A Desert Called Peace (55 page)

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?

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.

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."

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.

"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."

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....

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.

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.