A Desert Called Peace (59 page)

Newspapers littered the desk, each with a screaming headline of "War Crime." The secretary of war's elbows rested on the papers, heavily. Campos adjusted the hands he had cupped around his face just enough to glare at Virgil Rivers with one eye. He did
not
like being reminded.

"Be that as it may, Virgil," Campos answered, "who would have expected this shitstorm?"

Well,
Rivers thought,
frankly, I did. I'd have been surprised, as a matter of fact, if Hennessey hadn't done
something
, at least, to create one. It's one of his two or three natural talents.
Wisely, Rivers kept the thought to himself.

Instead he offered, "I've had the JAG here look over the statement Hennessey issued. They say that it's legally true, if unpleasant, except for one small detail."

"And that would be?" Campos asked, still glaring with one eye.

"There are actually seven requirements to making a legitimate reprisal. Hennessey snuck in an eighth. His statement said that a proper reprisal must be 'not merely proportional but also sufficient to deter future violations of the law of war.' The JAG says that is not part of the law, though it is logically and therefore legally defensible."

"But he's just a fucking . . . what was that rank he used? Legate? What's that mean? Colonel? Lieutenant Colonel?
Lieutenant?
"

"Umm . . . no, Mr. Secretary. There is, in the fine print of the contract between us, a little section that says that
Legio del Cid
ranks will be treated as, and have the power and authorities of, their traditional titles. The actual meaning of "legate" is not lieutenant or lieutenant colonel, but lieutenant
general.
Therefore, even by our rules, he has all the authority he needs."

"Sneaky bastard," Campos said, without heat.

"Yes, sir. He
is
a sneaky bastard."
Oh, to hell with it.
"I warned you."

"So what do we do?"

Rivers took a moment before answering. He walked to the window and looked out at the broad, slow-moving river that separated the War Department headquarters from the rest of the Federal District and simply stared at it for some minutes, thinking.

When Rivers turned around, he asked, "Does it make any difference, sir? I mean, really? What has Patrick done except bring into the open something that would have been just as true, even if hidden, if he had not? The press
are
the enemy. The 'international community' is the enemy. The cosmopolitan lawyers and bureaucrats are the enemy. They have been since colonization here and, back on Old Earth, for a lot longer.

"A horde of angels could come down from Heaven and make sworn depositions that everything Patrick said was true and that he acted completely correctly. That news would be buried on page one hundred and fifty-five of the
First Landing Times
. And meanwhile every paper and television station in the world, every cosmopolitan progressive, every humanitarian activist who manages to do pretty well by doing good, would still be screaming 'War Crime.'

"And if he hadn't ordered a reprisal? They would just find something else. There
is
no satisfying them because the only thing that
would
satisfy them would be if we lose the war completely."

"Jesus, it must suck to lose," Cruz muttered as the convoy bearing him and the 1st Cohort moved into the town. The streets were full of garbage. Bodies, mostly uniformed but many not, littered them as well. Green colored leaflets—Cruz recognized them as some of those the legate had had dropped ahead of the legion—blew in the dry desert wind. A Sumeri tank burned to one side of the broad highway, its commander hanging lifeless half out of his hatch. Flames arose around the body, cooking it and lending the smell of overdone pork to the air. Cruz's nose scrunched in distaste.

The convoy stopped with the mass screaming of brakes. The first centurion of the cohort began walking the line, slapping vehicles with his palm and ordering, "All right, boys and girls, everyone off. And buckle up your goddamned armor, Sanchez."

Cruz reached over and slapped the side of Sanchez's helmet, moderately hard, before standing himself, tossing his rucksack over the side, and shuffling to the back of the truck. He jumped off, landing easily on both feet, then walked around to retrieve the ruck. When he returned, the signifer was assembling the century.

"This afternoon," the signifer announced, then consulted his watch, "in about four hours, we're going to relieve 3rd Cohort and continue clearing the town. Orders at . . ." again he looked at his watch, ". . . call it noon. Centurion?"

"Sir!"

