Carnifex

Camp San Lorenzo, Jalala Province, Pashtia, 14/7/469

There was a bit more rock and concrete in this camp than there had been in Camp Balboa back in Sumer. Moreover, while the "brutal Pashtian winter" wasn't all that bad it was somewhat uncomfortably cool in these hills at night and in the winter, even this far north. Thus, the spread of legionary barracks and offices, mess halls and warehouses were, in the main, wood-lined and heated. The wood had once been growing on the spot where the camp sat.

Standing in one such, with a small fire going in a sort of Franklin stove in one corner, a number of men—and one small boy—sat in comfortable chairs. All but the boy sipped something alcoholic, often enough scotch. A recently captured map was tacked to one wall. The map showed a valley dominated by a single, tall elevation in the center, with two streams that cut around the mountain, and long ridges to either side. Both mountain and ridges were heavily trenched and bunkered.

The legion hadn't needed the map to know this was a main enemy base; it was simply too obvious. What the map provided was considerable detail on the fortifications of that base as well as the suggestion that it was a regular meeting point for the elite of the enemy movement. Also, that is was the enemy base.

"The problem, Patricio," Fernandez said, pointing at the map which had been delivered by Cruz's maniple commander the day prior, "is that their base is in Kashmir and Kashmir has both a credible air force and nukes."

Carrera didn't bother saying, So do we . . . have nukes. Fernandez was one of a very few who knew that the Legion did have nukes. Moreover, the original three had been supplemented by the other four which had needed reworking and recertification. And hadn't that been a bitch to arrange through some off line Volgan contacts?

The problem was that Kashmir didn't know the Legion had nukes and, so, might be inclined to discount the possibility and use their own. Nor would it have been altogether wise to have let them know.

"And even if they don't use the nukes, they have a real air force, a good one. You can't count on the Federated States to provide air cover for an attack into the territory of even a very nominal ally any more than you can count on them putting us under their own nuclear umbrella if we attack across the border."

"We can stymie their air force if we can helo in the air defense maniple," Jimenez suggested.

This was more likely than it had once seemed. A number of Volgan warships, laid up and rusting, had been stripped for their heavy, range-finding lasers. The lasers—power hogs, all—had then been mounted on three hundred and sixty degree rotating carriages, with less powerful and power-consuming lasers mounted coaxially. The lesser lasers could send out low energy streams of light more or less continuously. When they got a bounce back from an aerial target they automatically fired the main laser, blinding or at least stunning the pilot. Since blind pilots cannot fly . . .

There was a treaty against this, against the use of lasers to blind. Carrera ignored that and, when questioned by the press during one of the very few press conferences he deigned to endure, had answered, "If we wanted to blind them so they would be blind, that would be illegal. In fact, we want to blind them so they crash their planes and die. This does not leave them blinded for later on in life and, so, is perfectly legal."

Even the Federated States hated that position, their pilots more so.

It was Harrington's turn again to serve as the forward Ib, or logistics officer, of the deployed legion. He had more objections. "If that map and what's drawn on it is right—"

Triste, also back from Balboa and serving as Ic, or Intelligence, interjected, "We snuck an RPV there last night. The map is correct. There are several thousand of them, well armed, with decent air defense, dug in like rats and surrounded by mines and wire."

"—well then," Harrington continued, "that's even worse. It will take hundreds of tons of artillery and heavy mortar ammunition to breach that place, maybe thousands—"

"Thousands," confirmed the artillery cohort commander. "Even though the base will be in range of our rockets without them crossing over or getting very far from a good road," he added.

"See? I can't move that much. I just can't. And you'll need infantry to clear the place, and to make sure there are no escapes. We don't have the lift, Pat."

Carrera turned furiously on his logistician. "You stupid fuck! I pay you to fucking solve problems, not to whine about what you can't do—" He stopped abruptly, shame-faced, and said, "I'm sorry . . . you didn't deserve that. I don't know what—" His voice trailed off.

Everyone went silent. Even Harrington wasn't angry, or more than a little hurt. Carrera, unlike the rest of them, had been at war for over eight years without more than an occasional break. The strain was telling . . . but none of them had the heart to tell him it was time for him to take a long rest.

The small boy in the company of men was Hamilcar, Carrera's first child with Lourdes. He was a good looking kid, and tall for his age. The stature, like the huge eyes, probably came from his mother. On Carrera's last visit home the boy had begged to come along and, since his mother had stayed in a combat zone with him as a baby, she had been in a very difficult position to refuse. Then, too, she was terribly worried about her Patricio and his health, both physical and mental. That last visit home had been . . . difficult.

