The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  We'd never know. What I heard in response was unbelievable, except that it was real. "Unit identified as Lion One, you are not cleared for this network. Request denied. Send requests through your chain of command."

  I exploded. "UN Fire Control, Lion One, who in the dogfucking hell do you think connected me to you? Scrub that fire mission, you are killing your own troops!"

  "Lion One, request denied. Clear this network," I was told. Then I heard dead air.

  It was time to handle it ourselves, because no one else was going to. "Pony Three—Lion One, pull your people back to the last location we recorded," I told him. I couldn't load coordinates to him, because that would link me into their corrupted net. We'd have to do this the old fashioned way. Additionally, if I read that location off by number, it would definitely be intel for the enemy. As it was, what I told him was only probably intel for them, if they had a recording (I was sure they did) and if they tracked back on it. That would take them a few seconds, however. It was just a numbered location to whoever was spoofing us, but it was a real place to we who'd been standing there. "Once there, offset yourself. Don't tell me where; I'll find you. And drop out of your net. They can't help you."

  UN Control came over the air again, on that freq. Apparently, they could listen just fine, it was doing anything that was their hold up. "Pony Three, disregard that instruction. Stand by for mission revisions, to be transmitted soonest." Whoever it was was a rude REDF. That's an acronym for "Rear Echelon DogFucker," an admin puke who is technically in a combat slot because his blubbery ass sits at a comm. The polite term is "Console Commando" but I feel no need to moderate my statements regarding that one. He was no help.

  There was nothing from Glen. He was truly screwed. If he stayed in the current link, he was compromised. If he didn't, he'd be court martialed, assuming he survived. That was a thin assumption. There were ground troops approaching now. And a light flashed. He'd lost someone.

  Then he spoke, "Control—Pony Three. You can jail my ass when we're done. The net is compromised; I'm dropping out. Relay your instructions through Freehold Control. Out. Lion One, I'm clear." There was a moment's pause for breath. "If you and your people could see your way clear to saving our sorry asses, I'd appreciate it."

  I replied, "Pony Three, you're not the sorry ass. Now do as I said—break—Tyler, suppressive fire on this mark," I lit a grid that seemed to me to be the source of a lot of mortar fire, "—break—Frank, take charge of Third and keep us covered as the BGs move—break—Second, swing over here" I lit another mark "and report as the friendlies fall past you—break—First, over here." I highlighted a spot behind and at an angle to Second Team, so we could have interlocking fields of fire and disengage by leapfrog. Weapons Team was actually off to our left, rather than behind and between. That was safer regarding their shooting, but less useful because they were further away. C'est la guerre.

  I was just about to jump when my visor flashed a warning, and bullets splashed splinters from a nearby tree. Some enemy patrol had located me now. I spun, lobbed two grenades that way, turned back and jumped without bothering to determine casualties, if any; it wasn't that important. I skittered down the slope, trying desperately to keep my feet and dodge trees, and found a safer spot about 200 meters away. At least it seemed safer until another shell landed. It was far enough away not to injure, but close enough to slap me with the blast.

  It wouldn't be even that safe for long. Little squirming red worms on my display showed probable enemies, and a lot of them. "Control—Lion One," I said. "If you could see your way clear, I could really use a CAC team to cover my exposed ass while I conduct this operation. Barring immediate response on that, I need some kind of fire support—mirror" (which tied in a second circuit) "—Frank, have someone talk to support and kill a few of these dots until we get more support or we run out of targets."

  Let me say this again: heavy assault armor and jump harnesses are useless in trees. The signals created by our suits were well masked, but could still be located by an adequately equipped enemy, and this one was more than adequately equipped. We should have come in stripped, with weapons, sneaking on foot the last couple of klicks, but the UN had this fetish for techie toys that was going to get us all killed.

  Our new problem was that we had no aircraft handy. Our Hatchets were still in town and the UN had called dibs anyway. They were not currently disposed to help us, as they were sulking.

