A Desert Called Peace (93 page)

"Yes, sir. I won't, sir. I mean, no problem, sir."

"Good lad. Off with you now."

There had been four Marine battalions surrounding the town. This was not considered enough to take it. It would have been enough to seal it off
if
they had really been permitted to seal it off. They hadn't.

Each of the Marine battalions was flying out by one or two pickup zones. The legion and most of Sada's brigade were flying in via the same spots. The continuous landing and lifting of masses of helicopters raised a cloud of dust that spread for miles downwind.

Sneezing at the dust assailing his nose, Fadeel climbed to one of the highest spots in the city—a thin, graceful minaret that soared over the walled compound of a mosque. Try as he might, Fadeel had never been able to obtain one of the thermal imagers the FS forces seemed to use everywhere. He did have a number of Volgan-built passive vision devices—relatively cheap and simple light amplification scopes—but these were much inferior. In any case, it had proven impossible to train his men to use them or, as important, maintain them. He did have a few superior Haarlem- and FSC-made passive vision scopes, but these used odd batteries and were, for the most part, useless now.

Harder to get a hold of the batteries than it is to get explosives,
Fadeel thought bitterly. He had no idea that many an FS Army and FS Marine Corps supply sergeant had had the same thought over the years.

The scope Fadeel had with him he had batteries for, enough, at least, for a few nights' work. It had once been mounted on a rifle. That mounting was broken now, had been broken, as a matter of fact, in the action in which the scope had been captured. Still, it did perfectly good service, if only for reconnaissance.

Fadeel flicked a switch. The scope came on without the noticeable and annoying hum of the Volgan versions. He raised it to his eye. A folding rubber sphincter kept the green glow of the thing from lighting up that eye as a target for a sniper until it was safely pressed to his face.

From this vantage point Fadeel could see west, southwest, and south. The lights of the helicopters that landed and took off in seemingly endless numbers drew lines in the scope. They were not bright enough to permanently harm it, however. Looking down, Fadeel saw groups of men stringing wire. Some of them seemed to be laying mines.

"
What? Do the crusader Marines think I am stupid enough to attack them in the open where they have all the advantages? Not likely, that. I could order some sniping, I suppose, but to what purpose? They're too far away to hit—
and despite having a fair number of sniper rifles Fadeel knew his men were not great shots at any range—
and the return fire might be devastating. Besides, what do I care if they wire in the whole city? The humanitarians will still make sure we are fed. "It's for the children, after all."
Fadeel laughed softly and bitterly, thinking of very small bodies hanging from the bridge behind him.
"For the children."

While Fadeel sneered, high, high above those gently swaying bodies the NA-23 nicknamed
Lolita
circled.
Lolita
carried, this sortie, five two-thousand pound bombs. Another five were carried in her sister,
Anabelle
. It was believed that the bridge that could take four of five direct strikes with two-thousand pounders hadn't been built yet and, even if it had, it had certainly not been built in Sumer.

The bombs were only a moderately heavy load, but most of the extra two and a half tons more lift still available to the planes was taken up with fuel. The aircraft could loiter for quite some time.

Sumer's old dictator, Saleh, had expended considerable capital on modernizing the country, though "modernization" was, itself, a word open to some interpretation. One of these programs had been to give Sumer a truly modern highway system. It would have been more accurate to say that Saleh had given Sumer a post-modern highway system, in the same sense that post-modernity meant familial corruption, vice, graft, kickbacks, bribes . . . and a shoddy product.

Carrera had actually spent quite a bit of the legion's money, and hanged more than a few Sumeris who sought graft, turning that highway system into a model within the BZOR.

Despite the improvements, the armored columns stayed off the asphalt highway except at the bridges over streams and irrigation canals. There was no better way for a heavy force to strangle itself, logistically, than to drive on and thereby destroy the very roads down which ran its lifeblood of fuel, food, parts and ammunition. The columns raised great clouds of dust. With the wind blowing from the west this was little problem to the drivers of the westernmost column. For the soft-skinned, untracked vehicles, which included the military police, engineers, and artillery prime movers moving along the hard surfaced road, and for the other armored column moving in the dirt east of those, it was a misery of choking, stinging dust.

