New Dawn

by Attila Orosz

  ***

  Jumaane was now completely losing consciousness, sliding deeper into the numbness of sleep. His memories now mingled with dream-shapes, all forms and events lost meaning. He saw the face of his wife calling out to their children. Jumaane smiled. How he had missed them! Then the children came running, blood gushing out of their slit throats.

  He tried to turn to his wife, to warn her, but her expression was frozen, her eyes wide open, her mouth forming a soundless scream. Her mutilated body was covered in blood. Jumaane shook her hard, but she would not move. Then he tried to scream, but he was crushed by the growing weight of his wife’s body…

  He turned, and muttered to himself in his sleep, as his half-conscious dream was becoming more disturbing than reality. He saw a red bearded white man jump in front of a black soldier who appeared out of nowhere. Then the white man grabbed him and yelled at him. He was shouting, shaking him and shouting endlessly…

  ***

  The American was shaking the illegal’s shoulders violently, shouting into his ears, “Get up! We need to move!”

  Peter laughed to himself.

  “What’s that for?” he said. “It does not understand a bloody word of anything.”

  The American ignored him, and the illegal seemed to come to his senses. Peter looked away. The sight was disturbing, it looked like trying to bring a dying man back to life.

  “OK, get up now, easy, that’s it. Find your balance.” he heard the American say.

  As he turned to face them again, he saw the illegal slowly regain consciousness, and Alex helping it to its feet.

  “All right, Mister Save-The-World,” said Peter in a determined voice, “it’s time to get moving. We have less than three minutes left before they make contact. And that’s only if my estimate is right. I’ll lead the way out, you follow closely. We aim for the nearest bush, there we make up plans.”

  “OK”, said the American, but Peter was not listening.

  He was vaguely aware of the other tugging on the illegal’s arm and starting after him. His senses were elsewhere now. He needed all his skills if he wanted to get them out of this alive, as the tunnels could easily become a death trap. He stepped out of the room and listened. He heard men talking, and the heavy thumps of running military boots from far down the tunnels. From the sound of it, they were five or six corners away, which meant they still had a few minutes before the soldiers would catch up. He climbed the ladder and peered out through the open trap door. All was clear, the night as quiet as he could hope for.

  He signalled to the American to follow. The illegal came out first, bewildered, half-conscious, like he could not bring himself to fully wake up. Then Alex’s head appeared.

  “Hurry up!” hissed Peter in what passed for a loud whisper.

  Alex jumped out and he closed the door slowly, careful not to make a sound. Peter detached a heavy, rubber-handled metal rod from his belt, and tried to block the trapdoor with it. It did not work, so the baton went back to its clip. He waved at the other two to follow, then started to run towards the north, the direction judged by experience. The others followed. Alex was keeping up, but the illegal seemed to have difficulties. The American dragged it by the arm, but it was causing more harm than good.

  “Leave it behind!” said Peter in a hushed but hurried voice. “It’s only slowing us down! You’ll get us both killed!”

  “No!” Alex’s voice sounded resolute. “He is coming with us.”

  “Fine, then make him move.”

  Peter still did not understand how anyone could so easily refer to an illegal as a human person, but this did not matter much now. Instead of arguing, he pressed on.

  “I can see the edge of the Zone,” he said after a short while. “There seems to be a wooded patch there.”

  Peter’s eyes were already accustomed to the darkness, so he could make out what looked like the contours of bushes and trees. The American nodded, but he was struggling for air. The illegal moved silently beside him. Peter heard them panting as they ran. They had to move faster if they wanted to avoid detection. The troops would be coming up to the surface soon.

  “Wait!” He heard Alex’s voice from behind him, it sounded both hushed and forceful at the same time.

  “Come on, we have no time!” Peter urged in a loud whisper.

  “Do you hear that?”

  “No, but we have to move—” Peter started to protest, but stopped short. There was a quiet whizzing noise, high pitched but barely audible, that was somehow coming closer. It took him a moment to place it.

  “Drone!” he yelled, no longer caring who might hear them. “Run!”

  They sped towards the darkness before them. He knew where they were headed, more or less, but could not see much in front of him, and he could not use his torch. Giving visual clues to the patrol probably already in pursuit was no option. They ran on, blindly. The whizzing came nearer. The drone was closing in. He heard a muffled thump and a moan. As he turned around, he saw the illegal lying on the ground, struggling to get up. The American did not seem to notice. Without thinking he ran back, yanked him up and prodded him into a run. The illegal limped, but ran along.

  There was shouting behind them, and small points of light started jumping up and down. The squadron has arrived, thought Peter. A machine gun coughed up somewhere near. In the meantime, the drone was getting closer. Its quadruple rotors now whizzed right beside them, relatively noiseless, but clearly audible. It was well within range of engagement too.

  “Keep your heads down!” he shouted. “Run, run for god’s sake, run!”

  They all did. Some shadows in front of them, thicker than the darkness around, grew larger and came into plainer sight. If they could reach those before the drone opened fire, they would probably have a chance.

