by Attila Orosz
***
They moved slowly but deliberately forward. Every step was a skip of Alex’s heart. At every step he was prepared to jump, but nothing happened. No sudden sound, no harder than usual surfaces. They reached a little footpath. He wondered if that was the one.
They would probably mark it somehow. He kept looking around in all directions, but he could not find any sign that indicated it to be the right one. It was a chance decision, but he made up his mind to follow the path. He turned to the African. If only I could ask him. He has probably much better skills in this. He wondered how to explain this to the African, but he could not think of anything. He showed him the map anyway, and the African seemed to be interested.
“See this green line?”
Alex’s words were meant for himself, to steady his own nerves and help him collect his thoughts. He put his forefinger on the line and traced it on the map.
“I just wonder if this is the same path.”
He swept his hand, with a finger pointing down, along the path. The African looked like he was considering this for a while, then he nodded. Then, to Alex’s surprise, he started along the footpath, with his eyes fixed on the ground. He might have really understood it this time. Alex was amazed. The man was probably way more intelligent than he gave him credit for.
He watched the African move along the footpath carefully. He followed him from a distance although he suspected that his eyes were much keener to find any oddities. He will find a landmine before we get near to it. They walked for a little while then the African stopped short as the path had forked into two. He looked at the map. It said nothing about this. So it wasn’t that detailed after all. He watched the black man before him, as he fumbled on the ground, never setting foot on either side. He was brushing the dirt aside, and next he was looking at the tree trunks. What is he doing?
The African came back and took him by the arm. He signalled to him to follow slowly. Alex did. The man went forward and crouched down beside the path on the left. He brushed some more dirt aside. There was something matte, but metallic, buried under the soil.
“The bastards!” said Alex to himself.
Then the African took him to the other path and pointed to the bottom of a tree. Its trunk was marked with a thin green line that was only obvious if one really looked at it and knew what you were looking for. Alex gazed at the marking. He had suspected the African to have quite a literal thinking, all his actions indicated that, but he would never have thought that such literal-mindedness would help their escape in the end. The marking was, simply put, the same thin green line that he saw on the map. He let out a little laugh. The African was smiling. They started running down the marked path as one.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I cannot contain this any longer,” said the Colonel. “Two of my men are dead, one is so badly injured he might not make it through the day.”
He was glaring at the Captain who was standing up to his gaze with a marble face. His lips looked thinner than ever, sealed shut, and looking so pale they were almost white. It was evident that he was under pressure but made a fine job containing it, giving no other observable sign of emotion.
“And you, you have failed for the last time! Two more soldiers are dead! How do you expect me to explain this?” The Colonel’s voice began to rise into a roar as he let the anger engulf his mind.
The Captain remained silent. His face was set, his eyes two spheres of ice.
“Damn it!” shouted the Colonel. “Goddamn!”
He punched the heavy wood of his desk top with an enormous fist. It hurt, but the wood gave an audible crack. This calmed him somewhat. There was no need to damage anything, neither the furniture nor their chances to sort things out. He had made the mistake of putting the Captain under so much pressure he had almost cracked. Of course, the whole point was breaking the man that looked unbreakable, but this was not practical now. He needed him now, needed his calm mind and professional conduct. The Captain was a fine commander, and he needed this skill now to organise the remaining units into solving this situation as soon as possible. The illegal and the trafficker had to be stopped at any cost. It would take him quite a bit of explaining and mopping up of bloodstains before the whole mess was cleared up. If it could be cleared up at all before the investigations reached the border. He had always estimated getting rid of all the accumulated evidence to take months in any case, but the suspicion this incident would raise was just too much to overlook.
“Give an order of engagement at will. This has to be cleaned up as fast as possible,” he said in a calmer tone.
And so, thought the Colonel, I have failed. His wife was at stake, his marriage, and now he felt that he was losing the game. Still, if he were to continue playing, there was so much more that he would risk.
“Use all your units, and mine. I’ll brief them before you reach your command room.”
“Yes, Sir. With your permission…” The Captain was reaching for his communicator.
“Sure, just do whatever needs to be done. Oh, and one more thing. Sorry about being so blunt. It wasn’t your fault.”
But the Captain wasn’t listening. He was giving orders in his cold tones even as he left the room.
“OP-20D, this is Command. I want all data on my personal screen immediately, tunnelled through a secure channel. Engagement is imminent, but I want those visuals first. All units—”
The door shut behind the Captain. Bright kid, thought the Colonel. Could have been mine. Too late for that now. He went to his drinks cupboard and, despite his lifelong habit of never touching alcohol on duty, he poured himself a large glass of brandy. He emptied it in one gulp. Damn the wife! Damn her stupid gifts! Damn the whole thing! He just hoped to get out of this mess with his rank and pension.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sergeant SG1-15-FS, the leader of field squadron 15-FS, had new orders. They were to engage at will. In his own judgement, the Captain’s orders had not made much sense from the beginning. They had never been on surveillance missions, life at the border was simple: They either killed them or captured them, but all this herding of fugitives was just too much fuss. Now that the order finally came, they could go about their usual business. Pulling the trigger was the easiest solution, no questions, no captures, no need to be careful not to damage the goods. He had never questioned what they did with those he delivered, but he had his ideas. Anyway, this was none of his concern, especially not now. It would be a simple day; they’d shoot ‘em and they would be excused for the rest of the morning. After a long night like that, all he needed was something strong to drink and a good day’s sleep.
