Ghost pos-1

by John Ringo

  The frags went off with sharp cracks and then feet could be heard on the stairs. He rolled back up and had to laugh. There were so many bodies on the steps, and so much blood, that the soldiers coming down the stairs, who were lit up by the flare but couldn’t really see beyond it, were having to pick their way forward. It made them perfect targets and before Mike and Amy had to reload the newest wave of assailants had fled.

  “Have the girls cross-load this one,” Mike said, sliding his partially spent magazine across after he’d reloaded. “We’ll wait until after the next attack to send out Bambi and Thumper.”

  Amy snickered and he looked over at her quizzically.

  “Bambi,” she half whispered, half mouthed, “real liberal.”

  “Good,” Mike said. “But we’ll make a conservative out of her, yet.”

  “CETCOM, General Bulder.” General “Dutch” Bulder had been going nonstop for nearly thirty hours in the scramble to prepare for the upcoming mission. Rarely did the U.S. military snap-kick an operation, but this one was going to be a snap-kick and in any scramble, shit happened. It had been happening nonstop for thirty hours and he was afraid that when they finally did get a “go” on the target, it was only going to get worse.

  “General, Major Rischard in Predator Central,” the voice said. “Sorry to break chain, but you might want to look at the take from Drone Four, sir.”

  The general keyed his computer to bring up the take from the Predator that had been snuck into the mission area and blanched. Soldiers were running across the compound, heading towards the loading area. As he watched, a blast of smoke blew into the air and the south section, where the loading area was, collapsed into a smoking crater. The gas that washed over the soldiers was apparently toxic, or at least irritating, since they scattered away from it apparently blindly.

  “Okay, I’m going to call the NCA,” the general said. “Good call on the direct, Major, you’re covered.”

  “Sir,” the major answered, hanging up the phone.

  Bulder turned and picked up a red phone.

  “I need the President or the secretary, immediately.”

  “So is this an industrial accident, or did Harmon decide to start the game early?” the President asked, looking at the take from the Predator.

  “Expert in demolitions,” the defense secretary said, shrugging. “Which ever it is, I’ve started the pieces moving. The Spirit is in the air already. The Rangers are about two hours out, so they don’t have an immediate play. The Alpha Strike is coming up and the combat elements of the Fourth ID are moving into jump-off positions near the Syrian border. Normally we set up forward logistics systems but in this case we didn’t to try not to tip our hands. We’re taking an operational risk on that, but one I think is worth it. And we have airmobile and airborne forces standing by to assist, if the situation in the air becomes even mildly survivable.”

  “When will we know what is going on on the ground? With the girls I mean,” the President said.

  “The Spirit is up and the SEALs are depressurizing,” the secretary said. “That will take nearly three hours, and that’s pushing it to the point that some of the SEALs may get the bends anyway. An hour flight to the target. Some time on the ground. Say five hours. And it will be at least that long to get the full Alpha strike in place.”

  “Five hours for them to kill the girls,” the President said, his face white. “Christ, I wish I knew what was going on in there.” He paused, puzzled, and then his face cleared. “Look at that,” he said, grinning.

  On the video from the Predator, soldiers could be seen spilling out of one of the side entrances where they’d been gathering. The last two were carrying a body of a camouflage-clad figure.

  “He could be a casualty from the damage in the facility,” the National Security Advisor said. “But I’d suspect that he was dead from direct fire.”

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had been called in to advise since most of the management of the operation was being handled at a lower level. His phone buzzed and he picked it up, speaking quietly for a moment and then hung up.

  “Mr. President,” he said, his face working. “That was a report from an analysis team. Their analysis is that there’s a fight going on in reference to that door. Over sixty personnel have entered it in the last forty minutes, but only fifteen have emerged and some of them appeared to be wounded. Their analysis is that one or more persons are resisting, somewhere below ground level.”

  “Harmon found the girls,” the national security advisor said. “And found out what was going on. And, somehow, sabotaged the facility as a signal to start the mission.”

  “How many troops?” the President asked.