A PSYOP vehicle, a four-wheel-drive light truck, preceded the column. Loudspeakers mounted on it proclaimed that any interference with the column would mean the destruction of whatever town the interference was met in. The tone of the speaker and the words suggested very strongly that the people of such a town would not survive the experience. There was, unsurprisingly, no resistance whatsoever. The people stayed inside and closed the shutters to their hovels, each of them hoping that no hothead would take a shot at the foreign soldiers. In several cases village elders confiscated arms and held them in order to prevent any such incident.

NA-23,
Lolita
, above Pumbadeta

Jimenez's voice crackled in Miguel Lanza's headphones. "What have you got for me,
Lolita
?"

"X-ray Juliet Five Two this is
Lolita
. I'm two NA-23s out of Ninewa Air Base carrying five two-thousand pounders, each, on GLS guidance systems. Per coordination my mission is to take out the bridges."

"Do it,
Lolita
."

"Wilco, out."

The previous jury-rigged bombing system was history now. Instead of that, there was a specially built rack and drop system that could be installed for those rare occasions when a cargo aircraft was called on to do double duty as a precision bomber.

Lanza flicked the switch for the ramp, which lowered itself with a vibrating, hydraulic hum. He was lead bird, thus he didn't have to buck the turbulence of a Nabakov ahead of him. At this altitude, and despite the season, cold air rolled in as soon as the ramp began to drop. The strong smell of kerosene exhaust entered the aircraft along with the thin, cold air. To Lanza the stench of the burnt kerosene was perfume. He smiled broadly.

If there was going to be any substantial error on the bombing run, it was going to be along the axis of flight. Lanza played with his controls, hand and foot both, and brought the throttle down to reduce speed. A tone sounded in his headphones as he passed precisely through a checkpoint.

"Pilot to crew, five minutes. Stand by to roll."

"Chief to pilot, bomb crew standing by."

Lanza waited for another tone, the one that would tell him to begin the bombing run. It came quickly. He keyed his microphone again, saying, "Roll to the ramp."

He couldn't feel the bomb crew straining muscle to move the thing down the line to the ramp. He could and did feel the vibration of the bomb itself as it rattled along horizontally, then the final
kachunk
as the crew eased it into the down-angled cradle that held it locked in position on the ramp itself.
Lolita
nosed upward slightly with the rearward weight shift and Lanza adjusted the controls, his left arm pushing on the yoke while that thumb played with the trim button to keep her level. Another tone. "Releasing." For a brief moment he felt overweight as the plane ballooned slightly, then weightless as it dropped. Lanza's right hand adjusted the throttle to increase speed. No sense in hanging around, after all. Despite intel, the enemy just might have something in the way of air defense. Besides, he had to get well out of the way of
Anabelle
, coming in close behind.

Lanza turned hard left, flipping his night vision goggles down and looking towards the ground. He didn't expect to see the bomb hit the target; there was too much cloud cover for that. But just seeing the flash was satisfying all on its own. Besides, he knew that all bombs were one hundred percent accurate. They never failed to hit the ground.

"I love my job," he said aloud, as the flash of the two-thousand pounder lit up the clouds around him.

Fadeel heard the aircraft overhead, but distantly, as if they were a noise coming from another room. He didn't hear the whistle of the bombs until after the first explosion.

"What the . . . ?" he asked aloud from his perch on the trembling minaret.
Why would the crusaders drop the bridges?

Hastily, he descended from the minaret to where a few of his subordinates waited below. "Go to the bridges. Investigate."

Fadeel wasn't worried.
What matter if they take out the bridges,
he thought.
The worst it means is that we get no more resupply by that route. The Kosmos will find another.

