Carnifex

12/8/469 AC, Cricket 4-15

The scout plane carrying Carrera and his small party flew alone. Above it, the thundering transports, gunships, and attack aircraft moved in formation. Below, flights of helicopters, some the huge IM-62s, ferried men, supplies and equipment forward.

Carrera's mind wandered a bit, as it sometimes did these days. He thought of his original group and where they were now. Most were still with the legions in one capacity or another. Kennison had left when his term was up and, sorry though he'd been to see him go, Carrera had understood. Soult and Mitchell were warrants now, teaching on the Isla Real. Well, they'd gotten a little too old and senior to carry my radios but . . . I do miss not having those boys here with me. Daugher and Bowman had been killed, in different actions. They'd died as they'd liked to live, fighting to the end. Tom Christian had taken a second retirement and then immediately gone to work for the legions as a civilian. Greedy bastard, Carrera thought, smiling slightly. All the others were still on the job, most of them in uniform back on the Isla Real. Parilla was President of the rump of the Republic.

In the Cricket, Carrera used half his attention to keep a mental tally of where everyone should be, modified by the rarely broadcast code word for a delay or advance in the schedule.

Just shy of the Kashmiri border the Cricket dropped down behind some mountains and began to circle. A dozen helicopters passed, turned a few miles to the north, and began to set down their loads on a barren and fairly flat hilltop.

1^st Maniple (Heavy Mortar), Artillery Cohort, in firing position. Check.