A Desert Called Peace

PART IV
Chapter Nineteen

Artillery conquers and infantry occupies. -J.F.C. Fuller

Drop Zone Hotel, southern Sumer, 0111 hours, 13/2/461 AC

Three times the green light had come on and three times a stick of seven to nine men had stood up, hooked up, and shuffled out the door of the stealthy Dodo. With each lightening of the plane Sergeant Robles had felt a corresponding sinking of his spirits.

As the others had jumped, Robles' squad had slid their posteriors down the folding troop seats lining both sides of the plane to get nearer the single, left side door. The Dodo had a ramp that could have been used but lowering it tended to destroy the stealthy characteristics added by Zion.

Robles and his Cazadors held their static lines carefully in their right hands as they slid. They hadn't bothered with reserve chutes. The jump was going to be at three hundred and fifty feet above ground level. By the time a trooper realized his main had failed and pulled the ripcord for the reserve he would already have joined molecules in a sort of disassociated way with the snow, dirt, grass and rocks below.

At the rear of the cargo compartment the crew chief ordered, "Stand up!" No one heard a thing, of course, over the roar of the engines. It didn't matter; the chief made a hand and arm motion that the men could see well enough and that got them to their feet.

"Hook up!" They didn't hear that either but saw the chief making the hook up motion with his right hand. They followed along.

"Stand in the door," the chief mouthed before using his hands to show the first jumper exactly where he wanted him. The men shuffled forward. Robles, in the lead, let go his static line and stood, left foot forward, with hands grasping either side of the door that was left open to the air.

Robles almost lost his footing as the plane lurched upward to crest a ridgeline and then dove downward several hundred feet.

The red light at the rear turned green. The crew chief slapped Robles' butt. The sergeant used his bent legs to propel him up and out. Once outside and past the plane's slipstream he fell and fell. There was a minor shock as the static line deployed the chute followed by a major one as the chute filled with air. In the dim and diffuse moonlight that filtered through the cloud cover overhead Robles saw other chutes deploying.

Then he saw tracers rising from the ground to try to meet the aircraft.

"Chingada," he whispered to himself. Something tipped them off that we were coming.

Command Post, Mangesh,

0121 hours, 13/2/461 AC

"Dodos A and B both report that their teams are inserted, sirs. Dodo B says it took fire on its last drop and that we must assume the team is compromised."

"What can we do, Patricio?" Parilla asked.

"Not a goddamned thing! Son of a bitch, Thomas."

"Do we have radio contact with the last team?" Carrera demanded of Soult, hovering over the bank of radios in the command post.

"Nothing, sir."

"What would you do if we did have radio contact?" Parilla enquired.

"Give them some artillery," Carrera answered. "Send in four of the Crickets to try to extract them. Air support. Whatever it took."

"Can we move up the attack?"

"No. Rather, we could, and then lose half the effect of the artillery-which depends on timing- and lose fifty more men, or five hundred, assaulting up the ridge."

" Chingada. So they're really on their own. Shit."

Hill 1647, 0337 hours, 13/2/461 AC

Robles cursed his luck, cursed the Sumeris, and cursed Parilla and Carrera, too. His ribs hurt; he thought some of them were broken. The rope tied around his neck burned where the Sumeris had pulled to lead him and his men from the spot where his team had been ambushed, pinned and forced to surrender. A truck had driven the five remaining-two had been killed to Robles' certain knowledge and another man was missing and likely dead-to the top of the fortress on Hill 1647.

Then the beatings began. First just a beating, no questions. Then more beatings, interspersed with what sounded like questions. Robles' tongue poked at the places where the Sumeris had knocked some of his teeth out. Shock and endorphins kept the pain to a barely tolerable level.

Mukkaddam Ali al Tikriti cursed as well as he punched the current object of his attention for perhaps the fortieth time. He had no Spanish; neither did any of his men. All he could manage was a little English and none of his prisoners seemed to have any or were willing to admit it if they did. Still, useless effort or not, it felt good to strike at some of the men who were part of the attack to overthrow his clan and the country they ruled.

