Tourists, who paid by the day just for being there, would earn so many points for faux cat-girls wearing nekomimi and tails, different points for pop idols that sang and danced in the plethora of clubs. All-male revue dancers competed for attention alongside leather-clad dominators. There were residents who catered to every conceivable taste, no matter how outlandish or depraved.
The Lion of High Street had amassed a fortune so large he’d retired there. Suffice to say, most of the residents were nymphomaniacs. It amazed Jay that some women, and men, would choose and apparently enjoy that kind of life.
“What did you do to that sodding bastard anyway, kid? Could you do that again?” Snake managed to ask through teeth clenched with cold. He laid Sheila in the snow to pull on more clothes with hands that were turning blue.
Jay grimaced at the impending headache and answered ruefully as she drew a silvery microbag around her shoulders. “When the lightship started firing, everyone … the whole crowd started to panic,” she said in a monotone. She didn’t like being reminded that she was the team’s most effective weapon against the Royals. It just smacked too close to her memories of the Facility, where the white-coats trained her and her siblings to be perfect little weapons.
“I—I had to shield. To shut it all out. It was too much. When I saw what the prince was about to do, I opened up and funneled all that emotion … all the pain and suffering into him.”
“Are you ok?” China asked, frowning. Oh sweetheart, that means it went through you as well. Along with the errant thought, shots of spring green raced and bled across her vision around China as the crease between his eyebrows deepened.
Jay focused on bolstering her mental shield. She hadn’t lost control like this for years. “I’m okay. Migraine coming on,” she gritted in response, feeling it growing like a small, angry beast behind her right eyeball.
“I’d offer you a cold cloth, but,” Snake shrugged in deadpan at the barely lit, icy wilderness around them.
“Here. I’ve got some anesthetics,” Mack offered in a caring tone, moving to Jay’s side and reaching into her pack. “They should take the edge off.”
As Jay received the painkillers from the team medic, she watched Sarge study their surroundings. There was a small ridge of ice near their position providing some protection from the wind. She drew the shinkari rifle from her shoulder and strode towards the ridge, making adjustments before firing the weapon several times. As the destructive energies hit the dense snow and ice, a shallow cave formed.
Sarge nodded with satisfaction at the resulting ice cave, shouldering the rifle.
“Shelter. It’s not much, but it will let us get out of this wind and stop us freezing to death while Jay clears her head. We can talk about our next move while she recovers.” She shrugged the pack on her back into a more comfortable position and waved the group forward. Everyone hurried into the protection the cave offered.
The team settled in, laying microbags and packs on the uneven floor and across the entrance to offer them some protection from the ice. China kissed Sarge on the lips with a grateful expression before stroking her face. She smiled back and Jay looked away from the display, just glad her unreliable shield hadn’t let any other thoughts through. She cherished that her parents loved each other deeply and she didn’t mind that they showed affection for each other in public, but she didn’t need to hear it; especially not with the accompanying images.
“Well it isn’t the Ritz, but it’ll do,” Snake said, settling down with Sheila across his knees. He angled the instrument so that the glowing battery shone on the roof as Mack brought out some hovers to give the glistening ice cave a sparkling, unearthly beauty. The greenish tinge from Sheila made them all look ghoulish, which perfectly matched Jay’s mood. Despite the painkillers, the migraine was drilling into new areas of her head like some kind of obsessed miner digging for gold.
Jay laid down to the sound of Snake strumming the instrument while the rest of the team discussed the damage to the frigate and how much time they might have before pursuit. She rested her head on China’s lap and felt his gentle fingers stroke her long hair. Just need to close my eyes …
Warrant Officer Philippe Leve knew he had survived worse weeks. Afghanistan, Iraq—hell, that week in Toronto when Sandra had broken up with him. But this one was a doozy, even by his standards. He stood at attention, eyes on the middle-distance in front of the review board. He faced the highly-starched, under-worked, over-promoted staff officers with a well-practiced facial expression that gave nothing away.
