The Coward's Way of War

by Nuttall, Christopher

  He tapped his radio, reporting in and warning the reserve forces that the bound hostages and terrorists were there and then led his men up the stairs. They were converging rapidly on where the hostages were held and he prayed, desperately, that they were in time.

  ***

  Lindsey had been trying to get comfortable when the shooting started. Apart from a handful of nurses who had been pressed into service, the hostages had remained tied up unless they needed the toilet. The guards had been surly lately when the hostages had requested that they be allowed to go answer nature’s call and she – and everyone else – had been trying to hold it in as long as possible. It wasn't easy to relax with her hands tied behind her back – at least not as easy as some videos she’d watched over the years with Doug had suggested – but she was trying. She was lying face down on the cold hard floor when all hell broke loose.

  The building shook as explosions echoed out in the distance, seemingly close enough to bring the entire building crashing down in flames. Lindsey winced as some of the nurses began screaming, all self-control gone in the wake of the latest disaster. The guards moved among them, clubbing the loudest with the butts of their guns until they shut up, but it was clear that they were nervous as well. Some of them had boasted to the hostages, taunting them with the thought that no one would come to rescue them and they would eventually become the playthings of their captors, but now they looked as if their nemesis was tapping on their shoulder. Lindsey found herself praying that the police – or whoever it was attacking the building- found them before the terrorists finally decided to kill them. It didn’t look as if it would be long before they died.

  “Stay down, bitches,” one of the guards snarled. Several nurses had been trying to sit up, not an easy task with tied hands. One of them was kicked hard in the gut and curled up, gasping in pain. Another was rolled over and harshly groped before she was pushed back in her corner. The guards had been reasonably disciplined, but no longer; they grew harsher as the sound of explosions and gunfire came closer. “Why don't you...?”

  An explosion, louder than any of the previous explosions, shook the building so hard that plaster drifted down from the ceiling. She heard medical equipment, including some items so expensive that purchasing them had cost the hospital a significant percentage of its budget, crashing to the ground, shattering as they struck the hard floors. Screams, some clearly torn from dying throats, could be heard in the distance. The guards exchanged worried glances; one of them pointed a gun down the corridor and fired a long burst, shooting at nothing as far as she could see. There was certainly no return fire.

  A man came in the other entrance and was very lucky not to be shot down by his own people. “Get the bitches lined up and cut their throats,” he snapped. His face was sweaty and, she realised in a flash of sudden insight, terrified. He too was facing justice, something he had never thought he would face. It was easy to mock the government when the massed might of the federal government’s forces of law and order were held back by petty worries, written by people with no direct experience of living near the gangs. When the gloves were finally taken off...the gangsters would be smashed like bugs. “Hurry!”

  One of the guards reached over and pulled Lindsey to her feet. His hand ripped through her blouse and roamed under her shirt, groping her breasts quickly and brutally. Lindsey felt a hot flare of rage burning through her and she brought up her foot hard, slamming it right into his groin. He doubled over, screaming as a uniquely male agony burned through his body, sending Lindsey falling back on her ass. His comrades closed in, kicking and beating at her, just before a fresh burst of gunfire rang out and they fell to the ground, dead. New figures stormed into the room, knocking down the handful of surviving terrorists and securing them. They looked frightening in the half-light, yet she was very relieved to see them. They had to be friendly.

  “Don’t worry,” one of them said. He looked hellishly intimidating with a mask covering his face, but his voice was friendly and welcome after two days in the company of terrorists. “We’re on your side. The rescue teams are moving in now.”

  ***

  Justin watched as the remaining nurses were checked quickly and then left where they were, leaving him to check the captured terrorists. One of them had a record longer than his arm, a string of petty offences that had started small and developed into rape and murder; another, oddly enough, had tried to join the Marine Corps before washing out during Basic Training. They were both important figures in the BAM, yet they weren't the real target. He checked the dead bodies and scowled. Reverend Johnston had escaped.

  “Come on,” he ordered, shortly. The building was filling up now as National Guardsmen were moving up to secure the ground floors. The remaining terrorists fought and were killed, or surrendered. “Martin; find me the Reverend.”

  “I'm working on it,” Prince said, sharply, too bothered to remember that he was supposed to be intimidated by the commando. “Sergeant, most of the terrorist groups have been wiped out or captured, but...”

  He broke off. “I don't have any bugs in the rear passages,” he added. “They have to be there, if only by elimination. There’s no way they can have escaped, not with the entire building surrounded by armed troops.”

  Justin had less faith in a building guarded by armed forces from several different units, but he held his peace. Motioning to his men, he followed the map down towards the rear of the building, where the hospital’s supporting staff had once been based. The terrorists had driven them out and into their waiting hands, but they hadn't done anything else with the area, much to his surprise. There was a way out, yet he knew that he had a team covering it. The only other possibility was that the Reverend Johnston had somehow managed to escape under their very noses. It seemed impossible.