Fiends!

The Sumeri lieutenant colonel also cursed his lack of information. He knew that the attack, by air at least, had already begun in the south. Here, though, the enemy were generally quiet, even more so than usual. He knew from the Yezidi that they had earlier moved tanks to within a couple of kilometers of Hill 1647. Was it a show of force? A demonstration? Preparations for an attack? Ali didn't know. And he had to know. The brigade commander, who was also his uncle, had told him that higher headquarters had promised reinforcements and artillery support but only if the Balboan troops attacked or he had positive information that they would attack.

Ali reached down to pull Robles up by his hair. "You tell!" he screamed at the young Balboan. In answer, Robles spit a bloody wad onto the Sumeri's uniform.

The enraged Sumeri pushed Robles back into the grasp of a guard. "Kill the bastard. Slowly."

The guard pushed a stick into the loop of rope around Robles' neck. Then he began to twist the stick, tightening the rope. As his air was cut off by the tightening, strangling cord Robles thrashed and twisted. His struggles were in vain. Tongue bloated and protruding, eyes bugging from his head, fingernails broken and bleeding where he had scratched at the earth and rocks in his last moments, Robles died.

Ali pulled another Balboan to the fire step and pointed to the south. "Tell me," he screamed again. Since this soldier had no more Arabic or English than had Robles…

Command Post, Mangesh,

0427 hours, 13/2/461 AC

CLICK.

As the time of action neared Carrera grew cold and calm. Parilla, on the other hand, and despite the Chaldean brandy, only grew more nervous. Now he paced from one side of the small basement room in the Mangesh police fort to another.

Carrera looked up at him from the table he sat behind. "Relax, Raul, it won't be too long now."

"How can you be so damn complacent, Patricio? This is a complex operation. A million and one things could go wrong."

Carrera stubbed out a cigarette. "You are confusing detailed planning with a complex problem, Raul. Really, the problem is very simple. We pound them silly with artillery and mortars, teaching them to stay under cover and moving up and breaching their obstacles while their heads are still down. Then we assault like ten thousand screaming maniacs across the top. The Cazador teams and RPVs spot for and call in artillery to seal off the fortresses on their far sides while the rifle cohorts do a detailed clearing of the hilltops. By the time they can put in a serious counterattack, if they ever can, we are dug in and ready to beat them bloody. It's really quite simple. Relax."

Parilla just shook his head and resumed his pacing, sipping occasionally at a cup filled with brandy.

"I want to go first, with the lead elements," Parilla announced.

"We've been over this before, Raul. Your place is here. I am going with the lead forces."

"No, Patricio. I am either in command or I am not. Oh, yes, yes, I know that practical command is yours. And I've been fine with that. Really, I have. You know what you are doing and I am a comparative amateur. But for this, precisely because you know what you are doing and the real doing of the thing will be here, you should stay here, or in the forward command post.

"On the other hand, I am able enough to do one thing. And that is to set the example by leading from in front. So no, my sometimes subordinate, this time I make the rule and my ruling is that I go first."

Parilla's face looked very determined. Carrera measured it and…

"You're sixty years old, Raul. Can you lead from in front?"

"I'm as fit as I ever was," Parilla insisted, then smiled wickedly. "And if you don't believe me just call home and ask my wife. Yes, friend, I am fit enough for this."

"Oh, all right then, you old fool," Carrera agreed with seeming bad grace. He lightened and smiled after a moment's reflection. "And I understand the need. You can lead. I'll stay with the forward CP at Stollen Number Three."

"And on that happy note… Jamey, bring around the vehicle. We're moving forward."

Stollen Number Two, 0458 hours, 13/2/461 AC

It was almost time for the artillery to let fly when Parilla and Carrera reached the line of Stollen. They separated, Parilla going to the first and second Stollen while Carrera went to give a few words of encouragement to the men sheltering in the third and fourth.

Parilla could smell the excitement, overlaid with fear, in the close confines of the Stollen. He could smell it even over the buckets filled with shit and piss that the men had used to relieve themselves for days on end, only venturing out to empty them when the sun was down and clouds covered the moons and the stars.