Two counts of insubordination from one of his men prompted his entire chain of command to make his life suck. Limp-dick stuffed shirts got an axe to grind. Apparently my first nation ass looks like the perfect whetstone. But someone in the echelons above the secretive Joint Task Force 2 of Canada’s elite CANSOFCOM had decided he was at fault, so he stood there and sucked it up as the red-faced major raised his voice.
“… and if it wasn’t for his glowing operational record, Sergeant Raj would be out on his ass. In fact, he’s lucky he’s not being demoted. Am I clear enough now?” railed the rotund major in a uniform that wouldn’t have fit if it weren’t for a lot of inhaled gut and one hellacious starch job.
What really chapped Philippe’s ass was the fact that Sergeant Raj had a glowing operational record not only from the normal Canadian army, but from NATO as well. Raj was the best shot in the entire Canadian armed forces. Hell, one of the best in the world. When he was finished serving his country he’d go win Olympic medals, Raj was just that good.
They couldn’t let a soldier like that go, so all this was just posturing. Dumping shit on him because he happened to be there, was ranked higher than Sergeant Raj, and happened to be his friend. Just my cross to bear that Sacks is a wise-ass with a temper. His thoughts turned to that fateful day as he let the ranting wash over him.
Sergeant Sachpreet ‘Sacks’ Raj had a hot streak for what he called ‘punks from Ottawa’, which was how he referred to all officer cadets in the Canadian armed forces. This hot streak usually only included making fun of the cadets, calling them names, questioning their manhood or womanhood, disparaging parentage on a species level, the usual. On this occasion, a smack-down of newly minted lieutenants was the order of the day.
Royal Canadian Air Force cadets. What a bunch of little pussies, need their hands held by a fucking chaperone. It would have been one thing if they’d only exchanged words while on their leave: most likely nothing more than a stiff dressing down by the chaperone, assuming they were even caught. However, Sacks took offense when one of the cadets implied something about his Sikh heritage. One made fun of his turban. Another made fun of his beard. They followed that with several underhanded jokes about immigrants to Canada. Sacks, being a second-generation Canadian and three sheets to the wind, responded poorly.
Two unconscious cadets and one broken bar stool later, Philippe pulled Sacks off a third cadet just as the chaperone for the cadets, one Major Coombs, showed his portly face. It’s just shit luck that Major Coombs is also the one currently in charge of the board gunning for the ass reaming champion trophy. I’m sure the fucker is in military intelligence. He could make a Taliban hardliner cry for his mommy. Sadistic prick is probably enjoying this. But the implication was clear. This would be Sacks’s last chance. One more fuck up and he was out.
Once the grilling concluded, Warrant Officer Leve gave his best salute reserved for the hated upper echelons and left the boardroom. One glance had the erstwhile Sacks on his feet, and they headed for the outside. Philippe watched Sacks hung his head low with a certain amount of feigned obeisance, at least until out of sight.
“Can’t have gone too badly. You still have both ass cheeks.”
Philippe grit his teeth at the smaller man, clenching his fists so he didn’t do something stupid like turn around and knock some sense into his friend.
Sacks continued to smile behind his magnificently huge beard. He’s incorrigible. Philippe knew
Sacks was a hypocrite. The Sikh only went on about his heritage so that he wouldn’t have to shave or cut his hair. Philippe knew his partner hated the turban and loved to drink in spite of his religion. In Sacks’s own words, “I’m a sick man for a Sikh … pour me another shot.”
With all that simmering in mind, Warrant Officer Leve decided Sacks needed to burn off some smarminess.
“Sergeant …” Philippe wore a scowl that he could feel steadily devolving at his friend’s attitude. “You’re fucking lucky you still get to wear that uniform. You nearly got demoted, Sacks.”
“Hey, hey, easy come, easy go. It’s not the first time I’ve been threatened with being busted down. I’ll make it back. You just give me my usual review,” Sacks started with a casual hand wave as Philippe cut him off. He jumped in front of the smaller man with a finger pointed like a gun at the Sikh’s chest.