  But our aviation people have balls and boobs the size of basketballs. Our Hatchet pilots were begging for permission to join the party. Not only that, our arty folks gave less than a damn about counterbattery, and started dropping PGMs on the targets Frank's kids were designating. It may seem like overkill to drop a 100 kg shell on a single troop, but if it stops him from shooting, I'll take it. The Hatchets were en route and should be overhead in about 1000 seconds. That's a long time, but they were rearming and refueling. While taking fire, let me note.

  Once surprise is gone, you want firepower, lots of it and yesterday. The UN was still debating which thumb to stick up their asses, and I frankly didn't have time. Our allies were dying, and something had to be done now. We did it.

  Major Jose Clavell with 3rd Mob Regimental Arty was a conniving little weasel, and I say that with the utmost respect. Using the data we had, the plotted positions of the UN guns and the reports of the Mountain Battalion troops' locations, he set up a fire mission that didn't quite target the UN guns (in case of survivors, and let's face it: we wanted those pieces back), but was certain to keep anyone in those positions ducking, scared and wetting their pants. His gunners were good, too, firing a time-on-target salvo of firecracker rounds so dense that no interdiction was going to have an appreciable effect on it. I understand the air got pretty thick inside a few of the crew compartments, but they were feeding shells to the autoloaders as fast as Logistics' drivers could get them there, and sat on mechanical problems. He dropped it on one position, then on another, then back, with just enough time for the enemy to think they might be safe, come out of their holes and get caught by the next wave. That still left the guns out of his range to worry about. But anytime I can get a 50% reduction in incoming fire, damn betcha I'll take it.

  This finally gave our UN friends a chance to prove their own capabilities. They weren't too shabby. Not being plumbed into our commo, they had to verbally shout coordinates to Kit and Neil (whom Frank had handling it). They crawled and bounced around, taking hits but none of them critical. Whenever they took fire, they'd relay the location and keep moving, trusting that our arty and Tyler's heavy (also Barto's and Frank #2's. They'd swapped squad weapons for heavies. The exos meant we could carry bigger hardware, and we did) would be on target. They were fast, precise, got the job done and in a few hundred seconds we were back in control of the hillside.

  That is when the armor came in useful. They could take numerous small arms hits and even a few heavier rounds and keep going. On the other hand, we wouldn't have needed it if we hadn't made so much noise coming in.

  At that point, we used the gear as it was designed but not intended. The theory behind this stuff was to either sneak in or overpower inferior forces. However, they are built to take damage. We paired up, one of them with one of us, because they couldn't use commo. The spare UN troops formed a support squad and took orders from Deni.

  The Hatchets arrived. Suddenly, the incoming fire lightened tremendously. There's nothing like large caliber cannon and plenty of bombs to dissuade the enemy. I don't know which batteries they were hitting, but whomever they picked decided to leave us alone.

  Then we attacked. We crashed up that hill, dodging trees and making no effort to be quiet. The chameleons would hide us for a few critical moments, we were bounding in long, low leaps at close to 50 kph and shooting at anything that didn't look friendly. I almost killed a Mountain troop who'd taken a hit to the helmet and removed it. I was focusing for patterns and that bare head was not the pattern I'd expected. I kept ordering pairs and
mixed teams to peel off after threats, adding Mountain troops to the mix with simple orders to join an element and shoot where told. We dwindled in number, but the weapons fire was different now. There was more of ours, less of theirs and cries of distress said we were smashing their domain. I peeled off a last group of Frank with Kit, Deni and Joel and two UN troops to handle a perimeter bunker complex that had been usurped. Pandis with Donnie and Ross and two of her people sought an enemy element in a hollow. That left Glen, Kirby, the leopards and me.

  Glen and I rose and moved, clearing a downed timber and hiding behind its exposed earthy root ball. I checked my images, whispered, "Forward left, several troops, small arms," while pointing in that direction. It suddenly resolved as the edge of the clearing the battery was dug into, about a hundred meters away through dank foliage. Camouflage screens and targeting sensors showed easily. The guns were dug in and less obvious, spread across the area. The command track and a tent were the focus of activity, and where everyone appeared to be.

