The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  Nodding, sipping coffee, smiling, he replied, "I think a squad from First Platoon Guards will do nicely. Come."

  So we went outside, he called a loud verbal order, "First Platoon Guards! Fall In!" and his unit fell in from under trees, sunshades, their vehicles, and local kiosks. And they fell in fast. I was impressed. They were the image of "jump to it!" as they sprinted into the compound.

  I couldn't believe what happened next, though. He shouted at them, "I need a squad of volunteers to accompany the UN and the Colonials on a mission. Squad sergeants, give me your best offers."

  That sounds fair enough, right?

  The troops broke formation and gathered around their squad leaders in a frantic panic. They were pulling stuff out of their pockets while covertly looking at each other, appraising the competition. What they were competing on, apparently, was who could come up with the biggest bribe. The squad leaders grabbed the proffered handfuls of notes, straightened them hurriedly, then tore across the field to the commander. He shuffled through the stacks, frowned, looked disgusted, then pointed at one squad leader. He turned back to me, smiled that broad beam, and said, "Fourth Squad is yours, Warrant Leader. Good hunting!"

  The squad leader slumped his shoulders and sighed, saluted resignedly at Cagri's back and headed toward his people. The rest of the unit dispersed without any orders, and his squad, mostly kids around eighteen standard years, stood there with quivering lips and glazed eyes. The only universe they had for comparison was their own, and in that light, they thought themselves raped, abandoned and dead. Cagri apparently saw nothing wrong with how he'd operated. The graft was how he expected to be paid what he was due as a unit commander. We shook hands, bowed slightly, kissed cheeks and he was gone, the rest of his troops mounting up and skedaddling before they got dragged into this.

  This was what I had to work with. And this was the elite of the planet. Triff. I started thinking at once of ways to turn this to the good.

  Actually, I managed to come up with a few things. First, this group had had the poorest bribe (which they didn't get back, note), which meant they were either honest or incompetent. Hey, that's a 50/50 chance of a good thing. They hadn't run, which they could have. They came over at once at my signal. They would be native guides of at least moderate competency. And if all else failed, they could soak up bullets meant for the rest of us.

  On the other hand, that soaking might not be necessary if they were worth a damn.

  They stood at good attention while I eyed them, and my kids fell in behind me in best chained-killer pose. The locals looked impressed. They should be. Our gear was less than twenty years old, clean, in good repair and useful. Theirs was crap. Poorly made crap. Lowest bidder crap from shoddy materials. Abused by illiterates for twenty years crap. But it was uniform and in repair. I said to the squad leader, "Let me see your weapon."

  He dropped his eyes, raised the weapon, cleared it, inspected it and handed it to me, just as if he were on parade. I snatched it as he thrust it at me, flipped it, checked the chamber and gave it a once over. Then I opened the receiver, pointed it skyward and examined the bore. Pitted from long use, rifling worn. This thing had seen a lot of rounds and not much cleaning. But it was clean now, even though it was too late to matter. I closed it and handed it back. In a glance, I reminded myself what the rest of their gear was like.

  I dismissed my troops to embark. "Come with me," I told the Sufi NCO, Sergeant Mahir Bolukbasi. He nodded and gave the order.

  They marched adequately, too. Discipline was here, even if it had been abused like a third-rate escort and sold cheap. They'd do. I'd have them in shape by morning, I decided. I called ahead to Warrant Sirkot at 3rd MAR Logistics, our official source.

  They boarded our vertols without question, though a couple of nervous looks indicated that at least some of them had never flown. But there were no complaints, even muttered. They awaited my orders before debarking at our flightline.

  We got stares as we marched through the compound. First of all, we hardly ever march except on parade. Second of all, we were a mixed bunch. I took them to logistics section, marched them up the dock ramps and sought a roomy bay. The third one down fit my needs, being sparse on the floor and packed around the walls. I snapped orders again as I handed over a paper notebook. "Write your uniform sizes down, in centimeters, with your name. Then strip."

