Replica: A Short Story

by Trevor Schmidt

REPLICA

  A Short Story

  Trevor Schmidt

  United States of America

  Also by Trevor Schmidt

  The Corsair Uprising #2: Nightstalkers

  The Corsair Uprising #1: The Azure Key

  Symbiote

  Memory Leak

  The Sword Maker’s Seal (A Young Adult Mystery)

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places. Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This story may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the story remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this story, please return to your favorite ebook retailer to discover other works by this Trevor Schmidt. Thank you for your support.

  REPLICA

  Copyright © 2012 by Trevor Schmidt

  www.TrevorSchmidtAuthor.com

  Follow me on Twitter: @TrevorSSchmidt

  Subscribe to my Blog: trevorsschmidt.blogspot.com

  Cover image by Volkan Kurt

  The Year 2054 – Algiers, United Arab Caliphate, 0121 Zulu

  A Next-Generation IED exploded nearby, sending shards of electrified shrapnel whizzing past Sergeant Logan Martel’s battle-worn face. He ducked his six foot build behind the blackened frame of a three-wheeled delivery truck and charged his pulse rifle. The dial was set for a wide burst, which weakened the output of the rifle enough to take the insurgent alive. He had his rules of engagement and wasn’t about to get caught killing a terrorist with his goggles camera out of order. Killing without verification of hostility was murder. No, it was by the book for this mission. His commanders needed the intelligence Nabil Abbar could provide. More lives depended on this mission than the lives of his team.

  Sparks emanated from shrapnel protruding from the car’s frame, sizzling like a piping-hot fajita. Most of the dust had settled when Logan poked his head out to check on his team. His contact lenses refracted over his dark brown eyes, working with his night-vision goggles to display the bio signs of the rest of his eight-man squad. Humphries and Rodriquez were down, their pulses approaching critical. The rest of the squad had taken up position 40 meters east, in an alley leading to the pier. He cursed, pausing to think of various contingencies while wiping dirt from the two days of stubble on his cheek.

  Logan blinked, thought about speaking to their medic, and whispered to an encrypted earpiece, “Panther One-Five, we’ve got two down, call for a medevac, over.”

  Parker’s voice spoke through Logan’s earpiece, “Roger. Is the scene safe? Over.”

  Logan assessed the situation, taking in all of the movement in the street and the windows on the second and third floor of the dilapidated building across from him. The street was in disarray after last week’s riot. Windows were broken, graffiti desecrated ancient stone walls, and garbage littered every bit of the road. The smell of cumin and numerous Mediterranean spices permeated his nostrils along with the scent of rotting meat; a remnant of the downed kebab carts. He turned to look up the street and his lenses revealed three insurgents displayed in red on a nearby rooftop, muzzles and head scarves peeking out over the ledge.

  “Negative Panther One-Five, we have movement above the street, wait for reinforcements, out.”

  Logan could see a bustle of movement in the alley as Harper transmitted back to base, the three new privates shivering against the wall. Parker poked his head around the corner of the alley and a volley of bullets began peppering the stone wall near his head. He looked back at Humphries and Rodriguez lying in the street.

  Rodriguez pulled a small cylinder from a pouch in his body armor. He yanked a piece of shrapnel from his leg and injected the cylinder into the bloody hole. It filled with foam instantaneously, and he scooted himself backwards until he could lean up against a nearby food cart. Logan saw muzzle flashes from the corner of his eye. He turned to watch the red figures spray wildly into the street. When Logan looked back, Humphries and Rodriguez lay lifeless, their bio signs fading into nothing.

  “Shit,” Logan said under his breath.

  He didn’t have time for this; Nabil would be halfway to Tunis by now with all this noise. Something had to be done and he had just the tool to do it. Logan retrieved a small package from his backpack, read the instructions pasted on the side, though he knew them by heart from his training, and opened the top to reveal a tiny robotic bird. Logan remembered it was modeled after the African Blue Tit, a kind of Chickadee, and also one of the most common birds in the region.

  He picked the bird up gingerly and discarded the box. Lifting the wing, he pressed a button and the bird jumped to life, singing like a spring morning. Logan’s contacts interfaced with the bird’s onboard computer and the bird took flight.

