by Tripp Ellis
The SUV was armored. So was the glass.
37
Ryan
Bar patrons dove for cover. Some close to the exit tried to make an escape, but were gunned down. Muzzle flash and gun smoke filled the club. It was pure pandemonium as two gunmen randomly mowed down people with semi-automatic fire.
Ryan bolted out of the restroom and crept down the corridor to the main area. Several patrons were cowering in the hallway. It hadn’t been targeted yet by the gunmen.
Ryan hugged the wall and peered around the corner. He could see the gunman that was close to the door. He was little more than 15 feet away. The other terrorist was deeper into the club. It was the same man who had bumped into him earlier. He was moving through the club, shooting people that were hiding under tables.
DAK! DAK! DAK!
Adrenaline coursed through Ryan’s veins. His heart thumped in his throat. Every second he hesitated, someone died.
The gunman by the door looked nervous. His eyes frantically darted from one side of the club to the other. Someone tried to run for the door, and the gunman spun to his left and opened fire.
Ryan charged him from the right, slamming him to the ground. It was almost like he was back on the football field again.
The gunmen didn’t know what hit him. He wasn’t well trained.
Ryan stripped the weapon with ease and cracked the dirt bag in the face with the stock of the rifle. It was an Aldebaranian made AM-6 assault rifle. They were cheap knockoffs of the Koslov AM-6. It had a 30 round banana magazine, composite body, and fired 7.62mm rounds. They were indestructible and almost never jammed—even the cheap ones. Ryan recognized the weapon from his intro to weapons & demolitions course in First Phase. The AM-6 was popular among insurgents, militia, pirates, and other paramilitary types. Parts were easy to come by, and they were light on the pocketbook.
Ryan heard the snap of several bullets whiz past his ear. He spun around to see muzzle flash from across the bar. The other ass-clown was unleashing a flurry of rounds in Ryan’s direction.
Ryan moved with lightning speed. He brought the weapon into the firing position and lined the gunman up in his sights. It seemed to happen in slow motion. Ryan held his breath and squeezed the trigger.
The bullet rocketed across the club, penetrating the perp’s forehead. Bits of brain and bone blasted out of the back of the terrorist’s skull. A haze of crimson mist hung in the air as the man’s body crumpled to the ground with a wet slap. The AM-6 clattered against the dance floor.
Smoke wafted through the air as the crowd of terrified people began to emerge from hiding.
Ryan’s heart was pounding. His whole body trembled. He never killed anyone before. Everything had been paper targets until this point. He hadn’t shot a rifle since weapons qualifications at RTC.
Ryan’s eyes scanned the club. He caught sight of Ensign Parkes. She seemed to be okay, but she had a horrified look on her face. Ryan’s eyes flicked to the dance floor. He saw Gavin and Katie—their bodies were lying in a pool of blood, along with several other deceased patrons. Ryan’s heart sank, and he clenched his jaw with fury.
The gunman by the door was starting to regain consciousness and Ryan kept him on the ground—the barrel of his weapon never deviating from the dirtbag’s chest. Ryan could hear approaching sirens in the distance.
“Oh, my God. Thank you,” a mortified woman said, emerging from her hiding place. “You’re a hero.”
Ryan didn’t feel like a hero.
The sirens grew louder, and flashing red and blue lights filtered in through the front door. Local police filed into the building in full tactical gear, weapon’s in the firing position. They secured the suspect, and two officers immediately pulled Ryan aside for questioning. He cleared and safetied the weapon, then handed it over.
Several EMTs rushed into the bar and attended to the victims. There were a total of 33 dead, and another 57 wounded.
After Ryan finished with the officers, he was checked by the EMTs and released. He reunited with Piper. She gave him a hug and sobbed against his chest. “I can’t believe this happened. I can’t believe Katie and Gavin are dead.”
Ryan wrapped his arms around her and tried to console her. He felt numb.
The news media had descended like vultures on fresh roadkill. Lights bathed the exterior of the bar in a brilliant glow, and dozens of cameras captured the tragedy for posterity. The images were transmitted to every colony in the Federation. Ryan squinted as he stepped into the harsh light. He gripped Piper’s hand, and they tried to weave their way through the chaos.
“There he is,” a reporter shouted. The horde of reporters swarmed Ryan, shouting questions and sticking microphones in his face. News of his gallant act had leaked, and the news outlets were leading with the headline Reaper Trainee Thwarts Terrorist Attack.
“Can you tell us what happened?” one reporter asked.
“What was going through your mind?”
“Have you been trained for this kind of thing?”
“Were you afraid?”
Their questions jumbled together, and Ryan certainly didn’t feel like talking. He kept his mouth shut and pushed through the hoard with Piper in tow. The Reapers were quiet professionals—they didn’t like drawing attention to themselves.
38
Emma
“Whatever you do, don't stop," Emma yelled. She was hanging halfway out the window, firing back at the SUV.
The red and blue flashing lights Anderson saw in the rearview mirror weren’t a good thing. The MPD weren't going to take too kindly to their activities.
“Wasn't planning on it."
