* * *
Quiroz grunted with satisfaction as he saw the guerillas drop. "Good shot, Salazar."
The sniper didn't answer. Already he and his spotter were scanning for another target. Unfortunately, the guerilla band had gone to ground—albeit not without setting off another mine. Of good targets they saw none.
After visually sweeping the entire area, the sniper announced. "No good targets, Sarge."
Quiroz muttered, "True, but only for some interpretations of 'good targets.' Buuut . . . kill the horses, Salazar. Radio; get on the horn and tell headquarters we've got a band pinned. Tell them we can't take them all and if they want prisoners they need to reinforce."
Quiroz stopped speaking for a moment, tapping his face with his fingers. His eyes settled on his assistant, Cabo Vega, then on the other sniper, Legionary Guzman.
"Vega," he said, "take charge here. I'm going to take Guzman forward and act as his spotter. We'll be"—Quiroz finger pointed—"somewhere over by that boulder that looks like a tit. Keep on the horn nagging headquarters to get some infantry here."
* * *
As usual, Noorzad found the screaming of the horses somehow more disconcerting than the screaming of his own men. After all, was not the horse especially praised by Allah? And yet the Holy Koran held out no hope of Paradise for them, even should they be killed in God's cause.
The one good thing Noorzad could see was that the enemy fired infrequently, however well. It must be only the one sniper, he presumed. Thank Allah for small favors.
Then came the moment when two beings, a man and a donkey, screamed out almost simultaneously. That told him there was a second sniper team out there. Worse, perhaps, while he could make out both the shot and the sonic boom of the initial sniper butchering his men, this new source of fire made neither. That, that possibility of being killed silently, was terrifying.
"Malakzay?" Noorzad called out. "Are you still with me?"
"Yes, Sahib. Here I am."
A bullet snapped overhead. A miss, thankfully. Yet another struck a rock nearby but that one made no snap beyond the striking of the lead on the rock. The snipers had given up on surprise and, to an extent, even very careful shots. It was as if they were trying to hold the mujahadin in position for some greater menace. That was worrying, as well.
Noorzad hesitated. He hated giving the order. But . . . crack.
"Pass the word to stampede the horses straight up the eastern side of the trail, herding them north."
"But Noorzad . . . "
"Just do it!" the latter snapped.
* * *
It was only a couple of horses, at first, Quiroz saw. Quickly that brace became a herd and, moreover, a herd with some riders in it as a few of the enemy used the horses to try their own breakout attempt. The horses set off mine after mine. But what would fell a man immediately didn't necessarily do the same with animals five times bigger. It was a strange and horrible scene, the more horrible as more horses were swallowed up in the billows of evil, black smoke only to emerge moments later trailing dangling intestines and broken limbs.
"What the fuck have you stopped firing for, Guzman?"
The .51 sniper shook his sturdy brown head and answered, "It's just too . . . nasty . . . sorry, Sergeant." He settled back into the stock to resume firing.
* * *
"I think the way is clear, Noorzad," Malakzay announced. "The last couple of animals standing made it through."
The sun was setting to the west now. Soon it would be dark. Did the infidels have their cursed night vision equipment? Noorzad had to presume that they did. But . . . he knew from his experience with the Taurans that the things were limited. He thought he could escape under cover of night.
Crack!
20/9/467 AC, Kibla Pass
The sun was high overhead, casting a shadowless light down onto the gruesome scene. The Cazadors had come out, dressed in the pixilated tiger stripes they shared with most of the Legion. Beside them, lined up on the road, were about one hundred tall, lean and fierce looking men mounted on hungry-looking horses. All stood well to the north of the minefield. It was long duration and was not supposed to self-detonate for another two weeks. Still, quality control at the factory being, at best, imperfect, it generally didn't pay to take chances.
"Quien esta el jefe aqui?" one of the ruffians asked.
Quiroz did a double take on seeing a mounted, bearded, dirty horseman who spoke such clear Spanish. He'd been advised over the radio of the Pashtun Scouts arrival, and so had held his fire. Still, the incongruous appearance of border bandit and good Spanish came as a shock.
He saluted the speaker and announced, "Sir, Sergeant Quiroz reports."
Cano returned the salute from horseback, then dismounted. "Tribune Cano, Sergeant, Fourth Infantry Tercio seconded to the Pashtun Mounted Scouts."
Cano took a moment to look around at the scattered bodies of men and horse. He put out his hand and said, "Damned fine job."
"Thank you, sir. We got maybe half of them. Maybe even two thirds. The rest got away."
Cano heard the subtle rebuke. "We rode as fast as we could, Sergeant. But we got the word late and intercepted two small groups of guerillas on the way." Cano shrugged. Fortunes of war.
"What now, sir?" Quiroz asked.
"We're going to try to pursue up the mountains," Cano answered.
"Well . . . sir . . . make sure they don't do to you what we did to them.
"How could they, Sergeant? They are not men so good as yours, nor are my men so bad as them." Cano laughed, "And they don't have aircraft to drop mines on our heads."
Interlude
Turtle Bay, New York, 4 September, 2105
In over a century and a half, no one had been able to strip the UN bureaucracy of its perks. No matter how constrained the budget, and in olden days it had been sometimes very constrained indeed, free parking was their charter-given right. Remuneration at the highest level found anywhere on the planet their just due. Generous educational benefits for their children only fair. Fresh water poured by human servants an utter necessity to the forwarding of their sacred work on behalf of mankind.
One of those servants poured now for the three person hiring committee tasked with sorting out the right kind of people from the mass of aspirants.
"Goldstein won't do," said one of the committee, Guillaume Sand, placing the file aside.
"Of course not," agreed another, Ibrahim Lakhdar. "Like we accept Jews anymore. They've served their purpose."
"To be fair, Goldstein claims not to be a practicing Jew," objected the third, Alan Menage.
"It's in the blood," Lakhdar sneered.
Menage shrugged. No sense it getting Ibrahim all worked up over it. Besides, it isn't like I really care about the Jews.