  "Think we can handle that?" Glen asked. "Should we wait for backup?"

  "Shock and surprise, fear and panic. They have no idea who's here. We've got these dogfuckers," I said. He nodded and grunted agreement. Nevertheless, I called Frank while I slid in fresh clips. I'd rather start a fight with one hundred rounds than seventeen.

  "We're clear," he agreed. "Want us to guard the hole or come for backup?"

  "Sweep the guns and have Deni shoot anything suspicious-looking," I told him. My voice was raspy. I took another sip of water from the tube at my chin. It was caked with dust so I got a mouthful of gritty mud, but it was wet. "Tyler, have our support element come around from the south and drop anything they can." I indicated on the map as I thought, then said, "Geoff, cover the north. We're going in the middle first, everyone else come in two ticks later. And don't leave any nasties behind." Then I called Control for a fire mission.

  Kirby and company slid in behind us, the cats crouching atop the log. They understand the risk of bullets just fine. They also prefer height so they can see. It's how they operate, and anyone who works with them learns quickly not to argue with a leopard's tactics. It wastes your time and annoys the leopard. I could hear them panting when the fire slacked at brief intervals.

  Glen rose with me, we jumped clear to minimize our targetability, then resumed long lopes. I enjoyed that aspect of the exo. Seven League Boots. Then I saw a cluster of troops and captives massing and kicked in the Boost.

  We were all but invisible until it was too late, then we were on them. Three or four of them caught bare movement from the corners of their eyes, but it would do them no good. I braked my jump by drop kicking a tree and snapping my legs down. I smashed my hip against it as I landed but the armor took some of the blow and the Boost turned the pain to a ripple of secondary endorphin. I was chemically and mechanically enhanced, alert and in peak physical condition on a low gravity planet. My visor showed me everything in the universe and for a few seconds I was the God of War.

  Up came my weapon and I snapped off shots as I panned across. Long practice paid off; I was attentive and not tunneling my vision. As each shot found its mark, I was already plotting the next. After three I twisted behind the tree to shoot from the other side before dropping for cover and firing twice more toward the nearest gun. I added a grenade to that, then twitched my feet and shifted three meters forward into the artificial meadow. Two more shots at targets by the generator and I rose as bodies were still falling. Seven troops were crumpling, three prisoners still standing, then throwing themselves down as they realized that rescue was here. The enemy couldn't shoot with us so close and the panic on their faces was a drug in itself. I'd jumped a bit too hard and was looking down at them from three meters instead of two.

  Behind me, Kirby said, "Fight!" My henchman and my pet demons sprung like wisps past me. A flashbang exploded, then two more. We were ready for it and rolled through the concussion wave. More fire sounded from the perimeter, distinct and chosen shots as we took out the wanderers. Two heavy crashes announced Deni's handiwork. Overhead came the crackling of bursting antipersonnel rounds compliments of Major Clavell. They were too high to be a threat, but were a great distraction.

  All the enemy before us could hear was the shrieking, snarling roar of leopards craving a kill, and all they could see were the flashing fangs and slashing claws with camouflaged ripples behind them. I stepped in with them and drew my sword.

  Weapon in right hand over sword in left, as I'd practiced so often. I let my visor track with my weapon, the ghost images showing over the real view before me. Pilots have implants to handle that type of multiple input. I can do it without. A body rose to my left, screaming in panic and I chopped its jaw with a controlled snap that brought my arm right back. Two more shots splashed crimson from a target far too close. One beside it was at an awkward angle for a shot but in fine position for a roundhouse kick with hundreds of kilos of exomusculature behind it. The ribs shattered and it bent in half before crumpling. I shot and hacked and kicked across the clearing, then turned to do it again.

  I looked around and saw nothing, just guns and trees and dirt and brush, reeking a salty, coppery, iron-tanged sharp propellant smell of death.

  Two Operatives, two leopards and an SU ally. Fifty-seven dead soldiers whose only mistake was to be in the area we were assigned. Bodies clutched weapons or had thrown them away. They lay in tangles, faces showing shock, agony or absolutely nothing, having died too fast to comprehend. Very few of them were alive. Conventions wouldn't matter; none of them would be alive by sunset.