  Through one of his lenses he could see through the bird’s eyes as it flew majestically above the rooftops before landing at the feet of one of the insurgents. It gave a final chirp, then with a thought from Logan, exploded with enough force to cave in the roof. He peered around the corner of the delivery truck’s frame at the rooftop. No signs of life from his eyes’ scanners.

  “Panther One-Five, I need those guys sealed, we’re behind schedule, over.”

  Parker replied, “Roger, en route, out.”

  Logan watched Parker weave his skinny frame around debris until he reached Humphries’ and Rodriguez’s bodies. Parker pulled two spheres from his bag and placed one on each of their chests. They split apart and shot out a web over their bodies that built up into a hard cast. It would be easier to move them in this form, and it would prevent unfriendlies from tampering with the bodies. They couldn’t wait for the medevac. Both Humphries and Rodriguez had GPS trackers on them, so he would have to trust the automated medevac system to do its job.

  According to several sources near the pier in Algiers, Nabil Abbar was holed up in a warehouse plotting the unthinkable. Logan hoped the sound of gunfire and explosions wasn’t so out of place that it spooked his target.

  Logan put his entire squad in his thoughts and said, “Alpha Squad, rendezvous at checkpoint Delta. ETA five minutes, how copy, over?”

  “Lynx, this is Panther One-Five, I copy checkpoint Delta, out.”

  “Lynx, this is Hydra Three-One, Fire Team One copies checkpoint Delta, out.”

  Harper led Fire Team One through the alley toward the pier. Parker paused over the bodies of Humphries and Rodriguez, saying a short prayer. Logan ran up behind Parker and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “We have to go.”

  Parker nodded and notched his pulse rifle against his shoulder, his face contorted with hate. Logan had seen that look before. It was the look every soldier had when they lost one of their own. Brief sadness was replaced by determination and ire.

  “Such a waste,” Parker said through gritted teeth.

  Logan grabbed Parker by his body armor and brought him in close. Parker’s thin jaw hung open in shock and his sky blue eyes looked at his commanding officer like those of a child being scolded by a parent.

  “They died for a noble cause! Don’t forget that private. Now get your ass in gear and let’s get the sons of bitches that did this!”

  Parker nodded and said, “Yes, sir,” then led the way down the street toward the checkpoint.

  The street was bursting with evidence of the riot a week prior. Trash littered the street and burned vehicles and food carts lay overturned all around them. Logan and Parker continued north to checkpoint Delta, which was an abandoned restaurant on the pier, a few blocks from the warehouse where Nabil Abbar was suspected of residing. The windows were boarded up, graffiti covering them with common phrases from the recent unrest. />
  Logan’s contact lenses translated the words and displayed subtitles beneath the graffiti. They read, “Free Algeria,” and “Stop the Caliphate.” Years earlier, most of North Africa and the Middle East were united into one Islamic State, similar to the caliphates of old, only this time farther reaching. The idea wasn’t popular with most of the population.

  The chip in Logan’s contact lenses sent a signal to the door of checkpoint Delta, which promptly slid open, revealing a shabby hookah bar and restaurant with worn out red couches and a plethora of pillows. Once Logan and Parker crossed the threshold the door slid closed and locked with a dull-sounding thud. Logan could see Harper and the rest of Fire Team One’s life signs in the kitchen at the back of the restaurant.

  “Harper, let’s go, I don’t have all day,” Logan bellowed at the squirrely corporal.

  Harper and three young-looking privates scurried into view and gathered around a circular table. Logan slung his pulse rifle, preparing to address his team.

  “Humphries and Rodriguez were good soldiers and the best of friends. However, we all have a duty to put the pain of their loss aside until this mission is complete. Harper, set it up.”

  Harper leaned his pulse rifle against the table and retrieved a metallic sphere from his pack, placing it gently at the center of the table. He scratched at the bushy reddish-brown beard he had grown for the mission before tapping the sphere lightly with his index finger. The sphere cracked down the center, splitting open half an inch, and projecting a grainy green image a foot above the table.

  Harper explained, “This is an extrapolation of a live feed from a drone circling Algiers right now.”

