The Wizards 1: Combat Wizard

by Jack L Knapp

  Wonderful stuff, psychokinetics, but also very limited.

  Thousands of basketball players can pick up a basketball. I can too, even across a court. For that matter, I can pick up the basketball player if he’s close to me. But that player can spin the basketball on his fingertip, and I can’t spin it at all. Whether balanced on a fingertip or hanging in the air, the most I can do is cause the basketball to undergo a very slow rotation and doing that takes enormous concentration.

  There was no logic to the resentful thought I’d had about Surfer. He'd commed me based on his schedule, not mine. I knew that, but logic wasn't my strong point after waking up from the best sleep I'd had in some time.

  Where was Surfer now? He'd gone into hiding after finding out about the missing people and the implant in his neck. Had he still been somewhere in California, maybe on one of the military bases?

  A TP can work from anywhere. California, New York, anyplace in the world for that matter; the only reason for thinking Surfer was in California was because that's where the School had been. Distance isn't a limitation; it takes concentration and energy, but a TP can comm another TP on the far side of the world.

  What had made Surfer wary? On the surface, he was just what the School had wanted, a strong telepath. But maybe it was that same level of Talent that had made him suspicious. If he was as strong as I suspected, he might have picked up stray thoughts just from being around the agency’s people. For that matter, all the things he’d told me about that unnamed ‘friend’ might have been a lie; Surfer might have read the information directly from someone’s mind.

  Now he was on the run, planning to disappear so that not even the agency could find him. It takes money and preparation to do that; it’s far too easy nowadays to track someone, and Surfer would know that.

  People almost always leave a paper trail, and even if they pay cash and don't use a cell phone that's registered to them, there are surveillance cameras. Every cell phone is a camera and electronic images can be searched by computer; some phones even have built-in GPS functions, so disappearing nowadays is next to impossible. Had Surfer planned far enough ahead to have everything ready when he made his escape?

  We hadn’t been close, Surfer and me. I’d liked G-man because he was as impulsive and playful as I was, but as for the rest of the people at the School, we were just too different. My growing PK strength had eventually set me apart anyway as I began to follow a different path. Even if I had tried to talk to the others, they wouldn't have understood; as a result, I became even more of a loner.

  Having no close friends, I had concentrated on my ability to move objects instead of trying to improve the telepathy or precognition. Those other abilities were there, albeit limited, but I instinctively knew I'd gone about as far with them as I could. The PK ability kept growing with use, however, so I practiced improving my strength and control.

  Mind-over-matter existed; I was the living proof, and I was far stronger now than I'd been when the administrators sent me to the Army. But even with my new strength, how much good had I done? What could I do that two or three normal humans acting together couldn’t accomplish?

  For that matter, just one normal using a machine could do so much more than I could! Even in combat, what unique qualities could I bring to the fight?

  Simple answer, almost none.

  The Navy and Air Force did so much more than I could by using machines. They had ships and bombers and fighters, and even the Army depended now on tanks, armored trucks, and robots instead of infantrymen.

  All that being said, there was still a place in the ground forces for boots-on-the-ground, boots with a soldier in them, especially a soldier who could occasionally protect other soldiers by triggering a bomb before the jihadists intended.

  My Talent had helped, unquestionably; there were men alive and healthy because of what I’d done, and a fair number of jihadists who were not.

  The infantry rarely marches into battle now, but there’s still a need for foot patrols. A man on foot can see more, can use his senses in ways that soldiers in vehicles can’t and can go where no vehicle can. There are comparatively few roads in Afghanistan anyway, and some of them go through terrain that's almost impassable. Consider the Korengal as an example; it's all narrow gullies, steep canyon walls, and a few primitive tracks masquerading as 'roads'. The steep canyon walls are where the enemy hides in ambush, waiting for those foot patrols, so it's still an infantryman's war when you're out in the shit.

  So yes, I had done some good. Army engineers use robots to trigger an IED, but I needed no robot. I could also reach out during a firefight and disrupt an attack, at least some of the time. Logically I understood these things, but sometimes doubt was stronger than logic.

  When that happened, I got that feeling, the one that said I was special, that I should have done more practicing, should have been able to do even more than what I'd done. Because I couldn't, people had died.

  #

  I didn’t want to try to scrounge something from the dining facility, at least not yet. There might be people around and one of them might be an assassin.

  I measured the coffee beans, ground them, and set up my small percolator. Like the percolator, my mind bubbled.

  I probably was being paranoid, not wanting to go to the dining facility, but even paranoids have enemies; if Surfer was correct, I had at least one. Not to mention a few million locals that hated foreigners on general principles; there is never a shortage of enemies in Afghanistan.

  I considered my options; even though I wasn’t scheduled to go on patrol, a killer might be stalking me right here in the compound. No place in Afghanistan was safe, no one could be considered 'friendly'.

  If my PreCog worked, I might have time to do something. I might, emphasis might, have time to identify the guy with the controller before he was close enough to off me. For that matter, it might be a 'her'; a few women worked in the compound too.

