The Weapon

by Michael Z. Williamson

  "We're steady for now," Oleg said, "but it won't last. We can't make it back unless we're stripped . . . and I'm not sure then."

  Let's face it: it always sucks to be us. "How are the other craft?" I asked.

  "Fine," he said. "A few scratches." That was a miracle by itself. "But we can't land here," he said needlessly.

  "Rescue Two, Three Zulu One," I said to get Jack into this.

  "Go, Ken," he replied.

  "Strip mass out of that lifter. Dead over the side, extraneous gear, rucks, harnesses, damaged weapons, and destroy it all. Soonest, and get back to me," I ordered. We weren't quite sure who was in charge now, so I took it.

  Losing mass was a tough call. On the one hand, if we didn't, we'd go down and need another extraction. That might be a no-hitch proposition. Or, we might land in the middle of one of hundreds of little disputes and make a big one. This was a hot area. If we lost too much gear and went in anyway, we wouldn't have enough to hold off attackers until rescue did get there. No right answer.

  "Oleg, what's the available mass rating on the rescue bird?" I asked.

  He conferred with the other pilot. "Three hundred kilos," he replied.

  "Bullshit, what's the real figure?" I asked again. Damned thing had to be nut to butt to be that full. Well, it was going to get even more crowded.

  "Almost a thousand," he admitted. "No margin."

  "Good. Get all the altitude you can, have him come to starboard, lateral by five meters and as close below as is safe, then a bit closer," I said.

  "What do you have planned?" Frank asked.

  "Insanity," I admitted. It couldn't be called anything else.

  Once the other craft pulled in and both were hovering, I leaned out. Jack stuck his head out below me, perhaps twenty-five meters away, and waved back. I tossed a rope and watched it coil lazily down toward him. He reached way out, snagged it, and made it fast to the skid.

  If this bird couldn't take the mass, we'd just transfer a bit. "Operatives, down the rope," I said, and made a flamboyant gesture of confidence I didn't feel. Ten people with basic gear would be close to 1000 kilos, no margin.

  Deni and Tyler had already donned gloves. They snapped rings to the rope and dropped over, Tyler's face betraying the barest fear. It was the first time I'd ever seen it visible in her. Deni was as imperturbable as ever; her face rarely showed anything. Frank and the pickups from Squad One followed them down. Then four more. Bringing up the rear, I snapped on a ring, leaned over the side, and dropped.

  That was when the firing from the ground started. Rounds cracked past my head and banged into the vertols. "START MOVING!" I shouted into my mic, hoping to God and Goddess they'd move in something approaching unison. I felt moderate thrust, and breeze pulled at me. They shifted unevenly, and suddenly I was over the rescue vertol's intakes, staring down at a blurry, whirling hell that waited to grind me and cook me if the rope snapped. Then I was over empty space, staring at cold, hard ground under cold, hard, wickedly pointed limbs that would skewer me if the rope snapped. I kept descending. It was only twenty five-meters, after all. Only. Have you ever descended twenty-five meters on a ten millimeter rope, attached by a ten millimeter titanium alloy ring, suspended several hundred meters over a thick forest full of unfriendly strangers whacking rounds off at you while heartless wind whistles coldly past you? I don't recommend it as a treat.

  Oleg's engineer, I never got his name, started shooting back, and I was in a crossfire of tracers. It was a brown pants moment. The rounds from below floated lazily up in gentle arcs, to seemingly accelerate and snap by. The rope slackened and I dropped lower and could hear the howling intakes below me. "OLEG, TIGHTEN UP!" I said, voice reedy and tenor with fear, hoping my mic would pick it up over the background noise.

  Apparently it did. The rope became taut again, quickly, and made a thrum sound as it did so. I felt it stretch, and hoped it wouldn't part. I slid down as quickly as I could, and felt something tug at my foot.

  Then I was grabbing the door channel on the other vertol and being held by strong, friendly hands. Jack reached out and unlatched the shackle. It would have been faster to cut the rope, but modern rappelling ropes are woven with a molecular fiber that doesn't cut. It is safer most of the time, but this wasn't most of the time.

