by Joe Buff
"Four sentries on the roof. They shift around a lot, trading off the corners."
"Chief," Jeffrey said, "what about inside?"
"IR shows a bunch of them in some kind of meeting on the second floor. In a conference room, I think, watching TV."
"That sounds like research staff," Jeffrey said.
"There are also two people in offices, on the downhill
side of the structure, near the overhang by the entrance.
They're sitting, haven't moved in a while."
"First floor?" Jeffrey said as sweat and rainwater dripped from his nose.
"Two soldiers inside the front door," the SEAL chief said, "two by the back exit, two by the stairs to the basement. Two more in the pantry area—one of 'em's making coffee, the other just lit up a smoke."
"Anyone else on one?" Jeffrey said.
"No roving patrols or staff."
"The audiovisual center?"
"The auditorium wing is empty."
"The boat workshop and garage?"
"Wait one, some heat sources in there. . . . Okay, that's just machinery. It's empty."
"The relief shift must bivouac down in the vil-
lage," Jeffrey said, "by the disused hotels and shopping
malls. . . . What's the total number of outside guards?" "Twelve right now," the SEAL
chief said.
"Three, Four, wait one," Jeffrey said. "Break break. One, Four, what's happening to the east?"
"Four, One, Umhlanga Rocks Drive is totally dead, no
sign of reinforcements. One vehicle in front, soft-skinned truck, light-duty Samil-20
four-by-four, engine's cold."
Jeffrey turned to Clayton. "That makes two dozen shooters, half a platoon, plus whatever they have in the bunker and basement."
"Unfair odds," Clayton said. "For them."
"Three and One, Four," Jeffrey said. "Can you tell which one is their officer?"
"Four, One, negative. No one's been acting in charge."
"Four, Three, no obvious sergeant either. If one of 'em's actually present, he's smart enough not to show"
Jeffrey turned to Clayton again. "So their HQ squad could be downhill, or here but somewhere hardened."
"Yeah," Clayton said.
"I want Ilse to take a look," Jeffrey said. Clayton got out of the way. Jeffrey slid sideways and watched Ilse crawl through the mud to the viewscope.
"It's just like it used to be," she said. "Except for the fence and the bunker . . . and the soldiers, of course."
"You sure?" Jeffrey said. "One, pan around again. Ilse, watch for anything strange, bumps in the ground, things sticking out of the building."
"Those video cameras," Ilse said. "The ones covering the lawn. That's new. This was a low-crime area." "Okay," Jeffrey said.
"Six, Seven," another SEAL called.
"Go ahead, Seven," Clayton said.
"Ground-penetrating radar sweep is complete. Water and sewage go downhill, east, as expected. Gas comes in that way too. No PVC conduits or buried pipes on the other exposures."
"Seven, Four," Jeffrey said. "Are you sure? Have you confirmed all phone and power and data lines lead out above the ground?"
"Four, Seven, roger, Commander. Wires and high-baud optic lines go up the utility pole by the workshop." "Six, Eight. Six, Eight."
"Eight, Six," Clayton said. "Go ahead, Eight."
"The box is in place," SEAL Eight said, "on the biggest palm tree that overlooks the outdoor amphitheater."
"Eight, Four," Jeffrey said, "is the main building roof covered?"
"Affirmative. There's a great line of sight from the box."
"Eight, Four, acknowledged," Jeffrey said.
"All numbers, Six," Clayton said. "Pull back and get behind solid terrain."
Jeffrey and Ilse and Clayton withdrew to the gully. SEAL One soon joined them there.
They hugged the ground as water sloshed over their bodies and gear.
"All numbers, Six. Status check, comms check, sound off."
Everybody was ready.
"With your permission, Commander?" Clayton said.
"Let's do it," Jeffrey said. He gripped his pistol in both hands, keeping it out of the mud.
The power diode glowed discreetly, green because the safety was on. The round-count said 18, a full clip. Jeffrey looked to his left. Ilse had her weapon out too.
"All numbers, Six. Safeties off, weapons tight." Jeffrey worked the switch with his thumb. The diode changed to red.
"Eight, Six," Clayton called.
"Six, Eight, g'head."
"Eight, on my mark you'll be weapons free with the box. On the next lightning flash after that, fire the box. . . . Mark."
