Oh, HELL yeah.
When you've been slowing dying in the desert, you'll do a lot for a cracker and some cool water.
I knew that was the reason she was answering in the affirmative. Did I feel like a heel?
Oh, HELL no.
Because I knew that my guys, and the Nepos, would treat them gently or I'd damned well beat the shit out of them. We'd seen what was going on in the camp. We'd seen the lines from time to time. That was probably when some girl, maybe Salah, was being put in her place. Rape is a technique of power. You teach a bitch, be that a guy in prison or a female under your control, who is boss by raping them. It is very nearly the ultimate loss of control over one's body.
I couldn't take in all the female refugees. But I could do some good in the fucking world. Gray good, but still good.
But how to bell the cat?
I decided that the best way to bell a cat is kill it. Hell, talk about good in the world . . . Hmm . . .
The next day, bright and early, Strykers started rolling out of the front gate of the camp. Nobody was moving in the direction of Abadan except the continued trickle of refugees. There were, in other words, no secondary threats. Good thing because most of the company was buttoned up and coming to call on the refugee camp.
At first people got up and started heading towards the road thinking that it was the daily food and water ration. We'd shifted to morning for various reasons so that was reasonable.
But as more and more Strykers rolled out, the people set up a wail. They thought we were leaving.
The Strykers formed up around the gate, then rolled down to the camp. Then they spread out to surround it.
Each of the Strykers had the commander "out and up" in his cupola. The Strykers had been slightly redesigned over the years so the commander's cupola was now a circle of armor which just his head peeked over. They were not good targets.
What were good targets were the two guys on the top deck. Of course, each of them was holding a military grade sniper rifle. So you weren't going to get many shots.
Behind the Strykers were the mortar tracks with their water buffalos and a ten-ton truck.
The lead Stryker waited until the rest were arrayed and some communications were effected. There wasn't much cover in the refugee camp. Hell, it was surprising that everyone hadn't died of exposure. I was getting ready to start fixing that.
But the first and most important thing was to establish who was boss.
When everything was in place, we rolled up to the edge of the refugees.
Let me try to do justice to this picture.
Take seventy-four cars and array them randomly in the desert. Not all were cars. There were four SUVs, nine minivans and fifteen pickup trucks.
Off to one side put more cars and such but they're all blackened piles of rubble.
Scattered in and around these cars and such, place whatever you can imagine for shelter. Tarps held up by twine. Plastic sheets. Blankets serving as tents.
Into this throw garbage. No food, mind you. Call it trash. Inorganic. I was getting ready to deal with the organic trash.
Add in some small personal posessions. Pile those somewhat less randomly around a cluster of six of the minivans and two of the SUVs. Anything of any real value, put in that cluster. Hell, there were even some unopened MRE and "halal" bags.
Throw in about a thousand people. All of them unwashed. Most of them not in amongst the cars. Just scatter them around the desert, just sitting there. No fires because the nearest wood that wasn't under our control was ten miles away.
There is an almost unnoticed open area between the majority of these survivors and the cluster.
Add in some dug holes that were supposed to be where people shat and pissed. They weren't used much. Add in a lot of piles of human dung, huge clouds of flies around same.
Picture Strykers opening up around this area that covered maybe four acres of hell. Troops unass and start moving through the outer periphery of the refugees. They stop well away from the cluster. They are moving in three-man teams. One guy turns to the rear, the other two face inward. All of them, as if by magic, take a knee with their weapons pointed at the ground. They're in the midst of the crowd.
The crowd gets the picture and starts moving. Away from the cluster.
All of this takes place before the troop door of the lead Stryker lowers. Around from the back comes an officer in a dapper uniform. He is carrying not a single weapon. He holds a swagger stick and uses it to wave away the flies. He is, however, wearing a radio and headset.
He is wearing sunglasses.
He is followed by six troops in heavy armor. Their weapons are not down. They are up and training on anyone near him who might be considered a threat. Two face forward, two to the side and two backwards, walking carefully to avoid the filth.
In the midst of this cluster of troops is a seventh, equally well armed. He is followed by a young woman in a blue jumpsuit that looks as if it has recently been removed from a package. Her hair is clean and brushed. She is clean and brushed.
The Stryker has parked as close to the cluster as it can without running over refugees or their meager posessions. It is a short walk to the edge of the cluster where a number of armed men are now up clutching AKs and looking very angry.
The unarmed and unarmored officer does not appear to care if they are angry. He doesn't appear to notice them. He is whacking at flies and smiling and nodding at the few refugees who are too tired or despairing to move out of the way.
Out of one of the minivans comes a large man. He is at least six feet two inches tall and broad with a hard, dark face and black hair. He is carrying an light assault machine gun and bandoliers crossed across his chest. Also two pistols and at least four knives. He is clean shaven but otherwise closely resembles the sort of pirate Sinbad may have had to deal with.
The officer, by the way, is looking down at him. The officer is . . . not small. However he is unarmed.
There are more armed men emerging. They appear to have been resting in the clustered vehicles. A few young women follow them out. Some of them very young.
Do you have this picture clearly? Fourteen armed and angry men. An unarmed captain who is clearly happy to see them. Refugees scrambling to get out of the line of fire. Heavily armed troops in an array that can cover most of the angles of fire.
It's a clear morning, just after dawn, still reasonably cool but looking to be another hot one.
"Hollywood," the officer says, languidly, raising the swagger stick. "Front and center."
The large, armed, man starts saying something angrily. The interpreter cuts him off and gestures to the officer.
"My name is Bandit Six. I am the commander, pro tempore, of Titan Base. Translate."
This is translated. The large, angry man says something and the others laugh.
"Yes. Having completed all of our initial preparation missions within the base, it seems time to do something about the situation outside the walls. We also require some assistance."
A glare.
"Indeed. We will be taking thirty of your ladies to handle camp chores. And they will be the younger and prettier ones."
A female head is peeking out of the minivan the large man had vacated. The girl is probably twelve. She has a large bruise on her cheek and a cut lip. Her clothes are tatters.
The large man is now more angry and speaking quite angrily. He reaches for one of his pistols and draws it, possibly to wave in the air.