  “A battalion of Syrian commandos,” the Chairman answered. “And they’re not, generally, the Keystone Kops you get with most Arab armies. They fought the Israelis to a standstill in the Golan Heights in ’73. And an unknown number of mujahideen.”

  “They’re forming up again,” the national security advisor said. “They’re getting ready to rush the door.”

  “I don’t normally input at the tactical level,” the President said, “but…”

  “I’m making the call now, Mr. President,” the Chairman said, picking up his phone. “More or less to ensure that everyone has the information and knows the target.”

  “Get them support,” the secretary said. “Get them support as fast as we possibly can.”

  “Target,” Mike said, firing at the first figure on the stairs.

  The soldiers were not bothering to pick their way through the bodies and a couple of them, who hadn’t been hit, tumbled down the stairs. But the rest kept coming, firing wildly but filling the air with lead nonetheless. Three of them paused on the landing, obviously picked marksmen, and tried to target the defenders in the gloom as the rest rushed Mike and Amy’s position.

  “I’m out,” Amy said, rolling into the doorway.

  “Babe!” Mike yelled. “Grenades!” He slowed his fire, dropping three in the front rank, and then felt the bolt lock back. He quickly grabbed another weapon, but by then two of the soldiers were nearly to the door and he had to fire up at them. One of them managed to get off a burst of “spray and pray” in his direction, and he felt a searing pain in his back and chest.

  Amy shot the last of them off his back, but the stairway had filled with soldiers again and the marksmen were now firing at Mike and Amy’s positions. He felt another round hit his leg, but he kept firing, willing the soldiers to break and run.

  “Babe” had been playing ball since she was five years old. First two years of T-ball and then fast-pitch softball in a brutally Darwinian league. By high school she was considered one of the top pitchers in Georgia, an area that took its women’s fast-pitch seriously, and was going to UGA on an athletic scholarship.

  She pitched accurately enough, and hard enough, that she could probably have taken down most of the front rank by simply hitting them with the grenades. However, that would have left the grenades rolling around on the floor to… “frag” Amy and Ghost. She considered the situation for just a moment, using pretty much the same thought process as if she was deciding to throw a grounder to first or second, then pulled the pin and spun her right arm in a whirlwind motion, slamming the grenade upward to ricochet off the roof and back down into the group. Before the first thud, and a cry of pain that could be heard even over the firing, she had spun another up and another…

  Suddenly, there was an explosion in their midst and then another and bodies were tossed, screaming, to the floor. With the way clear he could spot the snipers on the landing and he engaged all three of them, hitting one simultaneously with shots from Amy.

  The rush had fallen back but bodies littered the hallway, some of them simply wounded. He spotted one trying to crawl up the stairs and shot him, deliberately, in the head, then reloaded.

  “More mags to cross-load,” he said, sliding one across to Amy. “There any bandages in the room?”

  “No
,” Amy said. “Why? Oh, crap!”

  “Yeah,” Mike said, sitting up and leaning back. When his back touched the wall he felt like screaming, but he was afraid he’d pass out if he stayed prone. “Fight until you die or drop time.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Amy asked.

  “Axes flash, broadswords swing,” Mike quietly sung. “Shining armor’s piercing ring. Horses run on a polished shield. Fight those bastards til they yield.”

  “Midnight mare and blood red roan,” Amy replied. “Fight to keep this land your own.”

  “Sound the horn and call the cry,” they sang together. “HOW MANY OF THEM CAN WE MAKE DIE!”

  “What is that?” Babe asked from the doorway.

  “’March of Cambreadth,’ ” Amy replied. “Heather Alexander. Very cool song. That’s the only verse I can ever remember. My dad used to play it.”

  “I think I’d like your dad,” Mike said and coughed. His hand came away dark in the flare light, but he was pretty sure it was blood. It wasn’t a sucking chest wound but something had nicked his lung. “Follow orders as you’re told, make their yellow blood run cold. Fight until you die and drop. A force like ours is hard to stop. Close your mind to stress and pain, fight ’til you’re no longer sane. Let not one damned cur pass by. How many of them can we make die.”