  But he got it free in only a second, and we kept moving, with me sitting on the hatch sill, feet on the step rail. Jack looped a bungee cord around me as an ersatz safety line. Oleg took the lead with us flying behind and below as backup. His altitude dropped steadily, but it looked as if we were going to make it, crammed in like a city transit capsule with litters under us.

  We did. Everyone relaxed as we entered Controlled Territory, and again as we neared the base. They had our ground crew and the emergency vehicles ready, but the latter weren't really needed. We flew straight in to the landing pad, settled, and began dragging casualties out to the waiting ambulances. The vertols began spooling down.

  As they did so, a screeeeee! announced the catastrophic failure of the main impeller bearings on Oleg's craft. We'd made it down with less than twenty seconds to spare. I will dispense with the joke about the difference between pilots and their craft being that the craft stop whining after landing.

  Chapter 14

  Dear Mr. and Ms Hallowell,

  "It is with deep regret I record this message to inform you of your son Neil's death during an operation here on Mtali.

  "A major attack had our forces split and occupied in several places at once. One of the combat rescue teams that had gone in to recover a pilot was pinned down and stranded, and we were called to assist in the extraction. Neil was very enthusiastic, as always, and was one of the first to arrive at the Air Facility.

  "We were flown to the area and roped to the ground. While Neil was one of our youngest troops, he was very competent, and did a commendable job of supporting our approach to the site. With our senior Combat Air Controller wounded, he took over and directed our support aircraft to provide cover fire both as our craft landed, and as we extracted with the casualties and stranded soldiers. He was instrumental in recovering the rescue unit and their charges, and we would have had a much rougher time without him.

  "As we loaded casualties and boarded the craft for extraction, he personally provided cover fire for the victims. As he boarded, last to do so along with myself, he was hit and died instantly.

  "It hurts me to say that his body cannot be returned. It was destroyed in an explosion during the extraction. I have enclosed all his personal effects from his quarters, along with the hand-written thanks of everyone involved in the mission. We truly could not have done it without him. While his death affects all of us in the Blazer Detachment here on Mtali, we are proud of the fact that several other lives were saved due to his competence and bravery. We hope you will be, also.

  "I have enclosed contact information for VetSupport, a group that assists families of dead and wounded veterans. Additionally, if you need help, do not hesitate to contact me. I owe him as much as anyone does, both for this mission, and for many operations before it. I consider it a privilege to have led a soldier of his caliber. I have recommended him for a Purple Heart and a Soldier's Medal. With luck, they will be approved shortly. I regret that mere awards are all I can offer.

  "Sincerely,

  "Warrant Leader Kenneth Murdock, Third Blazer Regiment, deployed to Mtali. Comm, time and date, send soonest. Note to attach the two items scanning . . . now."

  "Accepted. Two attachments physically mailed to same recipient."

  It was the first such letter I had to write. I hoped it would be the last, because it was gut wrenching. If I had any idea then of what I know now . . . And I couldn't even admit that he wasn't a Blazer, but an Operative. It hurt.

  * * *

  I'm not really that religious. I attended services during training because it was a social event and broke up the austere life I was leading. I go on occasion with friends. It's rare for me to bother on my own. But the
events of the last two days demanded I talk to someone who wasn't in my chain of command, who could be trusted not to tell anyone that I was twitch, over the edge, and about to go nuts with a rifle and a list of officers, and who would understand the sheer hell I was in.

  Think about it. I'd committed what was technically a war crime: murder of civilians. That it was strategically necessary and would save other lives was not enough of a counter argument for my soul. I'd seen people who hated each other so bitterly over stupid ethical points that they'd do what I'd done and be glad of it. I'd seen alleged allies shoot at me while I wiped them off the planet. I'd seen a coward run out to save his own life, while other, braver troops died in his place. And the worst thing about that last one was that I could see myself doing it. I was scared. I was more terrified than I'd ever been in my life, and I was wondering when I'd crack and bail out, getting people killed. People like Deni.