  They wrote down the info, but there was muttering and head shaking at that last part. "STRIP!" I repeated. When nothing had happened after another ten seconds, I grabbed Bolukbasi, clicked open my pocketknife in front of his eyes, batted aside his attempt at a block—which impressed me; it had been quick—and peeled him out of his shirt the hard way.

  They stripped in a hurry, looking ashamed. They were poorly fed, but wiry and well-scarred, and it was my turn to be impressed. These weren't cowards. They reluctantly came back to attention, shamefaced and flushed. I knew the basis of their embarrassment, even if I'll never understand it—there were women present. They have few women in the military, none in combat units, and they have this religious modesty thing.

  They dressed fast when the logistics troops brought them uniforms. I put them in ours. They looked a lot more like soldiers. "Stuff all your gear in these sacks," I told them.

  We hit the chow hall and filled everybody up with peppered beef, garlic and herb potatoes, steamed beans, cake, milk, coffee and sodas with ice cream for those who wanted it. They packed away food as if they hadn't seen it in days, and they may not have. Then I had them march to our barracks section and stuck them in an empty hooch.

  They were intended for eight, packed with thirteen, but the Sufis were agog at wood floors, lockers, privacy screens and an attached latrine and shower with hot water. I showed them how to set the combinations for their lockers and said, "Rest. Be outside in formation at midnight," and left.

  I cleared what I needed to with Naumann, who just laughed and said, "I know nothing."

  Then I called Greg Paxton and told him what I planned. I called on a secure circuit, using one of our multiband scramblers. I'd left one with him. I didn't trust UN gear for this.

  "Let me get this straight," he said. "You're going to rob our own people to get supplies?"

  I replied, "You need them, they have them, they won't share them, so you take them."

  He said, "Yes, but—" and I cut him off.

  "We aren't going to hurt them, it'll be good practice for us, a good lesson for them and we'll get the stuff we need. If they're going to sell it black market to the factions and aren't going to use it themselves, they can't complain about not having it."

  "That part's hard to argue with," he said.

  "So I'll see you in a couple of days." I disconnected and went to get some sleep. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  It was also raining that night, which was awesome. I took it as a sign that we were going to succeed. The Sufis were waiting, at attention, with all their old gear over our uniforms, stoically letting the cold rain trickle through their clothes. Good discipline. "Leave that fossilized crap in your lockers," I told them. They hurried inside to comply, then came back, looking bothered. No one had any weapons except me, and I had only a pistol. We Freeholders had small toolkits and our tac visors.

  "Follow us, quietly," I ordered.

  The back of our compound has to have the fence replaced regularly. It appears that people bypass the sensor net and cut it to gain access. As this happens to the UN, too, they don't notice the repair crews. What they also don't notice is that ours are cut from the inside. We sneak out all the time to gather intel from the bars, smuggle equipment, get laid and find drugs and liquor. You know, the important things in war.

  We snipped some slits in the fence and eased through. The Sufis followed us, being quite professionally quiet and experienced as they did so. Not bad. Our guards didn't notice us departing. It would be hard for them to notice us, as they were facing the other way and talking in loud voices. They woul
d start paying attention again about ten seconds after we were clear. Professionals to the core. Of course, occasionally we'd slip past while they were watching, just for practice. It was practice for them and us.

  Our target was a mere five hundred meters away, though we'd travel about ten kilometers to accomplish the mission. The UN 43rd Logistics Support Function's depot was on the far side of their compound, with plenty of outside fence. They may as well have given me the keys.

  We used cover as it was, moving from building shadow to grass to trees and back. This was in part to assess how well our allies moved. I was impressed. The patter of rain kept our noise masked, as long as we didn't splash too much. They were very good light infantry, and clearly experienced scroungers. They'd just never had anything decent to scrounge before. That was about to change. And after this, they'd know where to go to get the stuff.