  “You know the whole song?” Amy asked.

  “And lots of others,” Mike said, weakly. “Right now I’m thinking of one by Crüxshadows.”

  “Who?” Amy asked.

  “Great band,” Mike whispered. “I will not run, this is my sacrifice,” he sang, softly then coughed. “For I am Winter born…”

  “Bad song, Ghost,” Amy said. “I really need you to hang in here.”

  “I will, Amy,” Mike said. “I will. I hereby dub thee… Bo.”

  “Why Bo for God’s Sake?” Amy asked, angrily. “It’s better than Thumper, I suppose…”

  “For Boadicea,” Mike replied. “The Celtic warrior queen.”

  “Oh. In that case…”

  “Of course, she lost,” Mike added honestly. “And was dragged off to Rome in chains. But hopefully we’ll do better.”

  “So, sing some better songs,” Amy said. “If you can.”

  “How about poetry?” Mike asked.

  “I hate poetry.”

  “What, your dad never told you about Kipling?”

  “Only ‘A woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke,’ ” Amy said.

  “Shame on him,” Mike replied. “This is the ballad of bo da thone, eerst the pretender to Theebaw’s throne, who harried the district of Alalone. How he met with his fate and the VPP at the hands of Harandra Mukerji, senior Gomashta, GBT.”

  “What the hell is that?” Amy asked.

  “The opening to the ‘Ballad of Bo Da Thone,’ ” Mike said. “And, speaking of which, there’s a bag in this room. A sample case. If I’m not… viable when support gets here, tell them the interior is contaminated and it’s a personal present from me to the President.”

  “What’s in the bag?” Amy asked.

  “That’s between me and the President,” Mike said, chuckling and then coughing. “Crap that hurts. All these women around and not a pad or a tampon to be had.”

  “Mike,” Amy said, quietly. “I know you’re stressed and I know that things are tough, but we’ve really had a bad time, you know. Could you dial back on the…”

  “Sexism?” Mike asked. “Yeah. Now I will. I needed to shock them before.”

  “I can tell that you’re really a nice guy…” Amy started to say.

  “Hah,” Mike replied mirthlessly. “Don’t be fooled. I’m a very bad man indeed.”

  “No, you’re not,” Amy said. “Quit trying to tell yourself you’re…”

  “Amy,” Mike said quietly. “There are times when I don’t know whether I’m going to slip all the way to the side of evil. There’s bad in me you don’t know. But I’ll tell you this; if I didn’t have… something that kept me on the very edge of good, I’d have happily lined up with those soldiers to rape you. And dug my fingers into your bleeding flesh to make you scream. I’m not just a little bit bad, I’m just about all the way bad. The sexist comments weren’t all an act. That’s how I really am when the stops are pulled out. The fake part is being a nice guy.”

  Amy was quiet for a time and then shook her head.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said and then held up a hand to forestall the protest. “Yeah, okay, you have your demons. But… well… I’ll get over what happened. I know I will. And, Mike, if you said you wanted to chain me to a table, just like the one in the room, and act like you were raping me, I’d do it. Because I know that I’d walk out alive and only harmed to the extent that I let you harm me. I trust you. I can just look at you and know I can trust you.”

  “I hate that,” Mike said. “I really do. But… yeah, you’re right.”

  “You’ve never raped a woman, have you?” Amy asked.

  “Depends on the definition,” Mike replied. “I don’t think any of the hookers in the third world are actual volunteers. I keep that in mind when I fuck ’em. It helps.”

  “I’ll give you a pass on that,” she said, shrugging. She looked down the hall. “They’re holding back.”

  “Trying to figure out another way in,” Mike replied. “They’ll probably try the air shaft.”

  “That’s behind us, right?” Amy asked, nervously.

  “Yep,” Mike said and grinned. “Let ’em.”

  Amy didn’t ask why he was willing to let them try, but she didn’t think the Syrians would like it much.