He watched the pair run up towards them farther along the path. The Captain was at his usual game, expecting them to have the route map after the safe house, or so it seemed. Eventually it had turned into a routine operation, only it was daytime now, which should make things even easier. The Captain no longer insisted upon the old radios, so they could use the proper communicators with the encrypted channels, which was so much faster and so much more efficient. He turned on his own now.
“Command, this is Sergeant-1-15-FS. I am on station and I have visual contact.”
“SG1-15-FS, this is Command. Acknowledged.”
“Awaiting orders, Captain.”
“Hold your position, Sergeant. Aerial engagement is expected at any moment. Stay out of the line of fire, you will be cleaning up the mess. Command out.”
He put his communicator back into its shoulder holster. That was great! Bloody mess a drone can make! Those machine guns would tear the bodies to pieces. And who else, but him and his men, to make sure the mess does not stick. He felt like a bloody janitor. He looked at his boys. They all heard the orders, and none of them seemed too happy about it. He wanted to say something encouraging, but thought better of it. They would know he was bullshitting.
***
Jumaane was running right behind the white man now. At last they were of the same mind. They both kn
ew the path was safe, and they ran as fast as they could. At the end of that path was safety, so the old lady had said. They must be near now! Freedom was in the air, he could smell it. They would make it, there was still hope! Then he noticed the same whizzing sound he had heard before. He would have paid no attention to it, but the man before him turned, his expression filled with horror. He grabbed Jumaane and hurled him between the trees, following right after with a leap.
The next moment the trees exploded around them. Sharp splinters flew everywhere and trees fell, one by one. He was dragged by the white man towards what looked like a small hill. Jumaane could not imagine why he wanted to go up there, but had no better idea himself.
The white then man turned and jumped up, grabbing the lowest branch of a tree, and pulled himself up. What is he doing? Whatever chases us can cut down trees like grass! He watched in bewilderment as the man climbed higher then took out his gun and waited.
Jumaane followed his gaze and saw a flying machine, much like a helicopter, only with four engines. It had a small body with a big bulb in front, inside of which something was moving frantically. Underneath, there were the biggest machine guns he had ever seen in his life. And the guns pointed right at him.
“Are you crazy? You want to shoot that?”
He started to shake the tree, but it was too thick.
“Get down, we have to run!”
But the white man was up there with a determined face, pointing his small gun at the weird helicopter. The machine guns coughed up again, and at the same time the white man began firing bullets. Jumaane threw himself behind the tree and onto the ground.
***
The machine gun continued to fire, but its aim seemed to have been lost. Alex felt a deep thrill and satisfaction. He did it! He never thought he would. He had never used a gun in a stressful situation before. At the firing range it was always quiet and easy, but his aim was agreeable even now. Out of the nine rounds he had fired, at least one had hit the drone’s camera. He was about to jump when the tree came crashing down, taking him with it.
The African was lying on the ground, shouting something. Alex pulled him up and dragged him behind a group of trees that were still intact. Alex pointed up at the drone that was now firing aimlessly, then at his own eyes. Then he made a gesture of shooting with his hands. He could not think of a better way to explain that the drone was now blind. He had shot its eye out. It was still dangerous, but at least they had gained a slim advantage.
Still crouching, he started to crawl back towards the footpath. It was the only safe way he knew and he was determined to continue on it, whatever would happen. At least the drone would not bother them now.
***
“Command, this is OP-20D,” said the drone operator into his mouthpiece.
“Come in operator.”
“Captain, I have lost vital systems of the craft.”
“Explain!”
“I have lost the aiming mechanism and the night vision camera got damaged. The subject fired at it.”
“Fired? With what?” The Captain’s voice sounded impatient.
“A handgun, Sir. The shots were accurate. The craft received three hits. Two in the camera, the third took out the laser.”
The communicator remained silent. The operator felt hot. It was not his fault that the drones were not properly protected. These machines had not been designed for real-time combat, or at least not against targets that were capable of firing back. This one had however, and did it with high skill. The operator of drone number 20 felt that his career might depend on the outcome of this conversation. His palms were sweating.
“The situation is unusual,” said the Captain’s voice after a long break, “but your orders remain unchanged. Use manual aiming and visual contact. The subjects are to be disposed of as soon as possible. Command out.”
“Acknowledged, OP-20D out,” said the operator, but he was even more worried than before.