Parilla exuded confidence, as well he should have since he hadreluctantly-spent most of his adult life as a politician, albeit a uniformed one. He walked around the Stollen easily enough as the men had cleared spaces when they'd stowed their personal gear away for the coming assault.

The men stood in ranks around the edges of the concrete floor. Their faces were painted in whites and blacks, proper camouflage for snowy ground. They wore their white overgarments that had been made from bed sheets back in Balboa. The Helvetian helmets, painted white, gave them a satanic look. The rifles, machine guns and rocket and grenade launchers they gripped in their hands were clean and freshly oiled. The oil, too, lent an aroma to the closed confines of the Stollen.

The Sapper section for the 2nd Cohort carried a mix of equipment. There were three flamethrowers, several satchel charges, and a small plastic sled which contained a rocket-propelled mine clearing line charge, or MCLC. Many of the riflemen, too, carried engineering implements: grappling hooks on ropes, sections of bangalore, and still more satchel charges.

Parilla walked among the men, clapping a shoulder here, giving a kind word there, reaching out to pat a cheek or grasp and shake an earlobe when he recognized someone from the old days. Mostly, though, he just looked the men in the faces, his own face smiling with confidence as if to say, "We can do this."

After a few minutes, Parilla turned to go. The door to the Stollen opened letting in the crashing thunder of the artillery and mortars. He was about to leave but then suddenly turned back to the men.

"CAN WE DO THIS?" Parilla bellowed.

"Fuckin' A, we can, sir!"

"Goddamn right."

With that shout ringing in his ears, Parilla emerged back into the darkness of the night. Overhead he heard the mixed drone of the legion's remotely piloted aircraft, fixed wing and small helicopters both, beating their way forward to the objective.

Forward Command Post, Stollen Number Three, 0503 hours, 13/2/461 AC

A small portion of the shelter had been marked off and partitioned with empty ammunition boxes to create a distinct command post.

Carrera glanced at his watch. "Almost showtime, boys and girls." He stood up from his field table and walked over to the Ic, the MI, desk in one corner of the bunker. "Report."

Fernandez stood up. "Sir, we have seven deep recon teams in position. The eighth is missing. I have had the ala redirect a Cricket to cover that sector and to look for sign of our men. Four RPVs and four remotely piloted helicopters are moving to the far side of the objective. We observe no noticeable change in posture on the objective. Some Sumeri artillery and mortars have been identified."

Carrera looked over at the Fire Support desk. The FSO volunteered, "From the Ic I have two batteries of guns, believed to be 122mm, and one of large caliber mortars. I have assigned one section each of multiple rocket launchers to the guns and the enemy heavy mortars. Countdown to time on target has begun. Communications are excellent. The Target Acquisition and Counterbattery Century is standing by."

Carrera paced to the Ia, or Operations, desk. Kennison just raised a thumb and smiled. Carrera gave the thumbs up signal as well. He studied the map for a few minutes then, nodding and placing his helmet on his head, and walked across the bunker to the exit.

As Carrera closed behind him the double tarp that kept light from escaping from the Stollen, he heard the FSO beginning the final ninety seconds countdown. To his left as he walked along the trench to his observation position he saw a bright flash light up the horizon. He stopped to watch as a few, and then dozens, of flashes joined the first. He didn't try to count them. He knew there would be nearly sixteen hundred shells and rockets sent toward Hill 1647 in the first minute of the bombardment. But still he stayed to watch as the muzzle blasts of ninety-seven guns, mortars, and rocket launchers lit the landscape like so many strobe lights. It was strangely beautiful.

In the Great Global War, at its beginning, I'd have needed three times the guns for the same effect. Shells have improved. Propellants burn cooler now so guns can fire more, faster. Gotta love the modern age.

Though I wonder how much more improvement is possible. The FSC and Taurans are, allegedly, working on liquid propellant guns; railguns, too, for that matter. Will I be able to afford them when they come out? Will I be able to not afford them, when they come out?