  The troops were still out of firing range, their short barrelled assault rifles would only stand a chance if they altered the set-up, pulling out the retractable barrel from the body of the adaptive weapon, and changing the clips to those housing longer range ammunition.

  Of course they had no time for that, and this was their chance, but the drone was equipped with long range, heavy machine-guns that would not miss from a great distance. What was strange was that it had not fired yet.

  The drone whizzed several metres above their heads, apparently in circles, like it was trying to find the best position for lethal engagement. The thicket was in front of them. He heard gunshots and the squadron commander yelling orders behind them. Then he could hear the drone’s heavy machine guns clicking into focus.

  Chapter Six

  The Colonel had finished watching the fire team leader LC-103FL’s recorded video stream, the coordinates 46.20949°N, 19.67789°E were still showing on the paused image. The deserting patrolman must have entered the tunnels the same way he had exited less than half an hour before; it was part of the usual patrol route. The nearest squadron was already on its way. All seemed straightforward, except that this was not supposed to happen. Traffickers were never caught or even seen above surface level. They were a legend among the men, living deep down in the tunnels, not flesh and bone humans, rescuing illegals, snatching them from gunpoint. A patrolman turning was even less believable, yet it had all played out in front of his eyes, through the video stream transmitted from the personal image capturing device mounted on the helmet of Lance Corporal Peter Markovic.

  As the commander of a 100km long section of The Wall, the Colonel found this troublesome. The scenario had started out reasonably well. The illegal was not immediately shot, yet he would not have condemned one of his men to capital punishment for a moment’s delay or hesitation; but when the white man in the black clothes had appeared, it had all turned sour.

  He had heard the conversation between them. The man had admitted to being a Humanitarian Activist, and a member of the HUM. There was no such admission recorded on camera since the Humanitarian Underground Movement, a continuation of the former terrorist organisation called New Da
wn, had been disbanded and its last surviving members captured over a decade ago. This was truly troubling news, and one that required immediate action.

  “Who else has seen this footage?”

  The question was directed to his second in command. The young Captain was several ranks below him, but his qualifications and local origin made him the perfect man for the job. He was young and eager, stepping up in rank quickly due to his excellent conduct, and the Colonel’s personal attention assured his aide’s advancement. The Captain was tall and slim, with a hard face and sharp features. The Colonel always thought this a sign of an excellent soldier, and he had never been disappointed.

  “Nobody else. It was streamed directly here. It has already been encrypted and is classified by me personally, Sir,” answered the Captain promptly.

  Quick thinking, thought the Colonel.

  “Well done,” he said, “excellent work. Keep it this way. Nobody is to gain access, we must keep this quiet. Has the field squadron made contact yet?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Good. Call them back before they engage.”

  “Right away, Sir.”

  The Captain issued commands into his personal communicator. All field squadrons were ordered to stand down. His orders were relayed through the command centre and a confirmation soon followed. He had done his part.

  “Permission to leave, Sir.”

  “Granted.”

  The Captain snapped to attention, then left the room.

  We need to handle this as quickly as we can, thought the Colonel. Nothing should disturb the operation, especially not now, so close to a delivery date.

  He sat down behind his desk and shuffled some papers absent-mindedly. It is, on the other hand, also an opportunity.

  He was going to buzz the clerk at his reception desk to fetch the Captain again when his personal line signalled an incoming call. He answered it.

  “Sir, we have visual contact! Excuse the interruption, but this is urgent!” It was the Captain’s voice.

  What the hell?

  “Which unit?” asked the Colonel.

  “It’s an unmanned quad-drone that picked up the heat signatures. It’s in contact range now. The operator was warned as the AI-pilot could not make a decision. It’s probably the uniform that confused it.”

  Drones ran on artificial intelligence CPUs, which were good enough in most cases, yet a human operator was usually necessary in case the AI could not collect adequate data to make a decision.

  “The operator’s qualification?”

  “Not a specialist, Sir, but we have one in the area.”

  “Great. He is to disengage immediately. If he has any questions, just tell him we want the trafficker alive, so that we can follow him to the HUM HQ. It would be the capture of his career. In the meantime, send our man in, to take over the operation.”

  “Right away, Sir.”

  The Colonel did not wait for formalities, but cut the line short. Quick, perhaps overly eager, but he has just saved both our arses again, he thought. He will help me through this.The Colonel smiled, and leaned back in his chair.

  ***

  The command room was dark, its air close. Holographic screens streamed live updates, audio-visual communication devices buzzed as the operators exchanged intel with unit leads. The Captain watched them for a while, then retreated to the small office-like enclosure which had soundproof casing and housed two of his most senior operators. He shut the door.

  “I will take personal charge,” he said to the Second Lieutenant who was even now in contact with the drone operator, awaiting orders. He took the mouthpiece. “Command to OP-22D. Disengage, I repeat, disengage. Keep up surveillance, but stay hidden.”

  “Roger that,” came the answer.

  “Ensure you disable the AI. Subjects possess important intel, no automatic response is required. You are only to follow their trail.”

  “Roger, Sir!” came the nameless reply. “AI disabled. Drone 22 initiating surveillance.”