  Which meant I was admitting feelings for her, not just based on steamy sex and a wicked mind. Which was a potential disaster with her in my squad, and there was no way to avoid it. Personal liaisons are legal, as long as not in chain of command. We hadn't done anything while I was in her chain of command, but had before and it carried over. Expecting people not to become friends or lovers with those they serve with is stupid and unrealistic, but there are risks, and here was one.

  This was no longer an honorable war for me. It was as filthy and obscene as it was to the locals, and I understood why it had gone on so long. There just wasn't any way to stop. I hated most of the local groups with a passion so bright it burned. Yet, one-on-one, I felt for them as I would for anyone. They were people, and deserved decent lives. But name any group and I could explain why the logical solution was to shoot the lot of them and be done with it. And part of me, a growing part, craved to do just that.

  Priests are normally very relaxed and wait for you to bring problems out, thus dealing with them on your terms. I don't know how bad I looked, but my gaze must have still been promising slaughter, because he bounced to his feet and came over as I walked in the door.

  "Come, son," he said. "Sit, please. I'll get you some tea."

  "I don't want any tea," I replied. Actually, I did. But I wanted attention, I wanted to fight, and that was as good an excuse as any. I craved, needed someone to feel sorry for me, but couldn't ask . . . doing so was a "weakness" that I would never admit to. And I knew that was a contradiction. So I played hard. It was an act, but I enjoyed it, in angry, infrared thoughts.

  "But I do," he said. He was of average height, slim, pale-skinned by our standards, and had his rusty hair and beard roped in neoNorse braids. One earring in topaz matched his eyes, and they weren't afraid of me, weren't bothered by my radiating hatred, weren't the slightest bit perturbed. If I went nuts, I could literally rip him to pieces with my hands without Boost, and he knew it and still wasn't worried.

  And that calmed me. At once. I still was full of rage and confusion and hate and even apathy, odd as that seems, but I dropped down in intensity maybe ten percent, and breathed a deep draft of air. It was thicker air than back home, a bit oppressive, but it still helped.

  "Rough out there?" he asked, conversationally.

  He knew it was. He knew at least on paper how insane it was. That lighthearted, casual sentence made a mockery of the whole situation, and wasn't insulting. It was hysterical. I laughed.

  "Yeah, just a bit," I agreed. I slumped back in the hammock chair, relaxed a bit more, and wondered what was next.

  "We got a bit of excitement here that first week," he told me. Of course I knew. "I think I may even have killed someone. I know that's what we're here for, but I'm supposed to help people resolve problems in this world, not send them on ahead to talk to the Lord and Lady. It . . . bothered me. And I'll never know if it was the same bother you guys feel, the first time. You know that's why you're here. For me it just sort of happened. All I can hope is that I don't have to find out if it's easier the second time."

  I had to stop and think about that. I could count my kills, and they all took a piece out of me. But that was my job, and I'd prepared my entire career to be a killer. Here was a man whose job was to keep me sane after killing, so I could kill more. Heck of a dichotomy, that.

  "It's not easier ever," I said. The chair was holding me up. I was limp in it and didn't care to move. He was sort of in my view, but so was the cracked ceiling and the wall behind him.

  Nodding, he said, "I suppose that's healthy. At least the shrinks tell me that. On the other hand, they try to quantify the soul. To me, every soul is different in some ways, and so alike in others."

  "I don't think anyone has the problems I do," I said, and realized he'd tricked me into talking.

  "Maybe, maybe not," he said noncommittally. "Of course, it depends on the person just how bad the problem seems. To a baby, not being able to reach a bottle and blanket is a disaster. To us, missing a meal is a minor annoyance."

  I had to wonder if he'd snuck a view at my file and mentioned babies on purpose, or if it was chance. I suddenly didn't want to talk again.

  He kept talking. "Self doubt is the bad one. One can go over and over how things could have been different, and it's true, they could. But they aren't, and won't change. All we can do is learn from the experience and move on. If it's good, be glad it happened and not sad that it's over. If it's bad, be glad that it's over, not sad that it happened."