"X-ray Juliet, this is
Lolita.
Request bomb damage assessment on the bridges."

"One's down, one's still standing," Jimenez answered. "The northern bridge is the one down. Repeat on the southern."

"Wilco, X-ray Juliet.
Lolita,
out."

This time, both
Lolita
and
Anabelle
dropped. The southern bridge went down.

"
Lolita
this is X-ray Juliet. Both bridges are down. Go to your secondary targets."

"Roger, X-ray Juliet. Heading for food warehouse number one now. Note, X-ray, we've got two more birds inbound. The warehouses are priority targets for them."

"Roger," Jimenez answered. "So long as the food is destroyed, out."

The messenger stopped at the base of the minaret and gasped out, "
Sayidi,
they're going after the food stockpiles."

Fadeel's eyes went wide. What was wrong with these crusaders? Didn't they understand that the entire world would condemn them for destroying food? Didn't they
care
?

"By Allah," he whispered, a measure of truth finally dawning on him, "what will we do if the crusaders stop
caring
about their image among their undeclared enemies?"

"Tighter than a houri's hole," Sada announced triumphantly, when Carrera emerged from the IM-71 helicopter that had carried him down to the landing zone west of the city where he planned to make his command post.

"It's cut off," Jimenez agreed. "So far, there's been no reaction. I mean, I expected
something
by now. A probe . . . some mortar fire . . . maybe a little sniping. But . . . nothing."

"I don't think they contemplated the possibility of being
actually
besieged," Carrera said. "If you look at it from their point of view, they had no worries. They had absolute political control of the town; their logistics were being handled by the Kosmos; and the FSC's coalition was obviously unwilling to risk the casualties."

"Big mistake on their part," Sada said. "Speaking of the Kosmos, Patricio, there's a representative of GraceCorps that wants to speak to you, a Ms. Lindemann. They've got a column of trucks loaded with food that we stopped."

"Fine. I expected that, or something like that, anyway. I'll speak with her."

Sada pointed at a long line of tractor-trailers, led by a white- painted sedan. "She's over there."

Carrera didn't consider GraceCorps to be the enemy. Did he think they were stupid? Absolutely. Misinformed? Generally. Inexact? Especially. Hopelessly optimistic? Of course. But they weren't the enemy. They did what they did, help the needy, and they did it rather better than most of their sort. They were among the few Kosmos of whom it could be said, in his opinion, that they were more interested in doing good than in doing well.

So he was polite, unusually so for him in his dealings with the Kosmos.

Smiling affably, he began, "Ms. Lindemann, how can I help you?"

She smiled as well. "You could begin, sir, by having your men let us through."

He shook his head, as if with regret. "No . . . no. I'm afraid that won't be possible. This town is besieged."

Lindemann didn't seem to understand. "What difference does that make?"

"It means we've cut off all access. If you have medicine that might be needed by the inhabitants, I can arrange an airdrop. The law of war requires that. But no food is going in and no people are coming out anytime soon."

"You can't do that!"

"Why?" Carrera's face seemed genuinely puzzled.

"Food's a
human right
," she answered. "Those people will starve."

"So?"

She opened her mouth again, as if to speak. No words came out.

Carrera reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sheaf of folded paper. This he handed over, saying, "This is the law of war as regards sieges. I intend to abide by it completely. Read it, then come back to me. Note that while the country that has sponsored us, Balboa, is a signatory to the Additional Protocols, neither my organization, nor our principles, the Federated States, are."

Lindemann was at least somewhat familiar with the laws of war. After all, her organization often came in on the tail end of human- inspired and created destruction.

"You're required to let out pregnant women, the very ill, and very young children," she said.

"Really? What a surprise," Carrera answered. Then he asked his own question. "When?"

Lindemann looked confused. "When?"

"Yes.
When
does the law of war say I must let them go? I'll save you the trouble. It doesn't."

"But the garrison may not feed them!" she countered.

"That'll be their doing, not mine," he answered.