  Boost was fading, my vision in waves. I gasped for breath, and hearing the leopards pant, I looked them over. Claws and muzzles greasy red with blood. Blood in splashes that appeared to float in midair where it had landed on the chameleons. Very macabre. They heaved for breath themselves. Sphinx favored a paw that had gotten smashed against something, and had a nick that made his tail tip thrash angrily. That and my throbbing, burning hip were our only casualties.

  "Son of a bitch!" Glen muttered, making it sound like a prayer. I faced him. He said, "I've never seen anyone move so fast. You bastards are terrifying." The grin on his face was a protective and hopeful one.

  I smiled back the smile of a predator. "Lots of practice," I panted. He finally understood what I'd known my whole career: the swords, guns, grenades, sensors and armor were tools. There was only one weapon in this battle. That weapon was me.

  With us prodding the succored captives, we set about restoring the unit to operation. "Mind you stay out of the net," I warned them.

  "But how do we plot our fire?" the commander asked, looking unsure.

  Did they teach the UN troops nothing? "Spotters," I told him.

  Glen said, "I'll leave two observers here for that."

  Mountain troops were trickling in, receiving orders slowly, as they had to be relayed from the UN to our control to me to Glen to the local commanders to issue. But we got them sent out to protect the perimeter, and we secured the battery.

  I never again felt as I did for that too brief time as I mowed my enemies like wheat before the scythe. It was a heady, intoxicating potion that was addictive and disturbing. Pleading exhaustion, I let Glen and Frank handle the rest of the details, merely approving Frank's choices.

  During the flight back I was a wreck. Two days of combat with no sleep, running on drugs, adrenaline and Boost with a few sips of water and a couple of ration bars was a toll I can't describe. It's probably like running several marathons. Naumann called and said, "Hold your report, get some sleep. Well done." A "Well done" from him equates to a medal. He's hard to impress. I thanked him and didn't argue. I needed the sleep. My lullaby was artillery and turbines.

  While I slept, the Sunni factions who'd seized the moment were put to flight. General Furglen was later awarded a medal for planning and leading the mission.

  Do you know what the cause of the intel failure was that had caused the city to collapse? Someone,
probably ten years old, backdoored the UN control signal and shut off the satellites. That was it. That let all those forces into place. As to our battle in the hills, someone real-timed Glen's movements and offset the UN network so as to show them further back than they were. Incoming fire intended for enemy targets splashed on their own troops. In typical "We aren't bigots, some of our biggest supporters are Mtalis" fashion, the UNPF assumed, assumed, that no one locally had the means and training to do that, and never doublechecked the coding. So a comm, a satellite dish, and a frequency analyzer killed our people and theirs because they didn't care enough to do the job properly. To say I was angry would be an understatement. Words don't exist for Naumann's frame of mind. He idly speculated on having us assassinate the UNPF comm unit, then made sure to insist it was only a thought. Good thing; we would have done it.

  But my squad was blooded now, and I felt more confident than ever. Certainly, we'd taken a few terrorists from ambush and done a bit of infiltration, but that's not the same as face-to-face brutality. Not necessarily easier, just different. None of my people had flinched, none panicked, and all had good tallies of shooting. That said a lot about our training, and I made sure Naumann knew that. He was as happy as I was, and agreed that we should follow up as quickly as possible.

  Chapter 10

  Now, there's a fine line one must walk in guerilla warfare. On the one hand, one wants to be as ruthless as possible to terrify the enemy. On the other hand, needless civilian casualties will work against you by strengthening the resolve of the enemy, and driving those who are neutral into their camp out of fear. To make it more complicated, one must distinguish between those who are armed and friendly, those armed and opposed, those armed and neutral, and those who fit into more than one category. The unarmed may shortly be armed, or simply camouflaged belligerents. Since one moves clandestinely in these circles, none of the above described locals are likely to announce their intentions to you. They may also disbelieve your stated intentions.