Only then, when the rest of the men in the town saw that the most serious immediate threat to their families was identified and removed, were the men questioned, privately and individually. In particular, the MI folks were interested in who within the town could reasonably be said to be part of the infrastructure of the guerillas. Those that were so identified, in secret, were further questioned. Some were sent away for more serious inquisition. After questioning, the rest were taken, one at a time, to search out portions of the town and especially the houses the women had identified as their own.
At about that point certain discrepancies crept up. Those responsible, male or female, were taken away to be questioned, once again, rigorously. Most of the discrepancies were cleared up in fairly short order. A few more people were sent to trial as potential guerillas. All of those were sentenced to be shot. Most then decided that discretion was, after all, the better part of valor.
The quality of voluntary information delivered to the MI suddenly grew to amazing heights. Sentence was then suspended, and prisoners released, on the understanding that if there were ever again any reason to suspect those half-pardoned people of further guerilla activity that not only would they be killed, but the Legion would send their own auxiliaries, Arabs or Pashtun, back with pictures and orders to kill every relation on whom they could get their hands.
A few of the captured guerillas were kept on hand for further questioning. The rest were given a very quick trial, made to dig their own graves, and then shot.
Then the group, less one platoon to watch the town, moved on to the next.
19/9/467 AC, Kibla Pass, Pashtia
In anyone else's army Sergeant Quiroz probably would have been a commissioned officer. He had a university education, from the University of La Plata. His IQ was in the range of the low 120s. He had no criminal record and was, all around, a good soldier, respected by superiors, peers and subordinates alike. Hell, Quiroz had been an officer in the army of La Plata.
In the Legion del Cid? "No, not good enough. Especially are we suspicious of you having been an officer in an army we consider, at best, fourth-rate. Centurion track is the best we can offer, and you'll have to prove yourself as a noncom first."
Thus it was that Quiroz found himself leading a nine-man squad of Cazadors, in a hide position overlooking a donkey track that led through a pass on its way over the mountains to the north. His nearest friendly neighbor was six miles to the east. And he didn't even have all his squad with him as five of the nine were sleeping in a hide some hundreds of meters away.
"Company, Sergeant," one of Quiroz's men announced. "Thirty men . . . no, thirty-one, on horseback with a donkey train. They look awfully tired. Might just be nomads."
Quiroz crawled up to the scout's position and gestured for his binoculars.
"No . . . not nomads. Nomads would have rifles but not machine guns. Those fuckers are heavily armed. Hmmm . . . more than we can take in a heads up fight."
The sergeant scuttled backwards, snake-like, and pulled a map from the cargo pocket on the leg of his trousers. He knew, generally, how far the advance of the Legion had gone and also knew that they were not yet in artillery range. Even the rocket launchers wouldn't reach so far from the very front. And those, being soft-skinned, were rarely right at the front.
"What's available for air?" he asked his radio-telephone operator, or RTO.
"Nothing, Sarge. I asked. Well . . . there are two Turbo-Thrushes heading this way but they're each carrying loads of scatterable mines for further up the pass. Not even any gun pods."
"Mines, huh? Tell them I want those aircraft." Quiroz glanced at his long-range sniper. "Salazar, what's the range?"
"About fifteen hundred meters," the sniper answered. "It's a pretty long shot. They'll start to run right after the first shot too and then I'll never hit them."
"Can you make that shot?"
Salazar wet one finger and held it up in the breeze. "Possibly," he answered, reaching for the waterproof case to his rifle. "Just possibly. If I had a 'forty-one' I'd be a lot more confident."
"Get ready to try."
"Roger."
Quiroz looked at the last man in the group, a new private, and said, "Go back and wake the others. Bring them here, loaded for bear."
* * *
Hard, hard, Noorzad mourned, in thinking of the men he'd left behind. Hard it is to break up this band I worked and fought so hard to build. Hard to lose the company of comrades until we meet in Paradise. Hard to hear the screams of the wounded and the dying. Hardest of all to think that the horrible things I've done might be for nothing.
"No," he said aloud. "It can't be for nothing. Allah would never permit such a fate."
"Chief, we've got company," said, Malakzay, gesturing as he rode to Noorzad's left.
"Eh? Oh, shit, not again."
Noorzad looked over his shoulder and saw two of those damnable planes these infidels used. Even this small core of his band had been struck three times from the air in the last two days.
"They're just circling," he observed. "We probably don't look like much from above."
Malakzay looked around at the loose column and answered, "Maybe not, but from the ground we look a lot like what we are."
"They're coming low to look us over," Noorzad announced at the top of his voice. "Look innocent, boys."
The planes indeed came in low, not more than one hundred meters above the ground. At just about that distance from the tail of Noorzad's column they began emitting smoke as if from the mouth of a volcano. Noorzad's eyes caught numerous small objects—indeed, hundreds of them—erupting from squarish containers on the planes' undersides. The first of these hit ground yet, to Noorzad's surprise, did not explode. He was just digesting this bit of information when one of the cylinders in his view sent out what looked like six or seven almost invisibly thin wires with small weights on the end. One of his fighters reached for one of the wires.
"Sto . . . "
Boom.
* * *
Quiroz had watched with keen interest as the planes swept over the guerillas, dispensing their cargo. He didn't know too much of the technical details of the scatterable mines. From where he lay, though, it looked like the two Turbo-Finches had laid down a fairly thick pattern.
He saw in his binoculars as one of the guerillas reached over to touch either one of the mines or one of the tripwires they emitted. He then saw a good sized puff of angry, black smoke appear as that guerilla was tossed backward. Best of all, he saw that the guerilla didn't arise and that no one went to his aid.
"Salazar, you can take your shot anytime now."
"Roger, Sarge," answered the sniper, easing himself into firing position behind his .34-caliber, scoped rifle.
* * *
"Shit, shit, shit! These bastards are as evil as the Blue Jinn!" Malakzay exclaimed, glancing down at the torn and faceless body laying on the ground.
"Blue Jinn, indeed," answered Noorzad. "but cursing them does no good. How do we—?"
The bullet's crack came as a surprise. Not far away from the two a single man was struck down with a small hole in his chest and a much larger one in his back. As he fell he hit a mine's tripwire very near to where the wire emerged from the mine. The mine promptly jumped up and blew up, scattering guts to the wind. Another guerilla, too near to the explosion, went down shrieking and clutching at his groin where a largish fragment had torn off his scrotum and testes.