His training had of course included manual operation, but he had never shot at live, moving targets; the auto-aim laser was always handy for that. This would be his first time, and as he suspected his career probably did hang on the outcome.
He lowered his chair and put on the VR mask, which connected him to the drone’s camera and navigation systems, shutting out all outside stimuli, making him feel like he was flying. He switched to manual operation and took over the drone’s control. He really was flying.
***
Jumaane’s vision was becoming blurred. He was using his last reserves of energy. They had been running for several minutes, and he felt his legs were giving out once again. Hope had sustained him so far, but since the strange helicopter had found them he was doubting they would ever make it, and this doubt cost him dearly. He dragged himself along, but was ready to collapse at any moment. Running in front of him, the white man seemed to care little about whether he followed or not. The path wound before them, but the trees became more and more scarce. This worried him. No trees meant no shelter. Should another one of those flying machines find them, they would be an easy target out in the open. Yet he knew they must not leave the path; this was the only safe way.
He heard gunshots from behind but he dared not look back. Whoever was firing was still far away. He ran on, but then heard it again, from closer this time, accompanied by the now familiar whizzing sound. The helicopter was there.
The next moment bullets tore up the ground before them. He threw himself down. The hail of bullets ceased for a moment so he got up. He saw the white man getting up in front of him, looking at the sky. He looked at Jumaane, then looked up again. Then he jumped to the right. Jumaane followed. Several paces in front of them the path was turning right too. The white man was making a short-cut through the woods. He is smart. Probably the earth does not explode this close.
They reached the path again, and another burst of fire erupted behind them. The trees to their right were being cut down as if a giant razor were shaving the land. The man before him jumped to the left where the road was bending. Jumaane was getting it now. They would cut down every turn, so they can hide behind the trees. Maybe the helicopter wouldn’t see them there. The same happened at the next turn, but then the man stopped suddenly and Jumaane ran into him. The man held up his hand, then pointed in front of him. Before them, some twenty paces ahead, was a group of four soldiers with weapons raised and ready to fire, expecting to intercept them on the path ahead. If they came out from among the trees, they would be shot in an instant.
The next moment, the white man pushed Jumaane down and showed with his hands that he should stay put. Jumaane crouched, bewildered but obedient. He could not imagine what was happening, and it was all too fast for him to react. The white man got up and looked at the sky. The strange helicopter was upon them and it opened fire again. The man looked tense, every nerve in his body was almost visibly throbbing. He was looking up at the flying machine, then down to where the soldiers were. The bullets were tearing up the ground around him, but he did not move.
Jumaane wanted to shout at him to get down. He felt like jumping out to save him, but then the man broke into the most desperate run he had ever seen. Bushes gave way under his weight. He was rushing straight towards the group of soldiers like a charging bull. His face was a grimace of death, his mouth wide open, his eyes fiercely fixed on their target, but no sound left his mouth. He was as silent as death. And he was bringing death, Jumaane understood now. As the man rapidly approached the soldiers who were just now becoming aware of his appearance, the hail of bullets coming from the drone’s machine guns surrounded him like a deathly halo. He was only five strides from the soldiers, who were already turning towards him with weapons raised. Four paces. Three…
***
Scout 30S was in position, awaiting orders. He had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and had taken up the best possible spot, as far from his targets’ route as possible, where he would not be seen but he could still control at least forty metres of the footpat
h, just where it reached the road again. With the slightest turn, he could also see the road going up. He could really be prepared for anything from there.
He knew this was no usual mission. A team had already been lost and a patrolman had been murdered. He took extra care while concealing himself. He knew that even though his weapon was painted matte, and all his uniform was a perfect camo for the season, one with a keen eye would be able to spot him, so he deployed the net and dug himself deep into the leaves of the undergrowth. He was now virtually invisible. A ghost. And he was about to make two more ghosts to haunt these woods.
His communicator beeped and the Captain’s voice came in, “30S, this is Command.”
“Sunray, this is Three-Zero-Sierra, receiving loud and clear. Go ahead.”
“We have an emergency situation. We have lost 15-FS.”
That is impossible!
“Falcon-One-Zero-Four! The entire team? Over.”
‘Falcon one zero four’ was one of those phrases he had always hoped to use once, it practically meant ‘what the fuck?’, but he never had expected to have such an appropriate situation to use it in.
“Affirmative. One of the targets lured the manually controlled drone, using the inaccuracy of the heavy machine guns without laser assistance. The collateral included the entire 15-FS.”
This was insane. That cunning motherfucker turned their own weapons against them, but how?
“Roger so far, over.”
“You can lose the protocol now. Preserve it for radio communications. The situation is extremely serious. Subjects are armed, they have captured at least two sub-machineguns. Use extreme caution. They are headed in your direction, ETA under two minutes. OP-20D has been instructed to hold fire, you are safe to engage, but wait for confirmation first. There is no need for more unnecessary casualties. Command out.”
