The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  In short, doing anything or nothing may get you killed, as the whim of blind luck calls it.

  The UNPF had had twelve Earth years to screw things up. They'd made every mistake possible (and this isn't a condemnation in that regard. Given time, any possible mistake will be made). Some soldiers had been overly friendly to the natives and failed to impress the enemy. Some had snapped, slaughtered whole villages, thus driving friends and neutrals over to them. Some had done nothing, thus reducing the effectiveness of the campaign. It was what we call in polite circles a goat rope, though I use a different term.

  I made an emergency demand for whatever intel we had, preferably from human sources. I drew cash, headed for the local bars in mufti (with a knife and pistol under the body armor I was wearing under my casual garb) and began asking careful questions. Tyler went the other way with Deni, and Neil did his own circumspect probing. I didn't send the two women together out of fear for their safety. I did wish to discourage any encounters that might reveal just how well trained they were. Besides, it was SOP for the UNPF, and we didn't want to stand out . . . yet.

  I found the necessary minimum of intel on the factions, and by lubing a few UN officers at the club and nodding and listening to them bitch, I found who I needed to see next.

  Not everyone associated with the UN is stupid, corrupt, or incompetent. That's merely the nature of the system they exist in. The personnel range from pathetic to exceptional, as everywhere. Our intel found the exceptional ones, and some of them turned out to be most conveniently located for our needs. UNPF Intelligence Branch had an observation and liaison point very close to the western edge of the border of 3 Sector, Division C, Area IV, just to our west. Don't bother looking for it on a map. I mean, it's there, it would just be a waste of time to look it up as it's not that important a fact. The fact that there were that many geographic sections should illustrate just how badly the people in charge needed to unscrew themselves. The reports looked good, the location was prime and targets were plentiful. I planned a visit, filed a mission statement and we headed out. I didn't call ahead. It's easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.

  In lieu of tans, we arrived in basic black evening dress, so as to impress the locals with our savoir faire and social graces. It also made us look like one of the mercenary units. We deployed as a squad, and took all our gear with us. Cowboy, our lifter pilot, maneuvered us in for a slingshot landing and we hit the ropes. That got the locals gawking. As we peeled off our hats, the sight of Deni cradling her sniper's rifle and Tyler lugging the heavy, both with wide-eyed mean stares under their paint, gave the audience a quick lesson in feminine daintiness. The crowd parted as we swept toward the compound. I could hear an occasional whisper as we approached.

  The building was a typical sprayed stone box with small, high windows. The UN builds them everywhere. It's as standard as the godsawful apartments they build. However, the block wall with razor wire and ditch was a new and decent defense against casual attacks and weapons, and the gate had real concrete pillars to stop vehicles. It looked promising.

  Cowboy left, tracked by weapons. We'd passed IFF on the way in, our automatic response stated we were on mission profile and would discuss after landing, but these paranoids kept us in sight. Good. The local shift commander of the guard detail already had called into the main house. Better. The older man striding down the stairs I recognized from the file as Major Paxton, UNPF (ret). He was a veteran of the civil war on Chersonessus ten years before, was still healthy-looking, and was carrying a carbine slung and pointed down. I felt at home with these people.

  "I'm Greg Paxton, the Liaison Officer," he said, stopping inside the antiquated iron gate. He seemed prepared to wait for me to take the cue, but I was ready.

  "Pleased to meet you, sir. I'm Warrant Leader Jelling of the FMF. This is my squad. We're here to get a huge body count, drink a lot of beer and screw our brains out. I don't do adminwork, I don't deal with bureaucrats, and as far as anyone is concerned, I don't exist."

  He smiled, then laughed. "Better get checked for testosterone poisoning, son," he said. "Right after we have a few beers." He signaled and the gate was opened.

  As we filed past, still attracting stares from the locals, he said, "I won't ask you to disarm, but do please ensure you're safed."

  I replied, "Sir, after dealing with the suzies back at the HQ, it will be a pleasure to comply with a reasonable request. My people are all professionals, and there will be no accidents. Or else."