It was pure chaos—three vehicles weaving through the tumultuous streets of Mosaav. Bullets flying everywhere. Horns honking. Anderson had scratched a few paint jobs and broken a fair share of side mirrors during the chase. This wasn't going to end well, no matter how you looked at it.
The chase rambled on for several more minutes. The cars pinballed off vehicles and ran red lights. Police sirens wailed behind them.
Suspa’s luck ran out when his driver ran the light at 34th Street. A garbage truck plowed into them, spinning the SUV toward the sidewalk. It was traveling in the second tier of traffic at the time. It clipped a streetlamp which spiraled the vehicle and sent it crashing to the ground. Metal crumpled and squealed. It smashed several display windows of shops that line the street. Shards of glass showered the sidewalk. Half a dozen parked cars were trashed. It was a miracle that no pedestrians were killed.
Anderson pulled along side the accident, and Emma leapt from the van. She dashed to the wreckage with her weapon drawn. Her eyes searched the twisted carcass for Suspa.
His body lay in a pool of blood with a piece of metal sticking through his neck. The blond bodyguard had been thrown from the vehicle and was subsequently hit by another car in the roadway. He was just a grease spot now. The driver’s skull was partially through the front windshield, and his neck was snapped. Crimson blood painted the supple leather interior of the SUV. The mullet-headed bodyguard crawled from the wreckage and staggered to his feet.
"Freeze! UIA!" Emma shouted as she aimed her pistol at him. "Get your hands where I can see them."
Mullet-head gritted his teeth and scowled at her. "You idiot!”
Police sirens wailed. Emma could hear car doors open and close and boots march toward her.
"Drop the weapon now," one of the police officers shouted to Emma.
"I'm with the UIA. I'm taking this man into custody."
"You’ve got no jurisdiction. Drop the weapon, now!"
Emma’s face was flush with rage. She had no choice but to comply. The barrels of angry weapons were staring her in the face.
She knelt down slowly and set her pistol on the concrete. The moment she did, an officer kicked her to the ground. She felt a sharp stab of pain as the officer’s boot cracked against her back. It knocked the air from her lungs. She crashed against the pavement and gasped for breath. The sid
ewalk was hot and gritty. Her face smashed against the concrete as an officer put a knee in her back and wrenched her arms behind her. He slapped a pair of cuffs on her wrists, then pulled her from the ground.
The MPD had Anderson, and the mullet-headed bodyguard, in cuffs as well. They were all thrown into the back of a paddy wagon and taken to the central jail.
The interior of the vehicle was dirty and grimy. It smelled like stale body odor, vomit, and urine. It was hard to determine when, if ever, it had been cleaned. There were small slats toward the ceiling for ventilation, but they weren't doing much to augment the stifling, muggy air. The heat was oppressive, and it was hard to breathe. The dappled rays of sunlight shined through the slats, flickering as they raced through the tall buildings of downtown.
Emma sat on a bench across from Mr. Mullet. His eyes blazed into Emma. "Six months.”
She looked at him perplexed.
"Six months I've been trying to work my way inside this organization. Six months I've been guarding that fat ugly bastard. You think I like living in the city? You think I like his fucking hair?"
Emma deflated. She realized what he was getting at.
"Federation Security Bureau. I was this close to finding Ragza’s location.” He held his thumb and index finger about a millimeter apart.
"Maybe if your agency had shared information with ours this wouldn't have happened." Emma said.
"Your agency hasn't exactly been forthcoming either."
Anderson sat back and watched the two bicker.
"You are operating outside your jurisdiction."
"So are you. Do you have any idea what they're going to do to us? We are never going to see daylight again. I don't know if you've ever been to a Mosaav prison, but they're not pleasant. And no amount of diplomatic wrangling is going to get us out of this one."
39
Ryan
“The family of one of the terrorists has filed a civil wrongful death suit,” Rear Admiral Jenkins said. He was the CO of the Naval Special Warfare Center at South Coravado, and he didn’t look happy. His office was decorated with awards, pictures with dignitaries, old platoons, and even a photograph with President Slade.
Ryan sat in a chair before his desk as the Admiral paced.
“The police report also stated that you had been drinking. Is this true?”
“Yeah, I had a few,” Ryan said. “The guy would have killed everyone in the club had I not done something.” He was incensed.
“I know. You did the right thing. It’s what we trained you to do. I’m just telling you what’s going on. There are going to be some out there that are going to try and paint you as reckless.”
Ryan looked at him in dismay. “That's ridiculous.”
Jenkins shrugged. “That's the galaxy we live in.” He paused a moment. “I’m sorry about Spaceman Kirby. I know you guys were close.”
Ryan nodded, and his eyes grew misty. “He was my swim buddy.”
“I’m assigning you to Ensign Parkes. You are the two top candidates in the class. Since you’re entering Second Phase now, she’ll be your space buddy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jenkins peered through the blinds. His face tightened at the sight of news crews camped out at the entrance to the base. “I’m going to set up a few select interviews. You tell it exactly like it happened. But stay away from the rest of these vultures. You need to keep your head down and focus on your training.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jenkins sighed. “I’m wondering if we should roll you back to another class until this dies down.”