  “I want that image on my screen now,” said the Captain, to nobody in particular.

  A three dimensional holographic display appeared in front of him, over the top of his desk. It was a live infra-image stream from the drone’s camera.

  “Change colour to twofourten-fiftyfour-fiftyfour.”

  He could not stand the standard phosphorous green of the infra-images, he much preferred dark red. Besides being more dramatic, it helped him focus better on the target. He watched the models of the three subjects run underneath the camera. One of them fell, another went back to pick it up. It was the one that held a weapon, apparently the deserting patrolman.

  “Fancy that,” he muttered under his nose, “he is becoming HA material quite quickly.”

  He picked up the mouthpiece and changed to a broadcast channel.

  “Command, to all units. We have a border breach, developing into an exo-zone incident. The situation is sensitive, there is an 885/85 in progress and breach of classified intel. I want units 20D, 30S, and 15-FS on the case, everyone else stand clear. Affected units, go secure, all others, have a quiet night! Command out.”

  The old fashioned voice procedures were no longer in everyday use. Nobody relied on radio transmission any more, all units were on satellite broadband, but still he preferred using unit codes rather than names. His view was that keeping things impersonal helped to maintain professional conduct. Also, words like ‘desertion’ would raise rumours, whereas a codename like 885/85 generated little echo. It sounded official enough to be taken seriously, but most men did not really know what it referred to.

  He watched the images become smaller on the screen as the drone under the unit number 22D left the area. He gave a command to switch to the screen of 20D’s output. There was nothing to be seen. According to the interactive map on his right, the drone was near and approaching rapidly, but it had not picked up visual clues yet.

  He went secure, which meant little more than applying encryption to all A/V communications with the aid of a small device. Since the widespread use of quantum computers, cryptography had evolved into something much more secure, and much more personal than it once had been.

  As part of the encryption key, a DNA sample was used, which was then converted into a partially ordered three dimensional lattice-like structure that formed the base of the crypto-key. This was then scrambled with a random 512-qbit sequence, resembling pre-quantum symmetric encryption keys. The combination of these two provided a unique encryptor, the 512-qbit key ensuring that the DNA sequence could never be restored. Decryption required the same encryptor key, but whoever decrypted the message would never be able to get to the original DNA sequence, so the sender could remain anonymous.

  He switched on a random, meaningless message from playback, one of those he regularly used for cover-ups. Everything was always recorded, and he preferred certain things to be kept confidential. He knew that encryption was as secure as possible, virtually unbreakable, yet he did not trust any of these channels. Having his DNA present in the messages just made him uneasy, always feeling that his identity could be extracted by someone sufficiently determined to uncover the sender. Anyway, one could never be careful enough.

  He turned on a radio receiver. Going low-tech had its advantages. Besides nobody knowing where the broadcast came from, nobody was really listening any more. Radio communications were the past, and this past served him well in situations like this. His three special units, drone operator OP-20D, Scout 30S, and the Sergeant SG1-15-FS in charge of Field Squadron 15-FS also had radios on their persons.

  “Charlie, Charlie, this is Sunray.” He sent out a collective call to the three teams. Voice procedure codes meant a second line of defence now. No encryption could come even close to the security of using a language nobody else spoke any more. “Radio check, over.”

  “Sunray, this is Sierra-Golf-One-One-Five-Foxtrot-Sierra, reading five by five, over.” SG1-15-FS came in.

  “Sunray, this is Oscar-Papa
-Two-Zero-Delta, receiving loud and clear, five by five, over.”

  “Sunray, this is Three-Zero-Sierra, reading four by five, over.”

  All units checked in with good signal.

  “Charlie, Charlie, this is Sunray. The situation is extremely serious. We have a Foxtrot-Lima accompanying an illegal and a Hotel-Alpha. You know the drill and you know the stakes. Sierra Golf-One-One-Five-Foxtrot-Sierra, your unit must remain ignorant of the details. All units, initiate surveillance. There must be no engagement under any circumstances. I repeat, negative engagement. You will personally report to me and me only. Did I make myself perfectly clear? Over.”

  “Sierra-Golf-One-One-Five-Foxtrot-Sierra, Wilco, Over.”

  “Oscar-Papa-Two-Zero-Delta, Will comply, Over.”

  “Three-Zero-Sierra, Affirmative, Wilco, Over.”

  His special units, the secret operation unknown to most of the other personnel, gave him the only reply he was known to tolerate.

  “All units, stand by. Command out.”

  All was settled, even better than the Colonel could have expected. The Captain knew that his promotion was due; he knew it from his superior’s small remarks. Although the Colonel never said anything concrete, his demeanour lately was most encouraging. The Captain felt grateful and more than motivated to exceed expectations. He knew that his commander appreciated it too.

  The Colonel’s last orders worried him, however. The shipment was complete, and risking it for whatever he had in mind seemed just too dangerous, especially with the complications they were having. He had been behaving a bit different lately. Surely the problems with his marriage were starting to show. He did not seem to be able to concentrate on his duties properly, yet he, the Captain, was in no position to question him, especially not now. His own advancement was much more important.