  He pointed to five red figures pacing on the first floor, doing something with several box-like structures spread out evenly in the warehouse.

  “These are the heat signatures of our suspected terrorists. Our latest intelligence from base is that each of those crates contains a dirty bomb.”

  Parker chimed in, “What’s our timeframe?”

  “They’re supposed to be shipping out on multiple frigates at 0800 Zulu, or, about six hours from now,” Harper replied. “Colonel Schneider wants us to verify the existence of these dirty bombs and capture Nabil Abbar.”

  “Why can’t we just kill him?” Parker asked impatiently.

  “He has information on other planned attacks. Also, the intelligence community thinks there could be more dirty bombs out there.”

  Logan pointed at a skylight near the north entrance.

  “Tucker and Brown, I want you up on the roof,” Logan ordered two of Fire Team One’s newer privates. “Set your pulse rifles for a narrow beam. If you have to fire, you’ll fire to kill. Got me?”

  “Yes, sir,” they said in unison, as though fresh from basic combat training. Their uniforms appeared to drape over their tiny bodies, perhaps several sizes too big, though Logan doubted the uniforms came any smaller. How they were able to join the team last minute was beyond him. Logan smelled a rat.

  “Harper, bring Pipsqueak around and watch the alley here,” Logan pointed to the south entrance which led to a dead-end alley. “Parker, you’re with me. We’ll be at the north entrance.”

  Logan touched the metallic sphere and the image retreated into the ball. He picked it up and tossed it to Harper, who returned it to his pack.

  “Our rules of engagement are as follows: you are not to engage the enemy. This mission is reconnaissance only. By 0400 we are to report in to base the validity of the intelligence. If the intelligence is actionable, our orders will be to take out Nabil Abbar’s four bodyguards and take him alive.”

  Parker asked, “What about the dirty bombs?”

  “If our Geiger counter goes off, we’ll call it in to base. Some Secret Squirrel shit is going to happen here if that’s the case. We might be stuck in debriefings for months after this one.”

  “How do we play it?” Harper asked.

  “We have to confirm that it’s Abbar and his men, so we’ll bug them. Tucker and Brown can try to get a visual from the roof, but I’d rather get eyes inside the building. Leave that to me and Parker. You and Pipsqueak over there just make sure no one escapes into that alley.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harper said. “When is it game time?”

  “We’re rolling now. Let’s pack it up and head out.”

  There was a short bustle of bodies as Harper and his team collected their gear and exited out the rear of the safe house. It would take Fire Team One about five minutes to reach their targets, which gave Logan enough time to have a word with Parker.

  “Parker, listen up. I don’t want you going off the wall in there. This is a sensitive mission and I know it’s just gotten personal. Put your emotions in a box and lock that shit up tight, because when the fire starts coming, I need to know your head is in the game.”

  “I know, Sarge,” Parker said, pointing to his eyes. “I’m frosty. I’ve got your back.”

  “Good, now let’s go ghost these assholes.”

  Logan led the way out the front door into the street. Although it was after two in the morning there was an occasional passerby that gave them a lingering look, and then faded into a run-down building. The figures all appeared blue in Logan’s contact lenses. No weapon, no target. The only problem was the lenses didn’t consider a cell phone a weapon, though Logan knew one push of a button and he could be blown to bits by an IED.

  They reached the northern entrance of the warehouse on schedule. Logan thought about Fire Team One and opened a channel through his earpiece.

  “This is Lynx, in position. What’s your status, over.”

  “Lynx this is Turkey Four-Two, in the bird’s nest. Why am I Turkey again? Over.”

  “Turkey Four-Two, this is Lynx, get a few more stripes and then we’ll talk, out.”

  “Lynx, this is Hydra Three-One, we are go, out.”

  Logan took off his pack and placed it on the ground in front of him. He pulled out a hard plastic case the size of a shoebox, opening it to reveal four walnut-shaped mechanical spiders. Logan touched each one on its back and they sprang to life, interfacing with his contact lenses and using his night-vision goggles to shine a 3D image into Logan’s retinas.