In seconds there was more lightning. It flickered
strangely this time, and there was an immediate boom as if the lightning was right overhead.
"Eight, Six, status?"
"Wait one, LT."
There was popping and whistling on the circuit now, and Jeffrey crossed his fingers that their little trick had worked. A flux compression generator just set off a nonnuclear electromagnetic pulse device.
It was over in microseconds. The gigantic current produced emissions across most of the spectrum, propagating horizontally. Power lines, antennas, radios, laptops, and phones, everything with unshielded circuits in line of sight was destroyed, even if it wasn't turned on. Within the short range of the box, protection required thick metal or concrete, with sealed surge protectors on all leads and feeds. The raiding party loitered outside the area covered. Inside the Sharks Board's perimeter only the basement lab and the missile bunker were safe.
"Confirmed detonation," Eight said. "The treetop is shattered and burning."
"Effect on the installation?" Jeffrey said.
"Looks like a winner, Commander. Power lines are down and took the fiber optics with them. The building's been blacked out and I see small fires inside. Call it a hard kill.
People are reacting now, using CO, extinguishers. Jesus, that stuff's cold—it's blue on my visors."
"Four, Three," the chief called, "the guards are milling around. They're starting to gather near the tree. The ones on the roof are leaning over the parapet."
"Naturally, Chief," Jeffrey said. "How often do they get to see something struck by lightning?" Over the noise of the rain, Jeffrey heard shouting between the guards, since their radios were fried, but their voices sounded curious more than alarmed.
"All numbers, Six," Clayton said. "Status check, sound off quickly." No one had equipment damage, and
radio reception was clearing. "All numbers, Six, prepare to commence the assault."
"Okay," the SEAL chief called, "they're starting to calm down, going their separate ways now. The rain's put out the fire in the tree, and one of the basement's backup diesel generators just came on-line."
Jeffrey looked at Clayton and smiled. "Now we get to have our perfect L-shaped ambush. Any return fire'll be backstopped by the ridge uphill or the buildings at the dead airstrip. May I do the honors, Lieutenant?"
"By all means, Commander Fuller. I see old habits die hard."
"Seven and Nine, Four," Jeffrey said. "On my mark, shoot your flash-bang grenades onto the roof. All numbers, choose your targets by azimuth zones like we practiced. You'll be weapons free when you see the explosions on top of the building." Jeffrey waited for another lightning bolt, then the rumble of thunder. "Mark."
He didn't hear the rifle grenades being launched since the rifles were silenced. He did hear and see the grenades going off, like another direct hit from the storm.
The SEALs lying in the underbrush on both sides of Jeffrey and Ilse commenced firing.
So did the rest of the team, uphill, from over the lip of the amphitheater. The guards began to stagger and drop, caught in a merciless cross fire. Jeffrey added his own contribution, aiming carefully with his reticle. Every time he fired while the imager was on infrared he could see the track of the bullet, made eve
n hotter by friction with air. It was like watching tracer rounds. He could also see the effects as each round struck home, the spreading and spraying of blood coded red-hot on his visor, then cooling as the body instantly went into shock, and the kaleidoscope of colors on the face of his target from pain and awareness of death. "This gives me the creeps," Jeffrey said.
"Huh?" Ilse said as she changed clips on her pistol. "A full-auto fire fight," Jeffrey said, "
but we can talk
in normal tones and there isn't any hot brass."
"You know," Clayton said as he reloaded his rifle,
"you're right."
Jeffrey picked off two more guards who came around the front of the building. The range was thirty-five yards, long for a pistol shot, but the 3-D visor hologram reticle was better than a sniperscope.
"These electric guns are weird," Jeffrey said.
"Ground-level troops are all dead," the SEAL chief called from the rear of the Sharks Board. "Roof guards are still reeling, and the inside ones are confused. The electrified fence is deenergized—the diesel must not be rated for it."
"Grenadiers hit the roof again," Jeffrey ordered. "Fence breachers move in."
SEAL Seven launched another flash-bang. SEAL One grabbed the mine probe. SEAL
Two rose and rushed forward, wielding a compressed-air-powered bolt cutter. He quickly sliced a gash through the chain link and high-voltage wires. Jeffrey, Ilse, Clayton, and the three SEALs ran through the gap, then headed right.