  My bubble wouldn’t stop radio waves or an infrared signal from a controller. I would have to kill the assassin before he or she killed me. Suppose I made a mistake and offed some poor schlub who was reaching for a cigarette and about to ask me for a light?

  I was scared. An IED couldn’t kill me, but a guy could do it just by pushing a remote control button.

  Attitude…my attitude could get me killed. I felt a chill at what might have happened, what might still happen as a result of my going into the Colonel’s Club and ending up in his office. What if he’d been the one with the controller? What if he’d had a remote or something on his desk? All he would have had to do was point it at me and push a button. Just that easy, he could have changed me from on to off, permanently.

  Even knowing it was there, what could I do? Even though I could leave the compound, I wouldn't be able to blend in with the locals, and getting back to the states without orders was nearly impossible. Maybe, if I had enough money and a false identity, I might be able to charter a civilian aircraft. Then all I'd need to do was fly to a western country where I could do what Surfer was attempting, go into hiding. But I was in Afghanistan with very little money on hand and no civilian clothing. I was trapped, a tethered goat just waiting for the tiger to pounce.

  What does a mouse do when it finds itself in a maze? It runs the maze, always searching for a way out.

  But maybe there would be an out for me, if I could just think of a way; I'm not exactly a mouse. Mice don’t have the option of killing the one who put them in the maze and they can’t knock down the walls.

  #

  I finished my coffee and started another cup while an MRE heated in the microwave. It was late afternoon; where had the time gone?

  There was another way to release some of the tension I'd been feeling since Surfer commed me. I decided to go on another late-night solo patrol.

  I hung out in my CHU the rest of the day, drinking coffee and occasionally munching on an MRE. Finally the sun went down and the compound grew quiet, so I gathered my gear and sli
pped out the door.

  I had once suggested going out alone and patrolling the trails leading into the village, but that idea hadn’t gone beyond Major Stevenson. "Patrols have to be strong enough to hold until reinforcements can arrive, Chief. You should know that. Dismissed."

  Well, he hadn’t actually ordered me not to do it. And what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of us.

  The sentries at the gate wouldn’t let me leave the compound after dark. They wouldn’t be letting anyone in or out this late unless a convoy was scheduled, and convoys usually move by day. Not that I needed the gate; the bubble is quite resilient once I expand it. I’d bounced off walls when IED’s exploded and I could also bounce off the ground.

  At least, once I got outside the wire, I wouldn't need to worry about a guy with a remote controller. The enemies out there were manageable, using my bubble and PK.

  I would wear a soft cap tonight instead of a helmet. A dust mask and goggles were already stashed in my backpack, which also contained a filled hydration bladder and an MRE in case I got hungry. My night vision binoculars, clipped to a headband, were ready, and I would definitely need those. Such was my uniform when I went out on a late-night excursion.

  #

  My exit point was near the concertina fence that surrounded the motor park. The shops were all inside the wire, and unless a driver was picking up or dropping off a vehicle, the area would be deserted. So it was tonight; I’d have known if anyone was in the vicinity.

  I formed my bubble, put my arms out for balance, and jumped as high as I could.

  You lose energy doing this; it’s absorbed by the resilient bubble, now expanded to four feet in radius, but there’s enough left over to cause the bubble to bounce. The trick is to treat the bubble like a trampoline and add impetus by jumping just as you reach the bottom of the ‘bounce’. Then do it again.

  At first it’s jump-jump-jump. But as the bounces get higher, the bubble takes longer to fall and the jumps get farther apart. It’s jump…pause…jump, and repeat.

  The bounces soon took me high enough to see over the triple-row concertina that crowned the Hesco wall. The next bounce allowed me to see the ground on the far side and pick a landing spot. Tilt slightly the next time when the bubble reached the ground, before jumping again; the tilt changes the direction of the final bounce. Flip forward when I reached the top of the bounce, feel the bubble sliding greasily off the concertina, causing it to ripple slightly. I tumbled toward the ground outside the walls.

  The flip isn’t really necessary, it’s just fun. I came down and let the bubble bounce against the ground, this time bending my knees and allowing them to absorb energy; the bouncing quickly stopped. It was a modified version of the same procedure that parachutists use during landing. My instructors would be proud if they only knew.

  A final deep breath, then shrink the bubble to a few inches radius around me. Get my balance, collapse the bubble, and drop to the ground.

  I waited and listened, searching for sounds, thoughts, or emotions.

  I became aware of the two guards at the gate during this search, but they weren’t interested in me. One male, one female, attending a locked gate…I thought the command had issued a policy against that, but apparently not. The guards were more interested in each other than the gate. Or me, if they had even known I was around.

  The compound’s walls are surrounded by a kind of cleared alleyway. The two ‘guards’ might have spotted me then, but they paid no attention as I slipped out of the alley and turned down a side road.

  The roads are deserted this late at night. Even so, caution rules; I kept close to the walls and just walked along, keeping silent and soaking up the flavor of the village.

  The locals are good people for the most part, generally very poor, just trying to live safe and let this war go on without them. I sympathized; they disliked and feared the insurgents, I hated them. The jihadists had killed my soldiers, their own people too, to make a political statement. Some of them were even fanatic enough to blow themselves up, hoping that by doing so they could kill a few other people.

