Countdown_ The Liberators Part 58

"Come out now, all of you, toward me, and unarmed, or commend your souls to your G.o.d."

Never underestimate the benefits of a cla.s.sical education, Reilly thought.

In one of the two T-55's to the northeast of the town of Rako, Lana Mendes sat in the driver's compartment. Behind her, in the turret, hands on a Russian .51 caliber machine gun, Schiebel-face painted black still, though the black was dusty and streaked now-watched the scene. He had a much better view than she did, though she could hear as well as he could.

"He dudn't mean id," she asked, through her smashed nose, "dud he?"

"No," the little grunt said, biting back a laugh. The poor girl sounded so funny, and her nose was such a mess, that not laughing was hard. "He's just saying it to frighten them into surrender. He wouldn't let any of those things happen. We wouldn't do any of them, even if he wanted us to." Schiebel hesitated, then added, "Well . . . except for destroying the town. We'd do that."

Even as he said it, hundreds of people, big and little, young and old, male and female, began to emerge from their shacks to trod, fearfully, to the south and Reilly.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT.

We few, we happy few, we band of ruthless b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!

-From "The Black Seal," The Black Adder

D-Day, Bandar Cisman, Ophir

"What the f.u.c.k?" Cazz asked of n.o.body in particular. "About time, but what the f.u.c.k?"

The spur to his question was the armored column, emerging from the dust, led three Ferrets followed by seven tanks he'd have taken for enemy, each of those tanks dragging another one by tow cables. Two of the dragged tanks, once they were close enough to really see, looked rather the worse for wear.

The tanks pulled into a row. Men, just one per, emerged from the turrets and began undoing the cables. The other vehicles began to split off into two columns, roughly evenly divided between turreted, gunned Elands and the unturreted ones packed with infantry. A third column, consisting of two more Ferret scout cars with some odd, boxy projections on top, and two obviously civilian trucks loaded down-packed to the rafters, really-with locals in their own dress, cut right and headed generally to the beach. A fourth, composed of three more turretless Elands, made straight for Cazz's own mortar platoon.

A single turretless Eland, with loudspeakers mounted to the sides, headed for Cazz. He saw Reilly riding in the empty turret well, one of his doggies manning the machine gun, the colonel's lady, Phillie, and his big, black sergeant major, Joshua. Also up there was one of the locals, an ancient type, what little hair he had gone steel gray.

"What's with the wrecks?" Cazz asked Reilly as the latter emerged from the Eland's side door.

"I'm a scrounge. Six of them we grabbed at the ambush, but two of those broke down. We picked up another three working ones at the lager, then I decided to tow the two that broke down and as many as looked like they might be repairable at the ambush site.

"I always wanted my very own tank platoon. Or company."

"He really wants his own division," Joshua said. "But he's a reasonable man and will settle for what he can get."

"Or division," Reilly admitted. "We'd have taken the rest but . . . they . . . ummm . . . weren't in the best shape. So, anyway, what wonderful entertainment have we got going here?"

"Nothing much since we penned them in. Oh, sure, we've traded shots back and forth and I lost two men, one dead, one wounded. Probably killed twenty or twenty-five of the locals, and I couldn't guess how many wounded. But basically, nothing much. Now that you're here with the heavy s.h.i.+t we can a.s.sault the place properly."

"Maybe not," Reilly said. "Maybe I've gotten a better idea."

"Really? What's that? I'm not even remotely averse to something that keeps any more of my boys from getting hurt."

Reilly pointed at the gray-fringed, mostly bald local. "The old man up there is the father of the chief of Ophir. He's also the father of the head of this town. I think he can talk his boy into surrendering. He seems very reasonable and very eager not to have done to any of his people what I promised would be done if I didn't get a surrender nice and quick."

Cazz raised an eyebrow. "Just out of curiosity, what did you promise?"

"Robbery, rape, murder, ma.s.sacre, demolition, and extinction. Carthage, basically."

"Would you have . . . never mind, I don't want to know."

"Neither do I," Reilly admitted. "But having made the promise, and being, as I try to be, a man of my word . . .

"Anyway, I propose to send the old man-he goes by 'Zakariye,' by the way-under guard, to his son, to have a little chat."

"He'd have obliterated the place in no time flat," Joshua said. "Man of his word, after all." Though I am a little miffed, still, that you both cost me fifty dollars to that son of a b.i.t.c.h, George, and are f.u.c.king a subordinate. Oh, well, I suppose every man has some failing. And, I admit, the girl is pretty. Or was, before turning her nose to mush. And noses can be fixed.

All fire had ceased but ostentatiously armed helicopters, three of them now, and CH-801's, to the tune of four, circled the town menacingly overhead. Above those, and above all the witnesses, the sun beat down hot and fierce.

"If you try to harm either of these men, Son," Zakariye said, between the lines of occupied buildings and surrounding Marines and soldiers, his head inclining to one side, then the other, to indicate his grim-visaged guards, "or to free me, I have it on very good authority that this port will be obliterated, along with everyone in it."

The son, a man of no mean years himself, balked. His finger pointed at the circling aircraft as he said, "Gutaale will destroy those things in a moment."

"Jabir," the older man said, for this was his son's name, "Gutaale's precious new air force was destroyed on the ground. Why do you think his planes have not shown up yet."

"His fleet-"

"No," Zakariye shook his head. "That lies on the bottom of the sea. And, before you mention the new tanks he purchased, stand for a moment."

Jabir stood and the father put one arm across his son's shoulders. "See there?" Zakariye said, pointing. "And there?" The point of aim s.h.i.+fted.

"Those are the tanks you were about to mention. No, Son, your brother has nothing to send. You can fight, if you choose to, and you, your wives, my grandchildren, all will be killed."

"What choice, Father?" Jabir asked.

Zakariye sighed. "It seems that your brother seized someone he should not have. That's why these men came here. That's why they destroyed the airplanes, the boats and s.h.i.+ps, the armored force. It was explained to me on the way here. They don't know where the man, more of a boy really, taken by Gutaale is. But they know where and who we are. They only want us to trade us."

"How do they know?" Jabir asked.

Zakariye laughed bitterly. "Do you recall an American 'journalist' who pa.s.sed by here some months ago?"

Jabir thought for a moment, then shrugged and answered, "Al Ful-tan? He was just a scribbler, a maker of pictures and stories for magazines."

"Sadly," Zakariye corrected, "not. He was one of these men. They know exactly who we are. Or didn't you let al Ful-tan take a family portrait, and print you a copy?"

"Oh, s.h.i.+t. That was dirty."

"Yes, it was," the father agreed. "As to whether it was dirtier than kidnapping a free man from foreign soil and holding him as a hostage, I leave to Allah to determine. The question is now, as was also explained to me . . . quoted to me, "Will you yield and this avoid, or guilty, in defense, be thus destroyed?"

"Do you think Gutaale will trade?" Jabir asked. "If my brother will not, I'd rather die fighting."

"He'll trade," Zakariye said. "For he is no different from any of us; no different from Khalid, whose son was taken. Hilarious, is it not?" he asked.

D-Day, MV Merciful Merciful

Landing craft plied the waves, back and forth, bringing both the prisoners from Rako and Bandar Cisman, as well as recovering the troops and armored vehicles. The latter set included over a dozen tanks, not all of them precisely pristine, that Reilly indicated he was willing to throw a serious tantrum over if he couldn't keep.

"We know where the boy is now," Boxer said. He could barely restrain the laughter in his voice. "Shortly after the attacks began, the Ophiri chief and his minions started burning up the air waves by radio and cell. We were able to monitor and record those calls, though it took us a little while to filter through them. A set of them went to Suakin. They wanted to know if the 'special prisoner' was still there and healthy. That's our boy."

"Suakin?" Waggoner asked. "As in, 'He cut our sentries up at?'"

"That's the place," Boxer agreed. "It's nothing now but ruins . . . correction, knowing where to look and having looked, some of those ruins were recently refurbished . . . on an island in the Red Sea connected by a causeway to Sudan.

"So the question is," Stauer said, "what do we do?"

"We've been running the helicopters hard," Cruz said. "Not just mine, but also the MI-28's that are due in shortly with Konstantin's people; both sets need a serious bout of maintenance before they'll be trustworthy for another operation. The CH-801's are in better shape-fixed wing is always easier to keep flying than rotary wing-but they're something less than ideal for the purpose."

"Of special operations people," Welch said, "we've got or will soon have nine of mine, ten counting me, including my remaining translator but not Venegas. Little Joe's not up to it and won't be for a while. Plus Biggus will have five, including himself, and a.s.suming no losses. Then there's Rattus and Fletcher. And Konstantin is coming in with five, inclusive, a.s.suming he's willing to go. That's twenty-one, plus a translator who's proven he won't run around like a chicken with his head cut off when the bullets start flying. We might profitably add in two engineers, maybe Nagy and Trim. Twenty-four heavily equipped men is a fair load on a Hip."

"How soon until we can get the s.h.i.+p into strike range?" Stauer asked Kosciusko.

"It's eleven hundred miles sailing to fair strike range," the s.h.i.+p's captain said. "At max speed, that's still sixty-one hours. That's a long time for word to get around about who did what, where, to whom."

"Yeah, boss," Boxer said. "Secrecy is probably an unattainable ideal at this point."

Chin gave a little cough. "Without getting into details I am sworn not to reveal, let it be noted that there is a lot of regular, old, gray paint stored in one of the containers below. Sprayers in another."

"That's true," Kosciusko said. "If we weren't in a terrible hurry and could head to sea, there's no pressing reason we couldn't repaint the s.h.i.+p underway and just sail up the Red Sea once the paint's at least tacky.

"We'd have to seriously reconfigure to hide everything," the skipper added, "given what's gone down the last twenty-four hours and all. Might even have to dump some s.h.i.+t. And we sure can't have the flight deck a.s.sembled, or the loading and unloading platforms."

Stauer clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace.

"The problem is," he said, "and Boxer, you'll agree, that Sudan is an altogether different kettle of fish from Ophir. It's a real country. Maybe a f.u.c.ked up one but a real one. With a real military."

"Their navy's for s.h.i.+t," Boxer said. "Their air force, on the other hand, is impressive for numbers if only a fifth of them worked. And their ground forces could walk over us with a rock in each hand and still beat the s.h.i.+t out of us. Not that they'd use rocks, given their very large tank and artillery park.

"I don't think we want a war with Sudan."

"No," Stauer shook his head. "Here's what I think. Our best bet at this point is what we planned on, 'diplomacy.' Sorta. But that might not work. So here's what I want: Terry?"

"Sir."

"Collect your people, Biggus d.i.c.kus's pinnipeds, the Russians when they get here and a.s.suming they agree to sign on, any other attachments you need, and Cruz. Waggoner, Boxer and Gordo, you go along, too. Plan an operation using nothing but helicopters and perhaps The Drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.d, to go to Suakin, 'cut their sentries up,' and retrieve our boy. Kosciusko, as soon as we're finished loading take us out to sea and reconfigure us to look like a normal, innocent merchie. Do the camouflage thing as Captain Chin suggested."

Chin's chest swelled a bit. While he was always "the captain" to his own crew, it was rather warming for the Yankees to agree.

"Meanwhile," Stauer said, "I'm going to try the sweet light of reason. Cruz, get me a CH-801 ready to go before we take down the flight deck. And I need a volunteer pilot. Shouldn't need a translator. Gutaale allegedly speaks good English. And Boxer? I need a group portrait of all of our captives."

"Don't sweat the runway," Cruz said. "The two medevac birds are outfitted either for runway or water landings. We'll just have Mrs. Liu hoist one over the side when the time comes."

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE.

George Clemenceau made the remark that 'War is too serious a business to trust to generals.' Well, judging from the one he made at Versailles in 1919, peace is too serious a business to trust to statesmen.

-H. Beam Piper

D+1, Bandar Qa.s.sim, Ophir

The more he'd looked at it, the more his men had looked at it, the more Stauer thought that a hostage rescue at Suakin was a forlorn hope, to say nothing of an excessive risk to both his men's lives and his ultimate objective. He still had them planning it, back on the s.h.i.+p, even as Kosciusko's people repainted the hull and Mrs. Liu worked overtime to reconfigure the containers to look purely innocent.

Stauer mused, If we'd known the boy was at Suakin, we could have done the job with a sixth of the manpower and at a tenth of the cost. He smiled. d.a.m.ned good thing we didn't know.