Carnifex (56 page)

"It's worse than that, you know, love," Jaquie had explained. "We're the only ones getting any aboard and that has to be hard, no pun intended, on the rest of the crew."

"Well we
could
do something about that," Marta countered.

She was joking, but Jaquie took her seriously. "Do you think we should? I mean, it isn't like it would be anything new for either of us. We might not enjoy it all that much but it would be foolish to pretend it would hurt us any. And we could assemble quite a little nest egg for when we're discharged. I think the guys would appreciate it."

In fact, though the transfer from the auxiliaries had brought a certain amount of respect from the men, it had been a pay cut. Much of that loss would be made up, in time, through the deferred benefits that came upon release from the
Legion
. Still, their joint bank account hadn't been growing at the rate it had aboard Fosa's Fornication Frigate.

"Do you miss it?" Marta asked, seriously. "Guys, I mean."

"Honestly?" Jaquie looked at Martha carefully to see if the answer would hurt. "Not as much as I love it with you. But, yes, I miss it."

"We'll talk to Rodriguez then," Marta said. "But if he says it's okay you can only do it if I get to watch."

"Ooo,
that
would be fun."

Kolon Thota was about as neutral a port as one could find in this war. Oh yes, the island of Anula had its share of civil strife and civil war, but neither Moslems—nor the Salafi fanatics among them—nor Christians were implicated. There were, of course, a fair number of Moslems on the island. Enough of them were Salafi, too. But the decision had been made early on by
Mustafa
to keep the island as neutral territory, a safe harbor and entranceway for the
Ikhwan
's operatives into the rest of the world. The port was modern, fully equipped, and well staffed by skilled shipwrights and chandlers.

It was, thus, a perfect spot for the
Hoogaboom
to have made its final preparations for the attack on the
Dos Lindas
. It was also a perfect spot for Abdul Aziz to intercept the ship with his hand-carried change of orders.

The captain looked terribly . . . disappointed. Abdul Aziz could well understand that. When one works oneself into a mind set to commit martyrdom for the cause, any delay is hardly to be tolerated. For one thing, delay brings with it the doubt that one will have the courage to endure the imminence of death—even with the certain promise of Paradise.

"But there's nothing for it, Captain," Abdul said, sympathetically. "The enemy fleet has moved. There is no real chance of catching them at sea. Moreover, at the Straits of Nicobar our chance of catching them as we have planned is even greater than it would have been off the Xamar coast."

"Success or failure is in the hands of Allah," the captain intoned.

"That's true, of course, Captain," Abdul agreed. "Yet the mullahs are gradually coming around to the idea that Allah cares about how hard we try, and the cleverness we bring to the fight. Mustafa and Nur al-Deen are convinced of it."

"Seems impious to me," the captain said. "Still, orders are orders and the Koran enjoins obedience. We shall wait."

After a moment's reflection the captain asked, "Would you care to inspect the ship?"

"Please. Mustafa expressly ordered me to see that you lack for nothing. Indeed, I've brought half a dozen Tauran slave girls for the enjoyment of your crew."

The captain thought on that for a moment. "We appreciate the slave girls, of course, but . . . should we keep them until the day? Sell them off just before? Kill them?"

"Anything but selling them beforehand, Captain, would be fine."

Parameswara and
al Naquib
rested on a fallen log under a deep, dark jungle canopy. Both men were soaked with sweat. For all that, they weren't so wet as the gangs of loincloth-clad slaves struggling under the lashes wielded by
al Naquib
's company of
Ikhwan.
A road paralleled the route of the column, about five kilometers to the east.

The slaves' burdens were conexes, or things that looked remarkably like conexes, painted in a mottled pattern and rolling on smooth, even logs cut down from the jungle. Moving the logs left behind as the conexes progressed was nearly all the rest the slaves got from their back- and heart-breaking labor of pulling on the ropes that moved the metal boxes forward.

"How much further?" the pirate king asked.