  I nodded. It made sense, and I knew it, but it wasn't very comforting. "Will it ever be over, though? That is what I don't want to ask, in case the answer is 'no.'" I surprised myself with that. I'm not sure why, but I did.

  He offered a non sequitur. "There're kids downtown, twelve standard years old, eight of ours, who are tossing explosives at our people. And not on duty, but in bars. One got a UN aid worker, not even a noncombatant support, but an aid worker, with a grenade last week. Young boy, but a threat. And hard to shoot, because we're conditioned to protect the young. That faction, Sunni, I think, are using that perceived innocence as a weapon. To me, that's a sin of the worst kind, and that this boy doesn't know he's being manipulated makes it worse."

  "The only practical solution is to shoot him," I said.

  "I agree," the priest said. "Much like a rabid dog. Or a ripper trying to claw through the cab of your car and eat you. The worst thing you can do is get emotionally involved, because that's what makes it painful."

  "It's impossible not to get involved," I told him. Oh, how I knew that.

  Nodding, he said, "A jaded soul is a dangerous one. And you're right. That's why I'm here. I help make killing easier for people."

  He'd hinted at that earlier, and it sank in now. "How do you feel about that?" I asked.

  Shrugging, he replied, "It's my job, and I knew it when I took it. I try to concentrate on how our people feel, pray for our enemies, and hope that no one takes the war personally. The feuds are what keeps it going. But if I worry more about the locals than our people, I won't be helping ours."

  He was right. My purpose in being here was to learn to kill our current allies, in case they became a threat. It was to keep my people alive, so they could fight that threat. It was to stop the locals from killing each other, to save them from themselves, without dictating terms to them.

  No, that was the politicians' job.

  Dammit.

  I stood and left, mumbling on my way out. I had a whole new set of ethics to consider. It didn't make me feel better, but confusion was at least an anesthetic. And so was that godsawful Earth whiskey.

  * * *

  The war was going well, as wars go, but we realistically weren't a large enough force to change things. We could maintain a district, but not the entire planet. With the UN withdrawing, it got worse.

  Then the UN finished pulling out, militarily at least. Their State people still thought we worked for them. On the plus side, we did less fighting. On the minus side, we did less fighting. All the areas we'd pacified started smoldering again, and it
looked as if it might turn even uglier than it had been.

  I have no idea what happened, but something pissed Naumann off. I've never seen him that angry, before or since. The man is coldly and professionally sociopathic in his duty. Nothing fazes him. But something did.

  It was about a week after that screwed up extraction that I got a call from him. "Ken," he said, "get your people ready, we're going hunting."

  And we did. Aviation flew non-stop CAP. We hunted in town and nearby on rotating shifts. Infantry did flying squads as support. Arty fired. The factory ship Force could barely keep up with demand for munitions.

  We bombed, shot, gunned, and smashed everything that dared fight. The Sunni and Shia sent out hundreds of suicide fighters, the Feltsies sent their best brown pants, and we assisted them to Allah and Yave. It took only a few days for the entire capital and surrounding area to learn that any fighting got them dispassionately slaughtered by us.

  Then Naumann called in the leaders, with the threat that any group too cowardly to send reps would be summarily eliminated. It was a crass, humiliating insult, and they didn't dare call his bluff, because he wasn't.

  He sat them down at a table, started talks, and shot anyone who argued until he got Muslim and Christian to agree to simply not kill each other anymore. They thought him beyond mad.

  Then he required they agree to police their own factions, and prevent incidents before they happened, or punish them immediately afterwards.

  Luckily, the UN was too political to do anything, because they could by rights have had him mindwiped for the authority he was usurping. At our end, Richard stood back and let him do it. I don't know if Richard was afraid of Naumann, or if they were playing good guy/bad guy. All I know is that a mere commander started dishing out orders to every Freehold unit in the system, demanding and getting assistance from the Novaja Rossians and the remaining UN forces and kicking every ass that got in his way. I thought I was bad when angry. I had nothing on him.