Hill 1647, 0505 hours, 13/2/461 AC

The feet of the last Balboan legionary drummed futilely against the floor of the trench as the Sumeri guard made a final twist to the rope around the dying man's neck. By the diffuse light of the moons overhead Ali watched the spectacle with enjoyment. He hadn't learned anything, but oh, how satisfying to see your enemies die like cockroaches. Better even than making a Yezidi husband watch while twenty of your men raped his wife and daughters.

After the last few feeble kicks of the legionary's feet, Ali turned his attention to something off to the southeast. There were flashes lighting up the overcast sky all across his field of view. Fuck, guns, lots of them. The sound hadn't reached him yet but he knew what was on the way. "Incoming!" he shouted and began to run to his own bunker. He was surprised that he made it before the first rounds hit. Then he realized that the very first rounds were passing over head.

Shit, they're going after the mortars and artillery first. This isn't just a punishment bombardment.

In his well-appointed personal bunker Ali picked up a field telephone to relay this insight to his uncle, the brigade commander, when the top of the hill was swept by fire. Even so far below, a wave of concussion slammed Ali against the wall of the dugout. When he realized, semi-stunned though he was, just how close that shell had been, and how big, he began to shake.

Forward trench outside Stollen Number Three,

0511 hours, 13/2/461 AC

Soult joined Carrera in the slit trench, taking shelter under the overhead cover Cheatham's engineers had thrown up. Together they watched the fireworks display. Four illumination shells hung almost motionless over the hilltop. A new one would burst into light seconds before the previous one burnt out.

"Why the illumination, Boss? To ruin their night vision?"

Carrera pulled his head back from the viewport he had been looking through. "Hmm? Oh. Partly that, but mostly to make them feel observed and helpless." He went back to the spectacle.

This was Soult's first real action. He felt the compulsion to talk; many new initiates to battle did. Carrera didn't mind. Indeed, he liked explaining. One never knew when a subordinate would have to make a decision on his own. The more they understood, the more likely that decision would be the right one.

"Do you think the artillery will kill them all, Boss?"

Carrera didn't turn away from his view when he answered. "The way they're dug in? Very few, actually. That's not the point."

"Huh? Then what's the point, sir?"

Carrera thought for a while before answering. He began his answer with a question. "Have you ever almost been killed, Jamey?"

Jamey smiled. "In Balboa? The way they drive? Of course."

"Were you driving an automatic or a stick?"

"A stick," Soult answered.

"Hmm. How long before you could drive away?"

Soult took a moment before answering. "Well, you know how it is. I was driving on a mountain road in the eastern part of the country. There were actually cliffs on both sides. I made a turn and there was a bus coming towards me and another car passing the bus. Narrow road, too. I slowed down just in time for the car to miss me, but I ended up going fifty plus miles an hour backwards. I'd have gone off the cliff altogether except that there were three skinny palms growing close together where I went off the edge of the road. They just barely stopped me. My leg was shaking so badly at first that I couldn't use the clutch. That lasted maybe a half an hour. Then, for about two hours, I giggled like a girl at escaping."

A tremendous explosion two hundred meters away rocked the two men. It was followed by a storm of shells impacting all around the entrenchment. Carrera and Soult ducked down low. After the storm lifted Carrera picked up the radio dedicated to fire support and listened momentarily. "That was theirs. The counterbattery people are already on it," he announced.

Soult laughed. "Just like a car wreck. I'm shaking now. I see your point, Boss."

"I'm not sure you do, Jamey. You were in one-almost-car wreck. That was just light shellstorm. What the people on top of that hill will be going through is the equivalent of a near fatal car wreck every minute or two for the next several hours. They'll be a very long time in laughing about it."

"So you mean to break their morale?"

"Some will break, I suppose. But you know, Jamey, in battle fear and fatigue are almost indistinguishable and are mutually interchangeable. Those men up there are going to be so repeatedly petrified that by the time they see the first of our boys they'll be too tired and too shaken with fear to so much as shoot straight.

"And besides that," Carrera finished, "I'm training them."