Al Naquib
pulled out a small device, not much larger than a cell phone, and consulted it. "About three hundred kilometers, by the Global Locating System," the
Ikhwan
answered. "Call it forty or fifty days . . . 
if
the slaves last through it."

"Do you think I should go ahead and move out to arrange relief crews?" the pirate king asked.

Al Naquib
thought upon that. After a few moments reflection, he answered, "That, yes. But not only for us. The people coming from the north, on the other side of the Straits, will need help as much as we will. But I am also concerned that you not leave a power vacuum behind you."

I
love
this Arab,
Parameswara rejoiced.
He understands my problems without my so much as voicing a complaint.

Two Suvarov Class cruisers had been subjected to a greater or lesser degree of refit. Neither had been given a new name yet but had to make do with their old Volgan ones. They'd be christened with legionary names later on.

Of the two, one was complete only to the extent of having serviceable guns and being generally livable. Like the second light aircraft carrier, this one would go to the Isla Real and serve as a stationary training vessel. The other was intended to join the Classis as a warship.

"Doesn't lack for much, does she?" Sitnikov asked of the chief of the port's shipfitters.

"Well . . . she really isn't fit to stand in line of battle alone, if that's what you mean, Legate," the shipfitter answered. "Her guns are fine though, along with her armor and her new AZIPODs. Radar's okay, of course, and being old Volgan it's actually better than newer stuff if she's looking out for stealthy aircraft. The sonar's the pits, though."

"Got to compromise somewhere," the Volgan answered. "And she's not sailing without a good escort with better sonar. How about the other three ships?"

"How about the concrete emplacements for them on the island?" retorted the fitter.

Sitnikov put out a hand, palm down with fingers spread, and wriggled it. "Carrera sent me an odd idea that he wants me to think about before we commit to a design for the coastal artillery. I'm thinking about it, too."

"I don't suppose . . . "

Sitnikov considered for a moment before answering, "No; I really can't discuss it. I can say that it won't matter to the ships' turrets; that it won't change what you have to do."

"Fair enough. Well . . . when you say the concrete pads are ready we can tow the ships to the island. I've got crew ready to remove the turrets and a ship with a crane rigged to lift them off and transfer them to land."

"That's all we need of you. The Legion will see to the rest."

The doctor looked utterly befuddled. He closed the file on his desk and said, "Jorge, I haven't a clue why you can see again. Your records indicate there was never any physical reason for your blindness. If there was no physical reason, then the blow you took in the brawl two weeks ago can't have been the cure, or at least not the physical cure. Your records indicate that your eyes were always able to see but that your mind refused to process the information. Maybe that fist coming at you was threat enough to overcome whatever reason your mind had for blocking off your sight."

"But I never saw the fist coming, Doctor," Mendoza answered. "It wasn't until Marqueli brought me around that I could see." Mendoza didn't remember that he'd blinked.

The doctor removed his own glasses and began cleaning them with a corner of his guayabera. He shook his head with frustration.

"I can't explain it, Jorge. I can only observe and report. If you would like, I can make you an appointment with a head doctor."

"No . . . no, thank you. I've had my share of those."

"Is this going to cost you any of your disability benefit?" the doctor asked.

Marqueli answered, "We've told the legionary disability office. They checked and said Jorge was already maxed out with the loss of his legs. He won't lose anything just for getting his sight back. They even said that he's still entitled to a paid helper—presumptively a wife and therefore me—with vision or not."

"That's generous," the doctor admitted. "But he was taking a doctorate. Will that . . . "

"No, doctor," Mendoza said. "That's a totally separate program. Though I admit . . . . " He glanced over at his wife.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I'm going to miss you're not reading to me."

She smiled, warmly, and reaching over to pat her husband's hand. "I still will if you like. On the other hand, you can read to yourself a lot quicker than I can read to you. I'll bet you, husband mine, that you make much faster progress this way than the old way."

"That's a thought, isn't it?"