  He offered good beer. As every group on Mtali except the Sufis officially ban alcohol, it was off-planet beer. Alsatian, to be precise. It was cool and wet and crisp on the throat. We accepted one each. After that, we'd drink water. Only idiots boast of their booze consumption when they might need their reflexes.

  His office was a working office. He had a Merrill subgun in the corner, a pistol at his waist and another on his desk in addition to his carbine. The walls were bare, the two shelves were crowded with rams and his desk was comm and clutter. He leaned back, raised his glass and said, "To dead assholes." It seemed like a good toast. We joined him.

  "So what's up?" he asked after we had a couple of swallows.

  "What's up is that my orders are to locate trouble by kicking around until it finds me. Then I will call down the wrath of God and Goddess from our support, and we'll shoot anything that moves and grenade anything that doesn't."

  Nodding, he said, "You do realize that this area has the most factional violence in the form of assassinations, petty feuds and terrorism, don't you?"

  "That was my intelligence finding, yes," I agreed. "That's why I'm here."

  "I'd heard that all your exposure to vacuum killed brain cells," he said, mockingly. He knew who we were and the "vacuum" comment about our training said so, but not to any eavesdroppers. Good man.

  "Yes, sir," I acknowledged, "but only the weak ones."

  * * *

  It actually didn't take long to drive the factions underground in 3 Sector. We went out and showed them modern, hi-tech brutality. They were fond of assassinations, so we gave them a taste of their own medicine, in gross violation of UN law. Paxton had set us up with pictures of the local leaders, who were known but stayed hidden, and we dug them out.

  How, when satellites were useless for identifying against a pedestrian on the street? Well, a few UN marks or Freehold credits went a long way toward loosening tongues, especially when the (implied) alternative was to be ground into the dirt. We set out drones, not airborne but mounted high in the trees, and let them watch the outskirts for us.

  Let me give you an example: Mister Alara bin Ali. Bin Ali had a boast of over twenty-three successful kills of tribal leaders and military officers. He was renowned as a local celebrity, and spoken of in hushed tones. So we outdid him.

  He tried very hard not to fall into a pattern, but we were able to backtrack enough data to place the direction of his hideout, even though he often swung wide over several days before making a hit. It was easy, once we knew what to look for. He was sent after well-protected targets who openly spoke against the Sunni factions. There weren't many of those, and less every time he came to town. He was working his way through the list, and we were able to watch most of those targets on nanocameras.

  We found him on his trip to kill a local shipper, and confirmed by letting him hit his target (hard on the target, I know, but he was not morally any better than his assassin), and then stalked him back to his hide. He came into the area, shimmied through a fence and across a courtyard, which was not guarded at that moment for some reason. We made a note of that. Those guards might need to be dealt with.

  The next night, I sent Geoff and Frank#2, our two most athletic youngsters, to bin Ali's house. Or his son's house, thereafter. The security staff woke up in the morning to find bin Ali missing and two of their number dead and gutted with excruciating and horrified looks frozen on their dead features. The sleepers on either side, who were unharmed, discovered them. That
sent a panic through the area.

  Bin Ali was never seen again. He'd been killed, of course, and his body smuggled out. It was easier to move in sections. Then we loaded it aboard a departing shuttle and let the atmosphere cremate him on re-entry. No evidence to find.

  We ghosted around the area with sensors. Whenever we found a bomb factory, we'd create an accident for it. We'd find convoys coming in and destroy them on the road, leaving some group or other without supplies. We occasionally snatched someone for intel and interrogated them. Unfortunately, most of them had heart attacks while being questioned. We did everything we could for them, but most of them died. Very sad.

  We were doing a decent job of taking out faction leaders. Each one we bagged created a power struggle among his underlings for the privilege of being the next sphincter. That created internal stress that slowed their operations briefly.