"I'm going forward with the tribune to coordinate the passage of lines with 3rd Cohort. We own those buildings over there." The signifer pointed out the ones he meant, a series of two-story, cinder block structures with stores below and apartments above. "Take charge of the century; security, weapons maintenance, food and rest, in that order."

"Sir. Century; atten . . . shun. On my command, fall out and into those buildings the signifer indicated. Section leaders, priority of work is local security, weapons, food, rest. Report to me when you're up on the first. Be prepared to brief me on your rest plan. Fall out."

A PSYOP loudspeaker was blaring out something in Arabic as the small party from 1st Cohort arrived at the 3rd Cohort Command Post.

"What the hell is that?" the tribune asked of the 3rd Cohort's Operations Officer.

"We've had some trouble," that officer answered. "Twice we've had Sumeris come forward appearing to want to surrender and then open up when they got close enough that even
their
shitty standards of marksmanship were adequate. Another time, one came close enough to detonate himself. We lost three dead and half a dozen wounded. The loudspeaker's telling them that they're all responsible for the actions of each of them, that from now on, and because of their own treachery, if they want to surrender they have to strip buck naked and approach with their hands in the air and absolutely nothing in them."

The tribune snorted. "Any takers under those conditions?"

"Some. A few. On the other hand, we haven't lost any more of our own since we started shooting anyone approaching who
wasn't
stripped down."

"What about the women? We making them strip, too?"

"We're telling the civilians to run the other way, away from us, if possible. For those who insist on coming this way, the women have to get down to just their panties. We have
some
sense of decency, after all?"

"Okay," the tribune agreed. "Now, show me where you want our advanced parties to link up with you?"

Waiting for the order to go in, Cruz's heart thundered in his chest.

In the same room, the assistant section leader's tubular feed grenade launcher went
foomp-kaclick-foomp-kaclick . . . foomp-kaclick- foomp.
Two 43mm grenades sailed through each of the windows to the building opposite the one the section, which included Ricardo Cruz, had assembled in for their attack across the narrow street. The explosions blew out the windows' remains, and were followed by a horrible, keening cry in Arabic.

"Smoke!" ordered the section leader. Two green canisters popped as their spoons were released. The canisters landed in the middle of the alley, well to either side of the buildings concerned. The section leader waited a few seconds, to allow the smoke from the canisters to build up. Then he ordered, "Covering fire! First Team, go."

Cruz's team, Number Two, and the other one, Number Three, began blasting from their side. First Team raced through the back door and across the alley, flattening themselves against the wall when they reached it. More grenades sailed in through the windows, while the fire team leader and another man from First Team broke down the door. The Arabic cries ceased with the explosion of the hand grenades.

The section leader shouted, "Second Team, with me." Cruz's group stopped firing and followed the sergeant across the street and into the other building. When they had disappeared, the assistant section leader led the last team, plus the weapons team, across.

"Cruz," said Sergeant del Valle, "take your men and clear upstairs. Be careful, son."

The interior of the building was dark, despite the recent destruction of the windows. Cruz took a moment to partially accustom his eyes to the dim light. When he could see the staircase that led upstairs clearly he ordered, "Follow me," and took a bent-legged crouch.

"Sanchez, left side."

Sanchez mimicked Cruz's posture. Behind them the last two men in the team, Privates Rivera and Escobedo, stood mostly erect, rifle and light machine gun pointing over the heads of Cruz and Sanchez.

"Advance."

An ununiformed Sumeri appeared above them with a grenade in his hand. Before Cruz could say anything the light machine gunner opened up, stitching the enemy and spilling his blood and intestines across the far upstairs wall. The Sumeri dropped the grenade, which exploded, further smearing the irregular.

"Up." One step at a time, and almost in step, Cruz and Sanchez ascended. When they could see over the top step they turned in opposite directions, firing down short hallways that led to rooms with closed doors. The bullets pockmarked the doors, sending wooden splinters in every direction.