Hill 1647, 0608 hours, 13/2/461 AC

Twice the guns had lifted and twice Ali al Tikriti had ordered his battalion back into their trenches. Twice the guns had resumed fire with as much fury as before.

During the first lull in fire the Sumeri troops had moved briskly enough under the lashing tongues of their officers. The hill had come under heavy machine-gun fire but, moving below ground level, no men were hit as they took up their positions. Then, instead of the expected ground attack, after five minutes of steady machine gunning, the artillery had reopened. A number of men were hit before reaching the safety of the dugouts. The Sumeris carried their wounded back with them.

Caught in the forward trench, Ali hadn't made it to his own bunker, but took shelter in one of the common ones.

A full thirty minutes further bombardment followed. Some of Ali's troops began a trembling that became uncontrollable whenever a shell landed close enough to rock the bunker. During the next break in fire the Sumeris hadn't moved quite so readily to the trenches. Many staggered as if drunk.

Ali and his officers and noncoms had to physically push some of them out of the bunkers.

When again the shells came in and the men had to run for shelter they did not bring their wounded back with them. Ali did see two men stop to pick up a bleeding man. They seemed to lack the strength to lift him and so he was left behind. The Sumeri lieutenant colonel was too busy running to a shelter himself to order them back. The wounded soldier lay where he fell, crying to his comrades not to leave him.

On the third lull, Ali's men wouldn't, couldn't, follow his order to man the trenches. Helpless and hopeless he sat with his back to the wall and waited for the shell that would kill them all. A shot rang out inside the bunker. Ali summoned the strength to turn his head. In the far corner of the bunker, by the light leaking in from the enemy's illumination shells, he saw a Sumeri sergeant with his rifle in his mouth. The back of his head was missing.

Forward trench outside Stollen Number Three,

0611 hours, 13/2/461 AC

"Call for you, sir," Soult said. "The Ia wants to move up the time for the assault. He says the RPVs showed no movement on the objective during the last lull."

Carrera considered. "Tell him no."

Soult looked questioningly.

"Like I said, I'm training them, Jamey. I want to teach the Sumeris a lesson, and establish a precedent. I don't want a massacre. If they are not pounded senseless the Sumeris will fight back; individually they're a tough and brave people. If they fight back to any effect, then the troops will kill damned near everything on the hill when they go in. That's the part they never teach in the law of land warfare courses: prisoners are almost never taken in a fiercely contested assault. On the other hand, if they don't resist, if they're too badly knocked around to resist, the boys will take prisoners."

"How bad is it up there, really?" Soult asked.

By way of indirect answer Carrera replied, "One or two percent of them will blow their own brains out rather than endure another minute of it. I'd call that bad enough."

"You figured this out on your own, Boss?"

"No… an artilleryman on Old Earth did… name of Bruechmueller."

Multichucha Ridge, 0700 hours, 13/2/461 AC

A three-man forward observer team equipped with a laser range finder cum target designator looked over the smoke-shrouded ridgeline to the north. The shells had stopped falling while the gun crews took some rest and allowed the barrels to cool. The mortars, light, medium and heavy, had extra barrels for the bombardment. These the crews changed, dropping the hot ones in the snow to cool down. This was also a longer than normal delay to ensure that the Sumeri leadership on the ridge would be able to beat and drive their men back to their bunkers. To aid the enemy in that, there were some armored vehicles, tanks and Ocelots both, moving into position on the valley floor.

"Poor bastards," said the sergeant in charge of the team, watching the Sumeris listlessly move back to position.

The sergeant was old line; the private new. They had somewhat different attitudes. The sergeant was more cop than killer; the soldier more- much more-killer than cop.

"Fuck 'em, Sarge," answered the private, looking through the eyepiece of the designator.

"You got target?" asked the sergeant.

"Easy. Let me know when to illuminate."

The sergeant took the radio microphone from the third, and junior, member of the team. "Zulu Five Whiskey Six Seven this is Zulu Five Whiskey Two Three, over."

The call was answered instantly. "Two Three this is Six Seven, go."

"Fire for effect, High Explosive Delay with Daredevil fuse. Target Alpha Oscar Zero Two One."

