A Desert Called Peace (57 page)

Ali al Tikriti, worn out as he was, still noticed the change in fires. The boy had crawled under Ali's bed for shelter again and lay there whimpering.

"Shut up, you little worm," Ali commanded. He reached for the field telephone on his desk and picked it up. Listening for a few moments to the empty sound, he turned a crank to ring the other phones on the system. No one answered.

Without the enemy artillery coming in, and even as exhausted by fear as he was, Ali felt confident enough to leave his bunker. He forced himself to his feet and left via the dog-leg that led to the communication trench. There was rifle fire to the south, and close.

Ali found his battalion's senior sergeant, along with about fifty soldiers, cowering in a bunker. He began trying to herd the troops out and into the trenches. The men stood up, staggering and swaying as their twitching hands fumbled with their rifles and machine guns. They did not, however, take so much as a single step to move forward. When Ali ordered the senior sergeant present to get the men moving, the noncom just stared at him without comprehension, not so much shell-shocked as shell-induced-fear-exhausted. The
mukkaddam
used both arms to physically turn the older NCO around and push him through the bunker entrance. Then he pushed the rest of the men, one by one, after him. Ali, himself, took up the rear.

The sergeant stumbled down the trench without really seeing it. He almost, but not quite, sensed a series of shadows leaping over it, above him. One or two of the shadows dropped something in the trench at the sergeant's feet. Grenades.

With the explosions ahead the Sumeri troops scampered back to their bunker. Ali ran back to his own.

There was little firing and most of that seemed to be friendly to the signifer in charge of Second Century, Second Cohort. Indeed, the war pipes scattered across the face of the hill were louder than the firing. Even so, there was no sense in taking chances. The officer gave the signal to begin the clearing of the trenches. The century got down and began a wholly unnecessary fire at the top of the trench ahead of them. In the center of the century the signifer and half of one section crawled up to within a few meters of the trench. A half dozen grenades made sure there were no living Sumeris waiting for them. Then they slithered on their bellies over the lip and down. The signifer landed across the inert legs of Sergeant Robles.

It took the officer a few moment to realize that he had landed on a body. A brief moment of horror followed as he noticed the small modified Balboan flag—red, white and blue with a gold-embroidered eagle—sewn to the corpse's sleeve. "Shit, we killed them."

"No, sir," answered a corporal. He fingered the rope twisted around and cutting into Robles' neck. "The fuckers murdered them."

The signifer took stock of the scene. There were five bodies, it seemed, all partially covered with dirt thrown up by the shelling. He and the corporal brushed away at the dirt until they could see that each man showed obvious signs of having been garroted.

The other men of the century, waiting at the ready, grew impatient when his signifer didn't signal the rest of the century forward. Then the man's head popped over the side of the trench, signaling the rest to come into the trench as rehearsed. When the first man in dropped down to the trench floor, the signifer stopped him.

"See that, Sergeant?"

The sergeant looked for a moment in the dim light, before exclaiming, "Jesus!"

"That's right. It's our lost recon team. The cocksucking Sumeris strangled them. So pass the word to your men. No prisoners."

Carrera did three things when he heard that Parilla had been hit. First, he radioed to make sure one of the Crickets configured for medical evacuation, or "Dustoff," was en route. Second, he called for an Ocelot to pick him up and take him up the hill as far as it could go. Lastly, he cursed up a storm that his friend and comrade had been hit.

He needn't have worried about the dustoff. The legion's medical century already had a conveyor belt operation ongoing, whereby the Crickets landed near the bridge over the river. From that point, they were physically turned around into the wind and flew the most severe of the casualties directly to the Aid Station. From there the hurt men could be triaged and evacuated further south to the 731st Airborne's more completely equipped facilities. Less badly hit men were evacuated by ground; the bridge was safe for transit now. There had been relatively few casualties, in any case, so the evacuation capabilities being exercised were more than actually needed.