  But only briefly. The problem was, they kept blaming each other for these assassinations, accused each other of selling out those we captured alive, and running sorties against their perceived enemies. It was insulting to the extreme to us—the Muslim sects just assumed that we were harmless, being "infidels," and kept after each other. Provincial, egotistical little Paleolithic savages. As for the Feltsies, they were wimps. Long term, the Muslims were going to wipe them out, because they were willing to fight dirty and suicidally and the Feltsies weren't. They seemed to want an archaic stand up battle that they were never going to get, with Good and Evil led by angels and demons.

  I reported the problem up through Naumann. He agreed with my assessment. "Yes, that's exactly the response it triggers," he said. "And part of the reason the UN hasn't accomplished anything. Open action has to be seen as nonpartisan, clandestine action is never perceived as it should be."

  I replied, "Why hasn't someone said, 'They're right, you're wrong, sit down before we slit your throats'?"

  "Who do we pick as 'right'?" he asked.

  I said, "Well, the Sufis strike me as being the best combination of competent and decent. The Bahá'í are nicer people, but they're defensive minded only, and won't fight a proper battle."

  "So team up with some Sufis," he told me. "I'll handle any flak."

  I spoke to Paxton. He said, "I think I can arrange that." He nodded, sipped his coffee and leaned back. "Are you sure it's a good idea, though? I'm glad to see someone doing something concrete, but you might polarize the rest of them against you."

  "You really think so?" I asked.

  "I do."

  "Good," I replied, grinning. Bring them on, I'd stuff them into holes.

  * * *

  Whenever we were back on base, we took the opportunity to go into town and drink beer, while listening for more intel and drinking beer. It was best done over a few beers. We'd get a lot of useful rumors, and the sooner the rumors were out, the better we could ID the speakers as potential suspects who knew more than they officially admitted. This included a lot of alleged "allies" and even a few UN officers.

  There was also one payoff from the mountain battle. I'd been patient and philosophical, and it was all proven worthwhile when I caught a "No shit, there I was" story back in the corner of one favored hangout. It was too dim to see clearly, so I wandered back that way with my bulb.

  The guy was saying "—so we get this call for support from this colonial jackass who doesn't even know what grid he's at on the map. I relay it to Battery C and they dropped it right on the X. It was a perfect shot. Perfect—"

  He went on about some Novaja Rossian troops and how they hadn't been bright enough to know just how much manly power artillery packed, etc. I didn't like him. He wasn't a gunner, he was a REDF. He was more than willing to use their prowess to cadge drinks for himself, though. It only took a bit of listening to make me quite sure he was the same REDF who hadn't been able to grasp the concept that friendly fire is a contradiction in terms.

  As an investment in research, I bought him a drink.

  "Hey, that's good of you," he said. "I'm Joey Cotton."

  "Walt Amparan," I replied with a nod. I didn't take the offered hand. "I'm a maintenance officer for the Hatchets."

  He said, "Oh, those. Yes, not a bad craft, I'm told. Not as good as the Guardian, of course, but very good as far as colonial equipment goes. I'm the command artillery controller. Guy in charge." He thumbed his chest proudly.

  "Really?" I said. "You're the guy to call for arty?"

  "Well, daytime," he admitted. "I make the calls."

  I sat back and let him drink and talk, occasionally nodding or grunting so he'd continue. There were a handful of newbies hanging around, but they changed regularly as the troops figured him out. There were no bar girls anywhere near him, and the server brought his drinks and left without waiting for a tip. That told me all I needed to know. He sprawled further and further back in the scarred vinyl booth he occupied, back to the door and oblivious. He might have seen a bit of combat . . . on vid. I picked holes in most of his stories, and frankly didn't care for the glamour of sitting in a chair watching people work. There's nothing wrong with that job. It has to be done, and it has as many stories as any other. But he wasn't talking about that job, he was talking about everyone else's, as if he were they. The crowd thinned and he kept talking. I sat patiently. I ignored the disgusted look from the bartender.

  Cotton finally realized that we weren't being served any more, even with the lenient rules near base, which were in gross violation of most of the local laws.

  "Well, I guess I should get back inside the gate. Possible terrorists, you know. Though I'm armed against that," he said with a conspiratorial wink. Jackass. Never admit that to a stranger.

