Carnifex

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 than 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!