In another ward, one at the opposite end of the hospital and behind doors continuously guarded, Khalid looked into a mirror at his new face and wondered,
What, if anything, is left of me?

Khalid had done his last hit, involving ricin and a pressurized gas projector, on the streets of Hajar, Yithrab. Unfortunately, he'd been made. Only a fast journey to a prearranged spot in the desert, and a last minute Cricket flight from the air arm of Sumeri Intelligence, had gotten him out of the country. His old face was known now and he could never have continued to work as long as he'd kept it.

It was amazing what could be done, though, with some small shifts in the corners of his eyes, a widening of the nose, pulling back of his ears, shaving down of the cheekbones, the addition of a spurious scar, and a change in the shape of his mouth.

The only problem is, it doesn't feel like
me
anymore. I almost wish—

Whatever thought Khalid had been about to complete, it was lost to the interruption of seeing a small, dark, and rather feral looking man appear in the mirror behind him.

"Legate Fernandez," Khalid said, before turning around.

Fernandez said nothing at first, but just peered intently, trying to match Khalid's new face to his old. Finally, satisfied, the intel chief shook his head and said, "Not a chance you will be identified short of a DNA screening. Very good."

"You know you've been detached from Sumeri Intelligence to work for me for the next two years, correct?"

"Yes, Legate, I understand that," Khalid said. "What I don't know is why?"

Fernandez smiled and answered, "Given your work history,
that
is a fairly stupid question, no?"

Khalid's smile, strange in this new face, grew to match Fernandez's.

From under his left arm Fernandez drew a thick, bound, and sealed portfolio. This he opened and withdrew what looked to Khalid like a score or so of folders.

"These are, for the most part, your targets," Fernandez said, passing them, and the portfolio, over to Khalid. "One is travel documents, another rules of engagement. Still a third has financial information. Specifically, that folder contains a list of smallish bank accounts that will hold, in the aggregate, enough money for several years' independent operations plus operational expenses. The accounts match the travel and identity documents. We'll fill them in the order given and at the times given.

"Your rules of engagement for these will be different from what you have become used to in the past," Fernandez explained. "All of these men are either major reporters, producers, or editors for the media in the Tauran Union and the Federated States; or they are, broadly speaking, politicians; or they are academics; or they are entertainers. There is a certain amount of overlap in those last three. All have given considerable vocal and literary moral support to the enemy. Some may have given more concrete support to the enemy; intelligence, financing, and the like. All have also attacked both the
Legion del Cid
or President Sada at one time or another. You are not, however, to kill them right off."

Khalid looked interested but at the same time confused.

Fernandez let the obvious confusion pass for the moment. "As I suggested, when you leave here, you will be on your own until your target list has been serviced or otherwise rendered ineffective. It will be rare if we, or Sumeri intelligence, ever contact you, though you will be required to contact us upon successfully servicing a target. We have, you see, learned much from the enemy.

"Whenever one of those editors, reporters, academics, entertainers, or politicians says or permits
something
to be said against the enemy, or against Islam, or against Salafism, then you may kill them. Given who they are, that something is certain to be very mild. You will leave a copy of whatever it was they said, or wrote, or permitted to be published by the body or near enough to the body that it will be found. You may have to interpret this guidance very liberally. For example, if one of them puts out something in favor of women's rights, or gay rights, that would be considered sufficient to make them active targets. If one of them makes a speech that is not recorded, you may have to write a slogan condemning the speech."

Khalid's confusion grew. "I don't understand this . . . "

It was Fernandez's turn to smile. "We've thought about this for a long time. Our reasoning is . . . complex.

"They will have a choice or, rather, some sets of choices. In one set, they can continue to present only negative views of us, and the war, and thus lose credibility with some of their audience. Or they can be 'objective' and die, with the
Ikhwan
taking the blame. In either case, their voices will be silenced or, at worst, made ineffective. Eventually, we expect, many will realize they are being killed for expressing their views and simply shut up."