Hamilcar was loathe to speak, surrounded, as he was, by half a dozen men that he had grown up admiring. But it seemed so obvious to him. He would have thought it would be obvious to his father, too.

Well, no one else was going to say anything. He'd have to. Clearing his throat he piped up in a little-boy voice, "Father, if you landed a cohort inside the enemy base, on that large hill in the center, it would draw them away from the outside. Wouldn't that help you?"

The room went quiet as every man turned to look at little Hamilcar in something between surprise and wonder.

"Acorn never falls far from the tree, does it?" Jimenez commented.

"Helps anyway," Harrington admitted grudgingly. "If we can crush their air defense so we even can land men on the hill. Plus . . . it's a damned steep hill . . . hard to actually land a chopper on. But it doesn't solve the other problems."

"Even those might not be insurmountable," Carrera said, calm again if infinitely weary. "The major problem is that if we hit it and don't get most of the leadership, then it's all a bloody damned waste."

Fernandez brightened. "I might have a solution to that, Patricio. Give me a couple of days."

* * *

Bashir had not seen his brother, Salam, since they'd surrendered. He'd been interrogated, of course, and warned that very severe consequences would follow if he didn't tell the absolute truth. It was also explained to him that Salam was being asked the same questions and that, if the stories didn't match perfectly, the severe consequences would be administered to both.

"Absolute truth from each of you is your only salvation," the interrogator had explained.

Bashir had only told one lie, that concerning the whereabouts and names of his family. Unfortunately, he and Salam had never been given the chance to work out anything between them. Bashir would remember the beating that followed for years. Even after he'd told the truth the beatings had continued until, apparently, Salam had likewise come clean. Or perhaps they'd continued just on general principle or to see if they'd come up with different answers. Bashir didn't know.

Their parents, plus their brothers and sisters were brought to the camp two days later, though they were apparently well treated. Neither attempted the slightest lie after that.

* * *

Fernandez spoke, through an interpreter, to Bashir first. The man looked pretty badly off, face bruised and eyes half-swollen shut. He walked like a much older, indeed a very old, man. That would pass, Fernandez knew. The guards were expert and had been under firm instructions to do no permanent damage.

He had the guard remove Bashir's manacles and offered the young man water and some food, legionary rations, in fact, which Bashir choked down, greedily. He especially liked the one-hundred-gram bar of honey-sweetened halawa, seven hundred calories of crushed sesame seed goodness in just over four ounces.

While he ate Fernandez made a show of looking over his file. "Ah . . . I see you tried to join us once."

"How did you—?"

"Your picture was taken when you were interviewed. We matched that to your picture taken when you were first brought here. The computers do that almost instantly. Hmmm . . . rejected, I see . . . well . . . no, not rejected. We placed you and your brother on the wait list. We'd likely have taken you in a couple of months."

"The recruiter didn't tell us that," Bashir answered. "He said if we could come up with a bribe he might get us a position in a couple of months."

Fernandez smiled evilly. Corruption was always a problem, though it was a problem the Legion dealt with very severely. In reality there was only one punishment, death.

"Did he indeed? We'll see to that. I understand you tried to lie to us," Fernandez said.

"What fool would give you the names of their people?"

"Good point," Fernandez agreed. "We'll forgive you the lie though, of course, you and your brother are under sentence of death for aiding our enemies. Their guilt became yours when you agreed to help them."

"We've never been tried!" Bashir objected, hotly.

"You will be . . . if necessary. Do you doubt the results of that trial?" Again Fernandez smiled, though not so evilly.

"No," Bashir said, with resignation.

"Still . . . " Fernandez hesitated, "you did cooperate fully once you realized you had to. And . . . then, too . . . what good is a boy who won't take a beating to protect his family?"

It was a slender reed, barely to be perceived. The Pashtun grabbed it anyway. "I could cooperate more."

"There would be great risks," Fernandez cautioned, "and not merely for yourself . . . great rewards, too, of course."

* * *

Later, after Bashir had been brought back to his cell to think a bit, Fernandez interviewed Cano and Alena, privately.

"Tribune," he said, "there is something very weird going on here. You were not supposed to be at that ambush. It was miles away from your patrolling area. Yet there you were. I checked back over the last couple of years. Your group of scouts is always nearby whenever trouble crops up and you are even remotely in range. You've got the highest kill rate of any group in the Legion. Why?"

Cano just looked at Alena and said, "My wife's a witch."

Fernandez looked intently at the Pashtun girl.

"I'm not a witch, exactly," she said, looking up at the wood paneling of Fernandez's office. "At least I don't think I am. But I do pay attention . . . "