd tell this arrogant upstart to stick it. Sadly, the line for the posting isn't even one deep, outside of the fascist ex-officers in the Peacekeeping Department. It will be expensive though. Why, I'll have to bribe all nine members of the Interplanetary Executive Committee, including the Treasurer. Doable? Yes.
"Fine," Simoua told Chanet. "You leave in four weeks as a Special Representative of the Secretary General with plenipotentiary powers. Your specific instructions will follow, along with the forces we will allocate to you. And your son has the chair of Amnesty. Later, we can meld the chair and the secretary generalship. As for making those permanent, let's let him keep them for so long that no one remembers when it was even possible for someone else to have them. Legalities can follow the custom, once established."