The Ocelot arrived and picked up Carrera, Soult and one radio. It then sped past the dustoff point, to the bridge, crossed that and cut sharply to parallel the base of Hill 1647. Then began a tortuous climb, zigging and zagging up the uneven slope through the breaches in wire and mines. About a third of the way up Carrera spotted four men carrying a stretcher. A fifth, wearing a medical armband and holding a transparent plastic bag overhead, walked beside. Carrera directed the track commander for the Ocelot over.

It was Parilla, alive but barely conscious. Carrera jumped down from the track and ran to stand beside his friend and nominal commander.

Carrera took one look and shouted, "Jamey, call the CP. I want a dustoff bird
there
"—he pointed at a spot a few hundred meters down the slope—"now. If I don't get it, people will die . . . and I don't mean just the wounded."

The medic spoke up, "I shot him up with morphiate, Legate. We've stopped the bleeding, but he lost a lot of blood before we could." The medic's glance went significantly to the plastic bag and down the tube that led from it to a vein in Parilla's neck. "One lung's collapsed but I sealed it off . . . the entrance wound I mean. I think he'll make it but we have to get him to a surgeon quick."

"Five minutes, Boss," Soult shouted over the rumble of the idling Ocelot's engine.

Parilla stirred. "Sorry . . . I got . . . hit . . . Patricio."

"Never mind that, Raul. A good commander leads from in front. You're good, friend."

"Thanks . . . 
compadre
. You need to . . . get up top, now . . . I think."

"You take good care of him, Doc. We need him back on his feet, soonest."

Then, patting Parilla's shoulder very gently, Carrera climbed aboard the track and directed it upward. As the track reached the top of the trail it slowed down to allow the passengers to jump off. Carrera looked up after landing and saw a Balboan machine gunner blasting away at an improvised white flag sticking out of a bunker. A flame-thrower team moved to a vantage point facing the bunker. A tongue of flame licked out, pouring fire into the entrance. Inside, men screamed like small children, burning alive.

Furious, Carrera stormed over to where a Balboan signifer crouched. "What the hell is the meaning of this?"

The junior said nothing, but pointed down into the trench behind him. Carrera and Soult gazed down at the bodies of Robles and his men.

Carrera remembered something Sitnikov had once spoken of, back in Balboa.
Pashtia started like that,
the Volgan had said.
We didn't go in there trying to kill everything that lived. Hell, we went in as
liberators.
But one day two young troops from my battalion came up missing after a patrol. We found them, days later, about a kilometer from our base camp. Their hands were bound, eyes gouged out. They'd been castrated and had their throats cut. Not knowing the guilty parties, higher headquarters wouldn't permit retaliation. Can't say I blame them. But the troops retaliated on their own, anyway. I can't blame them, either. Then the Pashtun hit back, raiding a hospital and slaughtering the wounded. Soon enough, atrocity became established policy on both sides.

Carrera pondered for all of five seconds before telling Soult, "Give me the radio." Then he made a call to the entire command net.

"This is Legate Carrera.
Duce
Parilla has been wounded but is expected to live. I am in command. On Hill 1647 we have found that the enemy has murdered five of our men. I am, therefore, and in accordance with the laws of war, ordering that no prisoners will be taken on Hill 1647. All are to be killed in a legitimate reprisal.

"Let me be clear about this. The normal rules of war remain in effect everywhere
but
Hill 1647. Enemy who clearly indicate they wish to surrender elsewhere will be taken prisoner and will be well treated. This reprisal
only
affects the enemy on Hill 1647. All parties, acknowledge."

Ali clearly heard the screams leaking in from men hiding all around him. He heard some of them begging for their lives as they were shot down on the spot. He looked around frantically for something white to wave. Finding nothing, he stripped off his uniform trousers and removed his underpants. He hardly noticed that the white briefs were stained where he had shat himself. He took the briefs and tied them to his riding crop. Then he dragged the boy, still hiding under the bed, out and forced the crop into his hands.

