"Daddy!" Arbeit's young daughter, Lucretia, screamed as he came through the double front door. The girl launched herself at her father, wrapping him in a tight hug. She then took his hand and led him out to a patio overlooking the garden.
"I supervised the cooks making dinner myself, Daddy," Lucretia announced, proudly. "Though I had to beat one for being naughty."
"Good girl, Lucretia," he father congratulated. "I hope you didn't damage her."
Lucretia hung her head slightly. "Not much, I didn't, Father. I will need a new riding crop, though," she added, brightly.
"That's my girl."
Chapter Twenty-two
And although it appears that the World has become effeminate and Heaven disarmed, yet this arises without doubt more from the baseness of men who have interpreted our Religion in accordance with Indolence and not in accordance with Virtu. For if they were to consider that it (our Religion) permits the exaltation and defense of the country, they would see that it desires that we love and honor her (our country), and that we prepare ourselves so that we can be able to defend her.
—Machiavelli, The Discourses, Book Two, Chapter II
10/8/469 AC, The Base, Kashmir
As he usually did, Bashir lay down for the night with his yellow radio's earpiece in his ear. Also, as usual, he punched in the code, hoping against hope that tonight there'd be an answer. There had been none since those five poor devils had been taken and crucified.
The coded message he sent out was simple: "tonight . . . tomorrow . . . tonight . . . tomorrow." He punched it in and pressed the key to transmit in a burst. This message must get through or my family is dead, he thought. Closing his eyes after the message went out Bashir was almost shocked to hear in the earpiece, "Message received. Thank you."
11/8/469 AC, Camp San Lorenzo, Pashtia
The chill early morning breeze raised dust across the regularly laid out encampment. By the airfield, in the tall, sandbagged control tower, Carrera scanned past the high earthen walls.
There were eyes on the camp. There were always eyes on the camp. You couldn't stop them from seeing. You couldn't stop their owners from reporting. The trick, then, was to make them think they saw something different, to make the unusual look normal and even the normal unusual.
The Legion had since its arrival kept at least one cohort operating along the Kashmir-Pashtia border. That could remain there. Indeed, moving them without replacing them would have been inherently suspicious. Also, there were always at least four Pashtun Scout maniples and two to three Cazador maniples operating somewhere in the Balboan Zone of Responsibility, or BZOR. Few units operated without being in range of some kind of artillery or heavy mortar support.
Both Pashtun Scouts and Cazadors operated further from camp than line infantry, and were much more likely to rely on air support than artillery or mortar fire if they found themselves in a jam.
Leaving one infantry cohort and the bulk of the service and support troops to guard the camp, Carrera had sent out one infantry cohort to replace the Cazadors and part of the Scouts. This was done slowly, over a period of days, so as to incite no comment. The infantry flew out with the morning supplies; the Scouts and Cazadors flew back, hidden in the IM-71s closed, almost windowless, cargo bays.
At the camp's own airfield the Scouts had spent a mere day being partially briefed and fitted with civilian clothing suitable for travel. They were issued passports with visas. They'd then transshipped onward , some via the Legion's AN-21s and 23s for the major airport at Chobolo, the capital of Pashtia, still others on civilian buses to cross the border. Still others left openly on horseback. Clothing for the foot scouts had been easy, since the one-size-fits-almost-all robe was common dress where the Scouts were headed.
For the most part, for those who flew out, this was Sumer, where Sada's closest followers arranged further onward movement through Yithrab for some, directly to Peshtwa, Kashmir for others.
The long range patrol that had served as retrans for the Legion's spy in the enemy base was not replaced. Instead, a very quiet remotely piloted vehicle took up station within range and circled expectantly.
11/8/469 AC, Peshtwa International Airport, Kashmir
Subadar Masood spoke Urdu, the primary language of Kashmir, flawlessly and with a proper Peshtwa accent. He waited impatiently for a group of twenty-one of his scouts, all in civilian dress, to debark from the plane. With these, four legionary officers including Jimenez, and those men who had arrived previously, he would have a force of fifty-one men in the capital. This was just large enough to minimally man the vehicles he had purchased for cash over the preceding weeks, and also just few enough to excite no real comment in bustling Peshtwa.
Weapons, too, had been purchased. Masood smiled to think that he was buying from the very same men who made their livelihood selling to his enemies. Since he knew what he was about and the Salafis rarely did, he was confident, at least, of having obtained superior products.
Such purchases, on such a scale, would have excited comment almost anywhere else on Terra Nova; one man buying nearly six hundred rifles and machine guns, plus several tons of explosives and ammunition. In the decentralized ways of the Salafi movement, with no one really in charge (though Mustafa was still working on bringing some of the disparate submovements to heel) and its leaders more inspirational than operational, it was merely routine.
The only interest shown in the transactions by the government or any of its agents were requests for bribes, or baksheesh. Masood paid, of course; this was the price of doing business. He took some small satisfaction in haggling the bribes demanded down from the obscene—which would have excited interest, if paid— to the reasonable.
With weapons, ammunition and explosives excess to immediate needs all safely stowed in the cargo compartments of the buses, Masood directed the drivers and co-drivers to mount up. Without fanfare the column moved south to its rendezvous with the rest of the maniples committed to the attack.
11/8/469 AC, The Base, Kashmir TTL
The Admiral's launch from the Spirit of Peace didn't need a landing strip, except as a convenience. The price to be paid for not having one was expenditure of fuel. Mustafa had promised fuel and Robinson had believed him.
I was told this area was safe, Robinson thought, doubtfully, as he looked out the window to see a long line of what looked like bomb craters. Guess not.
Robinson had been a bit skeptical when the Salafi sheik had promised a cavern big enough to shelter his launch. Looking out his portside window, however, he had to admit that the excavation revealed as dozens of men pulled aside its camouflaging curtain was indeed impressive, easily as large as the VIP docking bay of the Spirit of Peace.
The pilot hovered briefly until he was certain that the concealing curtain was pulled far enough away to permit his shuttle easy entrance. Then with a few gentle adjustments of the horizontal thrusters the launch began to slide left, into the cavern. The Salafis replaced the curtain as efficiently as they had removed it.