Again the radio crackled. "Roger. HEDD. Alpha Oscar Zero Two One. Stand by to illuminate… time of flight is thirty-nine, I repeat thirty-nine, seconds… shot, over."

The sergeant consulted his watch, counting off the time. When he reached thirty-three seconds he said, "Flash!" The private squeezed a trigger to send a narrow laser beam right at the bunker nearest the highway, continuing to hold the trigger down and the laser on the target until…

Hill 1647, 0701 hours, 13/2/461 AC

It was Robles who saved Ali's life.

The mukkaddam had been moving low along the trench when one of the heavy machine gun bunkers behind him simply disintegrated, tossing sandbags, wood, machinery, bodies and parts of bodies high into the air.

The blast had knocked Ali down, sending him rolling end over end before slamming him into one wall of the octagonal trace trench.

Groggy and panicked, he'd risen and begun running as fast as he could through the zigzags his men had carved into the earth and rocks of the hill. He'd been heading, without really thinking about it, for the next bunker. There'd been a blinding flash of some kind of unseen light that stunned him further and left spots floating before his eyes. Thus he hadn't seen the Balboan bodies stretched out strangled and lifeless on the trench floor. He'd tripped over one and gone sprawling face-first down to the floor. At that precise moment another shell had struck the bunker, penetrating before exploding. The resultant demolition had ripped the bunker apart, sending- among other things-a large and jagged piece of construction steel whirring through the spot Ali had occupied just before he fell.

Now even more stunned, Ali looked up and into the rictus-smiling face of Sergeant Emmanuel Robles, late of the Legio del Cid. The sergeant's open eyes seemed to be staring at Ali with deepest disapproval.

Stumbling and screaming, Ali turned around once again. Halfway back to the first destroyed bunker he came to a communication trench. He recognized it as one he could use to return to his own bunker. He took the turn.

After becoming lost only once on the way, and this was understandable as the bombardment had changed the geography of the fortress more than a little, Ali found the door to his personal shelter. He opened the thick, hinged door and entered, leaving the door open behind him in his haste and his terror.

A whining, wailing sound came from under Ali's bunk. He looked to see his thirteen-year-old recreation boy cowering under the bed in absolute fright. The commander ignored the boy for the moment, rummaging around instead for a bottle of State-distilled whiskey. Finding it, he grasped the whiskey in one hand, then reached under the bed to pull the boy out by the hair with the other. He slapped the boy several times across the face, hard, to put an end to his sniveling.

Ali had lost control. Wanting something, anything, to make the terror go away, Ali broke open the whiskey bottle and took a long pull, followed by another. That helped but not quite enough. He needed to hurt something, to dominate something, since he and his command were being so thoroughly dominated by their attackers.

He put one hand on the boy's shoulder to force him down. Instead of dropping though, the wide-eyed child just shook his head, pleading. Ali was having none of that. He backhanded the boy across the bunker then followed him, reaching down to pull him up to his knees. Then he dragged the boy, still on his knees, across the bunker to his chair. Ali sat down and took another pull of his bottle before setting it down. Then he opened his belt to let his penis spring out at a forty-five degree angle. He pointed to show his boy what he wanted done but the boy just shook his head again in panicked refusal. Again, this time holding him by the hair so he wouldn't escape, Ali slapped the boy half senseless and forced his head down.

Bunker Meem Thalata (M3),

Hill 1647, 0708 hours, 13/2/461 AC

Sergeant Mohammad Sabah's mother didn't raise any fools. He'd felt the destruction of bunker M1 and even managed to catch sight of the debris falling to earth. Then he'd actually seen M2 disintegrate. That was enough. Shooting like that did not just happen. Someone was using guided shells and systematically destroying the forward bunkers.

Sabah made the not unreasonable connection between remaining on M3 and his own untimely demise. Since remaining on the hill- period-was also likely to be life threatening and trying to get off the hill by going north would only get him shot, or worse, by his own side, he opted to head toward the enemy rather than away. There was a little depression a few hundred meters forward that he knew of.