  "Let me walk with you," I said. "I need to take care of a couple of things."

  "Sure," he agreed. He staggered upright and we wandered out, me waving to the bartender, who shook his head in distaste. He'd be in a better mood tomorrow, if Cotton came back to drink.

  It was a bit foggy outside, just enough to dim visibility and dull noise. Perfect. I steered the staggering Cotton toward the gate and suggested a shortcut through an alley. It was that simple. Once inside the cluttered and narrow brick passage, I asked, "Any chance you recall a Special Unit two weeks ago? Needed fire support?"

  "Oh, yeah," he agreed. "There was some mixup on coordinates."

  "What happened?" I asked. I needed to know his side of the story, just to make sure.

  "Oh, the goddam colonials couldn't get their location straight. Our people were getting pasted, and then some clown from their unit called in to try to shift the blame."

  I could not believe he had that screwed up a recollection of the event. Or was it a fabrication?

  "Any casualties?" I asked, trying to be conversational.

  "Oh, a couple, I think," he said. "Happens. Those Special Unit guys are nuts, though. A few injuries don't even faze them—uuuugh." He cut off as I thumped him in the gut.

  I'd heard enough. It's a good thing he was an ally. I gave him three good stiff hooks to the midriff, a toe to the shin to leave a bruise he could appreciate for the next month, then hit him on the right cheek hard enough to stun him and leave a nasty bruise on his eye, without quite knocking him unconscious.

  He stumbled backwards, crashed into the wall and sat down hard amid greasy garbage from a cafe. He vomited all over himself, thin and wet and stinking of beer and stomach acid. While his eyes glazed over and he gasped for breath, I said, "'Fire Control, this is Lion One, Pony Three's system is compromised, do not fire on those coordinates. Stand by for correction.'"

  Then I applied a correction. I booted him moderately in the balls. "Next time I give you a correction," boot, "you relay the fucking data and try not to think," boot, "too hard. Got it," boot, "buddy?"

  He gaped, writhed and fell flat on his back. Gasping, he whispered, "I'll have you in jail tomorrow, you son of a bitch!"

  "And I'll slit your fucking throat before you kill anyone else," I rasped, with my best war face. I could tell he believed
me.

  I've found there's very few personnel problems that can't be resolved by a suitable application of a boot to the head. He could wake up here for all I cared. I went back to the barracks.

  * * *

  Paxton handled his part of our joint operation well. A Sufi unit arrived to discuss it the next day, right after we did. A dapper little colonel with the most gorgeously engraved Huglu carbine I'd ever seen came in, presented us with what I'm told was some excellent coffee, and sat at ease. He was slightly round faced and beamed smiles. A Colonel Kemal Cagri.

  "Oo ar wiv e Freehild cotijen?" he asked as he offered a hand. I thought for a moment and translated, "You are with the Freehold Contingent?"

  "I am," I replied, using his dialect of Turkish. "Would you do me the honor of letting me speak your language? I find it lovely to speak, and I need the practice for meeting your people. It's been some time." That's the diplomatic way of saying "Sir, your English sucks rocks. I'd rather translate from a language I know than from a patois I don't."

  "Of course, Warrant Leader," he agreed. "While I'd like to practice English, it would make more sense for you to speak my language here, I believe." Good. He understood and wasn't offended. Of course, if I'd come out and said it, he would have been, as it would have impugned his skills. These are the important tricks that help win allies.

  "Thank you, Colonel Cagri," I agreed with a slight nod and a hand on his wrist. They are even more casual about touching than we are. It makes most Earthies cringe.

  I agreed that his people were the most deserving and trustworthy on the planet (true), and that it made sense to stop pretending and support them (true) and that I loved the idea of collaborating with them to do so (false. I'd rather have had the entire Special Warfare regiments and lots of air support).

  "And what do you need from me?" he asked.

  "A good squad of troops, well experienced and familiar with this sector," I said. I didn't say, "And who are willing to engage in a bloody slaughter." I would have insulted him by suggesting he had troops who felt otherwise.