  We stopped just beyond the illuminated circles from the compound's security lights. The dark slash of shadow edge, combined with the bulldozed ground gave us lots of muddy hiding places. I waited for everyone to settle in, with my people on perimeter and the Sufis inside. That way, we could keep an eye on them. We were unarmed except for me, so if we were discovered, I could legitimately claim it was a training mission and not mention the other actions we were trying to take. We'd keep our toolkits hidden.

  We sat there, silently, watching for any movement. A pending night mission might dictate human presence, or someone might be catching up on adminwork. The security geeks might decide to hang out in the parking area to snooze, drink or just kill time. Never assume that because you have a schedule you know what's going on. There were two technical vehicles there, but a glance with IR proved they were cold. No traces of human passage remained, and a laser reflected off a window didn't jiggle from air currents against the glass. The stack of cargo pallets near a door was equally uninteresting.

  It looked good. I gave it twenty local minutes. Nothing heard down there, and just as importantly, nothing heard from our allies. No shuffling, no exasperated sighs. We sat there and soaked, chilled and shivered. We could have brought cloaks, but those would have interfered with hearing, peripheral vision and been liable to catch on things, as well as bulking us out and swishing as they brushed. There are times a soldier just has to get wet.

  "Stay here. Don't move," I told Bolukbasi. He nodded and stared in fascination. I turned and skipped down the hill. With me were Martin, Geoff, Frank#2, Johnny Squid and Tyler. I had a mix of experienced troops and newer ones, mostly on the small side. As I said, it was a training exercise.

  The ground was lower on our side than the other, with a slimy ditch to negotiate. The oft-repaired fence before us was doubled, razor wired and had motion sensors. We'd go over them without triggering anything on the way in. The way out was a separate problem. As far as going in, we each Boosted. Geoff was the gymnast and was outrageously strong even by our standards. He'd been working out since he was three.

  It was like a carnival ride. I dropped down into the ditch, stepped forward onto his waiting hands and jumped as he heaved me up. I tucked up tight to clear the wire, then straightened enough for the landing. A mere 3 meter fence was the toughest obstacle so far. There were reasons for that I'd discover later. Partly, it was because we were already inside an armed and marked perimeter. This fence was to stop petty pilferage. Well, there was nothing petty about what I had planned.

  The others were over in short order. Geoff stepped back a measured distance, sprinted, bounded, came clear of the ground and soared over the wire.

  Then his boot brushed it and he tumbled.

  It wasn't too bad. He righted and landed staggering, wincing slightly. He'd be fine. But a centimeter lower and we'd have had to cut him loose.

  There was no easy way across the parking area. It was flat fused dirt and well lit. So we ran for it, widely spread to make many little shadows rather than one large one. We flattened against the building, behind scattered pallets and under the two vehicles. Nothing happened. We hadn't expected anything, but caution is what keeps you alive.

  I decided to start and shifted out of shadow. I walked casually up to the door, acting at this point as if I belonged there. You can confuse most people into ignoring you by pretending to be normal. You fit the pattern they expect, and you aren't questioned. If anyone saw me right now, they'd assume that anyone so brazen must have authorization. Really. It works. Frank#2 joined me with his electronics kit.

  I felt eyes behind my back from our people. I had tense muscles as we slipped the locks. It wasn't hard. The doors opened outward, to facilitate moving stuff out on loaders. That meant the hinges were outside. All we had to do was scan for the sensors, convince them they were engaged, slip the hinge pins on one side and pull the doors away from them. Yes, they had multithousand credit security locks and doors that could be defeated with a pocketknife applied to six fifty cent pins. Take a look next time you're somewhere "secure." It happens everywhere.

  "Shit, problem," Frank said suddenly.

  "What?" I asked.

  "They put security pins in the hinges." Simple metal screws to stop someone from doing exactly what we were doing.

  "Damn," I said, and dug for a silenced drill. We'd have to poke those out. That would leave us exposed a bit longer. Then we'd have to hide the holes.

  The door came open. It was a tight squeeze, which was fine. I'd picked skinny people. Once we were in, I drew it as closed as it could get. No one driving by would suspect anything. At least, not enough to get out of a warm vehicle into cold rain.