  He found the door into the rear area and tested it gingerly. It was locked, so he kicked it as hard as he could with his armoured boot. The door shattered inwards in a shower of sawdust and splinters, allowing him and his men to slip inside, weapons raised and ready. No ground of fighters attempted to block their way, but he could hear movement in the distance, down the stairs. Someone was definitely trying to escape in the darkened halls.

  “Come on,” he ordered, smiling grimly. The terrorists didn't know it, but they were caught between the hammer and the anvil. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  Johnston swore as he snubbed his toe against something he hadn't seen in the dark, wincing at the sudden burst of pain. The shooting was starting to die down, which suggested that the BAM’s fighters had either been rounded up or killed by the attacking soldiers. Whoever they were, he admitted in his own mind, they were good. He had clearly underestimated the prowess of the federal government’s forces...and overestimated the power of political correctness to keep it in check. The thought was a bitter one, but he promised himself that he would learn from the experience and do better next time. Perhaps he could recruit black soldiers from the Army, or...

  “They’re coming after us,” one of his escorts said. Johnston winced, glancing back into the semi-darkness, lit only by fading light from the windows. He couldn't tell how his man could sense the presence of enemy fighters, but he had no choice; he had to believe him. “You need to get further down the stairs. I will make a stand and distract them...”

  There was a sudden burst of fire from in front of them. Johnston wailed, feeling a hot trickle running down his legs as he hit the ground, certain that he’d been hit and he was about to die. One of his bodyguards spun around, lifting his weapon, only to be gunned down before he even managed to fire a single shot. Dark figures came up out of nowhere, slamming the other bodyguard to the ground and tying his hands. Johnston opened his mouth to demand a lawyer, but one of the figures cuffed him across the mouth, leaving blood trickling down from his cheek. Strong hands caught his wrists, bent them behind his back and wrapped a plastic tie around them. His scream of pain was ignored.

  “Reverend Johnston,” a voice sai
d. Johnston looked up. Even under the mask, he could tell that the soldier was a black man. There was a heavy note of satisfaction in his voice. “You are our prisoner. I suggest that you behave yourself or you won’t live to stand trial.”

  Johnston, for the first time in his life, could think of nothing to say.

  ***

  Doug had volunteered to accompany the Delta Force commandos as they entered the hospital, but they’d refused his request, reminding him that he wasn't trained to serve beside them. He’d waited with the remainder of the National Guard contingent as the commandos went through the hospital, before they'd finally given the all-clear and invited the other forces into the building. The NYPD had assembled a substantial force to begin the long task of cleaning up the mess, pulling in medical personnel from all over the state. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a difficult task, but now...the terrorists had almost certainly pulled medical personnel away from tending the sick. How many would die because of their actions?

  He pushed the thought out of his mind as he walked over to where the hostages were being cared for. Many looked traumatised, their souls badly shaken by the experience; others looked as if they couldn't wait to get back to work. And then, standing at one end of the line, he saw his wife. Her outfit looked a mess, her face was badly scarred, her hair looked as if she hadn't bothered to brush it...and she looked beautiful. Doug was barely aware of his own movement. Before he thought it through, she was in his arms, kissing him tightly.

  And, just for a moment, he felt that everything was going to be all right.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The aftermath of any terrorist attack must be carefully handled. The victims may be shocked, unable to comprehend what has happened to them, or they may want to fight. The terrorists themselves, if taken prisoner, must be protected from mob violence. The outside world may be shocked, or they may wish to watch in a kind of voyeuristic orgasm. Terrorism is not a natural disaster, or even a wartime bombing; terrorism is intensely personal.

  - Captain Darryl Tyler

  New York, USA

  Day 19

  Once the building was secured and the former hostages moved to the recovery centre – a commandeered school near the hospital – the terrorists were moved downstairs into one of the rooms. The patients who had been held there – all infected with Henderson’s Disease – had died during the brief hostage crisis, their bodies moved down into the basement and just abandoned. As far as Justin could tell, the terrorists hadn’t even tried to freeze the bodies or incinerate them, despite having the equipment on hand. It was no wonder that many of them were already showing signs of being infected themselves. They hadn’t even bothered to read – or believe – the information bulletins that the government had put out on the internet.

  It seemed odd to think of elite Delta Force commandos serving as prison guards, but it was something they had considerable experience in, particularly when dealing with prisoners who didn’t quite fall into any of the standard patterns. The President’s declaration of a national state of emergency gave the law enforcement agencies – and the military, now that it had been deployed within the nation – considerable powers when it came to prisoners, even those who had made themselves media celebrities. After the hostage crisis, Justin hoped that few people would believe that the Reverend Johnston was somehow one of the good guys, although he suspected that the opposite would be the case. Terrorists had their groupies, even among those who were old and wise enough to know better. The BAM would probably end up being hailed as heroes.