  The feeling was always disorienting, but soon Logan grew accustomed to four images being displayed to him much like a split-screen video game. The chips in Logan’s contacts relayed a radio message to the spider bots, ordering them to climb out of the case and enter the warehouse through a hole in the wall. Their response was immediate and soon they were scurrying to the four corners of the warehouse, all the while creating a detailed map of their surroundings in their memory banks.

  “I’ve got to get me some of those,” Parker said.

  “At two million apiece you’d be better off buying a robot to build you some of them from spare parts.”

  “Robots building robots, doesn’t that seem a little scary to you? What if, you know...?”

  “They become aware? Impossible. There are safeguards in place. Focus, Parker. I’m almost there.”

  One of the Spider Bots crawled around a corrugated metal storage crate and focused its eye on a figure in tan robes. Facial recognition software ran for a moment before pinging with the face of Nabil Abbar, the most wanted terrorist in the world. Seconds later the screen blacked out and Logan blinked furiously at the disruption.

  “What the hell?” Logan managed to say before hearing cries in Arabic.

  Logan couldn’t understand much Arabic, but he could tell they had been made.

  “Fire Team One, this is Lynx, come in, over.”

  Logan waited for a response, and when none came he tried transmitting again. No response.

  “We have to assume the worst. Parker, keep a look out while I call it in.”

  Logan retrieved a radio from a pocket on his body armor and extended its antenna. The handheld radio didn’t have the range of Harper’s but it would get his message to a friendly at least.

  “Obelisk this is Lynx, do
you copy? Over.”

  After a short pause, a weak signal came through, “Lynx this is Obelisk, I have you weak but readable. What’s your Sitrep? Over.”

  “Obelisk this is Lynx, we have confirmation at Checkpoint Echo, but we are no-go. Accountability is as follows: 2 accounted for, 4 missing. What’s our orders?”

  “Lynx this is Obelisk, refer to playbook Juliet-Niner, out.”

  Logan pulled a slip from inside his body armor outlining various contingency plans. He searched for J9 and read: In the event of extensive casualties or loss of contact, warehouse will be decimated and radiation contained to the pier with Smart-Gel missiles. Collateral damage expected: 1,000.

  Logan looked to Parker and said solemnly, “We have four minutes before we’re toast unless we get Abbar and send a cancel code.”

  Parker lowered his weapon, speechless.

  “Come on, we’re running out of time,” Logan said and pushed past Parker through the warehouse’s north entrance.

  Logan Martel knew how a terrorist cell like Nabil Abbar’s operated. The minions had little contact with the people who ran the show, sometimes none at all. This made destroying such a cell that much more of a headache. He knew this was the only chance they would get to capture or kill Abbar. It was a feeling Logan thrived on, enjoying the rush more than skydiving or sex. The only problem was it was always over sooner than he’d hoped.

  Two lines of metal storage units lined the center of the warehouse, while multiple workstations crowded the walls. Near the south corner, Logan could see a staircase leading to a second level with more workstations. Looking down at him was a robed figure with a bushy black beard and piercing eyes. The figure smiled down at him, then ran along the metal walkway to a door at the far end, disappearing from view. Logan followed Abbar, Parker trailing close behind, up the steel steps and down the walkway.

  Logan felt his feet snag on a thin string the consistency of fishing line. The walkway collapsed around him and a rush of fire engulfed his right side, melting flesh from his arm and eating into the bone. Logan fell down onto one of the workstations, his arm snagging on the jagged metal beams, tearing bones and tendon and flesh. The flames ran out of skin to burn and Logan lay bleeding out his lifeblood, too frozen to scream. His eyesight blurred, but he could still make out Parker leaning over the edge of what was left of the walkway.

  A robed figure appeared behind Parker, pointing a gun to the back of his head. He couldn’t make out the words that were spoken, but Parker retrieved a radio from his bag and keyed some unknown message. Logan could feel every muscle fiber in his arm come alive with pain. He heard a single gunshot and the limp figure of Parker fell from the walkway, landing next to him. Logan couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He felt chills run the length of his spine. So this is what it feels like to die, he thought; strange how quiet the world becomes. His last thoughts were of the odor of charred flesh and an iron-flavored liquid oozing from the corners of his mouth, tickling his neck as it drip, dripped away.