  Inside, we worked by torchlight. Most of what we wanted wasn't hard at all. The weapons we intended to steal were a pain. They were in heavy, secure vaults, the firing mechanisms stored separately and the whole mess inside a secured room. It took Frank#2 nearly another hour to convince the protocols to let us in, while I took low light photos of everything in sight. Finally, he succeeded in cracking it. "I can't delete the entry from the file," he said. "Sorry."

  "No problem," I said. They'd have no idea who'd been here. That was the important part. We grabbed the rest of what we wanted and finished packaging it. We'd stacked the gear neatly by the door for our departure. It had taken longer than I expected. We didn't find replacement hinges, but we did find flush metal screws to hide the evidence of our entry.

  "Clear?" I asked over my tac to Frank.

  "Sure," he confirmed. We were as non-military as we could sound.

  The exfiltration was quick. We opened the doors, I fixed the hinges while the others brought the gear out, we closed the doors and removed our bypass circuits on the sensors. We sprinted back and forth with our bundles, and Geoff and Martin heaved them over the fence. They might get muddy, but this was battle gear, so who cared? It would just break it in. Once done with two heavy loads each, we were tossed over ourselves. Geoff tossed Martin over, then stepped back and sprinted. With a clear run on packed ground and a lower target relatively, he cleared it with no trouble, only to land deep in the ditch. He needed help to pull loose, and was stuck until he suddenly came free with a squishing sound.

  The Sufis were wide-eyed in wonder as we climbed back up, backs laden with presents. We all adjourned, near as silently as we'd approached, the difference being due to enthusiasm, and sought a quiet spot under some trees. We were close enough to have minimum risk of attack, far enough away for privacy. We sat down and divvied up the loot.

  Every one of the Sufis got a new rifle, body armor, harness and pack, canteen pack, first aid kit, compass, position receiver, wet weather gear and shelter. It was more material wealth than most of them had seen in their lives, and they unconsciously scanned about for potential thieves, before realizing they were all thus equipped. "It's yours," I told them. "You can sell it or your old stuff when you get back. While you're with us, I expect you to maintain it and respect it. Steal from anyone and I'll kill you." They knew it was no idle threat, and I'd quashed the idea before it had even started. They knew who their friends were. "T
omorrow night we hunt," I told them. This time, they grinned without reservations.

  The grins were the type I like: predatory.

  Chapter 11

  We moved out at once. We split up so we could do more damage. We had thirty-three troops as well as four spooks from the intel post and five mercs Greg said we could trust, for seven teams of six plus me. I made assignments, and put two or three Operatives on every team. We led, they provided extra eyes and firepower.

  Geoff and I were teamed. I picked him because he was left after I'd paired everyone else, and because I'd not worked with him much. Greg came with us, and three Sufis: Sergeant Bolukbasi and two of his troops, Nafiz and Hayati, no last names.

  Our first mission was intel. There was a lot of activity in this area. That required personnel, communications and equipment. The question was, where did the communications and other equipment come from?

  The UN satellites weren't finding much. It was cloudy around here, with warm air from the sea south of us hitting cold air near the mountains. Additionally, it was foggy and misty due to the humidity and temperature swings. The UN's answer was to shrug and say, "No data." We decided to go look. There was a hollow in the hills where all kinds of stuff could hide.

  It was a four day op. We were taken in a battered truck to blend in and wore civvies. In rough work clothes and my high UV tan, I looked like a weathered laborer. My skin was a bit too smooth, but dust and a practiced squint took care of that. Geoff already had a narrow face and bushy black beard. It was his normal look.

  We drove all day in dust and sun, the turbine stuttering occasionally. The air was thin though humid, as we were quite high, about 1000 meters. We arrived at our insertion point near nightfall. Our gear and weapons came out from under crates and we stepped into the dusk, as the molten primary quenched itself over the hills. The clouds writhed like snakes and created washes of shadow that turned into dark pools. Pretty planet. Too bad there were more assholes than mouths.