"Climbing-rope team starting up," the chief reported from the uphill side. He sounded breathless.
"Okay, Ilse, good luck," Jeffrey said. He left her with Two and Seven, crouching at one corner of the main building near the entrance. Jeffrey and Clayton and SEAL One made for the side door of the missile bunker. SEAL One scanned for booby traps, then went down the poured-concrete steps.
"Door's locked," he said. "Shielding's too good, can't tell if anyone's in there." He pulled out a length of detcord and a timer and fastened some in a circle around the electronic lock in the door. He ran back up the steps. "Fire in the hole," he said. The three of them hit the deck. There was a sharp crack and the stink of spent explosives. SEAL One was on his feet. He kicked in the door and threw in a flash-bang grenade while Jeffrey and Clayton covered him. SEAL One dashed inside.
Jeffrey saw One roll to the ground and start shooting. The bunker wasn't unoccupied.
One kept firing, bright muzzle flashes, ricochets pinging and whining. Then he was hit, low down, under his flak jacket. Jeffrey lunged into the bunker. He saw a Boer soldier dead, another taking cover behind the missile, firing at it on purpose. The Boer saw Jeffrey and brought his rifle to bear. Jeffrey aimed at floor level, between the missile launcher struts, and shattered both the man's ankles. As the soldier collapsed, screaming, Jeffrey fired into his abdomen, his neck, his face.
SEAL One was moaning, clutching a bad pelvic wound.
"He got my spine," One said. "I can't feel my legs." Clayton bent down to help him. The room was filled with smoke.
"The missile!" Jeffrey shouted. "Check out the missile!" Clayton approached it, carrying the detonator box and a heavy bag of equipment. Jeffrey pulled a field dressing from his load-bearing vest. He urged One not to move.
"Warhead's intact," Clayton said. "The bastard shot up the arming section, not that we care. . . . Rocket motor's a mess. Good thing it's solid fuel—the stuff landed all over the place. . . . Physics package gamma and neutron emission spectrum checks out."
"Confirmed it's not a dummy?" Jeffrey said. "We've got live U-235?"
Clayton nodded.
"All numbers, Three," Jeffrey heard. "Roof level secured. Four more enemy dead, no friendly losses."
"Three, Four," Jeffrey said, "SEAL One's hit, bad. Missile secured." Jeffrey turned to Clayton, who seemed distraught over his man.
"Leave me," One said. "I'll be okay."
"Do you want some morphine?" Clayton said.
"No," One said, "I have to hold down the bunker. Bandage the exit wound and give me a local. Hook up a plasma drip and give me back my weapon." The smell of blood was thick.
"Shaj," Jeffrey said, "take care of him. I'm going over to Ilse's team to lead the main attack. We have to keep up the pressure—we can't let the Boers regroup." Jeffrey grabbed a South African assault rifle and all the ammo he could find on both of the bodies. He noticed the one he'd killed was a lieutenant.
"I'll catch up with you in a minute," Clayton said. He held a spray can of antihemorrhage wound-fill foam.
Jeffrey saw Clayton's jaw and eyes set tight as he treated SEAL One with ruthless efficiency. Jeffrey knew that feeling all too well.
Outside the bunker Jeffrey grabbed SEAL One's mine-detecting scanner. He ran through the rain for the front steps into the Sharks Board, then threw himself to the ground. There were no targets, no return fire.
"Three, Four, status?" Jeffrey called.
"We've breached the roof-level stairway bulkhead," the SEAL chief said. "We're starting down to the second deck."
"Three, Four, okay, Chief. We're assaulting the front entrance now."
Jeffrey got up and waved to Ilse and the two SEALs with her. The four of them charged up the tile-covered steps, between the aluminum handrails, firing at the glassed-in entryway. By their muzzle flashes Jeffrey glimpsed the stickers to the right of the doors.
The admissions fee was ten rand for adults, six for kids and oldsters, and they took Visa and MasterCard. Then all the glass shattered and the team ran through, maintaining a volume of fire.
Two guards were visible inside, behind an armored see-through partition that was stopping Jeffrey's rounds. A transceiver sat on a table, its outer casing charred. The guards were heading for the back of the building, where Jeffrey could hear frag grenades and
screaming from upstairs. The guards turned when Jeffrey's group came in by the front door. They fired instinctively, but their rifle bullets grazed the partition without going through.