"Sanchez, guard left. The rest with me." Cruz and the other two reached the landing and sprinted the few short steps to the door on that side. Rather than waiting Cruz threw himself against it, knocking it off its hinges and over into the room. The door didn't land flat, but rather came to rest unevenly and part way atop another Sumeri irregular who had probably been standing behind it when Cruz had opened fire. The Sumeri appeared not to be breathing though blood ran out from under the fallen door.

Noticing the body, Cruz had the somewhat inane thought, drummed into him in Basic,
Concealment is not cover.

The thought was interrupted by the entrance, firing, of the last two men in Cruz's fire team. A closet door swung slowly open to allow a Sumeri body to tumble to the floor.

"Room's clear, Cruz," one of the men reported.

"Rivera, with me. Escobedo, stay here. Guard."

Leaving the light machine gun behind, Cruz and Rivera hastened back to where a prone Sanchez lay with his rifle still trained on the door opposite.

Before the three men could storm the next room they heard firing coming from behind them. Escobedo screamed. When they turned around, they saw the Sumeri who had been under the broken-down door turning an assault rifle in their direction. Rivera was a trifle faster than the Sumeri, who went down bonelessly from several close range hits. Cruz rushed back to find Escobedo hit but breathing, shot through the back.

"Motherfuckers," Cruz muttered. He went back to Sanchez and Rivera, stopping to call down the stairs, "Sergeant, I've got a wounded man up here; Escobedo. And the fuckers are
not
playing by the rules."

"Keep up the assault, Cruz," the sergeant returned. "I'll send up a medic for your man."

Instead of rushing to force down the next door, Cruz fired another long burst through it. Then he and Rivera advanced to take position on opposite sides. Sanchez got on his feet, advanced, and slammed his foot against the portal, which burst open. Cruz and Rivera then sprayed the room with fire.

Entering, Cruz saw three Sumeris, all apparently hit, one with his back against the wall. Without a word Cruz turned his rifle on the first and fired a burst. This was known as "double tapping," or making sure. He shot the second and, as he was turning to the third saw the Sumeri's eyes open wide as he reached for a rifle. Cruz shot him, too, and whispered, "Got to learn to play by the rules. Fuckers."

Looking at the bodies, Cruz felt his anger cool. Turning away from the carnage, he thought,
Cara, queridisima, I wish I could come home to you now.

The sun was fading away to the west as the muezzin, his voice amplified by speakers mounted on the minaret walls, called the faithful to prayer. Some other place, perhaps, and the royal family might just have ignored the call if business pressed. Not here. Here the force of Allah and of the words conveyed by the Prophet were strong. Here, the king and his brother stopped their discussions, abased themselves, and prayed.

"He wants a stone, just one stone," said Bandar to his brother, the king, once prayers were over. He continued, "One stone out of sixteen hundred and fourteen outside, and who knows how many inside, and it isn't even the
Hajar ul Aswad
, the Black Stone."

"But the Kaaba is sacred, like the Word of Allah, never-changing and eternal."

"Nonsense, Brother," Bandar insisted. "The Word is eternal but the Kaaba has been rebuilt anywhere from five to a dozen times; no one's really quite sure. The most recent rebuild was eighty-five years ago, in 1417. It has had major components replaced, has had its shape changed from a rectangle to a square to a rectangle to a square and back to a rectangle again. It has had new stones added and old ones thrown away. And all Abdul ibn Faisal wants is
one
lousy stone to take with him to
al Donya al Jedidah
."

"We'd have to take down at least one wall to get at the stone he wants," the king objected.

"And we've taken down walls before," Bandar countered, "that same five to one dozen times I mentioned. What's one more time? We can begin right after this Hajj and have the thing rebuilt before the next, possibly even before Ramadan."

The king looked closely at his brother. "And what would be the point, after all? What good comes of it?"

Bandar took a deep breath before continuing. When he did, he said, "Brother, we have problems. The oil is going fast. Europe is plunging into blackness and all our investments there are crumbling away. Our population is growing beyond our ability to care for and beyond the capability of the secret police to control.