"Follow me," he said to men, taking his machine gun, one corporal, and three privates. "We'll hide forward."

Maybe we can surrender, Sabah thought. After all, we haven't done the enemy any harm, personally.

Led by Sabah, the five Sumeris slipped over the trench and began working their way down the steep slope of the hill.

Stollen Number One,

0735 hours, 13/2/461 AC

A piper standing outside the Stollen played " Boinas Azules Cruzan la Frontera" (Blue Bonnets over the Border) as an Ocelot bearing a long, narrow footbridge passed by. Cruz and his fire team emerged from the shelter. Some of the men who knew the new words began to sing along with the pipes:

Many an eagle's wings

Fly where the shellfire sings.

Follow your crest that is famous in story.

Stand and make ready then,

Sons of the jungle glen.

Fight for your legion, your God and their glory.

March, March, Principe Eugenio…

Perhaps they found it calming. Cruz didn't sing; he didn't feel the need to. Instead he watched. The bridge, he saw, was actually up in the air at about a forty-five degree angle, held in that position by ropes that ran to the rear of the vehicle. The bridge seemed to Cruz to be about one hundred feet long.

"Come on, shake it out!" shouted Cruz to his fire team. With his hands, he directed them to form a shallow wedge based on himself as the point man.

Right, he thought. Maybe it doesn't make sense to take up a wide formation before we hit the footbridge, but it will make it easier to get the boys back into formation once we cross.

Ahead the Ocelot stopped a scant two meters from the river bank. The track commander emerged from his hatch and crawled onto the rear deck. He looked across the river to make sure he had judged his spot well, then took out and swung a machete to cut the rope. The bridge hesitated briefly before plunging down to span the river. It bounced twice before finally settling. Then the sergeant dismounted to cut the footbridge loose from his vehicle's bow.

Off to the right another Ocelot approached the river bank, this one also bearing a footbridge on its prow.

The signifer for the century blew into his whistle, signaling the attack. Then he double-timed to the bridge and, without hesitation, began to cross. A shell came in, exploding on the near bank. The signifer was apparently unhurt as he increased his speed to get across the bridge.

"Come on, you assholes," Cruz shouted above the din. "The future's on the top of that hill. Follow me!"

As Cruz and his men began to cross, he chanced to look up at the hill ahead. It was-section by section-disappearing as the mortars switched from pounding it with explosives to dropping white phosphorus shells along a line on the slope to blind any of the Sumeris in the forward trace who might be still able and willing to fight.

Forward trench outside Stollen Number Three,

0736 hours, 13/2/461 AC

Carrera followed the progress of the men through his binoculars. He looked for Parilla, but in vain. The light was still too dim to make out individuals.

Still, up the slopes the flash of rifle and machine gun fire, punctuated by major blasts as the infantry and engineers chewed their way through the wire and mines, told the tale well enough.

The artillery and mortars suddenly switched targets, the 120mm mortars laying smoke just below the crest of both fortresses, while the artillery took to pounding targets farther back. The lighter, 60mm, mortars ceased fire as their crews packed up to begin the backbreaking trek to the slope to join their centuries once the hilltops were secured.

Now, Carrera thought, if everyone is still following the plan…

Ah, there they were, eight Turbo-Finch Avenger close air support aircraft and three Cricket recon birds winging in out of the rising sun. The Avengers formed circle a couple of kilometers to the east, taking turns to dive in and lace the fortresses with rocket and machine gun fire. Once, but only once, a light antiaircraft missile lurched up to attack the planes. All eight Avengers circling at the time had sensed the incoming missile and automatically spat out flares and chaff. The missile overcorrected and ended up ultimately crashing to the ground harmlessly.

And where are my Cazadors?

He needn't have worried. The four remaining centuries of Cazadors, borne on ten of the twelve medium lift helicopters, passed through above the highway by Multichucha Ridge and continued along it. As the choppers passed low between the fortresses atop Hill 1647 and its companion, door gunners blasted away more or less indiscriminately with machine guns. Once past, the choppers continued on. The Cazadors had a blocking position to take up farther to the north.

