Like the dogs of war
For the future of this land on the ride to Agadir . . .
—Mike Batt, Ride to Agadir
28/2/468 AC, Firebase Pedro de Lisaldo, Pashtia
"Sayidi, it's not like they don't know we're coming for them," said Qabaash, in the confines of the conference room tent near the main command post for the Legion's expeditionary force. "And, to a considerable degree of certainty, when. We can choose the exact time and the place and even the manner, but we cannot choose the fact or the season. The Kibla Pass must be cleared; they know this. They will be waiting and they will be prepared."
"'Prepared' is possibly an understatement, boss," added Triste. "Even if what the FS Army has caught moving into the area represents ninety percent of everything that was sent up there by the Ikhwan, and it doesn't, that other theoretical ten percent is going to be a bitch, taken head on."
"What are we facing?" Carrera asked.
"A reinforced brigade," Triste answered. "I can't tell you exactly how reinforced they might be. Assume more than their fair share of heavy mortars, possibly even a few tanks, lots of RGLs . . . fair amount of anti-aircraft, guns and shoulder-fired guided missiles, both. That's all pretty concentrated on the best landing zones, too. Some of the guns are reported to be in caves that cover the LZs and which are a just plain bitch to see until it's too late.
"Assume mines and booby traps and major improvised explosive devices. Assume the sides and underbeds of the road through the pass are wired for sound"—milspeak for wired to explode—"and that most of the LZs will be mined and covered by direct and indirect fire."
Miguel Lanza, head of the air ala, usually kept fairly quiet at these little brainstorming sessions. Today was different.
"Jefe, there are half a dozen LZs within six or eight miles of the summit of the pass in which I could set down Qabaash' entire brigade in no more than three or four lifts. Every one of them is entirely unsuitable; I'd lose nearly every bird I tried to set down."
"Fine. What's not unsuitable?" Carrera asked.
Qabaash raised an eyebrow at Triste, who proceeded to produce a photo and a large scale map and hand them over to Carrera. "This one might work, boss."
Carrera's face looked highly dubious. The photo showed a somewhat narrow ledge—no more than fifty meters in width—hunched against a series of cliffs with serrations in them. On the side away from the cliffs was a sheer drop.
"What's this good for? Maybe five or six birds landing at a time. It would take forever to get Qabaash' brigade on the ground."
"I think more like four birds at a time, jefe," Lanza corrected. "And the cross winds coming around that rock outcropping will be very difficult. But no; it won't take forever. Assume we'll have to underload the helicopters some because of the thin air. Okay, so it takes damned near everything I have to get all of the Salah al Din brigade into the air at once. Call it one hundred and twenty choppers, anyway. At four per lift, or one per lift for the IM-62s, it will take just over an hour to get everyone in and out."
"But I can be moving on the pass on foot as soon as I have two companies landed," interjected Qabaash. "That's less than ten minutes . . . "
"Closer to five," Lanza corrected.
"Better still, closer to five minutes after the first chopper touches down and I am already on my way to the pass."
"And then what, Qabaash?" Carrera asked, frowning. "You've got two companies heading into a meatgrinder with at least a battalion dug in strongly." He looked over the map and photo again. "And you've got two, count 'em, two crappy trails from the landing zone to the objective."
"That's only if they all go towards the real landing zone," Lanza said. "I can buzz and false insert at every other good and even remotely possible LZ in the area. They'll never hear or see enough to know which is the real landing. I might lose a couple but . . . really . . . they don't have to commit to a landing, just to buzz the spot. The artillery can prep . . . "
"Not much artillery," interrupted Harrington, the logistician. "If you're moving all of Qabaash' boys at once there'll be nothing left to airlift guns and shells into range. Only the multiple rocket launchers can range to the summit of the pass from where we can resupply by truck."
"Okay," Lanza conceded. "Have a little faith. With the MRLs, the Finches, aerially dropped guided bombs from the Nabakovs, and gunship support we can still put on a good show of prepping enough landing zones that they won't know where we're coming from. That means Qabaash will face at most . . . "
"A company," Qabaash finished. "And the day two companies of Salah al Din can't handle a company of Ikhwan irregulars will be a cold, happy and batless day in Hell." He sounded very pleased at the prospect of demonstrating this point in the near future.
Carrera held up his hand for silence. Immediately the other's shut up.
"We'll do it. As Qabaash and Lanza say. Terry?"
"Here, boss," piped in Terry Johnson, for the nonce commanding the Tercio de Cazadores. His new rifle project was progressing under his assistant, another Volgan enticed away from the Rodina.
"I want you to start inserting teams all over the area within the next couple of days. In particular, get a platoon—a company if you think it needful and possible—into the area of the LZ . . . mmm, what should we call that LZ?"
"Let's call it 'Landing Zone Agadir,' Patricio," Qabaash supplied. "It was a small but lovely fight back on Old Earth, long ago."
"Agadir, then. Dan?"
"Yes, Pat?"
"Work up the orders for review within two days."
* * *
Compared to most modern command posts, headquarters for the Legion was really rather sedate. True, underlings scurried about. Maps were updated. Occasionally one might hear a voice or two raised in argument. For the most part, though, it was calm and quiet. And so it should have been. There was little reason for frenzy in a force that placed a premium on individual initiative at lower levels and which rarely tried to manage a battle in too exquisite a detail outside of artillery preparations.
(On the other hand, if one really wanted to see frenzy, one could always go down to a cohort command post.)
Instead, the CP for the Legion was a place for the housing and support of the commander and the staff, a place for planning future operations, and a meeting place for those times when face to face orders to groups of men had to be given. Ordinarily, there really wasn't any reason for frenzy.
Instructing his driver to get a meal and some sleep, Carrera entered the main tent, ordering, "At ease," before anyone had a chance to disrupt work by calling, "Attention." Stopping by the operations and intelligence maps, he took in an overview—updated about three hours previously—of the current operation. There were no surprises, he noted, with satisfaction.
He then grabbed a sandwich from a tray thoughtfully left there by the HQ mess platoon, before retiring to his own, attached, tent to catch up on correspondence.
On the top of the pile of printed off sheets was a missive from Parilla.
Patricio: