Carnifex

CIC, BdL Dos Lindas

"YeeHAW!" Kurita exulted, when the image from the nearest RPV showed the road begin to erupt. Immediately, everyone stopped what they were doing and simply stared at the normally ultradignified and reserved Yamatan.

"I've always liked Columbian films," the commodore said, stiffly, by way of explanation. It didn't really explain much.

Fosa suppressed a smile, then picked up the microphone. "Good shooting, corvettes," he said. "Reload and stand by to support the Cazadors."

"Already reloading, Legate," the first corvette answered. "Half full now," responded the second.

"Roger . . . break. Bluejay One: Finches, you may make your run."

Montoya's voice came from the speaker. "Wilco, Skipper." The other flight leader answered, "On station in three, Skipper."

Unbidden, the leader of the Cazadors—still aboard the Crickets and Yakamovs - broke in. "Leave some for us, ya greedy bastards."

* * *

Montoya had slowed slightly, to allow the other three birds in his flight to line up on him. Now, with the first rays of sun creeping over the horizon, the four Finches divided up their prey then separated laterally themselves.

For himself Montoya picked a half dozen trucks, one of them already burning. As his thumb flicked off the red safety on his yoke, he sang out, "Hojotoho! Hojotoho! Heiaha! Heiaha! Hey, where the hell's a PSYOP chopper to play Ride of the Valkyries when you really need one?"

Veering left, Montoya's thumb pushed the firing button. Fifty-seven millimeter rockets lanced out at a rate of six per second, preset. The rockets were almost evenly divided into high explosive, incendiary—the classic shake and bake—and flechette. Still veering, Montoya switched to his second pod by twisting a dial with his free hand. Once again he thumbed the firing button. Downrange, Hell was materializing.

* * *

Junior couldn't believe his eyes. One minute he'd been riding forward in pre-triumph mode to punish the wicked infidel and earn the gratitude of his father and glory among his people. The next, his column was half turned into twisted wreckage, and the roar of engines was replaced with the screams of the dying. With the next, the darkness was illuminated by the combination of just-rising sun and just-spouting flame.

There was an explosion off to Junior's left. Seconds later virtually the entire complement of the rear of the truck in front of him fell down with a god-awful collective moan. The moan was soon replaced by the sound of a dozen men, weeping like brokenhearted girls, as their organs failed from flechette wounds and their life's blood gushed out to fill the bed of the truck and run out the back in a small wave.

Junior watched the blood well from the truck in stunned horror, oblivious even to the other explosions and bursts of some smoking stuff that billowed around him. Some of the smoking shit must have touched upon the contents of a ruptured fuel tank. The truck ahead suddenly burst into flame. The weeping changed to screaming.

It wasn't until one of the attacking aircraft passed by overhead and to the front that Junior awoke from his shock. It was the pilot passing by that did it, so close that Junior could see the whites of his eyes and the gleaming smile as he looked down to survey the damage.

In that moment Junior hated that pilot in a way he had never hated anyone before; fully, completely, with all his heart and soul. From that hate came the spur to action.

* * *

Bluejay Two came in from south of the column, three Finches in trail formation. The last two were separated by about three hundred meters each from the one ahead. The lead Finch's pilot selected the last third of the column to receive his attentions. Seeing what appeared to be two otherwise undamaged trucks unloading a couple score infantry, the pilot donated to them one of his rocket pods. He was rewarded with the blossoming of white phosphorus flowers and fertilizing of the ground with a mass of men tossed down and about by flechettes and high explosive. Another truck burst into flame.

The pilot pulled back on his stick, easing his dive and pulling up parallel to the ground and about fifty meters above it. Ordinarily, he'd have used his machine gun pods now. The execution paragraph of the order called for "maximum frightful and terror, initially," however. Since terror and napalm were virtually synonymous . . .

* * *

Junior's attempts to bring some order out of the chaos ended when he saw two tumbling cylinders coasting through the air. The sudden burst of bright orange flame at the tail of his column was enough. Hate was not forgotten, exactly. It was just that everything was forgotten as Junior began to run away from the ruined column as fast as his legs would carry him. It was a good thing he did, too, as more orange-colored hell burst first around the middle of the column and next along the front.

Even while running he turned and saw the long flaming tongue lick along the column, engulfing men, turning them into writhing, shrieking human torches. The tongue seemed to cover the entire horizon. This was an optical illusion, induced by stark terror. In length, the tongue of fire was actually no more than two hundred meters.

Like their chief, the violence and sheer frightfulness of the naval artillery and aerial assault proved simply too much for the mass of the men. In their hundreds—hundreds still because, for all its frightfulness, aerial attack is rarely completely effective—they streamed to either side of the column, abandoning weapons, leaving comrades and relatives behind.

* * *

Once safely away from the epicenter of the infidel attack, Junior was able to throw himself to the ground and take stock of the situation. Around him streamed hundreds of his followers, leaderless and half bereft of weapons. To the west he could hear the slapping of waves against the rocks of the shore. To the east bursts of machine gun fire told him that the enemy were herding the rest of his people toward the water.

"Do they mean to murder us all?" he wondered aloud. Then he heard the whop-whop-whop of incoming helicopters and the high pitched whine of turbines.

* * *

"Move it. Move it, you bastards," screamed the senior centurion, First Centurion Saldañas, of the fleet's Cazador detachment. Saldañas had a brother who was a squid, but that brother, Tribune I Saldañas, was currently back in Balboa.

As a practical matter, nobody could hear the centurion over the noise of the Yakamovs and Crickets. He was convinced, however, that the sheer vibrations of his voice were enough to add half a mile an hour to any group of infantry that ever lived. Most of the troops would have agreed with that assessment.

Two platoons of Cazadors, plus the maniple headquarters, had come in on a dozen Cricket Bs. The remainder, three platoons, the company headquarters, medics, mortars, and the demi-cohort headquarters landed via helicopter. The Crickets had all landed on a short stretch of road to the north of the column. The Yakamovs had touched down in a line parallel to the column and opposite it from the sea. Once the troops had debarked, the Yakamovs again lifted off and began to sweep to the east, away from the column.

* * *

It was often held, as a matter of the customary laws of war, that there was an absolute right to surrender and to have that surrender respected. This was sheer ignorance, however. In practice, there was no such right, for in practice there were always circumstances in which prisoners could not be taken. Let a heavy bomber circle an artillery battery with nothing but white flags showing. The bomber's choices were limited to bombing anyway, or not bombing and leaving the battery to resume operation of its guns as soon as the bomber departed. This was not a choice at all. Bombs away!

Let a descending parachutist drop his rifle and take out a white flag which he then waved vigorously. If he was descending to an area where he could be taken captive, all well and good. But what if the wind, a factor out of his control, carried him toward his own lines where he could not be made prisoner and where he would be rearmed? Kill 'em quick, before they get away!

Similarly, when terrified men attempted to surrender to circling aircraft . . .

* * *

Door gunners to either side searched out and shot down whatever Xamaris they found in the grass. Some of those Xamaris tried to surrender, of course, but aircraft don't typically take prisoners. These didn't either; given the enemy's treatment so far through the war of any aircrew that came into their hands there was no surprise in this . . . except perhaps to those Xamaris who thought it worth trying.

The infantry, on the other hand, typically could take prisoners. Spreading out in a long, uneven line, they swept toward the sea. Any Xamaris about whom there was any question of intent were shot down on the spot, or double tapped as the need arose. The rest were herded toward the ocean. For those who begged for their lives, and who appeared to have no weapons, the Cazadors extended fingers and bayonets seaward, instructing them that there their surrender would be accepted.

All the Xamaris clustered by the ocean shore, to include Junior, were certain they were going to be shot. They felt immense relief when they saw the Cazadors culling out groups of twelve or fifteen and taping their hands behind them but not shooting them.

In the end, three hundred and forty-nine prisoners were taken. Disarmed and searched, in some cases, strip searched, these were held under guard of a single platoon at the beach while the two corvettes and The Big ? came close inshore to receive prisoners. The rest of the Cazadors reboarded helicopters about noontime. They then went to teach the village of Gedo a very sharp lesson on the subject of supporting or encouraging piracy.