Slope of Hill 1647,

0745 hours, 13/2/461 AC

"Hah!" Parilla exulted as he forced his body up the hill, "Not bad for a man of almost sixty." Even so, I wish to hell the slope ahead weren't too steep for tanks and tracks.

Parilla was followed by a small guard from the Headquarters cohort, plus two radio-telephone operators. They were the poor slugs who had to hump the heavy radios up the hill so that Parilla could stay in communication with Carrera and the command post to the rear, as well as the infantry cohorts to the front.

The call, "Fire in the hole!" came frequently now as infantry and engineers dropped small charges to explode surface laid mines, or used bangalores to clear paths through buried belts of them. Some of the sappers dragged heavy sleds holding rocket-propelled mine clearing line charges. These, intended in most armies to replace bangalore torpedoes, had one major problem. Bangalores could be adjusted and assembled to suit the depth of the obstacle. The MCLC was one size fits all. Thus, while it took six bangalore sections of about one hundred and twenty pounds to clear two five-meter deep obstacle belts set sixty meters apart, a single MCLC, at about the same weight, could clear the first obstacle but would fall short of the second.

Fortunately for MCLC fanciers everywhere-most certainly to include engineer century commander Sam Cheatham-there was at least one broad belt of mines very near the base of the ridge. As the sappers and grunts blasted their way forward as fast as they could set a charge and duck, the more specialized engineers dragged their sleds forward, Cheatham cheering them on, ducking the flying rocks and metal as required. Their feet slipped on packed snow, and they cursed the entire way.

Parilla had to admire the engineers for their damned determination and grit. He stopped and took one arthritic knee- Oh, that frigging hurts-to watch as they reached the

edge of the broad minefield with a MCLC.

Operation of the MCLC was simple It involved little more than removing a watertight plastic cover from the plastic sled, rotating a rocket assembly to point generally frontally, hooking up an electric connection and then running to cover. Once behind cover, the engineers merely hooked up a small generator, and wheee. At that point, electricity applied, the rocket took off downrange with a great deal of smoke and flame, dragging the line charge behind it. The line charge, roughly inch-thick demolition cord, set itself off after it had reached apogee and fallen to the ground. About a dozen antipersonnel mines went boom, in sympathy, when the shock wave reached them

And then the grunts were on their feet, screaming like a thousand banshees, charging through the gap with blood in their eyes and bayonets fixed.

Main Supply Route Zeus, north of Hill 1647,

Sumer, 0759 hours, 13/2/461 AC

Nineteen miles north of the twin hills, fifty odd vehicles of a Sumeri artillery battalion struggled in the dark along a winding road that led to the south. The trucks pulled behind them eighteen 122mm guns, generally similar to those used by the legion. It was no surprise that the guns were similar, both types had been built by the Volgans and sold for hard, desperately needed, cash. The guns represented the only artillery reserve available to Ali al Tikriti's uncle, the Sumeri brigade and regional commander.

If the guns could reach a position in range of the hill before it was lost, there was a chance of breaking up any assault before it could reach the summit and dig in. In time, even the shell-shocked Sumeri defenders would recover. They'd recover, in fact, a lot faster than their enemy could replace the shells expended so far on the bombardment.

A few thousand feet above the battalion, unheard over the roar of the trucks' diesel engines, a lone Cricket observation aircraft circled in the clouds, dropping down from time to time to observe the winding mountain road below.

The observer in the Cricket said to the pilot, "Oh, God, I think I'm going to come just looking at this."

The pilot banked the aircraft over, took one look, and whistled. "Oh, baby, oh, baby, oh, baby, oh."

The observer was still laughing when he used the radio to call, "Zulu Lima X-ray Four Six this is Tango Mike Uniform One Two. Fire for effect… baby… over."

The radio crackled back. "Fire for effect… what's this "baby" shit? Over."

"Four Six; One Two. I've got fifty, maybe sixty trucks with a battalion of guns plodding up the highway vicinity Target Alpha Oscar Four Five."

"Oh, baby."