  “In the fury of this darkest hour,” Mike whispered quietly, “we will be your light. You ask me for my sacrifice and I am Winter born…”

  “You’re right,” Amy said. “Very appropriate. Is there more?”

  “Without denying a faith in God, that I have never known,” Mike said, then coughed. “I hear the angels call my name, and I am Winter born…”

  “Maybe you should back off,” Amy said. “I’d love to hear all of it. But… when we’re out of here.”

  “Okay,” Mike said, leaning back and sighing.

  “Okay, why tampons?” she asked after a while.

  “Tampons and pads are some of the best bandages around,” Mike replied. “If the hole is big, like from a bullet exit wound, you just stick a tampon in and you’re good.”

  “That’s sick!” Amy said, then giggled.

  “Oh, it’s better than that,” Mike said, shifting around to find a convenient position. “You use tampons and pads for bandages. Before Lycra and Spandex, SEALs use would use king-sized black pantyhose in place of wetsuits in extremely warm water. And there’s an underwater demo firing device that’s supposed to be waterproof, but usually isn’t. The trigger of the device is a ring on the end. The way you waterproof it is to get a condom, an extra large, unlubricated condom with a receptacle tip, that’s for the trigger, and put the firing device in that. With me?”

  “Yeah,” Amy said, grinning.

  “So, sometimes, a team will be out in some third-world shithole and get a mission to, say, go into an enemy harbor and lay some explosives,” Mike said, grinning back. “So the supply guy, a SEAL mind you, has to go into some third-world pharmacy…”

  “Oh, Christ,” Amy said, laughing. “Stop! You’re killing me…”

  “And ask for a case of king-sized pantyhose, several cases of tampons and maxi pads. The ones with wings are best; you can just slap them right on…”

  By this time, Amy was laughing uncontrollably, bent over her AK with tears running down her face while other girls were drifting to the door to know what in the world, especially given the conditions, could be so funny.

  “… and a case of extra large, unlubricated…”

  “… receptacle tip…” Amy managed to gasp, holding up a finger to make the point.

  “… Receptacle tip, condoms,” Mike finished, chuckling and coughing. “God, I got to q
uit cracking myself up.”

  “What in the hell was that all about?” Bambi asked. “It sounded…”

  “Oh, oh…” Amy said, waving her hand. “Oh…” Then she collapsed again.

  “Just trying to bring a little levity into the situation,” Mike replied. “Everyone’s going around with long faces like they’re all gonna die or something.”

  “Amy?” one of the girls said. “Mr. Ghost?”

  “Yeah?” Mike said and coughed again. “Crap that hurt. What?”

  “Susie’s on the Internet, she’s on a chatboard trying to get the word out on what’s going on. And Cassie’s figured out the video feed. We can go live over the Internet. We’re trying to get a link to one of the networks.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Mike said. “Look, no video of the doorway, okay? Don’t let them get a look at our defenses. Keep the camera pointed at the far wall. Al Jazeera will rebroadcast and somebody will see it up top and know there’s only a couple of us. If you’re going to do this, lie. Get some of the girls and give them guns, just to hold. And… get Fox. Not CNN, not ABC. Fox.”

  “You sure?” the girl asked.

  “Yeah,” Mike replied and coughed. “Tell ’em if they get anyone but Fox, I’ll kick their fuzzy bunny-hugger ass.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Laurie,” Tom Godwin said, sticking his head in the producer’s cubicle. “You have got to see this!”

  Laurie Weiner stood up and walked to his cubicle. Tom had an AIM chat up and she tried to make sense of it. Most of it seemed to be about the hostage crisis, which wasn’t too surprising, especially given the name of the chat room: InsideTheHostageRescue. But…

  “What was that?” she said, scrolling up.

  HostageGirl: They haven’t been back in about ten minutes. Other than Rachel, so far we’re okay.

  DingBat111: That’s good to hear. You hang in there, Girl.

  HostageGirl: We’re trying to get a feed out to one of the networks. We’ve got their video gear. Susie’s figured out how to feed to the Internet. She says she needs a server link point.