Ryan’s eyes went wide. “No, sir. It won’t be a distraction.”
“What you have to realize, son, is that my first priority here is to train Reapers. This kind of disruption could not only affect you, but the rest of your class. If I have reporters hopping fences and disrupting evolutions, I will pull you out of the class.”
“I understand, sir. But I’d like to finish with Class 276, if at all possible.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Hunter. Dismissed.”
Ryan stood up and snapped a sharp salute. Jenkins returned the gesture, and Ryan left the office. He marched across the Pulverizer to the barracks. The news media caught sight of him and began yelling his name, trying to get his attention. Ryan didn’t acknowledge them.
The room he shared with Gavin seemed incredibly empty now. He fell onto his rack and tried to process everything that happened over the last 24 hours. Now, more than ever, he wanted to complete his training and become a Reaper.
He was about to doze off when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Ensign Parkes poked her head inside. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No. Come on in.”
She stepped into the room, but purposely left his door open. She didn’t want anybody getting the wrong idea. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay. How about you?”
Parkes nodded. But she couldn’t hide the sullen look on her face.
“We no longer have the luxury of becoming affected by death. It’s just something that happens to everyone. None of us get to pick the time, the place, or the means. And something tells me we’re going to see a lot more of it before our time in the Navy is done.” Ryan was trying to convince himself.
Piper agreed. There was a long silence between them. “Well, I just wanted to check on you.”
“Careful. I might think you care.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “Keep dreaming. I need my space buddy in peak mental condition. We’ve got a lot of training left ahead of us.”
“I am instructor Remington, and I will be your tour guide through Second Phase. By the end of this block of training, you will all be able to shoot like Mr. Hunter.”
The class chuckled. They sat in the Second Phase classroom, eager to get started. This was why many signed up. To shoot guns and blow stuff up.
Remington was a little older than the other instructors. He had a square jaw, steel blue eyes, and graying hair, even though he was barely in his 40s. He had a deep scar down the left side of his face that he often referred to as his beauty mark. He was somewhat of a legend among the teams. He had altered his records and joined the Navy at 15 to fight in the first Verge War. By the time he was 18, he had racked up more confirmed kills than just about anyone.
“You have all proven you have what it takes to be here, but physical conditioning will remain a major part of this training block. If you slack off, or come up short, you will be performance dropped. You have invested a lot to get this far, and we have invested a lot in you. There is a lot of classroom time during this phase, and a lot to be learned. If you have any trouble, come to me. I’m here to help you get through this block of training. Remember, safety is our number one priority here.”
Remington was tough, no doubt about it, but he seemed genuinely concerned about the trainees.
In the early days of BSCT, Land Warfare & Demolitions used to be Phase Three. It became more practical to move it to Second Phase, then focus on Space Combat in Phase Three with the use of the simulator, then finally outer space.
Half the recruits had never fired a weapon until RCT. By the end of BSCT, they would all be expert marksman. Reapers needed to be familiar with every type of weapon systems, both alien and domestic. Second Phase would give them the skills necessary to maintain and repair almost any weapon they would encounter. Countless hours were spent disassembling and reassembling weapons, naming the parts as they went along. These reassembly evolutions were timed and graded.
The Reapers’ weapon of choice was the RK 909 assault rifle. It fired polymer cased smart rounds. Propellant charge could be adjusted on the fly, enabling subsonic velocities. Combined with built-in suppressor technology, this allowed the weapon to be virtually silent. In full rock’n roll mode, the weapon was as loud and intimidating as any other. Early models had issues with jamming, but that had long been sorted out. The RK 909 was
lightweight, durable, reliable, and fired readily available 5.56mm rounds.
LWD was divided into several training sections. The recruits spent time at the base in South Coravado, a week at the Marine base at Camp Angleton on the rifle range, honing their marksmanship, and time in the mountainous region of San Duarte Island.
Along with the classroom, the first week was filled with conditioning swims and runs—though now, the recruits were carrying 50 pound rucksacks on their backs. They were familiarized with their infantry gear, and the Advanced Ultralight Battle Armor. They learned repelling techniques, radio communications, and land navigation.
At San Duarte, they learned patrolling and camouflage techniques, breach and clear tactics, short and long-range combat, demolitions tactics, and a host of other specialty skills. Proficiency drills and pistol qualifications were also held at San Duarte. Rifle qualifications were held on the standard Navy Reaper course at Camp Angleton.
For most of their time at LWD, the recruits were sleeping out in the bush. Rarely were they afforded the luxury of sleeping in the barracks. The air was frigid, and the 6000 foot elevation made conditioning runs, and mountain marches, especially taxing. They were fed a steady diet of MREs (Meals Ready to Eat). They were wonderful for your digestive system, and were often referred to as constipation in a can, even though they came in packets.
Despite the unpleasant conditions, San Duarte was a welcomed break from the Naval Special Warfare Center and the chaos surrounding the terrorist attack. Reporters weren’t going to hike into the mountains to track Ryan down for an interview.
The class didn’t lose a single recruit during the entire phase. Ensign Parkes finished with the highest marksmanship, followed by Ryan. It was something she was never going to let him live down.