  My nightmares were never about the jihadists I’d killed. Funny, that; soldiers, bystanders, victims, they were the stuff of bad dreams, but never the jihadists. Despite my having personally killed several and made it possible for my troops to kill even more, I never dreamed about them. The absence was caused by lack of regret, probably; I saved my compassion for the innocent ones.

  Laundry hung over the track ahead, washed late and left out to dry overnight. The starlight and a few faint lights from houses revealed shapes but not the colors.

  It's often very colorful, especially the children’s clothing. Afghanis care for kids, especially boys, but it’s the mothers who sew those colorful costumes for the girls. You’d think the men would notice, realize how much the mothers care about their little girls, but they don’t.

  This wash line stretched from a second-floor apartment to an abandoned, rusting crane, likely left behind by the Soviets when they evacuated Afghanistan. A light breeze stirred the clothing as I passed beneath it.

  A baker worked late in his shop, judging from the light under the door. The flickering meant that tonight he worked by the light of a lantern. The electricity was probably off again; it comes and goes, following a schedule that’s erratic at best.

  I passed quietly by and was soon outside the village wall.

  Like many hillside villages, this one still has the thick mud walls surrounding it. They've been in place for hundreds of years, although not maintained as well nowadays as before. The local cops occasionally put prisoners to work on them, not that it helps much.

  Mortars and rockets care little for mud walls. Occasional gaps showed where a rocket or cannon had blown a hole during a long-ago fight; some of the holes had since been patched, new bricks replacing the old ones, fresh mud plastered over to smooth the surface. I could tell where repairs had been made during daylight, because new plaster is dark. But it soon fades in the hot sun and in time it will be the same shade as the rest.

  Kids played here during the daylight, darting through the holes while following rules that only they understand. There were no kids playing now; after midnight, the hillsides belong to the insurgents…and me.

  What did they think, those insurgents, when one of their packs of explosive detonated? Simple bad luck, the will of Allah maybe, or perhaps it was caused by one of the hillside djinns who was still there and causing trouble? Many of the tribesmen still retain their superstitions despite the best efforts of the Taliban; they worry about those mischievous spirits who come out at night.

  The valleys have seen several midnight explosions since I got here. Still, they keep coming, the jihadists; I couldn’t cover all the trails all the time. Some of the explosives always got through.

  Fortunately for me, the insurgent packers didn’t follow the ordinary safety rules we use when transporting explosives. They carried the blocks of Semtex in the same pack the blasting caps were in. The caps are wrapped in sheepskin for protection, but that doesn’t help much; if the caps blow, the Semtex goes up too.

  They keep trying, though. It’s not good for their image when a village with an American compound has a public-works program operating in the village. The generating station that was intended to supplement the local electrical supply had already been blown up, twice. At least there had been few casualties to the Afghani operators; Omar the Bombmaker had fewer materials to work with, maybe. Whatever the reason, the explosive charges had been small so only two men had been injured.

  I found a convenient ridge overlooking a couple of the trails, got comfortable, and sat for a while, just looking at the sky and sensing the night. The temperature drops up here when the sun goes down and there are almost no lights from the ground, so thousands of stars are visible in the sky. The new moon was rising tonight over the mountains in Pakistan; you can see more stars on a clear night in Afghanistan than anywhere else in the world.

 
There's a lot of free time, doing what I do. The old truism, hours of boredom followed by moments of terror, isn't far off the mark. There's plenty of time to think, maybe too much time. I wrestled with the ethics of what I was doing, waiting to ambush a jihadist rather than simply react to defend against attack. But there were no innocents stirring on these hills after dark. I wouldn't trigger some Afghani shepherd's lunch, and for that matter, shepherds and Semtex aren't a good mix.

  As it happened, this night was all mine. If the jihadists were stirring, they were someplace a long way off. Maybe I had watched this pair of trails too often and the pack bearers had decided to use another path. If I came out again on one of my nocturnal patrols, I’d watch the trails to the south.

  I gave up and headed home after an hour.

  I followed the road through the village, now using the bright image of the starlight scope to show the way. The lantern was out now, the baker gone to bed. He would be up early to bake the dough he'd mixed tonight into the bread he would sell tomorrow.

  I bounced over the Hesco wall and its crown of razor wire, using the same place where I’d left the compound, then landed inside without incident.

  It was just another routine patrol, but this one wouldn’t be reported.

  I went to bed and was soon asleep.

  Chapter Six

  I’d been eating MRE's for a year now, not only when I was in the field and hot meals couldn’t be brought up but also when I didn’t feel like leaving my hootch between missions. Stacks of the meals-ready-to-eat waited in the bottom of my wall locker, along with several bottles of Tabasco; I might run out of MRE’s, but I wasn’t going to run out of Tabasco! If you've ever eaten MRE's, you'll understand why.

  But I didn't want an MRE this morning.

  The dining facility served good food, even if it was a touch bland for my taste. I suppose it doesn't matter; most of us were going to bitch anyway. The food would never be good enough, even if we were served cordon-bleu entrees every day.