"Wave this," Ali said, as he pushed the poor child out of the bunker. The boy flew back, bloody and ruined, when an enemy machine gun opened up on him. Aghast, Ali retreated back into his bunker, whimpering.

A small dark object flew in. Ali ducked behind his field desk, which he frantically turned over for cover from the expected blast. The explosion, when it came, burst both the Sumeri's eardrums.

Maybe they'll think everyone in here is dead now. Maybe . . . 

Ali's thoughts were cut short as a stream of liquid fire bounced off one wall by the bunker's dog-legged entrance. The fire splashed into the well-appointed room. Before it managed to burn up all the oxygen and suffocate him, Ali felt the flaming stuff touch upon and begin to eat away at his skin.

From outside the bunker, the engineer manning the flamethrower heard a satisfying scream. Grimly smiling, the engineer said, "Teach you how to treat prisoners, motherfuckers."

Times were hard for the Faithful. For a while, for many years, it had seemed they would take Europe by default. And yet the perfidious Euros had found their balls in the end, returned to their roots, and ghettoized or deported the Muslims among them. America had been more generous, in its way. It welcomed Muslims, in considerable numbers. Yet it did so in the sure knowledge that its way of life was so seductive that few, if any, among them would remain true Muslims.

In their home, yes, even in Saudi Arabia, things were no better. The Saud Clan, fickle and faithless, had turned from their Salafist roots and concerned themselves ever more with sequestering the diminishing oil wealth of the country for their own benefit. A large and ruthless secret police organization barely sufficed to keep a lid on things. Mosques were purged; holy men disappeared without a trace. All was black.

The vision came to Abdul ibn Faisal as a dream, yet it was a true dream. He knew it was. No dream had ever seemed so real and when the voice of the Almighty had called in it . . . 

"Servant of the Beautiful One, Servant of the Beneficent, Servant of the Most Compassionate . . ." and on through all the ninety-nine names of Allah. These, though, Abdul knew for himself. Indeed, he could have recited the ninety-nine names in his sleep. For all those ninety-nine, it could still have been just a dream.

But when the mighty voice had thundered out the one-hundredth name?
Then
Abdul had known that this was not just any dream, but a sending from the Most High.

The world around the dreaming Abdul was little beyond light and his own prostrate, quivering form. The great voice of Allah seemed to come from everywhere.

"The believers fear going to this new world, this Donya al Jedidah," rumbled the great voice. "They ask, "Where shall we turn in prayers when al Makkah is not even on the same world? How shall we make the hajj, even once in a lifetime, when the vacuum between the worlds prevents it?" Go you forth unto the believers, Abdul ibn Faisal. Tell them that they are to take a single rock from the Kaaba, in al Makkah. This rock you shall know when you see it for I shall mark it for your eyes alone. And it shall be one of those set by Abraham, stone upon stone, as a shelter for Hagar and her son, Ishmael, the Father of the Arab People.

"This stone shall be set in silver after it is taken. And you shall take it with you to
al Donya al Jedidah
where you shall build a new Kaaba. The believers, such as I shall have given the Grace to know they are chosen, shall follow you, some in one ship and others in others. There you shall settle, as Salafiyah, you and those who follow."

"I am the Maker of Universes. Obey me."

Trembling still, Abdul awakened from his dream to find himself on his bed, on all fours, and with his head down low. His second wife lay sleeping beside him; so he saw when he looked up.

It seemed to him that the light by which he saw his wife ebbed very slowly.

By steeping himself in military history an officer will be able to guard himself against excessive humanitarian notions. It will teach him that certain severities are indispensable in war, that the only true humanity lies in the ruthless application of them.

—Kriegsbrauch im Landkriege, 1902 Edition

It was too cold by far for meat to rot. Even so, the air was thick with the stench of phosphorus, napalm, explosives, blood and shit from ruptured intestines. Smoke floated thickly on the breeze. To the north, the steady
whop-whop-whop
told of the helicopters returning from dropping off the bulk of the Cazador Cohort. Behind, the muted roar of scores of tanks and other armored vehicles droned.