Philippe ground his teeth and unloaded with both barrels. Time for me to unload some of the crap I’ve been taking for him. He managed to keep his left fist at his side so as not to give into temptation and do something he’d regret. The other was still pointed center mass at his subordinate. “You almost got demoted because you’re an idiot.” He clenched his curled fingers to the point that his knuckles shone white.
“Philippe, chill, man. It’s not that serio—”
“That’s Warrant Officer Leve to you. Sergeant. Stand at attention when I’m yelling at you, godammit!” Philippe bellowed. “I just sucked up three separate ass-chewings prior to this board, then this two-hour board, and now rumor has it that the cadet boxing champ is looking to try and kick my ass for defending you. You know, the one who actually fought in the UFC before deciding on a military career? Yeah, that guy. Because of you. Am I being clear enough?” Philippe stopped, taking a second to breathe, the cold air helping to ease his mood. His voice quavered at boiling point. “I can’t keep covering for you, Sacks. You can’t do this shit to me. You’re in CANSOFCOM now, dumbass. I get it, I really do. I’m half Algonquin, you think I enjoy finding dream-catchers in my footlocker? You suck it the hell up. Christ. You like these nice digs? The ammo to train however you want? The extra pay?”
The look on Sacks’s face at first implied he thought the question was rhetorical. But Philippe still glowered in front of him, waiting for an answer. “I … uh, what are you saying, Phil—Sir?”
“Wake up, Sergeant Raj!” Philippe threw his hands into the air like a frustrated parent, then went into professional ball-buster mode. His left hand dropped to his side, the right turning into the ‘knife-hand’: a militarily polite way of saying ‘Shut the hell up and take what I’m giving you’. He pushed forward into Sacks’s personal space, knife-hand at the ready.
“It’s a privilege to be here! Nobody gives a damn what you did before, as long as you make the cut. But you screw this up, and you’re going to find nobody else wants you. You’ll be scrubbing toilets for the navy somewhere north of Yellowknife instead of this sweet deal, jackass.”
“But we’re in the army. They can’t do—” Sacks stammered.
Philippe’s face flushed crimson and his eyes narrowed to slits. “You screw me over on this, Sergeant, I will see that they do,” he hissed. “I don’t care how you shoot, if you can’t keep your own ass out of trouble, I’ll just let trouble find you. We’re friends, but this is the last time I bail your ass out. Screw up like this again, and you can go explain to your mother how you boned this up for the family. Am I clear?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sacks dismissed with a sideways glance.
“Yeah what? You’re still at attention.” Philippe felt his frown deepen as he pulled out over a decade’s worth of hard-won discipline and remained in Sacks’s personal space. They were nose-to-nose as he leaned over the smaller man. Philippe felt his rage bubbling behind his brown eyes. Part of him dared—no, wanted—Sacks to brush anything else off. Some lessons can’t be told. They have to be taught the hard way.
“Yes, Sir,” Sacks offered, still noncommittally. Philippe knew his partner didn’t like to be told what to do by anyone. On the other hand, Philippe knew he’d earned Sacks’s respect as a superior and as a friend.
He could see the Sikh bite back a sarcastic comment. Sacks habitually pushed too far where Philippe was concerned. And he usually put up with a lot. But not today. Philippe let his anger come to the fore with a grim look and narrowed eyes. At last, recognition dawned on the smaller man’s face with a small lift of his eyebrows, telling Philippe that Sacks realized how far over the line he was.
“I can’t hear you,” Philippe hissed, drilling the point home with a finger roughly stabbing Sacks’s chest.
“Yes, Warrant Officer Leve!” Sacks shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Goddamn, Sacks. You really are a pain in the ass. You know that’s how the NATO liaison described you, right? ‘Trouble but in a good way’ is what he wrote. At ease already. Alright, enough screwing off. You need to get your shit packed. We’re on standby since something happened in the States this morning.”
Philippe started walking back towards the barracks, Sacks trailing along like a duly chastised puppy.