  He shook his head as he looked towards the prisoners. Most of them had lost the will to fight, but the commandos had taken no chances, leaving them firmly hog-tied and lying on the floor. Any attempt to speak, either to one of the other prisoners or to the guards, brought an immediate kick. The prisoners had to be disorientated and Justin hoped that they would remain that way long enough for a formal interrogation team to start working on them. The terrorists no longer possessed their constitutional rights. As the President had said, when the crisis had begun, the constitution was not a suicide pact.

  His radio buzzed. “Justin, the prisoner transport vehicles are here,” one of his men said. Justin had expected that the NYPD would take custody of the prisoners, but his orders from higher up were to see to it that they were transported – in chains – to Washington, where a special tribunal was already being assembled. Under emergency procedures, all kinds of legal formalities could be suspended and, in his opinion, it couldn’t happen to a more deserving group of people. The nurses showed every sign of having been molested by their captors. “They’re wondering when we’re going to give them the prisoners.”

  “We’re riding along with them,” Justin reminded him, dryly. A small collection of escort vehicles had been moved into the city, providing transport and heavy firepower for use if the convoy came under attack. Justin had escorted sensitive vehicles before, but that had been in Kabul and Baghdad, not in the heartland of America. The whole scene was just surreal. Part of him just couldn’t believe it. “Tell them to hold their horses. We’re on the way.”

  He barked orders to his men and the first prisoner, the Reverend Johnston, was roughly pulled to his feet. The shackles were quickly adjusted – allowing him to walk, if slowly – before a blindfold was placed across his face, allowing him to breathe, but rendering him effectively blind. Justin would have been astonished if he had any fight left in him, yet there was no point in taking chances. Terrorists just couldn’t be trusted. He nodded to his men, using hand signals rather than speaking aloud now, and two of them escorted the Reverend and Justin towards the doors.

  The NYPD and the National Guard had set up a cordon, but the media was out in force, even if they were wearing protective garments and keeping their distance from each other. Justin checked his own mask instinctively, even though he had been vaccinated long ago, ensuring that the media couldn’t get a shot of his face. The identities of serving Delta Force operatives were meant to be classified and a picture in the media, even one with an incorrect name, could be disastrous. There was a tradition that anyone who did get named had to buy the entire unit a beer, but that would be no consolation. Families had been threatened, even harmed, by terrorists hunting for the men who hunted them. Revenge was a very powerful motive.

  He pushed the Reverend Johnston towards the first prison van and helped him up the steps. The unmarked vehicles were built for swift and unseen prisoner movements, looking like any other van on the outside. It would have surprised any terrorist to discover that they were actually quite heavily armoured and any weapon capable of punching through the armour would almost certainly kill the passengers as well. It might not have bothered some terrorists. One terrorist, captured in the United States, had been assassinated by his own side, who had believed that they would be interrogated and forced to talk. The memory made Justin smile. At least his own side weren't trying to get him killed.

  “Sit,” he ordered, as he attached the shackles to Johnston’s legs, securing him to the bench. The precautions seemed excessive, even to his eyes, but there was a point to them. If the terrorist felt that there was no chance of escape, he would feel defeated and might be willing to talk – or so the theory went. Justin had been through worse in commando training and hadn’t talked to his interrogators. “Stay.”

  If Johnston had anything to say, it was lost under the blindfold. The other terrorists were brought out, one by one, and secured themselves, before the vans were finally full. Justin did a quick check and ensured that they were all secure, confirming it with his own eyes. Once the vans were locked, he waved to his men to mount up and start their engines. The prisoners had a date with a military transport aircraft at the nearest airbase. In a few hours, they’d be in a secure CIA facility near Washington. Whatever they did to them, after what they’d done, Justin hoped that it would hurt.

  ***

  “What a freaking mess,” Al muttered, as he followed Doctor McCoy into the
remains of the hospital. Between the terrorists, the commandos and Henderson’s Disease, the building was a terrible mess. The foundations were secure, he’d been assured, but the interior had been badly damaged by the fighting. The hospital administrator, who had been lucky enough to be out of the building when the terrorists attacked, was bitching up a storm about wrecked equipment, demanding to know what had happened to the very expensive medical gear that the hospital had built up over the years. Very few of his expensive toys were working. “How long is it going to be before the hospital can be returned to service?”

  “Months, under normal circumstances,” McCoy said. They’d worked together before, so the NYPD’s senior officer had assigned Al to follow the doctor around, smoothing the path for him. “I don’t know how long it will take now.”

  Al nodded. NYPD teams were combing the building, removing any weapons and explosives from the compound before they started clearing up the mess. A group of medical staff pulled off their normal duties was tending to the surviving patients, yet it was clear that most of them had died – and none of them had gone easily. The evil genius behind Henderson’s Disease had altered it to the point that constant medical care could keep a victim alive, but if that care were to be removed, the disease would spread rapidly and death would come quickly. It didn’t take a genius to realise that providing that level of care for every infected person was completely beyond the ability of the entire country, let alone the world. By now, Al knew that much of New York had to be infected. The city was slowly sliding into anarchy.