"Blow it down!" Jeffrey shouted. He and Ilse took cover behind two big concrete planters in the lobby. SEALs Two and Seven placed a small satchel charge against the base of the partition, then joined Jeffrey and Ilse. Both guards fled to the rear after popping chemical smoke grenades that blocked IR. The satchel charge went off with a roar—the partition was in ruins. The foursome dashed straight through, tossing stun grenades into side rooms and following up with volleys from their weapons.
Jeffrey's South African R4 clicked empty. He reloaded on the run, another thirty-five-round clip, then fired right through the plasterboard interior walls. The air filled with white dust. His receiver parts clattered noisily, and spent shell casings clinked. He tossed another grenade, then sprayed more bullets after it—the pantry room, unoccupied.
They swept the first floor quickly. The guards had all taken cover inside a sandbagged and armored vestibule, protecting the stairs to the basement lab. SEAL Two was using the radar scanner. "This deck's been structurally reinforced. That's the only way down."
The Boer guards shot at SEAL Two through firing slits in their miniature fortress, and Two hit the deck.
"Four, Three, upper level clear, all occupants terminated. We're at the bottom of the staircase down to you. We'll give covering fire so you can breach the vestibule enclosure.
"
"Good," Jeffrey said. "Shoot from hip level into the slits. We'll crawl under your suppressing fire and put satchel charges in place."
SEALs Two and Seven each grabbed a pair of
satchels from their packs. Jeffrey dropped his rifle and grabbed a satchel too. He held his pistol in one hand.
"Chief," Jeffrey said, "open fire." The SEAL chief and the two men with him, Eight and Nine, hit the slits of the enclosure. Jeffrey crawled forward with Seven and Two, shooting on the way. They took cover at the base of the sandbags, which were leaking from all the bullet holes.
Two frag grenades came out of a firing slit and landed on the floor. Whoe
ver threw them was hit—there was a scream inside the vestibule. Jeffrey turned. He couldn't reach the grenades. The SEAL chief saw them too. He ran from the stairwell and flung himself, landing just as they detonated. He was lifted off the deck by the concussions, then bounced back in a heap, helmetless and smoldering. Jeffrey knew he was dead, shards of steel through his heart. The other men in the stairwell kept firing at the slits.
"Arm the satchels!" Jeffrey shouted to Two and Seven. Then they pulled well back. "Fire in the hole!" Jeffrey screamed. SEALs Eight and Nine stopped shooting—they must have gone up the stairs.
There was a huge eruption, the loudest explosion so far, and Jeffrey's visor screens blanked out the glare. Jeffrey was deafened; he choked on the fumes and the sand.
Rubble was burning and the museum displays were a mess. Pieces of shark skeleton were scattered all over the place. Every window on the first floor was blown out—Jeffrey could feel the breeze. It was helping clear the smoke.
The Boers' enclosure was wrecked. Two bloodied soldiers took cover behind fallen piles of sandbags, firing viciously, one of them now using a light machine gun on a bipod. Six other figures lay limp, some of them dismembered.
"Eight and Nine," Jeffrey said, "open fire again—make them keep their heads down."
Just then Clayton
arrived, crawling up beside Jeffrey. Both men winced as ricochets zipped by.
"One isn't going to make it," Clayton said.
"The chief bought it too," Jeffrey said.
"I saw," Clayton said. "Let's give them a taste of their own medicine." Clayton took two fragmentation grenades from his vest. More enemy slugs snapped overhead, pulverizing the walls. Clayton held a grenade in each hand and Jeffrey pulled the pins.
Clayton popped the spoons. "One, two, three," he counted. Then he yelled "Grenade!"
and tossed them both at the Boers.
Jeffrey hugged the floor, his arms protecting his head. There was a stabbing flash and a sharp double crack, brief screaming and writhing, then stillness and silence, except for more painful ringing in Jeffrey's ears. He saw Eight and Nine rush the Boers, firing into their bodies, long past when they were dead.
Jeffrey turned to Ilse. "Get some fire extinguishers and put out whatever's burning!" Ilse nodded. "Don't forget the bodies!" Jeffrey shouted after her. "We don't want their ammo cooking off!"