“Was it that thing on the news? I only caught a little. Terrorists or something?” Sacks enquired. Then his expression soured and he ranted, “Seriously, these fucking extremists are pissing me the hell off. Every time I go into a bar, I get mean-mugged because I’ve got brown skin and a fabulous beard. These clowns are giving everyone who isn’t white a bad name. Worst part is, the Chechens are fucking white. I really hate these—”
“Put a cork in it, Sacks. Move out. We gotta get back.” They moved at a brisk pace, trotting through the icy slush that covered the entire base.
As they jogged, Philippe continued, leveling his tone so as to actually answer his friend’s questions. “Nobody knows who it was exactly. Somebody blasted a US Air Force base, damn near the whole installation too. I don’t know if there were any survivors. Star Fleet Command upstairs is being really hush-hush. We’re on high alert because of defense agreements, but nobody at our level really knows.”
Philippe’s voice held more than a little disdain for the echelons of power. Higher up always treat front-line like damned mushrooms, even a unit like ours. Keep us in the dark and feed us shit.
He and Sacks often bitched about the state of affairs over a beer. It was one of the many reasons they got along so well.
When they finally arrived at the barracks, Sacks moved off to gather his things for the jaunt down to the loading dock while Philippe headed in the opposite direction to take care of his NCO duties.
As usual when bad things happened, the team room television ran the news. Some jerk in a tie talked to another jerk in an even louder tie with serious expressions plastered across both their faces. In the absence of any real information, their groundless speculations apparently qualified as an interview.
In the background, still images, which appeared to be shots from a news chopper, played through a slideshow. Collapsed buildings, burning wrecks of what used to be fuel dumps, and hulks of wrecked equipment littered the ground in all the footage. Here and there, bodies showed up in the frame, barely visible beneath the rubble with teams of soldiers trying to dig them out.
All of it was shot through a long lens, giving it a particularly grainy and dramatic look not helped by lingering smoke. Bright red letters with the words ‘Attack on America’ were emblazoned across the bottom of the screen. The tickertape below the main newscast showed a variety of other related headlines, including a plummeting stock market and various statements by other international bodies condemning the attack.
Sacks looked up from the duffel he stuffed with a second set of fatigues and let out a whistle. “Daaaamn … the whole base?”
Philippe only grunted and nodded somberly. The news that another attack had happened on North American soil struck everyone hard. 9/11 had been difficult. Repeated attempts and successful attacks in the years following made matters worse. This re-opened
that raw wound even for people who were kids when 9/11 happened. The world had changed since then. Police actions had been on the rise ever since. Laws had become harsher in the wake of Al Qaeda’s assault on New York City.
Now this: it put half the world on a war footing once again. NATO called in all its allies, China and Russia cemented their alliances with their satellite states. Several videos of the event from a great distance had gone viral on the internet with conspiracy theorists claiming it was Pearl Harbor all over again, only with aliens this time. Civvies must be going nuts with every news channel showing the same grainy footage.
While the world recoiled from the event, the United States mobilized every single military and intelligence asset it had. Philippe knew anyone associated with the military had found themselves on high alert. Washington D.C. hadn’t slept since the attack. To Philippe, it felt like the world was waiting for another shoe to drop with itchy trigger fingers held in sweaty palms. Taliban, Al Qaeda, ISIL, Haqqani Network, even the North Koreans; no one was willing to put their hands up and claim responsibility. This was the sort of action that started world wars.
Philippe’s thoughts turned to the international sniper competition as he inspected that everyone had their kit ready. They’d met marines, navy seals, army special forces, and rangers in that one trip. That memory really brought the attack home, like knowing someone who’d been in the World Trade Center. They’d drank, caroused, and rough-housed until the wee hours of every morning of the competition. They were comrades-in-arms, brothers in blood, and the second oldest profession. He doubted any of those he knew were at an air force base because of how the US segregated its branches of the armed forces. But he didn’t know for sure and it played havoc with his emotions as he tried to process the events.
Suffrage (World Key Chronicles Book 1) Page 11
